Hearth Song

by Lois Greiman

  She smiled. “Still …”

  “Still nothing!” He sounded belligerent and a little angry. “Lil’s the best thing that happened since you were”—he shrugged, a single lift of capable shoulders. Their gazes met, a soft meld of gooey thoughts—“old enough to lift a circular saw.”

  She laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as watery as it felt.

  He settled against the slats of his chair. “How’s he doing?”

  She cleared her throat and fiddled with the second cookie. “Who? Dane?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. He’s good. Just … looking for a job.”

  “Well, that’s great.”

  “Yeah. He checked in with Emerson, Inc.”

  “Oh?” He took a sip of coffee. “When was that?”

  “Yesterday morning. He said Fred was laying some cement, so he helped out for a while.”

  The room went quiet.

  “What?” Vura asked, and felt tension crank up her spine.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” she repeated.

  “Freddie didn’t mention it. That’s all.”

  Suspicion crept in again, sneaky as a gray goose. But she kept her tone steady. “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah but, hey, he’s busy as a one-legged … he’s busy as can be. I’m sure it just slipped his mind.”

  She nodded.

  “So, Dane’s looking for construction work. That’s great.”

  “Well, not specifically. He said he’d take anything he can get this time. To stay close to home.”

  “That’s good,” he said, but his upbeat tone sounded a little strained.

  She turned her cookie. “You might as well just spit it out, Dad.”

  “Spit what out?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking.”

  He glanced toward the bedroom again, but his cell phone rang before he spoke. “Just a minute … Quinton Murrell,” he said, then listened for a second and stiffened. “When? Okay. I’ll be right there,” he said, and caught his daughter’s gaze with his. “It’s Dad.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was strained, his expression solemn. “Mrs. Ketterling says he was just having some breakfast when …” He winced, shifted his gaze toward the window. “She says we’d better come right away.”

  Chapter 21

  “Gamps.” Vura tried to control her breathing, control her movements as she stepped into her grandfather’s living room. Mrs. Ketterling, the woman they had hired to help since his transition back home, stood in the corner, watching, hands clasped, florid face rumpled with worry.

  Little had changed since Gamma’s death six years before. Every faded picture hung where it had at her passing. Each piece of furniture remained in place, just a little older, a little more tired. But Vura failed to notice the timelessness as she snapped her gaze to her father. Quinton Murrell caught her eyes for a moment before shifting his attention back to the old man’s drawn features. “How you doing, Dad?”

  Randall Murrell was stretched out on the couch. An afghan had been pulled diagonally across his body. The crocheted eyelets opened here and there, granting a view of his khaki pants, his darned socks. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without” had been his motto for years beyond memory.

  His old eyes, as faded as the furniture, turned toward her. “Bravura,” he said, but the tone was raspy, almost inaudible.

  “Yeah, Gamps, it’s me,” she said, and settled carefully beside him on the floor. “How are you?”

  The pale lips tightened, the coarse eyebrows beetled. “Stubborn.”

  She huffed a laugh and reached for his hand as a modicum of relief swooshed through her. “I know that.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to be.”

  “What?” His fingers felt cold and fleshless in hers. He took a shuddering breath. Air wheezed like a cold nor’westerly down his trachea. Vura shifted her attention to her father, but he said nothing.

  “Sorry.” The single word was clear enough from her grandfather’s cracked lips, but she must have heard him wrong. In the twenty-four years of her life, she could count his apologies on one hand. Then again, what did he have to apologize for? He had doled out wisdom and life lessons just as steadily as his wife had offered cookies and kisses.

  She shook her head. “What are you talking about? You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” She fiddled with the afghan. Gamma’s favorite aunt had crafted it twenty years before Vura’s birth. “Unless it’s for scaring the living daylights out of me for no good reason.” She cupped his fingers with her opposite hand. Why were they so cold? So deathly cold? “Is that it?” she asked.

  “There you are,” he breathed.

  “Yeah, I’m …” She scowled, scared. “I’m right here, Gamps.”

  He smiled a little, but his gaze seemed to have drifted off to a point just beyond her left shoulder. “My girl.”

  Vura felt the lump grow in her throat. Felt her eyes sting and her throat tighten with emotion.

  “Rosie.” He said the name softly, as reverently as a prayer. “Not much longer.”

  “Rosie? No, Gamps …” She swallowed, tried to focus through the blur. “It’s me. I’m—”

  “Ahhh …” He sighed, shifted his gaze ever so slightly to meet hers again. “Our granddaughter.” He nodded, slowly, as if it took the greatest of efforts. “Bravura.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” She shot a glance at her father again. “I’m here, and Dad’s here. We’re going to take care of you.”

  “She did that,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “My Rosie,” he said, and sighed softly. “Took care of me. Since the day we said our vows.”

  “I know, Gamps. I know.”

  “Didn’t have no ring.” It was a fact that he had regretted, but Rosalind Quinton Murrell had kept the twist of wire she’d worn on the dedicated finger of her left hand for more than a year. And when he had purchased a modest diamond, she had insisted with a strong woman’s tenacity that he solder the seventeen-gauge onto the narrow gold band, melding the metals as surely as they melded their lives.

  Vura waited in silence, knowing the story, loving the outcome.

  “Couldn’t afford one.” That misty smile again. “Didn’t matter. I was young, full of myself.” A quiet chuckle rumbled through his narrow chest as if he laughed at something unheard, something he had shared with no one but the love of his life. But he sobered. “Never good enough for her.”

  “Gamps …”

  “Never was,” he repeated and tightened his hand on hers. “But she stood by me. Stood up for me. Even when our Dena was taken.” His gaze wandered again. “My fault,” he whispered. “And after …” He glanced out the window, over the gardens they had worked together for more than half a century. Rows of potatoes, patches of herbs, clusters of irises. “She stuck. Always stuck, though I was no good.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Gamps. She loved you. Was crazy about you.”

  He nodded, silent for a long moment. “Comes down to that, I guess. Just that.” He sighed. “Ain’t no figuring it out.” He caught her gaze with his. “Was what we wanted for you, Bravura. All we ever wanted.”

  “I know.”

  He winced, jerked.

  “What’s wrong?” She leaned closer. “Listen, just hang on.” Tires crunched on the gravel in the drive. Relief flooded her. “The ambulance is here. Just—” she began, but when the door opened and closed, no EMTs rushed into the room. Instead, Tonk stepped inside. Eyes solemn, he nodded to Quinton, brushed his gaze over Bravura, then knelt, solemn as a prayer, beside her.

  “Menewa,” he said.

  Gamps’s shoulders slumped just a little. “Tonkiaishawien.”

  Light glimmered in Tonk’s eyes. Lifting his gaze, he smiled, as if seeing what Vura could not. “So she waits.”

  “Still loves me,” Gamps said, and shook his head.

  “Some men have all the luck,” Tonk said.
r />   “And some have miracles.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Tonk placed his hand on the old man’s forehead. “Then let the Great Spirit …”

  “What are you doing?” Vura asked and, dropping her grandfather’s hand, jerked to her feet.

  Tonk breathed a sigh. “Dying is hard on the living.”

  “Dying! What are you talking about?” She stabbed her gaze at her father, but he merely stood, brows low over troubled eyes. No help there. “He’s not dying. He just …”

  “We must learn to let go, Bravura,” Tonk said. “He has lived well. Does he not deserve to die the same?”

  “What the hell do you know about it?” she demanded and dropped to her knees again. “Gamps, I’m sorry. I don’t know what he’s doing here. But it’s okay. The ambulance will come and—”

  “My girl,” he said and, reaching up, grasped her hand. “Such a fighter. Always …” He gasped, breath rattling, body jerking.

  “Gamps! Dad! Help—” she said, but the old man came back to her slowly, grip tightening.

  “You don’t have to try so hard. Not so hard.”

  “Listen … don’t worry about anything. Everything’s going to be okay. You just—”

  “Tonkiaishawien …” He shifted his far-seeing gaze back to Tonk.

  “Ai?”

  “Don’t fail her,” he said and, closing his eyes, let his fingers go lax.

  “Gamps!” Vura sobbed his name, pulled his hand against her chest. “Gamps. Don’t leave me.”

  “Bravura,” Tonk said, and touched her arm, but she jerked away.

  “Please. Dad!” She glanced over her shoulder, chest aching.

  “Honey,” he said, and crowded in behind her. “Let him go.”

  “Let him go? What are you even … ?” She huffed. “He can’t die.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but—”

  “But nothing. He promised to teach me to fly-fish, to shear sheep, to—”

  “Hobgoblin,” Quinton breathed and drew her up beside him. She had no choice but to release her grandfather’s hand, to let it drop against his too-still chest. But the rage remained.

  “What have you done?” She jerked toward Tonk, snarling. “You had no right.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry! You can’t—” She shook her head, wild, afraid. “Help him. Please.”

  “There is nothing I can do. He is gone.”

  “He’s not gone. He’s right there. He’s right—”

  “Bravura!” Tonk’s voice was sharp. “Your grandfather is dead.”

  She jerked as if slapped, ready to deny, to curse, to blast him and the world, but his expression was so solemn, so sad and reverent and final that there seemed nothing she could say. Nothing she could do but stagger across the echoing floor and into the light-falling rain.

  Chapter 22

  The funeral was held on a Tuesday.

  It should have been raining. Why wasn’t it raining? Vura wondered and realized she was angry at the sunshine that dazzled the eye. Mad at the crocus that dotted the pastures, incensed by the robins that hopped and warbled on the lawn outside Zimmerman’s Funeral Home.

  Dane, solemn and handsome in his suit coat and tie, had accompanied her and Lily inside before wandering off to speak to the mourners.

  Near the front of the parlor, the casket, an oaken box with sprays of wheat etched at the corners, was open for viewing. Vura felt her throat clench and her stomach twist. She turned woodenly from the sight of it.

  She had tried to remain strong for her daughter. But inside, she felt weak, weak and fragile and broken. Beside her, Lily threw Foo Foo into the air for the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time it flopped to the floor from which it was retrieved once again. She tugged at her mother’s hand, tipping her slightly off balance as she scooped the ratty thing back into her arms.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Mrs. Coleman was a handsome woman with a creased face, the requisite silver-blue hair and, if the stories were to be believed, a colorful past.

  “Thank you.” Vura had recited the words dozens of times by now, had hugged, consoled, and been consoled, but had still not approached the casket.

  “He was a good man.”

  “Yes. He was,” Vura said and, feeling Lily try to pry away, tightened her grip.

  “Was he ill for long?” Mrs. Coleman asked.

  “No,” Vura said, and wondered now if she was wrong. Wondered if he had suffered more than she had known. More than she had allowed herself to believe. If that was the case, how many other things was she refusing to see? To admit. “Well, you’re lucky then. My cousin, Mavis, you might remember her, she has a grandson about your age. She’s suffered from Alzheimer’s for the longest time. Doesn’t even recognize—” Her voice droned on. Vura nodded, made the appropriate noises.

  Beside her, Lily fidgeted. Perhaps Dane had been right. Maybe they should have left her at home. But they had been forced to find someone to rush to her father’s house to care for Lily and it seemed wrong to leave her again. Besides, there was a closure here, a finality that Vura had thought would be important. Now, however, her nerves felt stretched to the breaking point.

  “I want to see Grandpops,” Lily interrupted Mrs. Coleman without preamble.

  The elderly woman’s dialogue came to an abrupt halt, but she smiled. “Well, I’ll be praying for you,” she said, and shuffled off, blue hair piled up like an ice cream cone.

  “I wanna see him,” Lily repeated.

  Vura turned to her daughter with a hundred misgivings, but she had explained death as best she could, had answered the dozens of questions and fielded as many concerns. And somewhere along the line she had assured Lily that she would be able to see her great-grandfather one last time. She regretted that promise with gut-wrenching dread now.

  “Listen, honey …” She knelt, meeting the kaleidoscope eyes full-on. “How would you like to get some dessert with your daddy? I think the Purple Pie Place is open.”

  Lily’s brows lowered belligerently. “I want to see Grandpops.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart.” Vura’s mind felt gray and worn, her muscles stripped by sadness. “We all do, but—”

  “Where is he?”

  She exhaled carefully and forced a smile. “His body is in that casket.” She nodded toward the ornate coffin she had not yet gotten the nerve to approach. Lily turned to scowl at the thing. “But his spirit—”

  “He’s in a box?” Lily asked, and twisted in that direction, but Vura held her tight, turned her back.

  “Listen, Lily—”

  “Why’s he in a box?” Her voice had risen in a potent mix of panic and anger.

  Frustration spurted through Vura. She had explained the situation as best she could, but really, who had a handle on death? She scanned the room, looking for a savior, but her father was consoling his aunt and Dane was nowhere to be seen.

  “I want to see him,” Lily repeated.

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “I want to see Grandpops!” The decibels were rising with her agitation.

  “Listen, Lily—”

  “I wanna see him.” Her little body had tensed. “I wanna see him. I wanna see him!”

  Vura’s face felt hot, her body stiff, but she rose to her feet, grasped her daughter’s hand, and took a faltering step toward the casket.

  Lily paced along beside. Their footfalls sounded loud and hollow against the industrial-strength carpet as they made the long journey toward the front of the parlor.

  Inside, stretched out on almond-colored velvet, Randall Murrell looked like nothing so much as a caricature of himself. His platinum hair was parted wrong, his waxy skin stretched tight over bones sharpened by death.

  Vura stared, repulsed and shaken, but her daughter grasped the lip of the casket and rose to her toes for a better view.

  “Lily!” Vura admonished and tried to lift her daughter against her chest, but
she wouldn’t release her hold. “Lily, let go.”

  “That’s not Grandpops.”

  Embarrassment and sorrow flooded in, but she squatted, lowering her voice. “Yes, it is, honey. He just looks different.”

  Lily scowled, then, reaching inside, she touched the old man’s hand. From the back of the parlor, someone inhaled a shocked breath, but Vura was entirely absorbed by her daughter now.

  “Gamps is dead, Lily.” Sorrow welled, scouring her throat, burning her eyes. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Lily shifted her wide-wonder gaze toward her mother.

  “Yes.”

  “Ohhh …” Understanding seemed to dawn on her like morning light. “He went to see his Rosie.”

  “Yes.” Vura cleared her throat. “Yeah, he’s with Gamma now.”

  “So that’s just his old skin?”

  “What?”

  “His old skin … like a rattlesnake. Tonka says rattlers slither out of the used-up stuff when they’re ready for something new, something better. So Grandpops left his old skin behind so he could be with his Rosie again. Right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, that’s okay then.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Vura glanced up. Dane stood behind them, brows low.

  Vura shook her head, not sure where to begin.

  “Here you go,” Lily said and, stretching even farther onto her patent-leathered toes, reached into the casket to place her bunny between the old man’s hands. “Take Foo Foo so you don’t never forget me.”

  “Lily!” Dane rasped and pulled her from the casket. “You have to behave!”

  She turned toward him, eyes wide with surprise. “I am behaving.”

  “Be quiet,” he ordered.

  She blinked, scowled. “Does Grandpops want me to be sad?”

  Dane gritted his teeth. “He wants you to be—” he began, but Lily’s gaze had already darted away.

  “Hunk!” she chirped and squirming out of her father’s grasp, raced across the floor toward Hunter Redhawk. The big man caught her in his arms, lifted her against his heart.

  The sight of the two of them together shot a warm draft of hope through Vura’s weary system.