Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

He did. He arranged to go meet her. He came back smiling.

At the door, he turned and they hugged at last. “You must never forsake your silly old sister again,” she said. “No,” Lucius said. She knew he meant this for she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Like the bossy older sister he remembered, she nagged after him, “Don’t you ever come to town again, Mr. Lucius Watson, without letting us know.”

He waved from the rose gate. Carrie sang out, “She’s a rich widow, don’t forget! Maybe it’s not too late!”

The Fort Myers cemetery lay in a fading neighborhood off the river road. By the iron gate, under dark limbs which extended out over the street, she awaited him in a blue roadster. Coming on foot up the sidewalk from behind, he coughed so as not to startle her.

“Good Lord, is that you?” On the telephone, her voice had faltered. “Can you meet me at the cemetery? It’s high time I brought Mr. Summerlin fresh flowers.” Skillfully, she’d kept him at a distance, reminding him of that other reality that did not include him.

Nell emerged from the blue roadster with a loud creak of the door hinge. “My jalopy and I,” she said, feigning exasperation. “We’re in this thing to the finish.” Not ready to look him full in the face, she went around to the far side and reached in for her flowers. Face half-hidden in blossoms, she paused a moment to regard him. She wore a simple linen dress of pale gray-green and a wheat-colored broad hat of soft Panama straw-all expensive and in good taste, yet all wrong and ruined by the eccentric indifference to her appearance that had led her to wear tennis shoes and cinch up her outfit with her old beaded Indian belt.

Inept and shy, he cleared his throat. “How are you, Nell?”

She laid her flowers on the hood and, still at arm’s length, placed her small cool hands in his rough brown ones, her smile dissolving any semblance of restraint, far less enigma.

She picked up her skirt and moved lightly toward the gate. Passing through dark banyan shade, she reappeared in white stone sunlight-a cemetery sunlight, Lucius thought. He had become a frequenter of cemeteries. He passed under the banyan limbs and Nell’s voice called, “On the right! Just off the path!”

A plain small white marble headstone with bare name and date:

E. J. WATSON

NOVEMBER 7, 1855-OCTOBER 24, 1910

How final, those small incisions in cut stone. No inscription-what would his siblings have chosen? What would a watchful society have permitted? Rest in Peace ? Of course not. Rest in Hell ? A Texas headstone Papa had admired would have suited him, too: Here lies Bill Williams: He done his damndest. Beside him lay his Mandy-Jane Dyal Watson, interred in 1901. No inscription either. Mama’s request. Her dates brought an odd prickling to his temples. In a quarter century he had visited her just once, in a cold north wind on the November day of Papa’s descent into the ground beside her.

With no river breeze to stir its dusty foliage, the burning banyan writhed and shimmered. Its thick leaves were black, the shell paths hot blinding white, no note of color anywhere, only the slim gray-green figure bent to a headstone. In the pitiless shine on the white monoliths, in a hot scent of wild lime and baked limestone, the air was cindered with black midges. He sank down in near vertigo, only dimly aware of the figure turning toward him.

Nell was there when he came clear again. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He waved her away, disgusted. She hooked her arm in his to balance him erect and led him back into the shade and tugged him down onto a horizontal stone. “Won’t bother ’em a bit,” she smiled, patting the marble. “I’m fine,” he repeated. She was taking his pulse at the wrist. “Of course you are,” she said.

Nell felt his brow as she sorted out just what she wished to say. “Be honest. Would you have phoned me if Carrie hadn’t urged you?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Why? I mean, why should I believe that?”

Why do you care, Mrs. Summerlin? He took her hand. “Oh, I think you know.”

Nell’s nod was vague, her hand cool and inert. What did that nod mean? And the dead hand? In a moment she released him and sat straight again and probed into her linen bag. “Enough of that old stuff. I have your History. Will you sign it?” He was taken aback by her crisp manner. Yet she sat close as he inscribed her copy. “L. Watson Collins! I’m so proud of you.” She marveled at the printed book and his inscription, For My Dear Miss N. “I always hoped-” But she cut herself off.

“Hoped what, Nell?”

“Hoped you might return one day, that’s all.”

“After that old man of yours was gone, you mean?”

She stared at him, sitting up straight again. “That’s unworthy of you, Lucius.”

“Yes, it is. I hope it is. Unworthy of me, I mean. I’m sorry. But is it true?”

She nodded. Disarmed, he reached to touch her cheek.

“Don’t.” She shook him off. Though her tears had risen, none had fallen. She did not trust him and why should she? He did not trust himself. What if, fecklessly, he led her on, opened her heart again, did her more harm? He feared his own weakness perhaps even more than she did.

Pressed like a leaf in Nell’s copy of his History was a faded envelope addressed to Rob. Though the list was missing, his note was still inside.

Lost Man’s River

22 May, 1923

Dear Rob,

I’ve entrusted this packet to a friend, to hold for you in case you should return.

Rumors about the enclosed list of members of the Watson “posse” have made the Island people very leery of “Ed Watson’s boy,” to the point where it might be dangerous to be caught with it. But Ed’s boy is actually quite harmless, I’ve discovered, having neither Papa’s hardihood nor his Celtic code of honor, if these are what’s required for bloody revenge.

This list is all I have to show for life at present. As the one person it might interest (other than those listed) perhaps you will know what should be done with it. Having wasted years putting this damned thing together, I’m beginning to think I only persevered for the rare experience of actually completing something, however useless.

Please come back. The Hardens at Lost Man’s River will know where to find me. Ask for “Colonel” (as I’m mostly called in this neck of the woods-not a friendly nickname, just a jibe at my “fancy” manners). I think of you often, hoping you are safe somewhere and happy. I pray you have more to show for life than I do and that I will see you again before the smoke clears.

With love, sincerely,

Your brother Luke

P.S. I believe this list to be complete and accurate to the last name.

Nell said, “He never received this letter, you know.”

“Nor the list. Which you misplaced. In the excitement of getting married, I believe you wrote.” Again, his tone was colder than he felt. “You never found it, I suppose.”

“I never lost it. You must have guessed that. Please, Lucius. We were all terrified you might be in danger, and that list was all the proof your family needed.”

“Oh, come on! I’d already abandoned all that nonsense, as this note makes clear.”

Nell shrugged, saying she’d never read it; she had no right. “But when I saw your list, I got frightened so I went to Carrie. Poor Carrie became frightened, too, and turned it over to Eddie, telling him he must go find you at once. But Eddie only said, ‘And then what? He won’t listen to me. He’s never listened to me!’ Eddie took the list to Sheriff Tippins, who would not return it, claiming he needed it for evidence-can you imagine? In his mind, your father’s death was an unsolved crime.”