“Old Moss told me you come in wanting a drink.”
I shook my head.
“Hell, I can get you a drink, little brother, just let me know,” he said.
“I didn’t want a drink then, and I don’t want one now.”
“Suit yourself.”
Shelby spit and slipped a flask from his boot and took a pull and stretched his mouth out.
“How come it is folks wear black at a funeral?” I asked, still watching the horses mill about the stable inspecting one another and their surroundings.
“Couldn’t say.”
“Well, why do you think?”
“Shit, son, I got no idea. It’s just what you do.”
“I think it’s to hide the fear,” I told him.
“What fear? What are you even talking about?”
“I think folks are afraid of dying.”
“At a funeral?”
“All the time. I think they’re always afraid of dying and a funeral makes them think about it more than they might otherwise.”
“What’s that got anything to do with wearing black?”
“I been thinking about that—”
“Aw hell, he’s been thinking,” Shelby said and rolled his eyes.
“I have. I been thinking everybody says there’s a big white light when you die. And everybody says Heaven is a bright, pretty place.”
Shelby drank again from his flask and screwed the cap back on and let it drop back into his boot.
“Alright, I’m with you.”
“Well, what if they ain’t so sure about all that? And so when somebody dies, they all dress up in black, thinking if they can make this world look darker, the next one might seem brighter no matter what.”
“Christ Almighty, Caleb, are you sure you ain’t had nothing to drink?”
“I haven’t.”
“Maybe you ought to,” he said.
“I figure a bunch of them people today were crying, and how come? They didn’t even hardly know her. But they was crying.”
“Folks can’t cry?”
“I think they were crying ’cause they know they’re gonna die.”
“Hell, we’re all gonna die.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“You’re wearing me out, little brother. This ain’t what I came to talk to you about.”
“Why’d you come?”
Shelby looked around and we were alone, and about that time the dog raised up his head and double-checked.
“I got a plan,” he said, unable to contain his grin.
I stood watching the dog struggle to its feet, shaking off sleep and disappointment.
“Well,” Shelby said.
“Well what?”
“Goddamn, ain’t you gonna ask me what it is?”
“I figured you was about to tell me.”
“I am.”
“Go on then. If you’re waiting on me, you’re already behind.”
“We’re gonna rob Randall Dawson.”
I nodded. The dog trotted off, his tongue falling from the side of his mouth.
“What do you say?” Shelby asked, grinning again.
“I say you need to slow down on that whiskey.”
He tossed his head, dramatic, and put his hands on his hips.
“C’mon, Caleb, that rich sumbitch ain’t gonna miss a few horses.”
“Oh, horse thieves is it?”
“He cost Daddy his job.”
“Daddy cost himself his job, and please don’t tell me this is about him. He ain’t coming back.”
“He was there today. We seen him.”
“And by God, where is he now?”
“We could do it, little brother,” Shelby said, ignoring my question. “I got it all planned.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
* * *
That night my brother went to work at the bar, tending to the needs and whims of cutthroats, gamblers, and local drunkards. He’d worked at the Tanglefoot since our father decided it was too burdensome to be both a lawman and an alcoholic, him choosing the latter.
With Momma sick, Shelby was left to grow up at the feet of society’s worst, and maybe it was a sad situation or maybe he was always destined to find the shadowed figures no matter what path he walked. It was his eighteenth birthday the day we buried her. I’m not sure he even knew.
I walked into the empty house for the first time, or at least the first time I could recall. The door swung shut behind me with the help of the wind, and I stood there in the dark, unsure of what to think, let alone what to do. My heart quickened for no reason I could place. I took a step back and leaned against the door and put my hand to my chest. My throat was closing and I was dying—I was sure of it. I steadied myself and walked to the cupboard and felt in the dark for the water jug. I drank and took a deep breath and drank again. I took off my hat and leaned into the wash sink and emptied the jug over my head. I stayed there, dripping and breathing, until I figured I wasn’t dying anymore.
I wiped my face and hair with a dish towel and crossed through the kitchen and gave a look into the living room like maybe somebody would be there, but they weren’t. I paused at the foot of the hallway and looked again, just to be sure. Her room was across from the back porch, and I could feel the cool of the night coming in through the wire screen. I went into the room and sat on the edge of the bed and folded my hands into my lap, and the mattress was indented on her side and I looked down at it and put my hat back on.
There were rolled cigarettes on the low-set table by the bed. I leaned over and picked one up and examined it, then set it back in the same place, as if anyone would notice otherwise. I rose and moved to the closet and opened the door and stared into the dark and took a step forward, then backed out and closed it again and walked and stood in the hall with the whistling wind. I felt my own pulse, then regarded again the room as it stood, untouched by all but death. Through the frame I saw it and tried my best to commit it to memory, and also her, knowing I would never see either again.
1
The boy was dead and the winds came up out of Mexico angry-like, pushing north over the mountains, sweeping into the desert below, picking up the dirt and moving it across the plain with the ease of a brush stroke on canvas. They howled and sang and the prickly pear and yucca clung to the earth, where their stunted limbs danced in motions aberrant.