The Cantaloupe Thief (37 page)

“She's right,” Julie said.

Marjorie nodded. “It's her story, Tan.”

Tan thought it over for another few seconds. “Fine. But I okay every word. What are you waiting for? Go!”

She slipped on the ugly maroon sweater to stop her shivering.

And she began to write. She had so little else.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

TWO MONTHS LATER

Liz called Branigan to say they were running late. Liam's SUV was packed, and he'd borrowed her car to run by the church. Now it was sputtering, so he planned to leave it and deal with it later.

She asked if Branigan could pick him up on her way to their house.

Branigan and Liz planned to follow Liam and Chan to Furman University. Between the Beetle and the SUV, his belongings fit easily, his mom said. Charlie's trip to the University of Georgia the previous week had required Branigan's car as well.

Branigan was already downtown when Liz called, so she pulled into Jericho Road within minutes. Dontegan was directing the breakfast clean-up, and Malachi was sweeping. He nodded and gave her a shy smile. “Miz Branigan.”

She ignored his reticence and gave him a long hug. “Mr Malachi.” When she released him, she added, “By the way, I've got too many cantaloupes ripening. May I bring you some?”

He nodded. “That'd be just fine. You grow a decent 'loupe.”

She laughed. “Is Liam in his office?”

“Or in the prayer room.”

She passed Liam's empty office and approached the only door that was painted on — “... for my house shall be called a house of prayer”, it read in beautiful blue script.

The door was ajar, and she could hear Liam's voice, mid-sentence. His voice was unlike she'd ever heard it, choked, raspy. Was he crying?

“... how he's going to make it. I beg of You, I beg of You, to heal his heart. Lord, what is going to become of him? Will he be like them?”

Then all she heard was ragged breathing.

She tiptoed to Liam's office to wait.

He came in a few minutes later, eyes red. “Liz called you, huh?”

She nodded, waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she asked, “Want to tell me?”

He sighed. “Not a thing to tell that you don't know.”

“I know you've had him in counseling. I know you wanted him to stay home for a year to continue it. I know he said no, he wanted to start college.”

“But what chance does he have?” said Liam, sitting heavily in the navy rocker. “It was one thing to have two druggies for parents. It's another to have a serial killer for a dad.”

She flinched.

“I'm sorry, Brani G. You know I love you. But God help me, I wish Davison were dead. As long as he's alive, Chan's going to have to deal with him.”

“I know.”

He asked his question again. “What chance does he have?”

“A good one, Liam. He may have been born to two druggie parents and even a killer, but he never spent a day — not one single day — with them. You and Liz and Charlie and your parents have loved that boy and made him yours. And now he's got Mom and Dad and me. He's got a good chance, Liam. I swear to you he's got a good chance.”

He wiped his eyes and drew a deep breath. “I hope you're right. Okay, let's go to Greenville.”

They drove to his house in silence. When she pulled into the Delaney driveway, Chan was stuffing the last of his cardboard boxes, guitar, soccer ball and desk lamp into the bright blue Beetle he and Liam had restored.

“Aunt Branigan, Mom says it's okay if you ride with me. Is that all right, Dad?”

She looked at Liam. He nodded, though she could tell it pained him.

Liz and Liam climbed into the SUV and led the way. She and Chan followed. She had been over this ground with her nephew, every childhood memory of Davison she could remember, every lovely, loving part of him.

This boy knew every horrid detail about his father from the guilty plea, from the newspaper stories, the TV broadcasts, the whispers everywhere he went in Grambling.

The story he could get from no one else was the one she didn't write for
The Rambler:
the story of a gentle and protective brother, a beach dancer, a cotton picker, a boy who ate cinnamon toast and listened for long-distance trucks in the night.

And so, once more, she told his son about that boy.