Cemetery Road. Greg Iles

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СКАЧАТЬ his face suddenly serious, his excitement gone.

      “If you had a son,” he says, trying to sound casual, “would you leave him and stay away? Never come back?”

      Whoa. I’ve wondered if he’d ever ask me something like this. I guess he figures his mom can’t give him the answer he needs. I’m not sure I can, either. Trying to formulate a coherent reply, I stare at his mother’s transportation, a battered Eddie Bauer Ford Explorer from the early nineties. Its navy-blue panels are dented, rusted through in some places, and the khaki cladding once so prized by yuppies has mostly been ripped away by countless fender benders. Thanks to the father who left long ago, this wreck is the vehicle that carries Denny through the world.

      “I had a son, Denny,” I say softly. “He drowned in a swimming pool when he was two. My wife and I ended up getting divorced because of it.”

      “Oh. I’m sorry. My mom never told me that.”

      “I thought about him today for the first time in a long while. Because of Buck’s drowning. My son never got a chance to be a person. Not even a boy, really. I mean, he had a personality. I could see hints of who he might become. But that’s all. Still … he was happy while he lived.”

      “He was lucky, then.”

      “Yeah. Until he wasn’t.” I look out at the unmown grass in Denny’s yard. “When I was your age, there wasn’t much divorce among my friends’ families. But it accelerated pretty fast. Till now …”

      “I know, right? More than half of every class at the school has divorced parents. It’s not like I’m the only one or anything. But still … most of them have dads. Around. Somewhere.”

      “I know what you mean.”

      He picks at something on his pant leg. “Wouldn’t you think my dad would just be curious?”

      I’m tempted to lie, to paint him a rosy picture. But how could that help him? “Maybe I shouldn’t give you advice. But I’ll say this: if your dad doesn’t come around, it’s because he doesn’t want to. That’s got nothing to do with you. He’s missing something in his character. Divorce is one thing, leaving a wife. But a man who leaves his children is something else. I’ve got no respect for a man who does that. A father who leaves his children does damage that can never be repaired. That’s why you’re hurting now.”

      Denny nods slowly, then wipes his eyes.

      “My father didn’t leave our house,” I hear myself saying. “But he left me. You understand? He pretended I wasn’t there.”

      Denny looks confused. “How come? Because of the thing with your brother?”

      “That’s right. He blamed me for my brother’s death. Still does. You know who really acted like a father to me?”

      “Who?”

      “Buck Ferris.”

      Denny’s eyes narrow. “No way.”

      “Yep. He was my scoutmaster. I didn’t even know what depression was, but I was messed up. When Buck saw that my dad wasn’t doing his job, he stepped in and picked up the slack. He taught me how to play guitar, how to use tools. That guy was an artist with a chisel. And what a teacher. Hell, I built a guitar when I was seventeen.”

      “Seriously?”

      “Yeah. I’ve still got it.”

      “That’s so cool. Is that what you’ve been doing for me? What Dr. Buck did for you?”

      The image of Buck being dragged from the river flashes through my mind once more. “Maybe,” I concede. “A little bit.”

      He nods. “Well … I like it.”

      What a day. “Denny, listen. The time may come when your father will be filled with regret and come looking for you. Or he’ll call you to come see him, maybe even live with him. When that day comes, you might be tempted to leave your mom.”

      The boy is staring at me now, hanging on every word.

      “I’m not saying you don’t talk to him. Do what you need to do. But don’t live your life waiting for that day, okay? Don’t dream of life with him because you feel like your mother doesn’t understand you. She’s doing the work your dad should have done, on top of her own. You hear me?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Yes, sir.” He looks into his lap. “So what’s your next step?”

      “Talk to Buck’s widow. She lives out on the Little Trace.”

      “Oh, yeah. The break-in.”

      “I’ll look forward to seeing your video. It’ll be a huge help.”

      “I’m going to go edit it right now. Watch your email inbox.”

      I give him a firm handshake, and his slim hand squeezes tight. Then he scrambles out of the Flex and unloads his drone.

      “Hey,” I call through the passenger window. “You got a lawnmower?”

      “Uhh, yeah.”

      “Use it. I don’t want to hear your mother had to cut that grass herself or pay somebody else to do it. You hear me?”

      He rolls his eyes. “Maybe you’re taking this dad thing a little far?”

      “You want to be part of this case? Cut the damn grass.”

      “Okay.” He turns and walks into his house.

      Before I can back out of the driveway, Denny’s mother leans out her door and gives me a weary wave. She looks tired, this woman I slept with thirty years ago because I needed comfort. She generously gave me that comfort, as she did many others. Even from this distance, I see the passage of every year on her face. Three husbands, at least one abortion in high school, a series of crappy jobs, and one precocious son. What does she think when she looks out here? I wonder as I back into the road. Who the hell are we? And why do we do the things we do?

      A quarter mile from Denny’s house, I dictate a text to Byron Ellis, the Tenisaw County coroner: You ready to talk about Buck? I’m hoping the friendship I’ve made with Byron while covering the recent spate of shootings in the African American community will prompt him to feed me some inside information. I’ve sensed deep frustration in the coroner, much of it based on his awareness that the white men who manipulate Bienville’s elected officials have no interest in solving the problems that cause the violence, but only in jailing the perpetrators and minimizing publicity.

      My iPhone pings, and Byron’s reply flashes up on the Flex’s nav screen: Not yet. Don’t call. Give me an hour, maybe less. This is heavy.

      My hands tighten on the wheel. Byron must already be feeling pressure to steer the narrative away from murder. While the implications of this go through my mind, I take out my burner phone. Texting Jet is a risk, but after what Paul said to me under the tent, I don’t think I can wait until three. With one hand I type: СКАЧАТЬ