Covenant

by Ann McMan

  “Did you finish cuttin’ that grass over yonder?”

  “Where?” Sonny asked him. “Over by them sycamore trees? No. It’s too high. This push mower ain’t gonna handle it. We’ll have to use the zero turn.”

  Bert cursed beneath his breath. They didn’t really get paid enough to spend a whole half-day out here—respect for the dead, or not. He wanted to get back out to Dr. Heller’s today to finish puttin’ up the HardiePlank on the front porch. He looked at the angle of the sun.

  Didn’t look like that was gonna happen today.

  “I’ll go get it off the trailer.” Bert laid down his rake and headed for their truck so he could unload the zero turn mower.

  As usual, they’d left their rig parked along the single lane road that wound through the property, instead of driving it across the grass so it could be closer to where they were clearing. Sonny was a stickler about not disrespecting the dead by runnin’ a motor vehicle over their gravesites. Bert asked him one time why was it okay with him to ride the zero turn over them? Wadn’t that disrespectful, too? But Sonny said no—that doin’ what it took to keep things tidy was okay in the eyes of the Lord.

  Sometimes, Sonny sounded a lot like Buddy . . .

  Bert took a shortcut through the rows of graves to reach their truck, and that’s when he noticed something off-kilter. There were small hunks of granite strewn around near a cluster of headstones. When he drew closer, he could see that one of the markers had been all busted up into jagged pieces.

  “Hey, Sonny!” he called out. “Come over here and look at this. Somethin’s happened to a couple of these headstones.”

  He knelt before the desecrated monument to try and make out whose grave it was. The thing was really smashed up. He was able to fit some pieces of it back together so he could make out the name: Jenkins.

  Well, I’ll be damned . . . it’s old Mr. Jenkins’ grave.

  He looked around to see if any other graves had been disturbed. It didn’t look like it.

  Sonny joined him and knelt to look at the damage. “What the heck happened to it? It looks like somebody run into it with something.”

  “I don’t see no tracks or ruts. I think somebody done this on purpose.”

  “Why would somebody come all the way out here just to bust up this one grave?”

  Bert shrugged. “Maybe it was harder’n they thought so they give up after this one.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Kids these days. Don’t they have nothin’ better to do?”

  “It would’a taken some pretty determined kids, Sonny. You’d need some kind of pipe or crowbar to bust up granite this way.”

  Sonny sighed with disgust. “It ain’t respectful to do such a thing.”

  “No,” Bert agreed. “I reckon we should call the sheriff.”

  “Yeah. Lemme go get my cell phone outta the truck.” He stood up. “If this don’t beat all. Sometimes I wonder what happened to people in this town. It ain’t the same no more.”

  Bert agreed. Everything had seemed to change after what happened at the river on the 4th of July.

  But he knew they couldn’t blame the mayor for all of that. People made choices about what they did. And a lot of them followed right along with that man, without ever having to be persuaded.

  He supposed a lot of the ugliness they were seeing now had always been there, too—hidin’ from sight. Now it had got brave enough to move out into the open.

  And it seemed to be flourishin’, too—just like these dang weeds.

  He looked around the quiet cemetery and its row after row of stones. Some of them had been there since the 1700s. There were slaves buried here, too—in tight little clusters behind old iron fences. Him and Sonny always took special care to keep those sections lookin’ just as nice as the rest of the place. Even if those folks had any kin left around there, nobody would’ve been able to identify who was buried in them graves. Most of the markers were just random-sized hunks of rock. But him and Sonny believed those folk deserved to have their memories honored just the same as everybody else. They weren’t the only ones who felt that way, either. On holidays, Gladys Pitzer always made sure to put little bunches of flowers by those markers, too. Bert could still see tattered red, white and blue ribbons fluttering next to all the little stones that tilted every which way in the slave section. He guessed they were left over from Independence Day.

  Slaves buried in the town cemetery.

  Yep. That ugliness had always been there . . .

  People in town all seemed to think that this new time of fear and suspicion that had dropped down on them like a shroud was gonna last forever. People always thought bad things lasted forever. But Bert knew they didn’t. Bad things came and went just like everything else in life.

  He looked around at the expanse of rolling land that once had been a pasture, but now was full of generations of people who’d also come and gone.

  Yep. The only thing in life that lasts forever is what all these dead folks is busy doin’ right now . . .

  He heard the zero turn start up. Sonny rode it over near to where he stood and parked it.

  “Sheriff Martin said he’d be right out.” Sonny looked down at the mess. “Should we start pickin’ any of this up?”

  “No. We need to leave it just like it is, so he can look it all over first.”

  Sonny tagged him with a gentle fist bump. “You’re talkin’ like this is some kind of CSI crime scene.”

  “It just might be, Sonny. It just might be.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The recording of Beethoven sonatas Celine had ordered using her Amazon Prime account arrived in two days, as promised. She never ceased to be amazed at how quickly she could receive just about anything from the massive online retailer . . . and always within two days.

  Maybe she should ask Bert to order the remaining HardiePlank they needed using her Prime account?

  Celine put the recording into her CD player and sat down to listen to it. It was a marvel of delicacy and poise—just as the reviews in Gramophone had said. “This is the work of an artist with colossal integrity, for whom ideation and execution are one and the same,” one reviewer noted. Others had been critical of Uchida’s articulation and considered it too “staged.” But Celine didn’t feel that at all. She heard all the proper inflections and fits of controlled abandon the sonatas commanded. To her, the performance was magical.

  Dorothy had been reading in her room, but she’d heard the music and wandered into the studio to listen along with Celine.

  When the final notes of Sonata No. 30 in E Major finished, Dorothy looked at Celine with wonder.

  “What was that?”

  “Beethoven. It’s a new recording of three piano sonatas by Mitsuko Uchida.”

  “It was . . . powerful. She must be very famous.”

  “She is—but not for Beethoven. This is a new endeavor for her. She’s mostly recognized as a leading interpreter of Mozart.”

  Celine handed the jewel case to Dorothy so she could examine it.

  “Did you know her?” Dorothy asked.

  Celine smiled. “No. But I have heard her perform many times. Most recently in Los Angeles, about three years ago.”

  “Wow. That must’ve been incredible.”

  “Have you ever attended a live performance, Dorothy?”

  “Of music like this? No. Not ever. Once I got to hear the Richmond symphony in a Christmas program. But that was on a school trip. They were playing in Roanoke.”

  Celine smiled. “That counts.”

  “Maybe. But they played a lot of carols—just with more instruments and a lot more bells and things. There wasn’t a piano.”

  “No. I suppose there wouldn’t have been.”

  “I’d love to do that someday—go to a real concert.”

  “Funny you should mention that.” Celine retrieved her copy of The New Yorker and showed Dorothy the page she’d earmarked. “Guess who’s playing at Carnegie Hall next week?”

  D
orothy was confused. “In New York?”

  “Uh huh. On Saturday night.”

  Dorothy scanned the page. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the listing. “It’s her?”

  “It is. And she’s playing a full Beethoven program—with the Mahler Chamber Orchestra. It should be quite an experience.”

  “Are you going?” Dorothy asked with wonder. “I know it will be wonderful. Is Sheriff Martin going, too?”

  “Yes, I am planning to go. And no, Byron is not going with me. I hope you are.”

  “Me?” Dorothy seemed uncertain she’d heard Celine correctly. “How can I go?”

  “Easy. We take a plane from Charlotte, attend the concert, stay overnight in the city, and return home on Sunday afternoon.”

  “You want to take me with you? On an airplane?”

  Celine nodded. “It’s the only way we can go and be back in time for you not to miss a day of school.”

  Dorothy lowered the jewel case to her lap. Celine could see her struggling to make sense of the opportunity.

  “Dorothy? Would you like to do this with me? Please know that it’s entirely fine for you to say no if anything about the prospect makes you feel strange or uncomfortable. I would not be disappointed or frustrated with you in the slightest.”

  “Would you still go if I didn’t?” Dorothy asked.

  That question brought Celine up short. She knew it mattered for her to be honest with the girl. Dorothy deserved that from her.

  “No. I probably wouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean you should make your decision based upon whether I attend or not. I mean that sincerely.”

  “Why do you want to take me?”

  Why did she? This was turning into an episode of Truth or Dare . . .

  “I think because it’s been so many years since I’ve had someone in my life who connects with music in the same ways I do. I didn’t know how much I missed that until I met you. And you have so much natural talent. You feel the music, deep inside, where it lives and breathes a life of its own. And that’s not something that can be taught. I suppose I’m being selfish, wanting to share this with you. But when I saw the listing for this concert, it seemed to me that this presented an opportunity for something special we could do together—just the two of us. But I realize it’s a lot to spring on you—especially so close to the event. I gave in to an impulse.” She smiled. “Not something I normally do, as I’m sure you noticed.”

  Dorothy gave her a shy smile. “Maybe I have.”

  “So, maybe you can understand why I became so excited at the prospect of doing it.”

  Dorothy was quiet for a moment. She looked over at the large piano that dominated the room, then back at Celine.

  “Can we see where they make the Steinways?”

  Her question was like the sun coming out after a storm.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Byron tapped again on the side door to Gladys Pitzer’s small mill house in Fries. He was pretty sure she was at home. Her station wagon was pulled up beneath the carport beside the brick steps. She was probably inside watching her stories. He should’ve waited to come out here until three o’clock.

  He heard a scuffling noise inside and the sound of a key turning in the lock. A moment later, Gladys stood gaping at him from behind her rusted aluminum screen door.

  He guessed that was probably locked, too, although there was next to no crime out here in the mostly abandoned mill town.

  ‘Hey, Gladys. I wondered if I could speak to you for a few minutes about the cemetery.”

  Gladys unlocked the screen door and stepped back so Byron could enter her small kitchen. Something smelled good—like brownies. It was making his stomach growl. He’d skipped breakfast that morning.

  Gladys must be baking.

  He was right that she’d been watching TV, too. He could hear a soap opera playing in the living room. He could tell it was a soap opera by the dramatic music that seemed to punctuate every line of dialogue.

  “I ain’t been out there since Independence Day,” she told him. “I don’t go out except for holidays.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know that. And you do a great service to the town in the way you always decorate the graves for everyone.”

  “My husband and my son, Beau, are out there. I do it for them, so it’s no matter to do it for other folks’ kin, too. It’s sad that most people forget about their loved ones once they’re in the ground. The town used to hire me to do up the graves when I ran the florist shop in town. But they don’t pay for that no more.” She gestured toward her kitchen table, where there were Walmart bags full of fake, brightly colored autumn leaves, plastic acorns, and tiny American flags. “I’m gettin’ these all put together for Veterans Day. It used to not take me so long, but my arthritis has got so bad, it makes everything take a lot longer. So I have to start early on the next decorations.”

  Gladys didn’t know it, but Byron sometimes sent her anonymous cash contributions to help defray the cost of the materials she bought for these projects. He knew the widow lived on nothing but Social Security and the little bit of pension she still got from the cotton mill, where her husband had worked his entire life.

  “Well, I was out there this morning,” he explained, “and I could see that you had been there to decorate for the 4th of July. There were still some ribbons here and there.”

  Gladys clucked her tongue. “Them groundskeepers was supposed to pick up all the flowers and such. I don’t like to leave things sittin’ out there until they get all faded and ruined by the weather. But it’s been raining too much for me to get back out there and collect the stuff myself.”

  “Well, Bert and Sonny were out there this morning. And they found something disturbing. It appears that somebody vandalized two of the graves. Do you remember if you saw anything like that when you were there to place the flowers for the 4th?”

  “Two of the graves?” she asked. “I didn’t see nothin’ like that.”

  “Do you remember when you went out there to place the flowers?”

  She nodded. “It was on the 3rd. I like to be sure it’s done the day before, in case people head out there to pay their respects before the town picnic. That don’t happen as much as it used to, but people do still go sometimes.”

  “And did you see anyone else out there on the 3rd?”

  “No. Not on the 3rd. It was just me and a dern gopher. I wish’d I’d a had my .220 with me . . . I could’a done for him.”

  Byron chose to ignore that last comment. But something about her specificity regarding the date stood out to him.

  “You said you didn’t see anyone on the 3rd. Were you out there on any other days?”

  Gladys looked slightly distressed. She didn’t answer him right away.

  The music on the soap opera had reached a crescendo. Byron regretted that he’d probably prevented Gladys from witnessing the climax du jour.

  “Did you attend the town picnic on the 4th, Gladys? I was there, but I don’t recall seeing you.”

  “I baked some Bundt cakes and brownies for the dessert tables, and ate my dinner there with the Freemantles. I left right after that. I don’t like stayin’ out after dark. It’s too hard to see drivin’ home. There’s too many deer out movin’ around—especially along the river.”

  “So you came straight on home?” he asked.

  She nodded but didn’t volunteer any details. The TV set was now blasting an ad for Tide laundry detergent.

  Byron felt like Gladys was hedging about something. He began to feel like his instinct to come out and talk with her had been right. “You didn’t go back by the cemetery, then?”

  Gladys wearily pulled out a chrome kitchen chair and sat down. She pushed a second chair out for him.

  “You’d best sit down, too. This is gonna take a bit.”

  Byron obeyed her and took a seat at the table. He waited for her to continue talking.

  She took her time.

  “After d
inner at the river, I had to run back out there on account I left my good shears sittin’ on top of one of them stones by the sycamore trees.” She picked the pair in question up off the table and showed them to him. “John, at the florist shop, got these for me. They’re made special for people with arthritis, and they’re real easy to use. I didn’t want ’em to get rained on.”

  “So did you see anyone else out there on that second visit?”

  Byron could tell she was unsure about how to answer. “Yes. But he didn’t see me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was that Jenkins boy.”

  “David Jenkins?”

  Gladys nodded. “He was over by his daddy’s grave, so I didn’t want to disturb him. I figured he was payin’ his respects—even though that man never done anything to deserve that.”

  “Was that it? You just saw him visiting his father’s grave?”

  “Well. I went on about my business, walkin’ on to get my shears. That’s when I heard the racket.”

  “What kind of racket?”

  “It was like hammerin’ and such. I peeked back over toward where he was, and that man was on his feet goin’ wild, smashin’ that headstone with some kind of big rock or somethin’. He was actin’ real crazy, too—cryin’ and hollerin’ just like Beau used to get sometimes. I could tell he was outta his head, Sheriff. It scared the tar outta me and I didn’t wanna stay around to watch. So I just headed for my car. I come back home.”

  “You said he was using a rock or something to smash the headstone?”

  “I don’t really know what it was. He was swingin’ it too fast.”

  That explained the broken statue of the angel Gabriel they’d found near the scene. It had been knocked off the top of a nearby monument. That must’ve been what David had used as a makeshift club. The angel’s head had been snapped off, and one of its wings had been mixed in with the headstone rubble.

  “Gladys? Do you remember what time you were out there?”

  “It was right after dinner, so maybe seven or seven-thirty. It was just before dark, I know that. I heard the fireworks start up as soon as I got back here.”

  “So you think you saw David out there around seven or seven-thirty?”