It was cold, probably thirty-eight degrees, and Bryce had not changed clothes since I left. Or added any, for that matter. From the looks of things, he was working on his second twelve-pack and doing a good job of it too.
The movie reeled on. The Duke made it to Blackthorn, had a barroom brawl, picked up a girl who fainted. After some classic-John conversation, which was short on verbiage and long on body language, the Duke, a French-Mexican called Frenchy, and the girl headed out after the bad guys to Rio Lobo. Along the way, they stopped at an Indian burial ground where they cooked dinner, drank what was left of their Apache herb tonic, and called it a night.
Bryce was right there with them. When it came time to switch the reels, he was in no shape to do it, so I climbed the steps, switched the reels, fed the tape, and sat back down in my chair.
Bryce was out cold. Both literally and figuratively. It would take more muscle than mine to haul him to his bed, so I grabbed a few blankets from the trailer, covered him like a cocoon, and sat back in my chair with my third beer. The temperature had dropped some more.
The movie ended, and the methodical whacking and slapping of the end of the tape in the projector room woke me. I climbed the stairs, cut the machines off, and considered heading to my truck, but instead sat back down in my chair and found the moon. It was moving around in some pretty wide circles but finally stood still when I put one foot on the ground. The night was clear, my breath showed like cigarette smoke, and Blue was curled up next to me to get warm. Surprisingly, Bryce was a quiet sleeper. You’d think a guy like that would snore like a jet engine, but he was quiet as a mouse and sleeping comfortably. Another lesson from Vietnam, I suppose.
“Blue?”
Blue’s ears perked up. I scratched his head and neck, and he dug his front paws under my leg.
“What do you think about all this business?”
Blue raised his head, looked at me, then laid his head on my thigh and took a deep breath, putting one leg on top of my thigh as if to hold me down.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He dug his paw back under my leg and nestled his nose in between his front legs.
chapter twenty-four
DECEMBER 23. OUR ANNIVERSARY. THAT SEEMED LIKE another life and two other people. I had split a lot of firewood to buy that diamond for Maggs.
I’ve never met Maggs’s mom, because her parents divorced when she was eight and Maggs hadn’t talked to her since she was twelve. Her dad was a hard nut to crack. Loved Maggs, and me, too, I suppose, but he always looked askance at me. I don’t think he ever figured me out.
When I went to see him and ask his permission, he sat across from me at his desk in a white shirt and power-red tie and said, “Yes, D.S., you may marry her. Absolutely. But I worry about you guys. It’s a tough world out there, and you’ve never really decided on a career. How will you provide for her? Sometimes . . .” He paused. “I wonder if you have the fire in your belly.” Two years later he died.
With the money I saved splitting wood, I bought a diamond, then found an old platinum setting at an estate sale a few weeks later. I had a jeweler put the two together and put it in a little box.
On a late summer night, Maggs and I walked down to the river under the moon. It was hot, but I was cold, and she could tell I was a little tongue-tied. We made small talk, but I was useless. Finally, on the way back through the cornfield, my palms were sweating so badly that I had to do something. I didn’t know how to start. Mr. Stupid. I reached in my pocket, grabbed her hand, tried to say something and couldn’t. So I just knelt down. Right there in the middle of the cornfield.
She giggled. I opened the box, and she lit up like ten thousand fireflies.
“Dylan Styles!” she screamed. “Where did you get this? Did you pick this out by yourself? What have you been doing?”
I gently took her hand again, as if I could calm her down.
Tears filled her eyes and she nodded. “Yes.”
I slipped the ring on her finger, and to my knowledge, the only time it ever came off was on our wedding day. And that was just so I could put it back on her.
We walked back down to the river and sat on the bank, talking about life. Where to live. How many kids we’d have. Their names. What kind of flowers she’d plant in the yard. That was one of the happiest nights of my life. The next morning, as the sun came up over the river, we were still sitting on the bank, talking.
Finally we walked back through the field and called Amos. He said, “Well, it took you long enough.”
We married six months later. That was nine years ago today.
MAGGIE WAS SLEEPING WHEN I WALKED IN. BLUE NUDGED her hand and then took his place at the foot of the bed. I wheeled the chair around to the right side of the bed, on Maggie’s left. I sat and held her ring hand in my hand. It was the first time I had sat on that side of the bed since the delivery. I don’t know why. Never gave it much thought. Just habit, I guess.
I gently slid my hand under hers and began rubbing her hand. Maggie’s long, beautiful, slender wrist didn’t look right wrapped in a hospital tag. I opened my pocketknife, Papa’s yellow-handled Case, and cut the tag off. I stroked her fingers and turned her wedding ring in circles around her finger as we sat in the silence. Turning it, I noticed something wasn’t right. The diamond didn’t sparkle. I angled it to get it under the light, and still no glisten. It was as though the diamond had gone dead. Looking closely, I saw that a red film covered the top and sides of the diamond. Maybe the back, too.
I slid her wedding ring off her finger and ran it under some hot soapy water. As I washed it, little flakes of blood caked off and splattered the sink below. I grabbed Maggs’s toothbrush from the drawer beside her bed, loaded it with toothpaste, and went to work. Then I rinsed the ring under water that was so hot it was painful. Having scrubbed and rinsed, I dried it off. There was no need to hold it under the light now. I sat down next to Maggs, gently held her hand, and slipped it on her finger.
“Maggs.” I gently placed my finger on the wrinkle in her forehead. “Maggie.” The wrinkle disappeared. “I know you’ve got a lot going on in there, but I need you to listen for a minute. I need you to wake up. Let’s go home. You and me. Let’s get up and walk out of this place. Whatever happened is over.” I paused.
“It’s lonely at home. See . . .” I rolled up my sleeve, tore off the bandage, and placed her hand on my arm. Her fingers rested on the scab and scar of my left forearm. The wrinkle returned. “Honey, I need you . . . I need us.”
I laid my head next to her hand, kissed her finger, and closed my eyes. “Baby, I can’t get to where you are. So you’re going to have to get to me.”
chapter twenty-five
CHRISTMAS EVE DAY WAS COLD AND OVERCAST and looked like snow. It was probably just one or two degrees below thirty, but who was counting? I think the wind chill was a good bit lower.
Maggie loves Christmas. Our house always showed it too: wreaths, candles, stockings, the smell of evergreen. And she never let us get away with a fake tree. Last year we put so many strands of lights on the tree that when it came time to undecorate it, we couldn’t. We ended up taking off all the ornaments, leaving seventeen strands of lights on a six-foot tree, and hauling the whole thing out to the hard road for pickup. A thirty-four-dollar tree and fifty-four dollars’ worth of lights. Maggie saw it no other way.
“You can’t have a tree if you’re not going to put lights on it.”
“Yes,” I said, “but honey, we don’t have a Christmas tree. We’ve got a fire hazard at the cost of about five dollars a night. Between now and the time we take it down is about $150.”
She laughed, batted her eyelashes, and said, “I know it, but it’s Christmas.”
The “but it’s Christmas” statement really cost us. And shopping? I swear, if the Taj Mahal were on sale and Maggie knew of someone who really wanted it, she’d figure a way to get it. I can hear her now, “But it was only $90 million. That’s half off!”
Our house was always neat, but I did my best to dirty it up. I’d leave underwear on the floor, the toilet seat up, the toothpaste cap off, books right where I left them, shoes where I took them off, pantry door open. Not Maggie. We’d cook dinner, and she’d have all the dishes cleaned and put up before we ate. The kitchen looked as if we were never there. Sometimes at night, I’d get out of the bed to go to the bathroom, and I’d be gone maybe thirty seconds. When I got back, the bed would be made up.
Papa and Nanny’s house isn’t much. Take away my romantic descriptions, and it’s basically an old farmhouse with creaky floors, a built-in draft, bowed ceilings, a rusted roof, and forty layers of cracked and peeling paint. But that didn’t stop Maggie.
Our front lawn looked like Martha Stewart stopped by on her way south. Plants everywhere. Colors? Honey, we got colors. And smells? If you get downwind, you almost can’t smell Pinky. Maggie’s thumb is so green you can take dead branches, give her half a cup of water, some mystery juice that she cooks up out in the barn, three days, and whammo! Blooms. I have seen that woman take dead fern, I’m talking crunchy-in-your-hand dead, and in a week’s time it needs splitting and transplanting.
Maggie’s absence from our home was more evident than ever on Christmas. I had built no fire, and I didn’t intend to. No need to accentuate the obvious. The yard was in disarray. Weeds were rampant. The house was a mess. Laundry was, well, like the weeds. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say a bachelor lived in my house.
The wind beat against the tin roof, and somewhere outside Pinky was making noises. Blue was curled up by the fireplace, whimpering.
“If you’re gonna keep that up, you can go outside,” I said.
He placed his front paw over his nose and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. His tail was still.
I needed to go to the hospital, but this day was harder than others. I showered, dressed in clothes I had worn several times, and headed out. Blue met me at the door and waited while I pushed against the screen. He knows better. Blue and I got into a cold truck and headed for town. Driving past the Silver Screen, I naturally thought of Bryce. I needed to stop in. “After Maggie,” I muttered to myself.
We parked at the hospital, which was more or less deserted, and headed in. Maggie was in her room, right where I left her. In the air I smelled Amanda’s perfume. What was she doing, working on Christmas Eve?
I stood next to Maggs’s bed and held her warm, beautiful, elegant hand. Lately, I’ve sat less and paced more. Or stared out the window talking over my shoulder. Maggie understands. I couldn’t sit still at home. What makes me any different here?
Standing at the window, I heard footsteps behind me. Amanda was getting pretty big, and her walk had turned into a distinct shuffle. She was well into the full-blown pregnant-woman waddle. Which is beautiful.
I have experience with only one pregnant woman. I mean, experience that really counts. And I couldn’t say this before, but few things are more beautiful than my pregnant wife was as she stepped out of the shower or stood in front of the mirror and asked me if I thought she was fat. Nothing was ever more alluring to me than the sight of my wife carrying my son. If you’ve never loved a pregnant woman, then you can’t understand, but if you have, then you do, and you know I’m right.
I didn’t turn around. “Good morning, Amanda.”
“Good morning, Professor. Merry Christmas to you.”
I turned and looked at her. “You look nice. New dress code for working holidays?”
She was wearing casual clothes, not the hospital issue I had grown accustomed to.
“Oh, I’m not working. Just stopped in on the way to my Mammy’s.” She paused. “My grandmother’s.”
“I got it,” I said, turning back to the window.
“Professor, you got any plans for today?”
“Now, Amanda.” I held out my hand. “Don’t you start scheming. Blue and I are spending Christmas Eve right here with Maggie. The last time you schemed, I ended up embarrassing myself in front of your dad and his entire church. Not today. I’m parking it right here. But thank you for whatever you were scheming.” I smiled.
“Professor,” she retorted, “you didn’t embarrass yourself.” Her eyes showed excitement. “Daddy’s been asking me to invite you to church. He said he wishes you’d come back.”
“Yeah, so he could preach that fire and brimstone right down on me rather than just let it filter through the windows and drift a few miles down the road? No thanks. Your dad’s a good preacher and a good man, but I’ll pass.”
My voice grew soft, and I turned back to look at Maggs. “Your father doesn’t need my doubt in his church. Neither does your church.”
Amanda’s face said she realized she was getting nowhere. She opened Maggie’s bedside drawer and took out a brush. She gently stroked and brushed Maggie’s hair. As she did, it struck me how much Maggie’s hair had grown. Maybe an inch or two.
“Where’d the brush come from?”
“Oh, I bought it. Got it at the dollar store.” Amanda didn’t look up.
I fumbled in my pockets and pulled out a handful of loose bills and change. “How much was it?”
“Professor.” Amanda looked straight up at me and put her hands on her hips. “It’s Christmas Eve. You don’t pay people for the gifts they give you.” She dropped her head and continued tending to Maggie.
I sat down next to the bed and slipped my hand under Maggie’s. Amanda eyed my Bible.
“I see you brought along something to read. Kind of dusty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t read it,” I said, looking at the drab cover.
“Umm-hmmm,” she said, as if she had a follow-up statement but decided to keep it to herself. She finished her brushing as snow began to fall outside. Heavy, thick flakes started sticking to the windowpane.
We sat in the quiet for a few minutes. “How you doing?” I asked. “I mean, with the baby and all. What do the doctors say?”
“They say he’s big, and I’m little. Say I ought to think about a C-section. So I’m thinking about it. I’m not opposed to the idea. I’m just not sure I want a zipper on my stomach.” Amanda made a motion across her stomach and smiled.
I laughed. It was the first time I had laughed in Maggie’s room. Amanda too. We actually giggled. It reminded me of Maggie.
Outside, the snow fell more heavily. Inside, the silence hung warm and easy. Not talking was just fine with all three of us. After a while, Amanda stood up from her chair and quietly slid it back against the wall.
“Professor, you take care of Miss Maggie.” Standing in the doorway, she turned to me. “And Professor?” Amanda’s eyes searched my face and bored into the back of my head. “You don’t have to be celebrating Christmas to talk with God.”
I nodded. Amanda left, and Blue and I continued to sit with Maggie. After an hour or so, I rang for the nurse.
“Yes,” she barked over the intercom, as if I had interrupted her nap.
“Umm, do you know where the Bible talks about the birth of Jesus? You know, Mary, Joseph, ‘no room in the inn,’ the wise men?”
“Luke 2,” she said promptly.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering how in the world she knew that. I thumbed for Luke, skipping over it twice, and turned to the second chapter.
Maggie had told me that her dad read the Nativity story to her when he tucked her into bed on Christmas Eve. Holding up the thin pages to the light, I read the whole thing aloud to her. When I finished, the corner of Maggie’s closed right eye was wet, but her breathing was slow and easy.
Maggie was at peace. I placed my palm on her flushed cheek and felt the warmth of her face. For another hour, Blue and I sat quietly with her, watching snow fall on oaks and old magnolias. When I stood up at last to look out the window, snow covered everything in sight.
It was ten o’clock when I left. I squeezed her hand and kissed her gently. Her lips were warm and soft. One orange light lit the
parking lot and cast an odd glow into the room.
“Maggie,” I whispered. “All this . . . it’s nobody’s fault. It just is.” I brushed her nose with mine. “I love you, Maggs . . . with all of me.”
Blue and I walked down the quiet hallway. A light shone from the nurses’ station, but that was about it. The night nurse was reading the Enquirer and munching on a bag of cheese puffs.
While I was walking down the hallway, it struck me for the second time that I had actually laughed in Maggs’s room. Amanda and I both had laughed. It felt good too. Maybe, under all that haze of sleep and heavy eyelids, Maggs just needed to hear me laugh. The last time I had really laughed was a few hours before we went to the delivery room—just moments before the bottom fell out of my life.
As I was walking out through the emergency room, I passed the counter where they kept the scanner crackling with police and ambulance activity. It served as mission control for the emergency room. For the waiting room, it provided some sort of entertainment. Over the static, I heard Amos’s calm voice saying he was just west of Johnson’s Pasture and headed to the hospital with somebody.
That was nothing unusual. During the week, Amos made almost as many trips to the hospital as he did to the jail. I used to tell him, “You know, Ebony, if things don’t work out with the sheriff’s department, you’d make one jam-up ambulance driver. You already know the entire lingo.”
He never thought that was too funny. There it was, Christmas Eve, and he was probably transporting some drunk who had had one too many at a Christmas party, gotten in a fight, and needed a few stitches. Put me in Amos’s place, and I’d have thrown the sucker in jail, slapped a Band-Aid on his face, and let him sleep it off. Not Amos.
If he was west of Johnson’s Pasture, that meant he was eastbound on 27 and would be at the ER in about ten minutes. I didn’t feel like answering any of his questions tonight, so Blue and I walked through the electric doors and onto the sidewalk. As I did, my feet flew out from under me, I went down, and I almost cracked my tailbone. A solid sheet of ice covered the pavement. Pulling myself up by the flagpole, I cussed, rubbed my butt, and hoped nobody had seen my tumble. Especially not Miss Cheese-puff. Blue stood a few feet away, watching me with suspicion.
The Dead Don't Dance Page 18
