by Lakota Grace
Ruby Mae stood there, head bowed, saying goodbye to her husband. Her head lifted when she saw me. “Give me a hand down this hill? I'm feeling a might wobbly today.”
We walked down the long hill in silence, Ruby Mae’s thoughts her own.
Darby Granger hadn’t been at the graveside, and I doubted that she would attend the funeral reception. Still, Pietra would be at the ritual potluck and her presence meant trouble. The rest of the Nettle clan would attend as well, their nerves worn thin by the funeral service for Cal Nettle—that wonderful father, faithful husband.
Mob Intervention
14
WHILE WE WERE AT the gravesite, Reverend Billy's church ladies set up a meal on plank-and-sawhorse tables. As Ruby Mae approached this next step in the community’s grieving process, she dropped her hand from my arm.
“Can’t take no more.” Shaking her head, she walked up onto the porch and into the house.
Although I understood her reticence, the feast beckoned me. The serving dishes made a quilt mosaic on the table as the meal stretched in lavish abundance—ham, mashed sweet potatoes, homemade coleslaw. The enticing smells of Isabel’s green-chili chicken enchiladas wafted my direction. In the dessert section, a red velvet cake and a pecan pie made my mouth water. In her mother’s absence, Janny stepped into the role of hostess, welcoming people to the buffet. Eagerly they followed her suggestion; the folks must have been as hungry as me.
Before I could join the serving line, Shepherd pulled me aside. He leaned on his cane, sharp eyes assessing the crowd. “I want you to keep an eye out. No telling what might happen here.”
“On it. Mind if I eat while I do that?” My voice was sharper than I intended.
He smiled, seemingly aware he’d pierced my armor.
My jaw clenched at his unspoken rebuke. I’d do as he asked, after I finished the first course.
I entered the line ahead of Janny and Aurora. Janny’s manner had been subdued throughout the service. Burying her father must have been difficult. But now that the interment was complete, she seemed ready to engage in lighter conversation. “What did you think of Reverend Billy?” she asked as we moved forward in the line.
“Not what I expected,” I admitted. “Married?”
“Was. His wife died of a brain aneurysm. She was right there hitting a golf ball on the back nine and just keeled over. Left those poor children. Reverend Billy’s been having a time with them.”
Not exactly what I needed, a built-in family with problems. Enough challenges in my life already. “I noticed the Reverend gave the eulogy. I expected a member of the family to do that.”
“Well, Brother Howard had been gone for years. Wasn’t proper for him to do it. And Momma couldn't bring herself to get up there in front of all those people.”
“Understood. But not you or Ethan?”
She poked my shoulder. “Looks like the line is moving. Keep up or there'll be nothing left. Aurora, baby, go wash up and I'll make a plate for you.” Aurora let go of her mother's hand, skipped up the porch steps, and disappeared inside the house.
We finally reached the head of the line and picked up plates and silverware. Steam wilted my eyebrows when I took the top off a slow cooker. I fished out a couple of meatballs, then I forked some homemade pickles from a big jar, and a piece of southern fried chicken from the next platter. I glanced around to see if Shepherd was looking and added a homemade biscuit, too.
Since they were in the neighborhood, I snagged a chocolate chip cookie still soft from the oven—I’m always a sucker for chocolate chip cookies. I completed my serving with a glass of sweet tea and joined Janny under a big cottonwood tree. She pulled three chairs together for us, then set down her dishes on one, and went to see about Aurora.
An acrid scent of fall drifted down from the cottonwood leaves, still gold and full. The higher branches quivered in the wind, but at ground level, the air was still. I perched awkwardly on the small funeral chair, balancing the plate on my lap, my iced tea wedged in the grass at my feet.
My grandfather HT and his friend Armor were having a post-funeral exchange under a nearby tree. The word was that Armor still grew marijuana in an undisclosed patch to sell to his motorcycle buddies. Perhaps his knowing Cal Nettle wasn't such a stretch, then. Illegal substances like drugs and alcohol seemed to find each other.
Armor told a story of skunks in the still: how one had gotten into the whiskey mash and Cal's run had been delayed for hours while they figured out how to get the critter to move. “Finally used a mixture of day-old bacon and shrimp cat food to coax it out,” Armor said. “We like to never got any hooch that week.”
My grandfather had his own Cal story. “I remember one time he brewed a fine good batch and started sampling his own wares. Disappeared for three days. By the time Ruby Mae went hunting for him with a shotgun, there warn't but a single jar of white lightning left.”
Janny returned and sat down next to me. She stirred her serving of enchilada casserole with a fork and picked at a sliver of black olive. For a moment she listened to the conversation between Armor and HT.
Then she turned to me and said in a quiet voice, “That whiskey still was only one side of Daddy. I remember the night he hid Easter eggs for us kids. One of the coonhounds got loose, gobbled down every last one. Momma told me Daddy was still dyeing replacement eggs at daybreak to hide for us kids. Easter was always his favorite time of year.” She sighed. “He changed after my brother Lucas died.”
Perhaps so. Would that bitterness be enough for a family member to turn against the old man, want him dead? I glanced sharply at Janny, evaluating, but her expression held nothing but the emptiness of loss.
Aurora returned and for a moment, Janny busied herself getting the little girl settled with her food. Aurora fussed that she didn't like green beans, and Janny bargained she could have a piece of cake if she ate them. Sounded like the negotiations I used to have with my mother when I was little and she was sober.
Howard and his wife Pietra approached. I felt sorry for Pietra, even as unpleasant as she was. An occasion like this must be an awful way to meet your mother-in-law for the first time. Their voices rose as they neared. Pietra’s hair was in disarray, her hat shoved to one side.
“I intend to see your mother and pay my respects. You can’t stop me!” She attempted to push past Howard.
“You’re in no condition to see anybody. Go back to the car.” Howard restrained her, his hands stiff and his face set.
“If I do, I'm leaving for good.”
“Then go, damn it!”
Pieta pivoted and lurched toward the parked cars. When she reached their rental, she fumbled in her purse. The key scraped against the paint of the rental several times as she attempted to find the door lock.
I made a half motion to follow her. Liquor and temper—never a good combination But she climbed in, started the engine, and disappeared in a swirl of dust before I could follow through.
Howard raised his hands skyward in frustration and stopped in front of us. “Sorry you had to witness that. There's no reasoning with Pietra when she gets to drinking.” He sounded disgruntled, unhappy.
His father’s funeral had been tough on him, too. Although Howard and Janny seemed to be on speaking terms, he’d exchanged looks with his brother Ethan at the funeral service, and they'd carefully arranged distance between them ever since. So unresolved business there.
“Janny, Can I borrow your car?” Howard asked. “I need to see about getting a room. Even though Pietra’s leaving, I want to stay over for the you-know...”
Janny reached in her purse, found her keys, and handed them to her brother. He stalked off in the general direction of her car.
“For the you-know-what?” I asked.
“The treasure hunt. Daddy didn't believe in banks. He stashed money all over the property. Folded up in cracks in the barn, hidden in wheel wells of some of the old farm machinery. Momma says years ago he buried an old coffee can filled with silv
er dollars in the back yard. The three of us kids, or four if you count Aurora, are going hunting tomorrow. Might as well be something good that comes out of all of this.”
“Janny, do you know who killed your father?” I asked.
She gave me a look of mistrust. “Don't start playing police officer on me, Peg. This is my daddy's wake and that’s not something I care to speak about.”
Maybe she was right, and I was being insensitive. Or perhaps it was time to move on to more productive hunting grounds. I gathered up my utensils. “I'll be circulating for a while. Think on it, Janny.”
She shrugged and turned to Aurora. “Here, darlin', have a piece of this tasty fried chicken.”
I scraped my plate in the trash and stacked the dish on a side cart. Reverend Billy was talking to a group at the end of the table and I considered a move in his direction. Maybe a funeral was the wrong place to find romance, but I'd seen stranger. Like on top of a beaver lodge, or alongside a broken-down pickup truck, for instance.
So what if this man had children—worse things in the world. I got along okay with Aurora, didn’t I? Kids weren’t so bad, kind of cute, in fact.
Almost as though he’d read my intentions, Shepherd blocked me at the end of the dessert table. He nodded his head toward two strangers standing under a ponderosa pine at the edge of the yard. One a tall guy, resting easily on his feet like he worked out. The other stocky, like a knot of fireplace wood. The two stood out like vultures in a flock of sparrows. Their manner was edgy. The taller guy’s jacket bulged with a concealed sidearm.
They stopped a young woman to ask something. Time to move. I hitched up my skirt to a walking length and accosted them as they reached the porch. “Mind if I ask what your business is here?”
“Yeah, we mind,” said the tall one. “Step aside.”
“I don't think so.” I planted myself firmly in front of them. Sometimes it's nice to be six feet tall.
Shepherd reached my side, leaning heavily on the cane, the pain line between his brows pronounced. He lifted his jacket to show his own revolver. “Time to move along, gentlemen. This is a family service. No strangers invited.”
“We're not strangers...” the stocky one began.
The tall one stopped him. “Never mind. We'll be back. You tell Ruby Mae that Aldo Nigglieri wants to talk to her. Soon.”
The men turned on their heels, walked to a red Nissan parked on the street, and left. I got a partial plate number as they backed up so that I could check it later. Armor could laugh about skunks and Janny remember Easter egg hunts, but Cal Nettle’s life contained this darkness as well.
Ethan walked back from the barn where he'd been tending the puppies. He looked after the two men. “What was that all about?”
“Ever see them before?” Shepherd asked.
“Once, talking to Daddy.”
“What about?”
“Business, maybe. Seen ‘em talking to Uncle Otis, too.” Then like Janny, he changed the subject. “I want to apologize for my uncle's behavior in the marsh. Wasn't no cause.”
“That’s personal business between Otis and me, son,” Shepherd said. “More important is that you buried your father today, and I'm sorry for that. Only get one in this lifetime.” He shook Ethan's hand and they hugged in that way men have, barely touching at the chest, each patting the other's back.
Reverend Billy directed his volunteers to clear the remaining plates, and the church group left soon after. When they did, the mood of the crowd lifted. Ethan hung two Coleman lanterns from the eaves of the house and picked up his guitar. He sat on the porch stair, tuning it, then strummed random chords. At the sound, Ruby Mae came onto the porch and settled into an old platform rocker to listen.
Ethan played the old country songs: “Walk the Line,” “Behind Closed Doors,” “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” Then Howard jumped up on the porch. Ethan slammed his hand on the strings with a jangle of discordant sounds. The two men glared at each other.
Ruby Mae leaned down and touched Ethan’s shoulder. “Please, for me.”
Janny joined her two brothers and the music renewed. Howard's tenor and Janny's alto intertwined with Ethan's guitar. They sang the hill country classics, “Barbra Allen,” “Down in the Valley,” “Shenandoah.” The voices and guitar intertwined with close harmony.
After one final verse, Ethan set down the guitar and addressed the listeners. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “My daddy would have been proud to see all of his friends and family here.” His voice broke. “We'd like to propose a toast to my daddy, and then ask Shepherd Malone to gift us with one last song.”
He reached behind him on the porch and brought out a jug of clear liquid, and there was silence as glasses were filled. Shepherd held up a glass of water for the toast. “To Calhoun Nettle, to Cal.” The words echoed through the crowd.
Then Shepherd limped to the porch and sat down on the top step. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a harmonica. First, he blew a few preliminary notes. Then he took a deep breath and played Taps.
The harmonica sang with emotion, a trailing vibrato with a slide that mourned and cried for all of us. Shepherd reached for one last note, held it, and then put the harmonica down.
A coyote up on the hill howled, and one hound responded with an answering bay. The lanterns shivered in the gathering wind. One by one, people paid their final respects to Ruby Mae and headed for home.
Tomorrow, our work would begin again. But tonight, Cal Nettle rested alone on the hill with only the wind for company.
Buffaloed by the Counselor
15
SHEPHERD GAVE ME a haggard look when I arrived at the office the next morning.
“How's that leg doing?” I asked.
He touched it and winced. “Not too good. Stressed it yesterday. Carrying death is heavy.”
I looked to see if he was joking, but his face was serious.
He pulled up his pant leg—the skin around the incision was red and angry. “Infection, maybe.” He inspected it dispassionately. “At least I had my tetanus shot last year. How recent is yours?”
“Current. Stop changing the subject. When do you see the doctor again?”
“He said to make a follow-up appointment. Been meaning to.”
I picked up the phone receiver and handed it to him.
He gave me a sly look and pushed the phone my direction. “You first. Call your counselor.”
I swallowed and dialed the number. Had the durned thing almost memorized by now. I thought to get the secretary, but the counselor’s deep voice sounded through. I asked for an appointment, thinking it would be a week or more. She had an opening that afternoon, at two. I looked at Shepherd, grimaced, and took it. Might as well get it over with.
I hung up and handed the phone back to my partner. “Your turn. Tell the doc it’s urgent.”
He waggled his hand back and forth.
“Call,” I ordered.
Shepherd's appointment wasn’t until afternoon, either, so I left him and Ben in charge of the phones and went to investigate a break-in on the lower edge of town. We didn’t have many burglaries in Mingus, the community being so small. Most likely it was a transient looking for beer money, but I went through the formalities anyway.
Then, since Su Casa was right down the hill, I called the station and took orders for lunch. Ben opted for fish tacos and Shepherd wanted the chili rellenos combo. I ordered my usual kitchen-sink burrito. When I returned to the station, we retired to the conference room to eat.
I laid napkins in my lap and ate the burrito with a fork.
“Quincy, you’re hunched over that table like an old woman,” Shepherd said.
“Stick a fork in it, Malone. Better’n spilling Picante sauce down the front.” Today the burrito gods were with me and I didn’t drop anything. That was good. I wanted to make the right kind of impression on the counselor. “Ben, you planted any grapes at the college vineyard yet?”
He wiped his chin. “Soon.
Teacher says I’ll make a good enologist.”
“Grape vines.” Shepherd snorted. “Buy your wine in a liquor store like civilized folks do.”
“Careful, balagaana. You don’t know who you be messing with.” Ben reached for a jalapeno on my plate.
I grabbed it first and popped it in my mouth. I remembered too late why I set the pepper to one side when I’d unwrapped my burrito. I fanned at my mouth and grabbed for the water glass. It seemed wherever I turned I was running into unexpected heat.
***
AT ONE O'CLOCK, we left Ben in charge of the office. I drove Shepherd to his appointment first, to be sure he kept it. On the other hand, doing it that way meant Shepherd would be right there checking on my own actions when I returned to pick him up. Life gets complicated when you’re keeping score.
Dr. Westcott’s office was located in a medical complex at the edge of Cottonwood. A sign on the door said, “In Session, Please Wait,” so I sat down on a worn wooden bench outside the door. I scrunched in my seat, squinting in the sun, hoping nobody would see me. Maybe they'd assume that I was here on official business, which I was, almost.
The door opened, and a stout woman in a bright coral suit exited. Dr. Westcott? She sniffed loudly and stuffed some tissues in her purse as she walked toward the parking lot. She was a client, then, not the doctor.
The door opened again and a petite East Indian woman in her sixties looked out. Her dark braided hair hung down past her waist. “You must be Pegasus Quincy.”
Her voice was deep, with the cultured English accent I remembered from our phone conversations. As I towered over her to shake hands, the picture of the stout British matron vanished from my imagination like fall mist on Black Mountain.
“Please come in and have a seat,” she said.
Her office was compact, painted in a soft green with light blue window sills. She touched a finger chime as she passed and a ripple of tone laced the air. A lavender fragrance lingered in the room as I entered.
