Scott Nicholson - Burial to follow

The burial was almost an anticlimax.

By Saturday, the entire Ridgehorn family was worn down by grief, missed sleep, and the burden of hosting all of those who paid their last respects over and over. Some of them Roby had seen at the sittings, dropping by to deliver a roast or casserole, then coming over a few hours later to help eat it. A few had joined the family after the viewing for a late meal.

Roby had skipped that one, as much as he had looked forward to spending time with his temporary relatives. After all, he had the Isenhours to prepare for.

Now, with the sun nearly straight up like God’s golden eye, the clan had gathered around the family cemetery. Only the immediate family had been invited to the graveside services. The rest of the mourners had been shucked back at the official chapel service in Barkersville. Barnaby Clawson was offering a few words of comfort, a garbled mix of Bible verse scraps and personal anecdotes.

"Jacob Davis was not just a loving husband and father," Barnaby said. "He was also a friend, somebody you could count on in hard times. He held to his faith in everything he did, whether he was sitting in the third row of Barkersville Baptist or standing out in the cornfield killing crows."

Alfred cleared his throat. The widow looked misty-eyed, but the shakes that had plagued her the last couple of days had gone. Her chin was tilted up, as if she were gazing into that better land she would someday share with the love of her life. Sarah and Buck sat on the far end of the row of metal chairs. Buck kept stealing jealous glances toward the backhoe that stood under the apple tree, its metal jaw ready to scoop soil over the coffin as soon as the formalities were done. The backhoe operator, dressed in a pair of blue coveralls, smoked and stared off over the meadows.

An Astroturf rug had been placed over the dirt so everybody’s fine shoes would remain spotless. Roby looked across the brown field at the barn. He caught Marlene looking in the same direction. Their eyes met. Neither of them had any tears.

"Jacob was a man of the earth," Barnaby continued. "But he was also a man of heaven. As we give him back to the dust from which he was formed, we also deliver him back to God. As we mourn his passing, we also rejoice in his new eternal life. Let us pray."

Roby’s attention wandered as Barnaby reeled out one of his stock send-offs. The high hills were a splendor of red and yellow, and in the distance the wall of mountains rose like gray skyscrapers. The clouds were thin and far apart. The air smelled of harvest and earthworms. Jacob’s horse, Old Laddie, had come up from the cool banks of the creek and now stood at the fence, watching the proceedings with curiosity.

Alfred and Cindy sat together, holding hands. Harold was at the far end, away from Marlene, his hands clean today. Anna Beth stood near the head of the closed casket, wiping her nose with a shredded wad of tissue. The casket gleamed in the sunshine, suspended by canvas straps over the deep rectangular hole in the ground, a pile of flowers perched on the casket’s slick belly.

Roby read the names on the other tombstones that dotted the stretch of grass. Diane Kelly Ridgehorn, Julia Anne Ridgehorn, Thomas Ridgehorn, Wilbur Derek Ridgehorn, Maude Davis Ridgehorn, others with letters too worn to make out. A dozen dead folks, at least three generations.

Roby wondered who’d baked their pies.

He had no doubt that Johnny Divine had been around for all of them, and that the garage at the end of the world worked just as well by being a train station or a stagecoach stop or a ferry pier. Crossing places, that’s what they were. The mode of transportation didn’t matter, only the route.

And what about the conductors who guided the dead along the way? The people like Roby and Beverly Parsons and Barnaby Clawson? What happened to them? Did they get to take that same road to Judgment that they’d help others find?

Or did they walk a different path?

Roby shook the dread from his thoughts and focused on Barnaby’s prayer. Barnaby had said "Amen," and the family echoed the hollow word, each in a different rhythm and tone.

"Amen," Roby said.

"Bye, Jacob," the widow said. She tensed, and for a moment Roby thought she was going to throw herself onto the casket, the way they did in movies. Then she smiled, rubbed her lips, and turned away. The hearse, oversize and out of place with its polished chrome and tinted windows, blocked her way to the other vehicles. She stumbled over a stone and nearly fell.

Alfred moved over to the widow and put his arm around her, leading her to Marlene’s sedan. Marlene got behind the wheel, and Sarah and Cindy Parsons got in the back seat. Buck and Harold climbed into Buck’s pick-up. Alfred walked back to the grave site as the two vehicles drove off. Barnaby had loaded the flowers into the hearse and was shutting the rear door.

"I’ll put the flowers back when the dirt’s smoothed and the headstone’s placed," Barnaby told Alfred.

"Funny, ain’t it? Daddy always said he’d rather die than plant flowers where vegetables ought to grow."

"Your daddy had a way with words."

"Yeah," Roby said. "Like those words he said in the barn on your birthday."

Alfred’s fists clenched. "You promised."

"What about you? Did you keep your end of the promise?"

"Excuse me, gents, I got to get back to the home," Barnaby said.

"Hey, why don’t you come on back to the house for a bite first?" Roby said. "There’s plenty enough for everybody."

Barnaby waved to the backhoe operator, then got in the hearse without a word. He drove away, the vehicle bouncing over the rutted dirt road that led away from the cemetery. The backhoe’s engine roared to life with a giant cough of black smoke and the long metal arm grabbed at the air.

Roby raised his voice over the noise. "Did she eat it?"

Alfred looked down into the hole that would soon be swallowing his daddy. "Yeah."

"Did you have to trick her?"

"No, I just told her straight up. About you keeping your mouth shut if she did what you wanted."

"Tell me, and this is important… she didn’t get sick or throw up or anything, did she?"

"No. Said it tasted like stale boot leather, though."

Roby nodded, and they both moved away from the grave as the backhoe approached.

"Come on," Roby said. "You don’t want to watch."

"No, I reckon not. Damn, I sure could use a drink."

"Got a bottle under the truck seat. Keep it on hand for emergencies. Want a ride back to the house?"

Alfred glanced at the casket, then at the distant barn, then in the direction of the Ridgehorn house. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

As they climbed into Roby’s Ford, Alfred said, "So, are you going to tell me what it was I made Marlene eat?"

Roby shifted the Ford into first. "Can’t. It’s a family secret."

The kitchen was cleaner now than it had been during the sitting. The counter was almost bare, except for a few slices of store-bought bread in a plastic bag and some shriveled apples piled in glass bowl. The only thing in the sink was Jacob’s denture glass.

"So, are you going to sell the place?" Roby asked the widow.

She had tucked a pinch of cinnamon-brown snuff behind her lower lip and worked it into place before answering. "I reckon not. When you stick your loved ones in the ground, you owe them. We talked it over. The kids will probably sell it off after I’m gone, but that’s their worry. Me, I’m going to leave this world and join Jacob with a peaceful heart."

"Amen to that," Roby said.

Marlene came into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She stooped from the waist, rummaging on the bottom rack. Roby glanced at the curves of her rear. A door to sin, that’s what it was.