Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Ready for a ride?” Higgs asked.

“I reckon,” Graver answered without opening his eyes. “Got a hat I can borrow? Heat’s already eating into my skull pretty good.”

“Did all right with that mule.”

Graver shrugged.

“Thought we’d go out there again, where you and J.B. ran into that trouble.”

Graver folded his arms and opened his eyes enough to see the foreman. “Why’s that?”

“Something might come to you.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.” Graver’s voice was soft but firm.

“Black hat on the hook right inside the kitchen door. We’ll meet you at the house with a horse.”

As soon as Graver started walking, Higgs noticed that he wore flat-heeled farmer’s brogans. “Ask Vera, Mrs. Higgs, to fetch you a pair of boots, too.” No use in having a man dragged to death or worse if a horse shied and his foot went through the stirrup when he fell off.

Before he rapped on the door, Graver could hear the old man yelling and the sweet-voiced woman laughing. They’d been going at it since the day Drum Bennett was deposited on the overstuffed parlor sofa. Sometimes Vera’s sweet tone took on a knife’s edge and she’d cut the old man off at the knees; this was usually followed by a few hours of blessed quiet, during which Graver would be able to sleep.

“What does he want?” Drum yelled.

“Hush,” Vera hissed. Pushing the strand of damp hair off her forehead, she gave Graver a quick smile and tilted her head. Her eyes had a touch of green like the water in the hay meadows. Sometimes, when she was angry, a dark cast appeared like the morning sky before rain. She was a handsome woman with light tortoiseshell skin that shone in the new summer light. When he told her about the hat and boots, she hesitated, and then reached for a hat, quickly brushing the brim and crown and holding it up to glance inside. Before he put it on, Graver saw J.B.’s initials stamped in the leather sweatband, and paused. The hat fit perfectly.

As soon as she left to find him boots, Drum Bennett started in.

“You may have the rest of these farmers fooled, but I know you. I know what you did. Don’t think I’m not gonna do something about you soon as I’m on my feet again. Now take off my son’s hat!” The old man’s face had lost color, as well as some of its tautness, beginning to sag into wrinkles that made his threats seem more bluster than warning. Graver removed the hat and held it in both hands.

“Sir, I’m sorry you lost your son. It’s a hard row to hoe. But I did not kill him, and I intend to find out who did. Same man shot me, a thing I cannot tolerate.”

The old man stared at him, as surprised at the length of the speech as anything he’d said.

“I just knew you’d grow to liking one another.” Vera bustled in clutching a pair of high black boots with long mule tabs. Almost new, they had a waxy shine and barely scuffed soles.

“Ma’am, I can’t take those.” Graver started to back out the door.

“I don’t have time to go looking again, Mr. Graver. I’m in the middle of making doughnuts, so you’ll oblige me to take these boots and let me get back to my cooking.” She held the boots out with one hand and rested the other on her hip.

“Take the damn boots,” the old man growled. “Man’s dead.”

Graver shook his head and took the boots. They fit just about as perfect as they could without being made for his feet. When he stood and stamped, driving his heel home, he straightened his back and shoulders, despite the twinge from the healing wound, and felt something new settle in his mind.

The chestnut kicked out behind as soon as it was asked to lope, and tried to put its head down to buck, but Graver was ready for it and sat light in the saddle, not giving the horse its head until it settled down to work. He felt the deep satisfaction that came from riding a good horse again, one with powerful hindquarters that reached under the body and a good sloping shoulder that grabbed at the distance. J.B. hadn’t spoilt the horse’s mouth either. The animal responded to the lightest touch on the reins, and Graver was careful to sit back when he asked for a walk or a halt, the response was so immediate. He smiled in appreciation. For all he’d sacrificed to become a husband and father and farmer, this was probably the only thing he truly missed, but he rarely allowed himself to dwell on the series of choices and mistakes that had brought him to this desolate land.

The recent loss of his family overpowered any kind of regret and seemed petty compared to the lives he had seen finished. In the end, his wife hadn’t asked anything of him, no terrible return to her hometown for burial, no message to her unforgiving family. How quickly we are taken, he remembered musing, and was then brought back by the wails of his small children as they passed. His wife had simply slipped under the dark waters of her death without a sound. They never had a chance. Their lives fluttered away like milkweed seed on the wind. He couldn’t catch and hold a single one. Now, as then and the whole time afterward when he was digging their graves and burying them in the sand, and laying the rusty iron bed frame over them so the animals couldn’t dig them up, he hadn’t allowed the luxury of tears, of self-pity as it were, because he was alive, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Graver couldn’t help feeling that no matter what he did, he kept traveling the same circular road as they topped the hill and looked down at the windmill and water tank. The red horse snorted, tossed its head and reached its nose around to stare at his boot. Wrong man, it seemed to say. Graver felt an unnatural apprehension in his gut, as if he was about to hear gunshots echo in the still morning air and feel the bullet rip into his body again.

The grass was especially green here because of the water, and cropped by the cattle that came to drink and stood swatting flies. The herd was elsewhere this morning, though, and the men had the area to themselves. Other than that, it was the same as the day he was shot. What did Higgs want? Graver didn’t have any answers, at least any he wanted to share, and he noticed that Higgs and Larabee had drawn up on either side of him as if to block an escape.

A meadowlark on one of the windmill struts puffed its chest and sang its courting song, then glared defiantly in case any other suitors showed. Graver thought of his wife’s passion for drawing the creatures in the world around her, how heartbroken and brave she had been when the two oldest children had taken her box of pastels and scrubbed them on the table until there was nothing left. There was no money to replace them. After that she had drawn with pencils until they wore out, too. He watched her hands toward the end, anxiously sketching with her fingernail in the packed dirt by the fireplace, staring into the fire. While the fever was on her, she drew on the mattress ticking and the dirt floor, until her nails wore down, and her fingertips bled from the scraping. Even after he bound her hands, the motion continued, sometimes scrawling the air between them, sometimes the front of her nightgown, or the bed again. He was glad to burn the bedding when it was all over, afraid he might recognize the portraits.

He shook himself. Why had he never asked her if it was worth it, what she gave up for him? He knew he didn’t want the answer, and was glad she never offered. The truth couldn’t be known until the end of a person’s life, and then what’s the use. He should never have taken her love, like a gift that was out of proportion for the occasion. But it was a young man’s mistake, one he’d never repeat. He wiped his face with his hand and wasn’t surprised to find it sweaty. Ever since he was shot, he felt chills and twisting cramps in his gut like his body fought to rid itself of the poison. His mind wandered, too, right when he needed to pay attention to things at hand, like it was trying to trick him.