Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  Chantry couldn’t say anything. He heard music playing on the stereo, watched the light outside the window and patio door fade, and felt the air quiver. It should never have come to this. Even in death, Bert Quinton destroyed the lives of others.

  When Dempsey stood up, Chantry did, too. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, this is somethin’ I got to do by myself.” A little smile tucked in one side of his mouth, and Dempsey nodded. “I was always right about you, Chantry. You turned out to be a fine man. You’da made your mama and daddy proud.”

  No one had ever said that to him before, and Chantry couldn’t say anything back, just watched Dempsey walk out the door and heard him start his truck and drive off. For a long moment, he stared at the closed door. Then he changed clothes and went up to get Cinda.

  They all showed up at the police station, Cinda, Chris, Tansy. Gordon stalled, but Tansy had already called a local lawyer and she showed up soon enough to keep Dempsey from saying too much before the high-powered defense team Tansy hired could arrive. Tansy would have paid whatever bail required to get him out that night, but he wouldn’t be arraigned until the next day. Dempsey didn’t seem to much care; he had the look of a man resigned to his fate, and a kind of peace about him that Chantry almost envied. Nobody said much when they left, and Chris and Tansy went back to Tunica for the night, neither of them wanting to face his parents or the empty house on Liberty Road. There were too many reporters lurking around Cinda’s house, too great a chance of Tansy being recognized and pursued to risk staying in town anyway. One thing Grand Isle had, was good security. Cameras everywhere. By now the police probably had the tapes of him and Dempsey leaving together that night, he commode-hugging drunk and the old man half-carrying him out to his car.

  “It’s going to be another long day tomorrow,” Cinda said when they got in her car, and he knew she was right. He felt like he’d been beaten with a club. Battered, bruised, and weary.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll have to tell my parents. And aunt and uncle. It’d be best coming from me. I dread it. God, I dread it.”

  “Tonight? It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “No, what if they hear it from a reporter first? That Tansy’s father, Chris’s future wife, killed Granddad? This isn’t the kind of news that can be told over the phone or by some reporter with a camera and a story deadline to make. I have to tell them.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, even though he’d rather have been dragged behind the car. “You don’t need to be by yourself right now.”

  Her smile was almost worth what he’d just committed to enduring.

  “Well, that’s handy,” Cinda said when they turned into the driveway of the house on St. Clair Road, “both my parents are here, and it looks like Uncle Colin is too. Saves us a trip out to Six Oaks.”

  Small blessings. Philip Sheridan looked happy to see Cinda, and his soon-to-be-former wife looked unhappy to see Chantry. Colin stood in a corner of the kitchen with a drink in one hand and his eyes narrowed, and Laura Quinton laughed softly at nothing. Only Tinky held no hard feelings. She barked until Colin said to shut her up, for Christ’s sake, and Cinda shot him an unfriendly look.

  Picking up the fat, wriggling dog, she held her in her arms, stroking the soft fur as she faced her family. Chantry leaned against the door frame ready for a quick exit as soon as it was expedient.

  “For the love of god, Cinda,” Cara Sheridan said impatiently, “I’m exhausted after that long flight. Now you bring that murderer in here? What on earth is the matter with you?”

  “I have something to tell all of you. And Chantry’s not a murderer.”

  “That’d be Bert,” Laura said with a wise nod of her head. “He’s dead.”

  Colin put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and squeezed. “Dad was murdered, not a murderer.”

  “Oh yes. I know that.” Laura smiled brightly. She looked at Chantry with eyes that were slightly glazed. He figured Colin had increased her medication.

  Cinda set Tinky on the kitchen floor and straightened to look at her mother, then her uncle. “Dempsey Rivers just confessed to killing Granddad. He’s being held over for an arraignment tomorrow.”

  No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Chantry thought of the last time he’d been in this kitchen, when he was fourteen, sitting at the table feeling awkward while Cinda opened his box of Valentine’s Day candy. Cara Sheridan had hated him then, and she hated him now. He wondered if she’d brought Paolo back with her.

  “I don’t believe it,” Cara said abruptly, and gave Chantry a hard look. “He’s only saying that to protect Chantry. Everyone knows that old man would do anything for him. I think the rumors are probably true about him being his father. After all, Carrie Lassiter never did have—”

  Chantry pushed away from his lazy slump against the door and took three steps into the kitchen. “Don’t you dare say another fucking word about my mother.”

  He’d said it quiet, but his words seemed to reverberate in the room like thunder. Cara Sheridan opened her mouth, then shut it again with an audible snap. She looked a little scared. Good.

  “Mother,” Cinda said, and sounded more weary than mad, “your idiocy never ceases to amaze me. You know damn good and well no one ever believed that. It was just something Granddad said a long time ago to make me mad.”

  Chantry looked at her. This was crazy. He wanted to get out of there, take Cinda with him and just start driving, but he couldn’t. This was something he had to see through to the end. But damn if Cinda didn’t make him think somehow of Mama, standing there with her chin tilted up in defiance, a look on her face like she’d seen it all, heard it all, and nothing much mattered but what she’d set out to do. Cotton candy-covered steel.

  “I heard him say that,” Laura offered. “It was after Chantry ran away. After that awful Rainey Lassiter burned up in the fire with all that money. Bert was angry because it didn’t happen like he wanted. But he was always that way, wasn’t he?”

  “Hush, sugar,” Colin murmured, but Laura only smiled.

  “You remember, Colin. I know you do. Don’t you remember how happy I was that he didn’t get his way for once? And he was so angry because he couldn’t put that boy in jail, said he’d been nothing but trouble ever since Carrie Callahan came to town with him anyway.” She looked over at Chantry and nodded. “I heard him that day with Carrie, you know. I told you I’d tell you if you got rid of Bert for me.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Mrs. Quinton,” he said when it seemed like she expected some kind of response, and she said, “I know.”

  Colin put an arm around Laura’s shoulders and started to walk her toward the door like he was going to take her from the house, but she pulled away, turned to look back at Chantry.

  “Bert killed Ted, you know. I saw it. It was late at night, and we’d just got here from California. We were newlyweds then. Happy.” She looked over at her husband, who stood stock still and frozen in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring at her like he’d never seen her before. “He killed him, Colin. Right after Ted told him he intended to do the right thing by Julia. I’d come downstairs to go to the kitchen and got turned around, and when I heard voices, I went to see . . . Rainey Lassiter was there, but it was your father who shot Ted. Right in the heart with that little pistol. I’d never seen anyone die before. I couldn’t move . . . my heart was beating so fast and I was so scared . . . and then Rainey said he’d take Ted out to the Hideaway, let him feed the turtles with the rest. I suppose that’s what he did. I didn’t stay to see that. I ran away then.”

  The only sound in the room was the clicka clicka of Tinky’s toenails against the kitchen floor as the dog searched for vagrant crumbs she might have missed. Chantry stood there like stone, like the others, all staring at Laura Quinton.

  Laura smiled. “It just seemed fitting to shoot him in the heart with that pistol, too. Don’t you think? He did it to Ted. And after Dempsey Rivers left, I did it to him.”
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  “Aunt Laura,” Cinda said, breaking the awful silence that fell, “Granddad was stabbed.”

  “Oh, I know. He had blood all over him. But he’d gotten up off the floor and said he’d make sure Dempsey paid, and Tansy, too. Said he’d be able to get rid of all of them at last. Then he yelled at me, told me not to just stand there looking at him, to call for an ambulance. When he said it was past time I got put away too, I saw that little gun lying there, and I picked it up. I pointed it at him. He just laughed. Said I’d never have the guts to shoot him. So I did. Right in the heart. He stopped laughing then.”

  Colin made an inarticulate sound and she turned to look at him.

  “It’s all right, Colin. He won’t ever make you cry again. Or Chris. Or anyone else.” When no one said anything, she turned to look at Chantry. “He made Carrie cry. I heard him. He told her he’d take you away from her if she didn’t marry Rainey, that he’d have her declared an unfit mother. He told her she’d never see you again. That it’d be the best thing if she married Rainey Lassiter because Rainey wanted her really bad and she’d never be able to do any better anyway. Not an unwed mother like her, with no one to help her out. So Carrie said she would, but I know she didn’t want to. But she said she’d do what she had to do to keep her little boy. So I suppose she did. Just like I’ve done what I had to do for my little boy. Chris wants Tansy and he should be happy. Isn’t that right?” She turned to look at her husband. “Shouldn’t Chris have what he wants?”

  “Yes,” Colin said finally, the word coming out all hoarse and funny sounding. “He should have what he wants.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Autopsy results came back from Jackson and proved that it had, indeed, been a bullet in the heart that killed Bert Quinton. The knife wounds were bad but not fatal, just messy. Maybe that’s how the cops had missed seeing the bullet wound, all that blood from the stabbing, but Captain Gordon was pretty embarrassed about it.

  “So what’s going to happen to Laura Quinton?” Mikey asked as they stood out in front of the ruined house on Liberty Road. “Is she going to jail?”

  “A place like Whitfield. Colin finally signed the papers to have her put away. Where she can get long-term help.” Chantry dug in his pocket for a cigarette, then remembered that he’d stopped smoking. “Dempsey’s free for now. Assault charges might be filed, but Tansy’s attorney doesn’t think much will be done. Not since . . .”

  “Since he’s dying anyway.” Mikey nodded. “I’m sorry, Chantry. I know how much he means to you. What he means to all of us.”

  Chantry leaned against his car, folded his arms over his chest and stared at the splintered ruins of the house. The garage, against all odds, still stood fairly upright, but leaned a lot. Shadow slept beneath the bare, spreading branches of the mimosa tree, and in just a couple of months, morning glories would probably cover his grave. Right now, the new-turned earth looked red and raw, tamped down with their shovels. But the dog was home. Back where he’d started out, back where everything had started for Chantry.

  “Mind if we join you?”

  Chantry looked over his shoulder. Chris and Tansy had walked down, and Dempsey followed at a slower pace, looking a lot older than he had just a few days before.

  Tansy came up and hugged him, then laid her head against his shoulder and stood for a long moment in silence. She smelled sweet, her soft hair brushing against his jaw. Winter lights made it gleam really red, almost coppery.

  “He was a good dog,” she said finally, and sounded sad. He nodded.

  “The best.”

  Tansy glanced at Chris, then up at Chantry. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted Daddy to say a few words over him.”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or not, but ended up just nodding again. It didn’t seem as dumb as it should have, eulogizing a dog. Not when it was Shadow.

  Dempsey had brought a Bible, and when they stood by the grave he opened it up to where he had a place marked to read, adjusting a pair of eyeglasses on his nose.

  “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up . . .”

  Chantry thought about those words, thought about a lot of things when Tansy sang a song, a favorite of Dempsey’s, a song about Amazing Grace. It seemed like he’d been through so many seasons, but maybe now it was the time for him to heal. Then he’d take on the time to build up. To start fresh. To believe again.

  Gravel under wheels sounded, and they looked up as Cinda pulled her car to the shoulder of the road. She got out and looked at him. The wind blew her hair away from her face as she came toward him across the gravel and the hard pods that had fallen from the black walnut trees near the road.

  The final notes of Tansy’s song faded as Cinda reached them where they stood beneath smooth, bare branches of the mimosa tree. She carried a small spray of flowers in one hand, and knelt to place it atop the gentle mound of earth blanketing Shadow.

  “Lavender,” he said softly, “Mama’s favorite.”

  “I know. She always smelled so sweet. This is for both of them.”

  Chantry didn’t know what to say then, just put his arm around her and held her close to him. Maybe he’d take some lavender to put on Mama’s grave, too. A peace offering. He owed her that. She’d married Rainey to protect him, stayed with Rainey to protect Mikey. A strong woman, determined. Maybe she hadn’t done everything just right but neither had he. No one did. But she’d loved him enough. And that was the best part of her legacy. It’d just taken him a lot longer than Mikey to realize it.

  Saying good-bye was always hard, some good-byes harder than others.

  It was on a soft April day when skies were so bright a blue it hurt to look up that Chantry drove over to Liberty Road to visit Dempsey and found him lying out in the front yard. He slammed the Rover into Park, leaped out and made it to Dempsey’s side in about three long strides. Dempsey opened his eyes and looked up at the sky when Chantry cradled his head in the crook of his arm.

  “So blue . . . I swear . . . I can almost . . . see heaven.”

  Fumbling for his cell phone, Chantry got out, “I’m calling for an ambulance—”

  “No.” Dempsey gave a weak shake of his head. “Don’t . . . do that . . . to me . . .”

  Helpless, Chantry just looked down at him for a minute before he slowly nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

  Dempsey relaxed slightly, his eyes briefly closing before he opened them again. This time his gaze lingered on Chantry. It got real quiet, the wind a whisper through trees, a light sound like tiny bells coming from the chimes Tansy had hung on the porch a long time ago.

  Then from the road, music drifted through the still-open door of the Rover, the CD Chantry had been listening to rising above the wind chimes. Tansy’s voice sang someone else’s song, a poignant melody with sad lyrics about broken hallelujahs and lost love.

  “Tell her . . .” Dempsey said, holding Chantry steady with eyes that had seen too much in life, “she . . . done me proud. Tell her . . . I’ll watch . . . over her. Always.”

  It felt suddenly final. He didn’t know if he could stand it, if he had the strength to do this. This was Dempsey. Dempsey who lay here dying in his arms, and all the other deaths, the losses and sorrows and anguish, came crashing back in a weight too great to bear. He bent his head until his cheek rested against Dempsey’s forehead.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered on a long sigh, “don’t leave me now. Ah, help me God.”

  The last word was more of a prayer, slipping easily from his lips, a supplicant’s plea for mercy, for more time, for words to say what he felt inside when he’d never known how deeply he could feel. Everything tumbled through his mind so fast, images flying past of nearly forgotten memories, Dempsey teaching him how to bait a hook, how to reel in a catfish without getting stung, how to tel
l which weeds were harmless and which were toxic, how to save a Catahoula pup no one else wanted . . . how to live by the truth when everything around him reeked of hatred, lies, and intolerance.

  “Son,” Dempsey whispered then, and Chantry knew what he meant, who he meant, and took the hand the old man held up and curled his own around it, his so strong covering the familiar hand that had known too much work and not enough care.

  “Son . . .” he said again, the word softer this time, the name on his lips a benediction and promise, and even when his arm relaxed and his breathing stilled, Chantry held on to him, held the only father he’d ever known as if he could never let go, could never say all the things he’d meant to him, just the words that came from his soul.

  “I love you . . .”

  Tansy sang at his funeral, her glorious voice lifting high above the crowd gathered at his grave, rising up to heaven so he could hear it. Half the town turned out to say their good-byes and, while some had come just to get a look at Tansy, maybe, most were there because of Dempsey. He’d earned respect and love from a lot of folks in Cane Creek.

  Mikey was there, and Miss Pat and Doctor Mike had come, too, just to pay their respects, they said, but Chantry thought maybe it was to show support for him, too. They knew how much he’d loved that old man. He surprised his grandmother by giving her a hug, and when he shook his grandfather’s hand, he held it a little longer than necessary. A look passed between them then, and both knew what the other thought. Years of regret, of missed opportunities, of anger that had somehow supplanted love and been such a waste. The reasons for it seemed foolish now. But it wasn’t too late to start over. Not too late to make the best of the next years. Mama would have liked that, he thought, and saw in his grandfather’s eyes that he was thinking of her, too. They looked at each other and smiled.

  For the first time since that April day so long ago, Chantry walked in the mist over to where Mama was buried behind the New Cane Creek Baptist church. Fresh lavender grew by her headstone, the one that marked the years of her birth and death but couldn’t begin to mark her worth. She’d left behind a lot more than two sons.