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T
he next morning at breakfast Cee appeared to have returned to her newly steady self, confident, cheerful and occupied. Spooning fried onions and potatoes into Frank’s plate she inquired whether or not he wanted eggs too.

He declined, but asked for more coffee. He had spent a sleepless night, churning and entangled in thoughts relentless and troubling. How he had covered his guilt and shame with big-time mourning for his dead buddies. Day and night he had held on to that suffering because it let him off the hook, kept the Korean child hidden. Now the hook was deep inside his chest and nothing would dislodge it. The best he could hope for was time to work it loose. Meantime there were worthwhile things that needed doing.

“Cee?” Frank, glancing at her face, was pleased to see
that her eyes were dry and calm. “What happened to that place we used to sneak off to? Remember? They had some horses over there.”

“I remember,” said Cee. “I heard some folks bought it for a place to play cards. Gambling night and day. And they had women in there too. After that I heard they ran dogfights.”

“What did they do with the horses? Anybody know?”

“I don’t. Ask Salem. He don’t say nothing but he knows everything going on.”

Frank had no intention of entering Lenore’s house to locate Salem. He knew exactly when and where to find him. The old man was as regular in his habits as a crow. He perched on a friend’s porch at a certain time, flew off to Jeffrey on a certain day, and trusted neighbors to feed him snacks between meals. As always, after supper he settled among the flock on Fish Eye Anderson’s porch.

Except for Salem, the men there were veterans. The two oldest fought in the First World War, the rest battled in the Second. They knew about Korea but not understanding what it was about didn’t give it the respect—the seriousness—Frank thought it deserved. The veterans ranked battles and wars according to loss numbers: three thousand at this place, sixty thousand in the trenches, twelve thousand at another. The more killed, the braver the warriors, not the stupider the commanders. Although he had no military stories or opinions, Salem Money was
an avid player. Now that his wife was forced to spend most of her time in bed or in a lounge chair he was as close to freedom as he’d ever been. Of course he had to listen to her complaints, but her speech difficulty helped him pretend not to understand what she was on about. Another benefit was that he handled the money now. Each month he caught a ride to Jeffrey and took what was needed from their bank account. If Lenore asked to see the bankbook he ignored her or said, “Don’t worry none. Every dime is fine.”

After supper on almost any day Salem and his friends gathered to play checkers, chess, and once in a while whist. Two tables were permanent fixtures on Fish Eye’s cluttered porch. Fishing poles leaned against the railing, vegetable baskets waited to be taken home, empty soda pop bottles, newspapers—all the gatherings that made men comfortable. While two pairs of players moved pieces around, the others leaned on the railing to chuckle, give advice, and tease the losers. Frank stepped over a basket of Detroit Dark Red beets and eased himself into the group of onlookers. As soon as the game of whist was over he moved to the chessboard, where Salem and Fish Eye pondered long minutes between moves. Into one of these pauses he spoke.

“Cee tells me that place yonder—with the horses—the one that used to be a stud farm. She says it runs dogfights now. That so?”

“Dogfights.” Salem covered his mouth to funnel the laugh coming out.

“Why you laughing?”

“Dogfights. Pray that was all they done. No. That place burned down a while back, thank the sweet Lord.” Salem waved his hand, urging Frank not to dislodge his concentration on his next move.

“You want to know about them dogfights?” asked Fish Eye. He seemed relieved by the interruption. “More like men-treated-like-dog fights.”

Another man spoke up. “You didn’t see that boy come through here crying? What did he call himself? Andrew, you ’member his name?”

“Jerome,” said Andrew. “Same as my brother’s. That’s how come I remember.”

“That’s him. Jerome.” Fish Eye slapped his knee. “He told us they brought him and his daddy from Alabama. Roped up. Made them fight each other. With knives.”

“No sir. Switchblades. Yep, switchblades.” Salem spat over the railing. “Said they had to fight each other to the death.”

“What?” Frank felt his throat closing.

“That’s right. One of them had to die or they both would. They took bets on which one.” Salem frowned and squirmed in his chair.

“Boy said they slashed each other a bit—just enough to draw a line of blood. The game was set up so only the
one left alive could leave. So one of them had to kill the other.” Andrew shook his head.

The men became a chorus, inserting what they knew and felt between and over one another’s observations.

“They graduated from dogfights. Turned men into dogs.”

“Can you beat that? Pitting father against son?”

“Said he told his daddy, ‘No, Pa. No.’ ”

“His daddy told him, ‘You got to.’ ”

“That’s a devil’s decision-making. Any way you decide is a sure trip to his hell.”

“Then, when he kept on saying no, his daddy told him, ‘Obey me, son, this one last time. Do it.’ Said he told his daddy, ‘I can’t take your life.’ And his daddy told him, ‘This ain’t life.’ Meantime the crowd, drunk and all fired up, was going crazier and crazier, shouting, ‘Stop yapping. Fight! God damn it! Fight!’ ”

“And?” Frank was breathing hard.

“And what you think? He did it.” Fish Eye was furious all over again. “Come over here crying and told us all about it. Everything. Poor thing. Rose Ellen and Ethel Fordham collected some change for him so he could go on off somewhere. Maylene too. We all pulled together some clothes for him. He was soaked in blood.”

“If the sheriff had seen him dripping in blood, he’d be in prison this very day.”

“We led him out on a mule.”

“All he won was his life, which I doubt was worth much to him after that.”

“I don’t believe they stopped that mess till Pearl Harbor,” Salem said.

“When was this?” Frank clamped his jaw.

“When was what?”

“When the son, Jerome, came here.”

“Long time. Ten or fifteen years, I reckon.”

Frank was turning to leave when another question surfaced. “By the way, what happened to the horses?”

“I believe they sold ’em,” said Salem.

Fish Eye nodded. “Yep. To a slaughterhouse.”

“What?” That’s hard to believe, thought Frank.

“Horse was the only meat not rationed during the war, see,” said Fish Eye. “Ate some myself in Italy. France too. Tastes just like beef but sweeter.”

“You ate some in the good old U.S.A. too, but you didn’t know it.” Andrew laughed.

Salem, impatient to get back to the chessboard, changed the subject. “Say, how’s your sister?”

“Mended,” Frank answered. “She’ll be all right.”

“She say what happened to my Ford?”

“That would be the last thing on her mind, Grandpappy. And it should be the last thing on yours.”

“Yeah, well.” Salem moved his queen.

C
ee refused to give up the quilt. Frank wanted it for something, something that was bothering him. The quilt was the first one she had made by herself. As soon as she could sit up without pain or bleeding, neighborhood women took over the sickroom and started sorting pieces while they discussed her medications and the most useful prayers Jesus would take notice of. They sang, too, while they stitched together the palette they had agreed upon. She knew her own quilt wasn’t very good, but Frank said it was perfect. Perfect for what? He wouldn’t say.

“Come on, Cee. I need it. And you have to come with me. Both of us have to be there.”

“Be where?”

“Trust me.”

He was late for dinner and when he came through the door he was perspiring and out of breath as though he had
been running. A piece of sanded wood the size of a ruler stuck out of his back pocket. And he held a shovel.

Cee told him no. Absolutely not. Sloppy as the quilt was, she treasured its unimpressive pattern and haphazard palette. Frank insisted. By his perspiration and the steel in his eyes Cee understood that whatever he was up to was very important to him. Reluctantly she slid on her sandals and followed him, embarrassed again by the mediocrity of the quilt he carried over his shoulder. Perhaps anyone who saw them would think they were going out to fish. At five o’clock? With a shovel? Hardly.

They walked toward the edge of town, then turned onto a wagon road—the same one they had followed as children. When Cee, handicapped by her thin sandals, kept stumbling on the stones, Frank slowed his pace and took her hand in his. There was no point in questioning him. Just as long ago, when they ventured hand in hand into unknown territory, Cee accompanied her big brother silently. As annoyed as she was now at her relapse into doing what others wanted, she nevertheless cooperated. This one time, she told herself. I don’t want Frank making decisions for me.

Perceptions alter: fields shrink as age increases; a half-hour wait is as long as a day for a child. The five rocky miles they traveled took the same two hours it had when they were children, yet then it seemed forever and
far, far from home. The fencing that had been so sturdy had fallen down in most places—its duplicate threatening signs, some sporting the outline of a skull, were gone or mere shadow warnings poking through tall grass. As soon as Cee recognized the place, she said, “It’s all burned down. I didn’t know that, did you?”

“Salem told me, but we’re not going there.” Frank shielded his eyes for a moment before moving off, tracking what was left of the fencing. Suddenly he stopped and tested the earth, trampling through grass, tamping it in places, until he found what he was looking for.

“Yeah,” he said. “Right here.” He exchanged the quilt for the shovel and began digging.

Such small bones. So few pieces of clothing. The skull, however, was clean and smiling.

Cee bit her lip, forcing herself not to look away, not to be the terrified child who could not bear to look directly at the slaughter that went on in the world, however ungodly. This time she did not cringe or close her eyes.

Carefully, carefully, Frank placed the bones on Cee’s quilt, doing his level best to arrange them the way they once were in life. The quilt became a shroud of lilac, crimson, yellow, and dark navy blue. Together they folded the fabric and knotted its ends. Frank handed Cee the shovel and carried the gentleman in his arms. Back down the wagon road they went, then turned away from the
edge of Lotus toward the stream. Quickly they found the sweet bay tree—split down the middle, beheaded, undead—spreading its arms, one to the right, one to the left. There at its base Frank placed the bone-filled quilt that was first a shroud, now a coffin. Cee handed him the shovel. While he dug she watched the rippling stream and the foliage on its opposite bank.

“Who’s that?” Cee pointed across the water.

“Where?” Frank turned to see. “I don’t see anybody.”

“He’s gone now, I guess.” But she was not sure. It looked to her like a small man in a funny suit swinging a watch chain. And grinning.

Frank dug a four- or five-foot hole some thirty-six inches wide. It took some maneuvering because the sweet bay roots resisted disturbance and fought back. The sun had reddened and was about to set. Mosquitoes trembled above the water. Honeybees had gone home. Fireflies waited for night. And a light smell of muscadine grapes pierced by hummingbirds soothed the gravedigger. When finally it was done a welcome breeze rose. Brother and sister slid the crayon-colored coffin into the perpendicular grave. Once it was heaped over with soil, Frank took two nails and the sanded piece of wood from his pocket. With a rock he pounded it into the tree trunk. One nail bent uselessly, but the other held well enough to expose the words he had painted on the wooden marker.

Here Stands A Man.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, but he could have sworn the sweet bay was pleased to agree. Its olive-green leaves went wild in the glow of a fat cherry-red sun.