“You’re probably half right.” He turned to face me again. “Even so, there’s something I think you ought to know. I ain’t got the energy to explain why things are the way they are, but you need to know the hard line.”
I sat back in my chair. I was not prepared for Bud to share any secrets with me. He was the bluntest man I knew, so I had never imagined he even had any secrets left to give after what I’d heard from Craig. Our conversations had always been built around what he needed and what I was not doing. “I don’t want to know about the fires, Bud. I don’t think I can take it.”
“The fires? Ah. Yeah. Well. There’s that. Lishie’s place is okay.”
“I’m awful glad to hear it.” And most of me was. But there was also a part of me that wanted a reason not to return—to never have to face the reminders of her absence again.
“Her headstone’s ready, too. You need to pick it up. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask me how I paid for it. I know that’s what you’re gettin’ at. If I thought it’d be of any use to you, I’d tell you. But it won’t be. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about anyhow.”
All I could manage was a nod.
“I know you’re real proud of your daddy. You should be.” Bud took a coughing fit, an interruption that nearly drove me mad. “He was a real good man and no matter what, it’s true you take after him.”
This was the first time I remember Bud favorably comparing me to my father. Even more than the physical state of his body, this was evidence of his failing health.
“No matter what I tell you, you need to know my brother loved you. He wanted to raise you. Ah, hell …” Bud paused again and gathered himself.
“Bud, you know Mr. Craig told me—”
“There’s more, Cowney. Craig doesn’t know the whole story.”
I stood abruptly from my chair and stared hard at Bud. “What the hell are you saying?”
“There’s fathers and there are fathers, and you need to know—”
“Don’t tell me what you think I need to know. If you think for one second I am going to believe anything you say about my mother or my father, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Cowney, I just want you to know that they weren’t the only ones proud of you. I may not have acted like it much, but—” He looked at me with fading eyes and nodded softly. “Do me one more favor and call for Preacherman. It’s about that time.”
I shook my head and left the room. I guess he wanted sympathy or thought telling me all this right now, right when he knew he wouldn’t have to fill in the years of blanks, was fair enough. All I deserved. I was glad he hadn’t finished his original statement. I could not have handled hearing the words my heart already knew. Yes, he was right. There are fathers and there are fathers, but there was no place in the world for him to be either to me. And there certainly was no place in my heart for my birth to be the reason both my parents had to die either.
I could hear him coughing behind the door as I made the call from the kitchen and waited for the preacher to arrive. I paced for a minute, thoughts eating themselves inside my head. Then I ran to the front porch and vomited onto the newly fallen leaves, parched from a summer of smoke and heat. I lowered myself onto the porch step, waiting for the world to stop spinning. I pictured him lying there alone, and I finally knew that so much of this summer had been about me and my fears. He had done his best. I had to make room for him. He had made room for me.
I sat on the porch steps for over an hour until I heard the crunch of gravel signaling Preacherman’s arrival. Looking back, I probably ought to have stayed with Bud, but I couldn’t force myself back into the room. Nobody deserves to die alone, and so I was grateful that he had held on until others could join me.
Preacherman Davis stepped out of his truck with the King James tucked under his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand.
Then the passenger side door swung open.
Out stepped Essie. Even from a distance, I could tell her face was flushed. She wore a muted blue dress so threadbare I am sure she had never intended to wear it in public. For a moment, I thought I might be sick again.
Preacherman began his slow approach toward the porch, a practiced walk of solemnity. Essie stood by the truck and stared at me. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her index finger. I no longer had the energy to turn her away. I craned my neck toward the front door, motioning her to come in the house. I waited there, only stepping aside so the preacher could enter first.
Essie practically ran up the steps, tears burgeoning into sobs. When she reached where I stood, her head down, long strands of hair shading her face, I grasped her shoulder, causing her to stop and turn toward me. She looked up with only her eyes, and I lifted her chin with my timorous fingers.
I felt as if I were seeing a ghost. “I thought you left,” I forced out.
“No, no—” She couldn’t continue through her tears.
“Where’s Andrea?”
“Gone.” Essie’s chin fell onto my shoulder.
“Gone? You mean—?”
Essie pulled her head up and wiped her eyes with the palm of her hands. “The whole family. They just left. He left some ridiculous note at the front desk. Lord, Cowney. I was so stupid!”
I shook my head, stepping back to invite space between us.
“Said that we’d always known that it had to end. I’ve never been so naive. And I can promise you, I never will be again.”
I wanted to push a fallen strand of hair from her eyes. Seeing her cry made my chest tighten.
“Why would he have done that?” she asked.
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice.” It pained me to take up for Andrea. And I hated to see her hurting, but in all honesty, some small part of me was glad she had finally seen the truth about him. She was my friend, but she had been wrong, done wrong, in so many ways.
“Oh, Cowney. Look at me. I’m a mess. I was supposed to come to comfort you.” She patted the sides of her hair and smoothed the skirt of her dress. In a moment, she had transformed herself. It was as if she was abruptly ending a tragic scene onstage and was now ready to take her bow.
Her instant resolve for composure shook me. I took another step back.
Essie dropped her hands and stared at me, wide-eyed.
“Whether you admit it or not—hell, whether you know it or not—you use me.” I dropped the accusation so hard and heavy I barely had the strength to pick it back up. “You know I love you,” I continued in a whisper. “You know I love you beyond what makes any kind of good sense, and I will do just about anything for you. But if we are even going to be friends, you have to stop.” I shook my head and wanted to walk away, but my feet remained planted. “I can forgive you because I know you were scared. I can forgive you because that is all I know to do with this. But what are we? What do you want from me? When will you realize you’ve used me up?”
“Oh, Cowney. I don’t want anything.” She looked surprised that I would say such things. Her face had fallen as if I was now the one hurting her. “I’m not using you. We’re victims of circumstance.” She said it with such ease I knew she believed it. My mouth grew as dry as the dirt road stretching out in front of us.
“Seems to me you’re the one creating the circumstances, and getting dumped sure as hell doesn’t make you a victim. You got everything you ever wanted out of these circumstances, except a husband.” I paused a moment to scan her reaction, to confirm in some tiny change to her face that she knew she had been discovered. “And that is what you’re saying also, isn’t it? I’m nothing more to you than a ride home and an alibi.”
Her gaze fixed on me. She clenched her lips before emitting a long, deep sigh and then spoke. “Cowney, why do you think I wanted to leave with Andrea?”
I wouldn’t answer her. I had said all I needed to.
“Do you think I love him—love him more than I love you?”
I couldn’t bear to hear her s
ay it and certainly couldn’t affirm it myself.
“I don’t. He’s handsome and fun and I did think we cared for each other, and what else can I ask for in this life? I would have taken the burden from my family. I could have settled into a perfectly fine life for myself. I could have taken care of him.”
“Listen to yourself, Essie. You used me—sacrificed me to save him. Or at least you thought you’d save him. From what, I have no idea.”
“You still don’t understand, Cowney. I might dream about dancing in New York, but I’m not a fool. You have purpose. I don’t. You know what you want to do. You don’t have anybody telling you what to do or who to be.”
“You’re right about one thing: I don’t have anybody.”
“Don’t talk like that. You will always have me. I do love you, Cowney. I always will, but we have to accept the hand we’re dealt. Or maybe in our case, the dominos we’re dealt.” She offered a small, careful smile. “I have to get out of here and there is only one way for me to do it.”
“Not with a Cherokee man.”
She shook her head and her eyes fell. No trace of a smile remained. “I wish I felt differently.”
My throat tightened. There was nothing left to fight for or about. It wouldn’t change anything. “Me, too.”
Essie reached for my hand, cautiously working her fingers into mine. At the first sensation of her skin, I flinched, but gave into the embrace all the same. “Cowney, I couldn’t see past the moment, past the threat of everything—every chance of getting out of here being taken away. I thought I was protecting Andrea and by doing that I could protect myself. I thought you threw me away just like Peter did that little girl—outed me and Andrea because you were jealous and you wanted to preserve what you and I have.”
“Have? Do we still have us, Essie?”
“It may be all we have. Everything else is temporary. The soldiers and the prisoners will go home. This summer will pass. Even that bone will eventually disappear. So when I say we are victims of circumstances, I mean we are victims of temporary things. No matter how hard people may try to do it, what we have can never be erased.”
“What do we have, though?” I asked her. “Because you are confusing as hell.”
“We have a true friendship, a kind of love that can’t really be named,” she said. “I think that’s the best thing two people can have. But we have to try to be Essie and Cowney separate for now. It’ll be hard, but it’s what has to happen if we are ever to know who we are really meant to be.”
We held each other and for a moment there was nothing but our breathing. This summer, the fires, everything fell away, and we just breathed together.
Though he was in another room, we breathed into Bud as well. The damp, warm air washed over everyone and everything. I didn’t know then that no matter how much we want to believe papers make laws and bodies move the world, we are ultimately awash in the spirit of our lives, not their physicality.
Essie and I collected ourselves and moved to the front door before I could muster the courage to return to Bud’s room.
“You know, I just realized. I don’t even know what Bud’s real name is,” Essie said as she readjusted a bobby pin in her hair.
“It’s Cecil.” I laughed, appreciating that I had never called Bud by his real name. It seemed ridiculous that a man such as him could be attached to such a benign name.
“Cecil? I did not expect that.” She laughed with me. “And what were your parents’ names?” she continued.
“I figured you knew.”
“No, I don’t think so. Just grew up hearing people calling them Cowney’s mother or Lishie’s son, things like that.”
“My mother’s name was Ga-lo-ni.” I nodded. Saying her name made me smile.
“That’s a lovely name. Ga-lo-ni. August.” Essie let the name curve off her lips. “And your father’s?”
My smile grew. “It was Cowney. I’m a junior.”
“I bet your father is proud of you.”
I wanted to tell her that she could go inside and ask him for herself, but figured she did not need any more shocks that day.
A nearby tree branch bent in front of us, shaking both Essie and me from far-off contemplations. “Oh, did you see that?” I asked.
“Yes, I think it was a flying squirrel,” Essie suggested.
“Oh, yeah. I think you’re right.” Sa-nv-gi. It is soaring. The animal leapt again and confirmed Essie’s guess. “I was hoping it was Edgar. I don’t think Tsa Tsi has found him yet. Last time I talked to Tsa Tsi he said that he hadn’t seen Edgar for a few months. People think they’ve heard him, though.”
“I sure hope nothing bad has happened to him.” Essie frowned. “Stupid monkey,” she muttered.
“He’s survived this long, surely he just got curious and took off somewhere further away.”
“How far does he go usually?”
“Tsa Tsi said he’s been known to go clear into Buncombe County. Even asked me if I had seen him while we were at the inn.”
Once Essie left, I eased into Bud’s room. Myrtle was spooning some sort of clear broth into his mouth. It was obvious that just swallowing caused him significant pain. Bud periodically looked at me while he ate, but did not try to speak. When he refused to take another sip from Myrtle, she shook her head and left to wash the bowl in the kitchen. Preacherman stood as well, patted my shoulder, and followed her out with his coffee cup in hand.
“You need anything?” I forced myself to ask Bud.
“No, no. Thank you.” Bud looked up at me with weak, yellowing eyes. He could barely keep them open and failed to when rushes of pain surged through his body.
“Is there anyone you want to see?” I offered. I wanted someone else to be there, someone who might find cause to stay the night, unlike Myrtle and Preacherman, who I was sure would be leaving for the evening soon.
Bud managed a breathy laugh. “No. Not like I have a lot of friends.”
I shrugged. It was sad to think a man might not have a single friend to call in his greatest time of need.
Bud groaned.
“What is it?” I stood and leaned over him.
“Sit down, Cowney. I’m fine,” he reassured me.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“It’s just—Ah …” he groaned again. “Go ahead and call him.”
“Who? Preacherman? I think he’s still in the—”
“No,” Bud interjected. “Call Jon.”
“Jon Craig?”
Bud moved his head, attempting to nod. Even that slight motion sent him into a fit of coughing. “He doesn’t need to come,” Bud continued when he regained his breath. “Just let him know. He’ll help you if you need it.”
“I don’t need any help. If you don’t want him around, I won’t call him.” “No. He should know. No sense in being mad now. You already know everything and that war was a long time ago.” “I’ll call him in the morning,” I promised.
Bud nodded and let his eyes close. Preacherman came back in with a full cup of coffee and I stepped out again, searching for my own cup to fill.
Bud struggled to hold on for two more days. I was able to reach Craig before Bud passed, but encouraged him not to come. I think it would have been good for the former soldiers to see each other once again, but I also considered Bud’s vanity. He would not have wanted Craig to see him weak, unable to defend himself.
“Will you give him a message for me then?” Craig asked before we hung up.
“Of course,” I agreed.
“Tell him that he’s a hero,” Craig said.
I promised Craig I would, but when I went into his room to tell Bud, it all came out much differently. He was sleeping, but I could not hold the words in. I leaned over his bed, put my hand on his arm, and spoke. “I talked to Craig.” Bud did not stir. “I’m sorry,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say that. I had meant to tell him how sorry Craig was. “You’re a hero, Bud. Craig says you’re a hero. He’s sorry.” I’ll never know
for sure if Bud heard those words. There was never an opportunity to tell him again with his eyes open.
When Preacherman spoke the final words over Bud and everyone who had filled our home for the past twenty-four hours accompanied his body to its final resting place, I closed the door behind me and made the journey up the hill alone.
Before the cabin was completely out of sight, I turned and watched as the smoke, a sign I had always taken to indicate civilization, ascended from the chimney of the now empty home, and I realized how wrong I had been about that. All around me the mountains exhaled fine, white morning mist. By Western standards, this was far from civilization. Then again, it was probably the most civilized society I could imagine—a society of essentials. The sun edged its way over the mountaintops just as it had done every morning since the beginning of time. It struck me that years from then, even years from now, the fog and the sun would be two of the very few constants in this landscape, just as our spirit, not our flesh, our blood, or even our bones, will be the only remains of our existence.
I am an old man now and I still look at those mountains every morning. When I was a boy I wanted nothing more than to be as far away from here as I could get. Now I want nothing more than to stay in these hills for the rest of my life, and even beyond it. I want my bones to stay here, unbothered. Essie was not altogether different; she just stayed away longer—first in New York and later settling in Connecticut to raise a family. She wrote me letters the whole time. Even came to visit periodically. Oh, the stories I could tell about those visits! But those are for another time. This is the most important story.
That’s why your grandmother sent you, after all. Essie wanted you to hear her story. That’s why the note she left for you to share with me is so specific. She wanted you to hear this story. Her story. Our story.
Ageyutsa,
I have said this to you many times so that you memorize it. I’ve taught you to mistrust papers, especially those with lawyers’ signatures, so this paper exists only so that you can show Cowney my words in my own hand and prove to anyone else who might question you. I am asking you to break with one tradition to honor a truer one.
Even As We Breathe Page 25
