by Erica Waters
“And Jesse is mine. And he didn’t kill Jim,” I growl right back, my anger displacing my doubts. “I know you’re upset about Jim’s death, but if you don’t get out of my mama’s face, I’m gonna call security.”
Before Frank can respond, Kenneth is standing between us, one hand on his uncle’s chest. He’s nearly as tall as Frank is, his hands almost as big as his uncle’s. “Please don’t make a scene at my daddy’s funeral,” Kenneth says quietly, more seriously than he’s ever said anything in his life. He looks between Frank and me, and I almost regret losing my temper.
“Don’t you care he killed your daddy?” Frank asks Kenneth, his voice hoarse with grief and anger. “You that sorry you don’t even care?” A tear trickles down Frank’s cheek.
Kenneth’s cheeks flush red, and he wipes the back of his hand over his moist eyes. I wince, wondering if his bruises still hurt. “Whatever Jesse did or didn’t do ain’t their fault, Uncle Frank. They’re just here trying to grieve, same as you.”
“I wish we still hanged people,” Frank mumbles before Kenneth pulls him away, their arms wrapped around each other. His words knife through me. I haven’t really let myself consider all the consequences of Jesse being blamed for Jim’s murder. Florida doesn’t hang people anymore, though we do still have the death penalty. But not for teenagers, right? He’s safe from that at least.
Frank is so sure it was Jesse. So sure he wants to see Jesse die. What if I’m the only one who’s wrong to trust in Jesse’s innocence?
Now’s not the time for these thoughts. Mama’s body sags with relief once Frank leaves the room, and I put my arm around her.
“I can’t believe we haven’t even made it to the service.” She drops her face into her hands and rubs it tiredly.
“It’s only another half hour. We’re almost done.”
“Come on with me, and we’ll look at Jim’s body one more time,” she says, squaring her shoulders. When I don’t move my feet to go with her, Mama gazes at me. “You haven’t paid your respects yet?”
“I didn’t want Honey to see,” I say, avoiding the truth.
“Come on, baby. This is part of it. You can’t turn your face from death ’cause it’s always gonna find you.”
I let her lead me toward the casket, and the crowd parts around us. Even Jim’s mother moves away from the coffin when we approach. Jim was her favorite son. In her eyes, nothing he did was ever wrong and no one gave Jim half of what he deserved. So of course, she doesn’t think Mama deserved Jim, and Mama can’t stand the woman for it. She doesn’t even glance at her mother-in-law now.
“Look,” Mama says. She reaches into the coffin and touches Jim’s hand.
I force my eyes to his face.
People always say the dead look like they’re sleeping, but Jim looks like nothing. He is a wax figure of his former self. His hands are folded across his chest, and his eyes are closed, but if you look carefully, you can tell they are glued.
I feel bile rising up my throat, but I force it back down. I try to cover up the revulsion I feel before Mama sees it.
But when I look over, her eyes are locked on Jim’s face, like she’s searching the body for traces of the man she loved. Maybe the body means different things to some people than it does to me. Maybe one day I’ll love someone romantically and they’ll die, and I’ll want to touch their corpse; I’ll still love the body even though it’s empty.
But I have lived all my life with the whispers of the dead, so I’m not fooled by the embalmer’s tricks.
Jim’s body doesn’t matter now. Only his ghost could tell us what we need to know.
Mama asked me to play my fiddle while the pallbearers bring Jim up the aisle. She requested “Go Rest High on That Mountain,” probably because every local funeral anyone’s been to since 1995 includes it.
I stand alone at the front of the funeral home chapel, close my eyes, and play. I don’t care anything about this song, but I want to do right by Mama. As the song soars across the chapel, making old ladies weep, I remember how it felt to watch Daddy’s coffin borne up this same aisle, with Jim and Jesse at the front, each bearing Daddy’s weight with a skinny arm. They both looked guilty, shamefaced, like it ought to be their bodies going up the aisle.
I thought maybe people at funerals always looked like that, half guilty to still be alive while the one they love isn’t. But when I open my eyes, I see Jim’s pallbearers. Most of them look stunned, as if Jim’s murder has reminded them of their own waiting deaths, their own inevitable fates. Kenneth’s face is only lost and grieved, Frank’s grim and determined.
When the coffin reaches the front of the church, Frank glares at me for a moment before he turns. There’s so much accusation in his gaze, I feel a stab of shame, as if Jim’s blood is somehow on my hands. Is everyone going to look at me like that now, with either pity or suspicion, as if I’m either a victim or an accomplice in my brother’s crimes?
I don’t know what’s true, who’s to blame. But I do know that despite what this song’s lyrics say, Jim’s work on earth isn’t done, and there won’t be any rest for him—or for me, especially once Daddy’s fiddle is in my hands.
When I left Aunt Ena’s house after our argument, I swore to myself I wouldn’t wait around like the ghosts. I’d find the fiddle and learn the truth on my own. But in the time that has passed since I made that promise, I keep wondering if I’m no better than the ghosts. Maybe I’m waiting for someone else to do justice, someone else to prove Jesse’s innocence, to set him free. Because no matter how many times I insist Jesse isn’t guilty, maybe deep down I’m afraid justice might not be in Jesse’s favor. Maybe I’m afraid to be the one who ties the noose around his neck.
Ten
I don’t see Cedar again at the funeral, but the next morning I hear him shout my name from down the hallway between classes. I turn at his voice, and he comes running up to me, smiling that cocky smile of his. He throws an arm over my shoulders like we’re old friends.
“Listen, your fiddle playing was amazing yesterday—even better than at the open mic night.”
“Thank you.”
“Rose will probably kill me for asking you this before checking with her first, but we’ve been talking about adding some more instruments—trying to get up a proper bluegrass band, I mean. And I’d love it if you’d play fiddle for us.”
I pause for a long time, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. My thoughts are all tied up in Jim and Jesse, and his meaning doesn’t register at first.
“What do you think?” Cedar asks when I don’t answer. “You want to play with us?”
When I finally realize what he’s asking, I gape at him in surprise. “A bluegrass band? Just bluegrass?”
“Just bluegrass,” he says, laughing.
I want to say yes. I can’t think of anything I’d rather say yes to. But Sarah . . . “I would love to, but Sarah and Orlando and I play together. I can’t bail on them. Sarah would murder me in my sleep.”
He laughs and leans toward me, and I notice his stubble’s heavier than usual. He looks like such a cowboy it’s ridiculous. “Let’s me and you get together and play sometime then.”
“The two of us?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not much of a band. Sounds more like a date.” The moment the word date leaves my mouth, I regret it. I blush to the roots of my hair.
When Cedar sees how red my face is, he barely smothers a laugh. “Would that be so bad?”
I don’t say anything for awhile, and Cedar’s still got his arm around me, which I have no idea how to respond to. Two drama club girls pass by and shoot us curious looks, and I stare at my shoes. I don’t know if they’re whispering because of Jesse’s arrest or because of whatever’s going on between Cedar and me. I hope it’s on Cedar’s account, because I’m tired of being haunted by whispers in the hallway and cafeteria. Being haunted by a phantom fiddle’s bad enough.
“So how ’bout that date?” Cedar says, trying to sound cool, but h
is voice breaks a little.
This time I laugh. “We can play together if you want.” Sarah and I kissed, but that doesn’t mean we’re a couple. It doesn’t mean I should feel guilty for playing music with Cedar. Especially since Sarah’s gone back to ignoring me. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s her.
“If you really don’t wanna be alone with me, I’ll invite Kenneth.” He looks at me sideways, a smile lingering around his lips.
“I’ll risk it,” I say quickly. This isn’t how I should be spending my time right now, not with Jesse in jail and Jim freshly buried, but the thought of a break from all the grief and the worry is too tempting to resist. “Tonight?”
“I’ll pick you up. Here, I’ll put my number in your phone so you can text me your address,” he says, his hand brushing mine as he takes the phone from me.
“Where are we going to play?”
“It’ll be a surprise,” he says before tweaking one of my curls and winking at me. Then he’s off down the hallway like it’s his stage.
“What the hell was that?” Sarah’s voice sounds behind me.
I startle and turn around, trying to cover my smile when I spot Orlando and Sarah.
But Orlando shakes his head. “Many a girl has fallen for Cedar’s country-boy charms,” he muses, using the ridiculous accent of a rich plantation owner from a Civil War–period movie.
But Sarah’s not laughing.
“Are you seriously going behind my back, after I told you I don’t want to play with them?” she says. Anger and hurt strangle her words.
My guilt and embarrassment turn to irritation, making my voice sharp. “I didn’t go behind your back. He came up to me.”
She crosses her arms. “What were you talking about?”
On another day, I might enjoy her jealousy, but not now, not with everything that’s going on. It takes all my effort to keep my voice even when I answer. “Sarah, I spent all day yesterday fighting with people at Jim’s funeral. I don’t have the energy for this. I’m so tired of fighting, especially with you.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry—it’s just that you’ve been so difficult lately, and—”
“I’ve been difficult lately? Me? Are you kidding? You’re the one who kissed me and then pretended it never happened.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Orlando flinch. I guess neither of us had the courage to tell him. But I keep my eyes on Sarah. “You haven’t even tried to be there for me after Jim got killed or after Jesse got blamed.”
Sarah flushes, but ignores everything I just said. “Were you asking him to play with us?”
“For your information, he was asking me to play with him and Rose. He said they needed a fiddler for a bluegrass band.”
Sarah looks like I punched her. “And what’d you say?” She’s trying to sound angry, but fear is creeping into her voice now.
“I told him no, but you know what—since I’ve been so difficult lately, I’m going to go find him and tell him I will.”
“Shady, that’s not fair,” Orlando says.
“No.” Sarah speaks over him. “If she wants to play with them, let her. That’s fine.” Now she looks more like she’s hugging herself than crossing her arms. She’s hurt, jealous. But she’ll never admit it. And her feelings really don’t matter right now—mine do.
All my simmering anger at her boils over, and suddenly I’m yelling.
“God, you’re supposed to be my best friend. And you don’t even care that my brother is in jail, getting charged for my stepdad’s murder. All you care about is that I’m talking to Cedar? Are you serious?”
“It’s not my fault Jesse killed your stepdad,” she spits back.
“Shit,” Orlando mutters.
Sarah has always been blunt, but she’s never gone this far. She looks as stunned by her words as Orlando is. She opens her mouth like she’s going to apologize, but then she closes it again. It wouldn’t matter if she apologized, anyway, because she meant it. She thinks Jesse’s a killer. No kiss can make up for that.
My fingertips tingle, longing to slap Sarah’s face. I take a step toward her, but Orlando throws an arm between us, his eyes pleading. “She didn’t mean it, Shady.”
Sarah doesn’t say anything. She stands there looking lost, like she doesn’t know how she got here.
“We’re done,” I say, and stalk away down the hallway, tears gathering in my eyes.
By the end of the day, I’ve mostly managed to put the fight with Sarah out of my mind and am looking forward to seeing Cedar. I wait at the end of the road, my fiddle case in hand. I feel foolish standing on a dirt road like this, but I panicked. I tried to wait for Cedar’s truck on the trailer steps, but as the minutes ticked by, my fear and shame grew until I decided I’d just meet him up the road. Whenever a friend sees the trailer for the first time, I see it for the first time too. And through their eyes, I see every ugly thing. The aluminum steps, the antenna on the roof, the poor stupid ugliness of it all. I can see the words “trailer trash” dancing in their eyes.
And now that Jesse’s in jail, what if Cedar pulls up and sees where we live and thinks, “Well, no wonder”? Again, the gnawing thoughts about Jesse’s innocence rise in me. I’ve been denying Jesse’s guilt since the moment he was arrested, telling everyone they’re wrong, refusing every bit of evidence that Jesse could have done it. But what if I’m the one who’s wrong? What if Jesse really did kill Jim? When Sarah said it in the hall, without a shred of doubt in her voice, it was like she slapped me. But it stings worse knowing a part of me believes it too. A small, disloyal part of me thinks Jesse could have killed Jim. Like Mama said, there’s too much evidence.
When Cedar’s truck comes barreling down the road, throwing up dust, I put out my thumb like a hitchhiker, pushing my hateful thoughts away.
Cedar slows down and pulls the truck up next to me. When I climb into the high cab, he smiles and turns down the radio. It’s the local country station, all top-forty stuff.
“You’re gonna have dirt in your hair standing out here like that.”
“I got tired of being home.”
Cedar nods. I figure everyone understands the desire to get away, even if they don’t share my reason for it.
The inside of his truck cab is spotlessly clean. There’s a half-finished Red Bull in the drink holder. A pair of sunglasses dangles by one arm from the passenger-side sun visor. Otherwise, this truck could have just rolled off a showroom floor. There’s not even dust on the dashboard.
Cedar does a three-point turn and heads back for the highway, dirt flying up behind us. “We actually live pretty close to you,” he says, pointing across the fields. “Out that way. We’ve got a farm.”
“Peanuts or cows?” I ask, my eyes fixed on my blasted oak in the distance, which glows pink and orange in the fading sunset, like its heart still burns with the lightning that bleached its bones.
“Cows. And my dad breeds horses for the rodeo.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mention of rodeo. But Cedar’s looking ahead at the road and doesn’t notice. “You still do calf roping?” I ask. I heard about Cedar’s rodeo exploits last year, which is probably why I haven’t had a crush on him like every other girl in school. I guess if I decide I don’t like him after all, at least I’ve made Sarah jealous. At least I’ve hurt her a little bit like she’s hurt me.
“Moving up to bronco riding now,” he says, the barest note of pride in his voice.
“That’s where you try to stay on a bucking horse?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I guess that seems like more of a fair fight.”
He cuts his eyes at me. “You don’t like calf roping?”
“Seems mean,” I say, shrugging. “Unnecessary.”
He’s quiet for a while, and I think I’ve offended him, but when he speaks, his voice is thoughtful. “I used to think so, too, when I was a kid and I first started learning. I was afraid to hurt them.” He glances at me to see my reaction.
“Why’d you
do it then?” I sound more confrontational than I mean to. “Sorry, I mean, if it seemed wrong, why did you want to do it?”
Cedar rubs the back of his neck and stares at the road ahead. “I didn’t. Not at first, but my dad . . . well, he didn’t make me, but . . .”
“But he wanted you to, and that’s as good as making you,” I say. It’s not a question. I know what men are like with their sons. Even Daddy was a lot harder on Jesse than he was on me. Aunt Ena was right when she said Jesse and Daddy didn’t have an easy relationship. They were always rubbing each other wrong, especially where the fiddle was concerned. I don’t think Jesse ever really wanted to learn to play—he was just trying to make Daddy happy.
Cedar nods. “But, I mean, I like the rodeo. It’s different than anything else in life. It’s not safe. It doesn’t happen on a screen. It’s real, you know?”
“I guess,” I say, watching the fields and trees roll on forever. I wonder if Daddy’s fiddle plays on in the pine woods, even without me there to hear it.
We’re quiet for a long while, just the low noise of the radio—the DJs talking about a local barbecue place. I feel like I should try to break the silence between us. “What would your cattle-farming daddy say if he knew you were driving around with a vegetarian?”
Cedar looks at me sharply. “Girl, I will turn this truck around and take you home.” He tries to look serious and stern, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “Why on earth would you want to be a vegetarian?”
I sigh. I’m still not good at explaining my reasons. “Just seems like there’s enough death in the world without me adding to it,” I say. “Enough loss.”
Cedar’s smile turns soft and understanding. “That’s all right so long as you don’t try to keep me from ribs and hamburgers. Man’s gotta eat.”
I study Cedar. This is a boy wearing leather boots and a leather belt, driving a truck paid for by the sweat and blood and meat of animals, who spends his spare time roping baby cows and subduing horses.
Why don’t I hate him?
He was born into all of it, I guess. That’s part of it. We can’t help what we’re born into—I know that better than anyone. There’s also that sly smile and those slender hips. And there’s a kindness about him. He’s not what I expected.
