When he lumbered through the door, Elizabeth pulled herself up on his collar and kissed him. “How punctual,” she said. “Dinner is served.” As they ate, they discussed their last-minute wedding checklist, finishing a bottle of red in the process. After two hours of television, Malcolm fell asleep on the couch and was roused awake by the graze of Elizabeth’s hair. He leaned up to meet her gentle kiss. He held one of her tanned thighs and kept his balance on the edge of the cushion as he drove his weight between her legs. After, they put the couch back together and straightened the rest of the house. Elizabeth lazily switched off the lights and dragged herself to bed, curling in a ball against Malcolm’s back.
The next morning they headed north through city and west through suburbs before the road turned languorous through farms and trees and wound its way into the heart of the hills.
STEAK $10, PRAISE JESUS. Jordan’s truck was caked with two hundred miles of north Texas dirt when he pulled off the windblown shoulder and came to a stop in front of a little diner, windows scored with sand, paint faded and cracked by the sun. A bell screwed to the heel of the door rang as Jordan pushed it open. A wiry trucker leered from under his cowboy hat, sipped a beaded can of Coke and looked away. Young hips swayed to the edge of the table.
“Something to aid your constitution?” she asked.
Jordan ordered one of those steaks from the sign, then stared out past the cars across a desolate plane howled by dust. The sun broke land and sky into refractions of gold, honeysuckle, and a funereal scarlet that thinned on the far reach of the horizon. He hadn’t been back through the Ouachita highlands for over twenty years, when he would camp every summer with his friend Russ and his family. Jordan hated when his brother came along because Malcolm would always catch more fish than him. Malcolm tried to hand Jordan his line when a fish was on, but he could not stand being patronized so he would disappear into the woods for hours, shooting squirrels with a BB gun, using his folding knife to whittle a branch to a point and then stab it through the tiny carcasses. Then the boys would drag their rods, tackle, and a bucket of dead fish and squirrel meat through high brush and rough terrain back to the campsite.
After all these years, Jordan remained mystified by his brother. His intelligence, his preternatural awareness. He had to listen close if he hoped to decode Malcolm’s peculiar way of speaking. For instance, in their tent out there under the stars, Malcolm used to look up and say how the days were signatures, each with its own feel, texture, and shape. Every unique form dictated what was able to occur in that space at that time. Each day becoming aware of itself as it determined its purpose and unfolded its own fate. Signatures, Jordan thought as he stared out the window. He never knew what that meant, and to think of it now, he still didn’t. Malcolm used to say the universe was in flux. Once you thought you understood one aspect of something, if you happened to come upon it another way, you would find a new ordering of an entirely other reality there. He could never understand how his brother thought so succinctly about such abstract things. For Jordan, those thoughts invited doubt and unrealized outcomes that only intimidated him. He imagined seeing his brother again and wondered what the ordering of his new reality might look like.
The waitress handed over a steak and a beer, then asked where Jordan was coming from.
“San Antonio,” he said. The dispassion in his voice echoed back to him.
“I was thinking of moving to Arlington with my friend,” the waitress said brightly. “They got this nursing program there, you know, down by Forth Worth?”
He washed the air with his hand. “I’m from Arkansas, originally.”
“That where you headed to?”
“Excuse me?” He squinted up at her. Sometimes his hearing went out.
“What are you heading back to?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.”
He thanked her for the food, sipped his beer, and ate in quiet.
Twenty minutes later he dropped a smoldering butt to the gravel then climbed back in his truck and got up to speed on the blacktop. Far back in the lot, beside a dumpster and low-hanging tree, a ’59 Fleetwood gurgled in park. Two men sat on the white leather bench seat, obscured from view. A tall old man with a black mountain dasher had a long gray beard that blew across the newspaper he had folded open on the wheel. Beside him sat a short gentleman with parted hair and a tan suit, scribbling in a heavily notated binder. The older one kept his eyes on the direction in which Jordan just sped, hot air blowing off the highway.
“It appears as though he is on course.” The little man spoke without raising his head. “He should be headed east on 62 and cross the state line near Prairie Grove.”
“He’ll be at the house by nightfall,” the tall one said with certainty. His withered voice was softer than parchment. The Fleetwood slid into drive and pulled onto the road, far enough behind Jordan not to be seen.
THREE
THE FOYER OF THE Bayne house was decorated with family heirlooms and old photographs. Two inseparable infants on their backs in a pen. Dusty-haired boys with proud smiles flanking their father in front of a gleaming Eldorado. Shirtless, skinny adolescents abreast the portside of a Crestliner, squinting onto the verdigris rush of the White River. Jordan traced his callused fingers along ruby vines coiled beneath fat cherubim on a French vase before being startled by his own wild hair and dirty reflection in the mirror above the mantle, which were both heirlooms of his great-grandmother, Eleanora.
He leaned over the bottom of the stairwell and looked up at the shadowed landing on the second floor. Someone turned on a faucet upstairs, so he rushed over to the living room and stood at the curtains, hoping not to be seen. He looked onto the gravel drive and the barn, the sole remaining features of the original property. The eight-by-eight trusses, elm floors, and pine clapboard had been cut and planed by hand from the surrounding trees. The rest of the cropper house burned in 1886, a fire that also claimed two lives.
Bayne land came up from the road a good fifty acres, lush with third growth and untamed brush. When they were kids, Malcolm and Jordan made a game of navigating the briar in the far back of the yard. They discovered a rare opening where the thicket grew thin enough for them to twist their young bodies through the thorns. The first time they broke through they braved the brush on their bellies, covered in dirt and sorrel, leaving cuts on arms and raspberry abrasions on elbows and knees. They brushed off and straightened jeans tucked into boots, drew sweatshirt hoods tight, and ran free as their flashlights bounced across their new domain.
They walked for a while before Malcolm noticed the iridescent sky widen overhead as they approached the clearing. Twisted weald and chaparral spread toward a huge flowering elm tree that sulked over the bank of a small pond. At first they were convinced a grove that magical could only exist in their imaginations. They ran and jumped across the overgrown earth and eventually came to stand beneath the canopy of the elm. Malcolm foraged around for the perfect stone and pulled one from the ground. Jordan watched his brother approach the edge of the water and drop the rock, rippling the black surface to its farthest edge. It was then that they knew this place they had discovered was in fact real, and that it would be their first secret.
In the kitchen, Jordan fished a cold bottle out of the refrigerator and heard voices from the backyard. He stepped onto the back deck to find Malcolm and his father talking on the lawn in twilight.
“A ghost walks before us,” Walker called out.
Jordan united them both with a hug. Malcolm grabbed his brother and landed a slap on his back. “My brother, in the flesh.”
Walker had no regard for predictions, but he wasn’t sure Jordan would show. That didn’t matter now. He couldn’t help but acknowledge the ardent love he held for his son. They studied each other, their light-tinged eyes sparkling with relief.
“All right, let’s get it out of the way. I missed you,” Jordan confessed to his brother. “Just kidding, I didn’t really miss you. That’s just something pe
ople say.” He looked around. “Hey, where’s Elizabeth? You are marrying the girl, figure I should meet her.”
Malcolm landed a shot in his ribs. “She was upstairs, she’ll be—well, never mind.”
“If this ain’t the cutest thing I ever saw,” Elizabeth exclaimed from the deck.
Jordan traced the sweet Carolina drawl to a round, cheery face bronzed by porch light, framed by thin strands of hair that fell behind Elizabeth’s ears and down her slender shoulders.
“Meet my bride, Elizabeth May Truitt,” said Malcolm.
“How in the world did you trick a girl like that into marrying you?” Jordan whispered.
“Easy,” said Malcolm. “She hadn’t met any of y’all until tonight.”
Elizabeth dispensed a round of beers then handed hers to Malcolm and bounced into Jordan’s arms, planting the most platonic kiss Jordan’s cheek had ever felt. She compared Jordan to the image she had of him in her mind. Most of what she had heard was hyperbole, the stuff of legend. Now, face to face, she found him to be kind, scrappy, and sort of aloof, his posture reminding her of a kicked dog.
Swinging his beer bottle like a processional bell, Jordan called for a toast. “May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.” He considered what he had just said. “I think that’s how it goes. Anyway, to a wonderful wedding,” he proclaimed.
Elizabeth washed the strain of awe from her throat with a swill of beer and continued the oratory tone. “To y’all being together again, and to our families being joined together from this point on. To what joy may come,” she said sweetly.
The Baynes had been pried apart by time, scattered across the ages. The very concept of family lay with other monoliths of love and trust partly submerged in some strange, forgetful tide. What a notion, Jordan thought, that it could go the other way, too.
On the dinner table sat plates heaped with roasted chicken, carrots, and cornbread. Elizabeth told Walker the smell reminded her of home.
“As far as cooking for myself goes, I have three recipes down. This is one of them,” he told her. “The other two come out of a can.”
“We’re very grateful,” she said, looking around the table.
“Yeah, thanks, Pa,” Malcolm added.
“We had these big summer meals in our backyard. Ours was North Carolina barbecue, of course, just a touch sweeter,” Elizabeth continued. “Most of the vegetables were from my aunt Ashley’s garden. She had these fruit trees that would ripen that time of year, too. Apples, peaches, blackberries, you name it. My mom, my aunt, and I would walk the grass barefoot, our buckets overflowing with fruit. After dinner we would gather on the porch and wait for night to set. The air was so thick you could swim through the sky.” Elizabeth held a buttered square of cornbread in front of her, studying it. “My other aunt, Margaret, her cornbread was just heaven. This sure gives it a run for its money, though.” She smiled then devoured half the yellow bread.
“Are they coming to the wedding?” Jordan asked.
She sipped her water. “That’s right. My momma, Mary, Aunts Margaret and Ashley, their husbands Alan and Mike, and all their kids.”
Jordan asked if they were all back in North Carolina.
She nodded. “Momma still lives in the house I grew up in on the Outer Banks. Aunt Ashley’s family is just outside Wilmington. The rest are coming in from Chicago.”
“How about the boys, Jordan? They coming to the wedding?” Malcolm asked.
“Haven’t kept in touch with most folks round here. I should be asking you, it’s your wedding,” said Jordan.
“They were your friends.”
“Who, you mean Harrell?” Jordan asked.
“Harrell, Baron, that prick Russ. Those knuckleheads better not show up just to wreak havoc on our special day.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jordan teased.
Elizabeth snorted the condensation of a laugh into her glass, then dripped the last red drops in a line on her tongue. She reached out the bottle to refill Walker’s wine glass, but he raised his hand after the first splash.
“Not drinking, Pa?” Jordan asked.
“Not supposed to with these pills they got me on. A small amount will do. Speaking of,” he patted the pocket of his flannel, “I am supposed to take them with food. I’ll be right back.”
“Nonsense, let me get them for you.” Elizabeth helped herself up and Walker told her where to find the leather bag in his bathroom.
“So, how’s life for an old man in the country? Rubin, Ross, and them still around?” Malcolm asked.
Walker grumbled and stroked the scruff around his mouth. “We fish an arm of the Buffalo once a week and play cards Wednesday nights when Rubin’s wife volunteers at the big church where that gay pastor resigned.”
Elizabeth returned with the bag. “Your carvings,” she said. “I saw the ducks on the mantle and the bench downstairs. I meant to ask you earlier.”
“That’s just something to pass the quiet,” he said. “Don’t have to worry about that no more. This wedding’s got things all stirred up around here.”
Elizabeth stood behind Walker’s chair and rubbed his shoulders. “Oh, it won’t be so bad,” she promised.
“Not if you keep that up,” he said, patting her wrist. “You’re beautiful, the two of you. Proud of this boy here.” Walker rested his heavy eyes on Malcolm, who stirred and looked away.
He switched his tone to Jordan. “Been playin’?”
Jordan slouched under his hat, fortifying himself against the question.
Walker unzipped the small leather bag and pulled out a multitude of bottles.
“Damn, they got you on the whole pharmacy,” Malcolm said.
Walker sorted the bottles on the edge of the table. “Let’s see,” he said, blowing the air from his cheeks. “Quinapril’s for my blood pressure, Seroquel for insomnia, I take Xarelto and these horsepill ibuprofens ’cause of my leg, oh and beta blockers for a heart thing.” He peered blindly at the bottle. “What’s this one? That’s not even a real word. They can’t just make up words like that.”
“Heart thing?” Jordan interjected. “You mean a heart attack?”
“It wasn’t as bad as all that. Doctor said it was minor.”
“That’s still a heart attack! Why didn’t you tell us?” He looked at his brother. “Did you know?”
“How would I know? You could’ve died,” Malcolm said, turning to his father.
“Then you two would have had to get along for once, figure out what to do with me.”
The boys exchanged wounded glances. Elizabeth sank in the pressure of mediation. “They are here now and they are concerned about you, Walker. This whole thing is just going to take some,” she paused to choose the correct word, “time.”
“This family, I swear,” Jordan muttered, shaking his head.
“What’s that?” Walker sat up, stern with anger. “What was I supposed to say to you, boy? I don’t even know how to reach you half the time. I bet your brother you weren’t even going to show up here tonight.”
“You have my number,” Jordan said.
“Which one is that? I ain’t seen you in so long. You think I’m just going to call if I need something, or to let you know how I’m feeling?” Walker let out a terse laugh. “If I held out for you I’d be deader than dirt.”
Rage wavered in the corners of Jordan’s eyes like black flags in the wind. “I ain’t been home in some time, true, but it ain’t like you ever came calling on me to see how I was.” He pointed across the table. “Did you get down to Little Rock to see Elizabeth and him? It’s only a three, four-hour drive. You could have spent the night.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” said Walker. “From what I understand, you never stopped by neither. I remember, Malcolm told me you even played a show out there when your brother was in college and you just drove on through. Must’ve been real busy.”
“I had my own problems to deal with and I did, with no help from either of
you.”
“Fuck you,” Malcolm spit.
“Fuck all of you.” Jordan roared to his feet then paused for a second. “Not you,” he said to Elizabeth and lumbered from the table.
“Guess we’re not having pie.” Malcolm slid his chair back to get up.
“Sit your ass down,” Elizabeth said in a huff. She whipped herself up and deposited the dirtied plates in the kitchen, trading them for clean bowls and spoons. Walker and Malcolm sat brooding until Elizabeth placed a bowl in front of each of them and dropped the pie with a thud on the center of the table. “Eat,” she commanded.
“Well,” said Walker. “Suppose I’ll get the brandy.”
FOUR
DAWN SEEPED THROUGH THE HILLS. Walker stood in the early morning light, waiting for the kettle to cough steam. After a life spent singing and picking, he found solitude and prolonged quiet the most musical of all. There was only one problem, as much as he hated to admit. A tremendous boredom overtook him if he was awake for too many hours in a day. He often rose hours before first light. Household chores, busywork, and numerous hobbies were not enough of a distraction. Nights he did not play cards, he read passages from the Bible he had already pored over countless times. Even still, Walker heeded Peter, that one day with the Lord was a thousand years and a thousand years one day. If he still found himself awake, there was always tobacco to smoke and wood to carve.
Walker halted the hiss of steam and poured the boiling water over grounds heaped in a filter. With the boys back in the house he was temporarily relieved, if not of the ravages of old age, over which he knew he had no control, then at least of the loneliness that always knew to attack when he was at his weakest, forcing an end to long stretches where he was perfectly content being alone. As if out of nowhere, in the simplest, most routine moments, he would go through a sort of awakening while he was still awake and would come to the realization that he was trapped—in his head, in that hour, his whole life. Stripped of his defenses, Walker could do nothing but watch as his options of where to go or what to do or who to do it with fell helplessly away. All that remained for him was to merely exist. To suffer the burn of a present where time never commenced and nothing was ever altered.
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