Wild Blood (2 page)

They sat in the viewing room for another hour, during which time members of his mother's prayer circle and the Methodist minister's wife, Mrs. Cakebread, stopped by to pay their respects. Finally Mr. Lovejoy, the undertaker, stepped in and told Luke in the hushed tones reserved for paying mourners that their time was up.

“Best tell your Ma goodbye, Skin.”

Edna Cade Blackwell lay with her head on a satin pillow, surrounded by billows of white rayon crepe. She was dressed in her Sunday best, her hands folded carefully atop her motionless bosom. Except for her extreme stillness and the uncharacteristic splotches of color brushed on her lips and cheeks by the mortician, she could have been sleeping.

Skinner leaned into the casket as Mr. Lovejoy moved behind the curtains and turned off the organ music. His lips brushed his mother's cheek. Her was flesh was cold and hard as marble. It was like kissing a statue.

As he left the viewing room, he glanced back over his shoulder in time to see Mr. Lovejoy shut the lid on what remained of the woman who was his mother.

Chapter Two

It was perfect funeral weather: light drizzle with a biting wind. By the time the mourners reached the gravesite everyone was clutching an umbrella. Skinner sneaked a glance at his stepfather as his mother's polished mahogany casket was lowered into the fresh grave alongside that of her first husband.

Luke's jaw might as well have been set in concrete, his lips pressed flat against his teeth. He wasn't the kind of man to show his pain, although Skinner knew the farmer's heart had to be close to breaking.

Reverend Cakebread finished his prayer and everyone tossed a damp clod of earth into the grave. Skinner lingered for a moment beside Luke, sharing the shelter of his umbrella.

“I reckon she's at peace now,” his stepfather sighed. He smiled at a private memory and shook his head. “I loved that old gal. Had ever since high school, even though I could tell she was head over heels with your Pa. Not that I held that against Will. Your Pa was a fine man. It's only fittin' she should lie beside him. After all, she was with him longer than me.”

Luke reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew a crumpled envelope. “Your mama left this with me when they took her off to the hospital in Lake Village. She said I was to give it to you in case you didn't make it home in time.”

Skinner tucked the envelope into his pocket. “Luke—did she ever talk about my daddy? About what happened?”

A muscle in Luke's cheek jerked. “Only once. And what she said didn't make no sense because she was in pain and full of pills. We better head on back to the house. Mrs. Cake bread's making sure the guests get seen to, but I reckon we ought to be there all the same.”

As after-funeral buffets go, Edna Cade Blackwell's was one of the better ones Choctaw County saw that year. There was a smoked ham, a plate of fried chicken, a nice side of roast beef, three Jell-O molds, and a respectable selection of pies and cakes prepared by the Methodist Women's Prayer Circle.

Mrs. Cakebread, the preacher's wife, bustled about the kitchen, tending to the percolator and making sure every one had coffee. Where Reverend Cakebread was a tall man with a vague, somewhat distracted air about him, his better half was a short, squat woman composed of equal parts hair spray and nervous energy.

“When's the last time either one of y'all ate?” Mrs. Cakebread said in way of greeting the moment Luke and Skinner stepped inside the house.

When neither Skinner nor his stepfather could answer the question with any certainty the minister's wife clucked her tongue and hurried them out of their raincoats, shoving plates heaped with potato salad, deviled eggs and thick slices of ham into their hands.

“Y'all got to keep up your strength! You're doing Edna no service by starving!”

Skinner stared at the deviled eggs on his plate and felt his stomach barrel roll. Luckily, Mrs. Cakebread's attention was diverted by the percolator. If it's one thing Methodists do after service gatherings its drink coffee.

Skinner wandered into the parlor, still clutching his unwanted repast, and stood beside the fireplace. He felt every bit as wooden as the mantelpiece, if not as useful.

An old man came up and squinted at him through his thick bifocals as if trying to classify a strange type of insect. “Yer Edna's boy, ain't that right?”

Skinner felt his stomach cinch even tighter as he belatedly recognized the decrepit figure standing in front of him. It was Enos Stackpole, their former next-door neighbor, back when they had the farm. The intervening years had been far from kind to the old coot. Enos wore an ill-fitting three piece powder blue polyester leisure suit that sagged at the shoulders and crotch and badly worn cowboy boots with cracked heels. His long, white hair was swept back from his bulging brow and slicked with enough pomade to grease a Buick. His long, bony fingers looked even larger now that the rest of his body had fallen into decay and there were liver spots the size of silver dollars on the back of his hands.

Enos had a reputation as something of an eccentric, which is to say he was the town loon. But his family had once been powerful—if not omnipotent—in the years before the Civil War, and some of that glamour still clung to its debased heir. He lived alone in the rotting remains of his great-grandfather's old plantation house on the outskirts of town, his only company a collection of rabbits he kept as both pets and food in ramshackle hutches. When he was a boy the half-mad hermit had held a strange fascination for Skinner. Enos rarely bathed, never brushed his teeth and had allowed his ancestral home to fall into such a state of disrepair that the only things holding the walls together were the weeds growing up through the floorboards and the termites holding hands. Perhaps what intrigued Skinner the most about the old coot was the fact he didn't seem to care—or notice—that the rest of Seven Devils spurned him.

Enos grinned suddenly, displaying unnaturally white and even teeth. For a moment Skinner was certain that the old man was going to bite him before he regained control of the ill-fitting dentures and cleared his throat.

“I was the one that found your Pa! Bet you didn't know that!”

Skinner swallowed. No, he hadn't known that. But then Skinner doubted Enos knew that he'd once seen him masturbating with the freshly peeled pelt of a dead rabbit.

“Yeah, I was the one that come up on him.” Enos' voice had taken on a nostalgic tinge, as if reminiscing about the good old days. “I was out grubbin' for roots when I seen him lyin' there, all chewed-up like. He was sprawled alongside this here deer carcass. I figured he must have brought it down himself, because it was already slit open. Then I hear this sound in the woods, off to one side. I was scared mebbe that whatever it was that chomped on ole Will was still hangin' around, and with me with just a walkin' stick! But do you know what it was?”

Skinner shook his head, too astounded by the old hermit's utter absence of tack to reply.

“It was your Ma! She looks at me an' points at what's left of your pappy and says ‘You best call the sheriff, Enos. Looks like a bear got hold of my Will. I'm gonna try and find Skinner 'fore it's too late.' Then she picks up Will's deer rifle and walks off into th' woods.”

“You must be mistaken,” Skinner said firmly. “I wasn't in the woods that day. I was home sick with the flu.”

Enos scowled, his over-magnified eyes making him look like a deranged owl. “Don't go tellin' me what I do an' don't know you damned cuckoo's egg!”

Suddenly Luke was looming over the old man. “Enos, why don't you help yourself to that roast Cousin Phelan brought by?” He suggested helpfully. “There's more'n we can possibly eat. I'm sure Mrs. Cakebread will be happy to wrap some up for you.”

Enos grunted and shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, his outrage forgotten with the mention of free eats.

“Hope I didn't interrupt anything, but you looked like you could use some rescuing,” Luke said solicitously.

“Thanks. I'd almost forgotten about Old Enos.”

“He ain't one to pass up a feed, even if he's got to get slicked up for it,” Luke said with a chuckle. He then fixed Skinner with an appraising look. “What did he say to you?”

“He was going on about Mama being in the woods looking for me the day Daddy got—the day Daddy died.”

“I wouldn't pay much heed to anything Enos Stackpole says, son. The old fool's been out of his head since Eisenhower was in office.”

“Luke?”

“Yes, son?”

Skinner shook his head. “Nothing.”

He was being paranoid. He was underfed and missing sleep, that's all. Why would Luke have a reason to keep Enos from talking about his father's death, except concern for his feelings?

It was well into late afternoon by the time the last mourners picked up their umbrellas and raincoats and left the survivors alone with their grief. Enos was among the last to go, his coat pockets bulging with roast beef wrapped in aluminum foil.

Luke sat and drank a cup of coffee in the kitchen, his good tie draped over the back of his chair like an empty snake skin, staring at where his wife used to sit. He was still sitting there when Skinner went upstairs to bed. He shucked himself free of his good jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the bed. It missed and fell on the hooked rug instead. As he bent to retrieve it, his hand closed on the envelope tucked inside its pocket. Upon opening it, he found several pages of neatly folded loose-leaf paper and what looked like a Xeroxed legal document. The writing was shaky and rushed, but he recognized his mother's hand.

Son,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. I wanted to tell you this in person, like I should have years ago, but I kept putting things off and now there's no more time. The Good Lord's calling me home to be with your father. I wish there was a better way for me to say this, but at this stage all I can do is give it to you point-blank: I am not your mother. Leastwise, not the one who birthed you. Will wasn't your natural father, either. We adopted you when you were still a little baby
.

You were such a beautiful child! Your father and I fell in love with you the moment we saw you. We were almost too old to qualify for adoption, and we were scared we wouldn't be allowed to take you. I was forty-four and Will forty-six at the time, but the lady at the foundling home was so nice. She could tell how much we really loved you, bless her. Your father and I always meant to tell you the truth someday. Please believe that. But after you daddy was gone, I guess I was afraid you'd try and find your biological parents and abandon me. I should have known better, but I was afraid of losing your love. I know that sounds silly, but when it comes to the heart, common sense doesn't have much power. I've loved you as much
—
if not more
—
than the woman who gave birth to you. She didn't want you, but we did. You're our son, even if we didn't make you ourselves. Nothing can ever change that
.

I don't know anything about your birth parents except that your natural mother was a Native American. We had to go all the way to Arizona to find you
—

There was more but he couldn't read it. The words kept blurring and jumping around. He carefully refolded his mother's letter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Luke looked up from his coffee and nodded at his stepson as Skinner returned to the kitchen. “So, you read it?”

“Yeah.” The inside of his mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper. He shuffled over to the percolator and poured the last of Mrs. Cakebread's coffee.

“She really did mean to tell you before it was too late,” Luke sighed.

“I know.” Skinner took a sip of the dark, bitter brew and leaned against the counter. “When did she tell you I was adopted?”

“She never had to,” Luke admitted with a shrug. “I always knew. So did everyone else in town. Will and Edna went out West for awhile. When they came back, they had a baby with 'em. What with your coloration, folks figured you for some wetback's kid they bought. One thing's for sure: no Cade ever had eyes like yours.”

“That explains why I never felt welcome here,” Skinner grunted.

Luke sighed and turned his coffee mug idly between his big, rough hands. “Folks hereabouts are suspicious of outsiders and them that's different. It pained your mama to see you treated like that, but she knew you were strong enough to take it without gettin' twisted up inside. She had faith in you, Skinner. She was convinced you'd make something of yourself one day.”

Skinner unfolded the copy of his adoption papers on the kitchen table. “Daddy used to say that if a man wants to know where he's going, he has to know where he's been.”

“Skinner—” Luke frowned at his coffee, as if by staring into its depths he could read the future. “Your mama was convinced that what happened to your father had something to do with your natural parents. I'm not sure what it was—she never would talk to me about it—but she saw something in the woods that day that convinced her of it.”

“What are you getting at?” Skinner frowned. “My daddy was killed by a bear while he was out hunting. How could that have anything to do with my birth parents?”

“I'm just sayin' that before you go runnin' off lookin' for answers, maybe you better give some thought to the questions first.”

Later that night, William Cade came to visit his son.

He entered Skinner's dreams as he usually did, emerging from the closet as if its door was directly connected to the afterlife. He was dressed, as always, in the clothes he died in: a red plaid hunting jacket, khaki pants, lace-up boots, a heavy flannel shirt and a fluorescent orange hunter's cap. He stood at the foot of Skinner's bed, pausing to light his pipe. Skinner wasn't surprised by his father's appearance in his bedroom, as Will Cade had made frequent visits to Skinner's dreams in the seven years since his death.