The Cypress House (55 page)

    The
smile left his face then, the first smile he'd worn in many a day, and he
added, "I've got to make a stop first. Shouldn't take long, though."

    "A
stop where?" she said.

    "A
place I used to call home. There's something I've left unsettled too long. Then
I'll move on. Did you make it all the way?"

    "Yes,"
she said. "I'm in Camden."

    "How
is it?"

    "Lonely,"
she said. "But when you get here, that will change."

    "Seen
any snow yet?"

    "Not
yet. But the wind's already cold. At night, it's quite cold. You have no idea
how much I love the way it feels."

    "I'm
glad," he said. "And I'll see you soon. Just a few days. Like I said,
there's just the one stop."

    He
and Paul left Tampa together. Arlen's legs were steady beneath him, but they
didn't last long. He tired quickly, and figured he would for a time to come.
Barrett drove them to the train station and shook their hands and said they
were welcome in Corridor County anytime.

    "It'll
be different," he said. "I can promise you it will soon be a very
different place."

    "I'm
certain it will be," Arlen said. "All the same, don't look to see me
again."

    Barrett
nodded, tipped his fingers in a salute, and drove on.

    They
could take the same train as far as Nashville, and then they'd have to part
ways. Paul was excited about the Carnegie school, had plenty to say. More talk
than they had miles. Arlen sat back and listened to him and thought of another
day and another train and at one point he had to make as if he'd fallen asleep
because he didn't want to respond any longer, didn't want Paul to hear the
thickness that had come up sudden and firm in his throat.

    They
had time to kill in Nashville between trains, Paul headed on to Pennsylvania
and Arlen bound for West Virginia for the first time in almost twenty years. On
to Maine, then, on to the town called Camden.

    They
were sitting there in the station sipping Coca-Colas when Paul turned to him
and said, "I know it's always been true, Arlen."

    Arlen
looked at him and frowned, and Paul talked on, hurrying now, the words tripping
over one another.

    "What
you can see," Paul said. "I believed it from the first because I
trusted you, but then I didn't want to believe you anymore, I was scared to, and
I didn't know what to think of the world if something like that
could
be
true, and —"

    Arlen
said, "I know."

    "But
I'm so sorry. You were trying to keep me from harm, and I just —"

    "Stop,"
Arlen said. He was watching people wave good-bye from the platform as a train
departed the station, and the sight allowed a memory to slide in and bite him.
A picture of the train he'd ridden to join the war, all the other boys, older
boys than he, hugging their parents long and hard on the platform while he sat
alone at the cold window and watched.

    "Listen,"
he said, looking Paul in the eye, "it's mighty hard to believe in a thing
you can't see with your own eyes. I've had my struggles with it. I don't fault
you for a thing. And I don't know what to make of this world either, most
times. Been a long while trying to figure it out. You just take the days as
they come and keep your mind open, hear? That's all you have to do. All you
can. Don't always try to be the smartest fella in the room, all right? Because
in the end, even the smartest of us don't know much at all. If there's anything
I'm sure of, it's that."

    Paul
nodded. They finished the Coca-Colas and then Paul's train was boarding, and
they got to their feet. Arlen wanted to help him with his bags but didn't yet
have the strength.

    "You're
going to her, aren't you?" Paul said. It was the first either of them had
spoken directly of Rebecca.

    "Yes,"
Arlen said.

    Paul
looked away, managed a faint smile, and said, "You tell her I said hello.
Please?"

    "I
will. You know that. And I love her, Paul. I hope you understand that."

    Paul
nodded. "Yeah. Didn't make me glad at first, doesn't really now, but maybe
there'll come a day . . . anyhow, I know you do. I know it, and it
matters."

    "Good."

    "You
know where to find me," Paul said. "So when you land somewhere, let
me know."

    "You'll
hear first thing," Arlen said. "And you'll come see us."

    Paul
nodded again, and now people were shoving past them toward the train. Paul put
out his hand. Arlen ignored it, reached out and wrapped his arms around the
boy's lanky frame and hugged him long and hard.

    He
remained on the platform long after the train was out of sight.

    He
returned to Fayette County to put smoke in an old man's eyes.

    He
had never wanted to set foot on this soil again, never wanted to see this place
again, beautiful though it was. All he wanted to do today was head north, on
toward Camden, but there were duties in this life, balances to be kept, and
Arlen Wagner owed a large marker in Fayette County.

    So
did Edwin Main.

    The
town looked different, almost unbelievably so, but Arlen supposed it might say
the same of him if it could.

    His
first stop after getting off the train was at the site of his boyhood home. It
wasn't there. A woman was out across the street, and she was a young woman,
unlikely to remember, so Arlen walked by and inquired.

    "You
mean the devil house?" she said.

    "Devil
house?" He tried to keep his voice steady.

    "That's
what the children and the old women called it," she said, and she laughed.
A light sound, carefree. "Man who used to live there, he was the craziest
this place has ever seen, and then some. Thought he could talk to the
dead."

    Arlen
kept his eyes away from her as he said, "What happened to the house,
though?"

    "Fire
took it. Has to be fifteen years ago now. I was a girl."

    He
nodded and thanked her and told her to have a fine day. She smiled brightly,
looking up at the overgrown yard where the devil house had once stood.

    On
into town then, his stride weakening the longer he walked. From time to time he
reached under his jacket and touched the butt of the pistol in his belt.

    
Anything
goes wrong,
he thought
, and your stay here will keep you from ever
seeing Camden. You'll see the bars of a jail cell for the rest of your days,
or, if you're lucky, a noose
.

    It
had to be done, though.

    The
house that had once belonged to Edwin Main was now the property of another
family. A young boy was playing in the yard, and when Arlen asked his name, he
said Lichman, Ben Lichman, and nice to meet you. He had heard of no one named
Edwin Main.

    Arlen
allowed that it was nice to meet him, too, and then he spent a time staring up
at the house before he moved on down the road.

    A man
near the town square was unloading bricks from the bed of a truck, and Arlen
stopped and tipped his hat and said beg pardon, but I have a question.

    The
man straightened, nodded, waited. It was a simple question, but Arlen was
having trouble getting it out. The pistol was heavy on his belt.

    "I'm
looking," he said, "for a man named Edwin Main. I was hoping you
could tell me where to find him. I have some business with him."

    The
man looked at Arlen, frowned, and said, "I can tell you where to find him,
but I don't know what sort of business you'll be conducting at the
graveyard."

    Arlen
stood in the street and stared at him. The pistol felt much lighter on his belt
now.

    "Edwin's
passed?"

    "Nine
year ago at least. Horse threw him."

    "A
horse," Arlen echoed, and suddenly he wanted to laugh, wanted to fall down
in the middle of this street where once his father's blood ran into the dust
and laugh until tears streamed down his face.

    "That's
right. Was a powerful loss to folks around here. Edwin Main, he was the best we
had."

    Arlen
said, "Was he, though?" and then he tipped his hat again and walked
on toward the cemetery.

    It
wasn't hard to find Edwin Main's grave. He had the largest monument in the
place, a ponderous marble slab bearing the dates of his life and the phrase
"missed and loved by all." Joy Main's grave, older, smaller, sat
beside it. Arlen dropped to his knees and brushed aside the grass and leaves
that had gathered on the stone's face. When it was clean, he stepped back and
looked at Edwin's marker and drew his pistol. He thought about putting a few
rounds off its shining marble, driving some nicks into that pretty stone, but
then he slid the gun back into his belt.

    "Thrown
by a horse," he said. Yes, there were balances to be kept, and markers
owed. He'd come here to see to them, but the world, this wonderful, terrible
world, had beaten him to it.

    He
remembered the location of his mother's stone, so it was easy enough to find
his father's. They were together at the base of a hill, overgrown and untended,
but there was one feature that made his father's stand out: someone had drawn a
pentagram over it with charcoal.

    Arlen
knelt in front of it and took off his jacket and used the sleeve to wipe clean
every trace of the charcoal. When it was clear again, he sat back on his heels,
laid his palm flat on the stone, and said, "I think I can hear you now. If
you care to be heard."

    Nothing
answered but the wind.

    "I
heard you already," Arlen said. "Down south, when Tolliver drew me in
and nearly had me, I heard you. And I thank you."

    He
sat there for a while and looked at the stone. No words of sorrow or love
marked Isaac's stay in this place. Just those dates, and too short a time
between them.

    That
was all right, though. It wouldn't have troubled Isaac, Arlen knew that. This
life was nothing but a sojourn anyhow. A temporary stay, that of a stranger in
a strange land.

    "Love
lingers," Arlen said, and then he straightened, put his jacket back on so
that it covered his pistol, and left the graveyard.

    There
was another northbound train today. If he hurried, he could catch it.

    I've
utilized — and misappropriated — some history in
The Cypress House,
and
I would be remiss not to point readers to two excellent accounts of the
1935
Labor Day hurricane that took such a tragic toll on the Florida Keys: Willie
Drye's
Storm of the Century
and Les Standiford's
Last Train to
Paradise.

    Stefanie
Pintoff took time away from her own fine writing to explain the science behind
the decomposition of a body in a swamp and the means of identifying such a body
in
1935,
and no sooner did she invest her energies than I decided to cut
most of that thread from the book. To Stefanie, my thanks for your time and
apologies for wasting it!

    The
Little, Brown team — Michael Pietsch, David Young, Heather Rizzo, Heather Fain,
Geoff Shandler, Terry Adams, Tracy Williams, Nancy Wiese, Eve Rabinovits,
Vanessa Kehren, Miriam Parker, Laura Keefe, Karen Landry, and many others —
make it happen. Echo that for David Hale Smith and Shauyi Tai of DHS Literary.

    Sabrina
Callahan, also of Little, Brown, deserves special recognition for bearing the
brunt of my undoubtedly annoying day-to-day existence, and for promoting my
books with a passion and enthusiasm that is truly humbling.

    Tom
Bernardo offered insight and support and listened patiently through a lot of
late nights, and even though he never lets me win at darts, his friendship is
much appreciated.