“You got it, man.”
“I haven’t told them about their mama yet. They think she’s off visiting a friend in Waymore.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“All right, then.” Gareth opened the door to his truck.
“Gareth?”
“Yep?”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“When Ernest called me he said Cooper wasn’t wearing no clothes. He said he left out of there with nothing on but some tighty-whiteys and a pair of boots.”
“Jesus,” Gareth said. “Ernest should’ve called me this morning.”
“I reckon so, boss.”
“You tell him we’ll talk about it when I get back.”
3.
Gareth pulled the truck up to the cabin at Johnson’s Gap and turned off the engine. The front door was open and he knew he’d find his father inside passed out drunk on the floor. Most likely having pissed himself, and he’d have to clean him up before he could put him in the truck and drive him home. This wouldn’t be the first time Gareth had found him here, but it was getting to be a hard road to hoe. Cooper built this family, but this kind of thing was no good to no one. Gareth got out of the truck and climbed the steps. He picked up the lantern from the table on the porch and lit it.
“Come on, old man, let’s go home.” He shined the light inside, but there was no one there. The cabin was just a wide-open room, so the light from the lantern filled every corner. He put his hand near the wood burner and felt the warmth. The back door was open, too, and Gareth stepped out.
“Deddy!” he hollered into the darkness. “Come on, Cooper, I’m here to take you home.”
He turned to go back into the cabin when he heard the shot. It wasn’t too far away. “Deddy!” he yelled again, and bolted into the woods. He knew the path. He’d been out here before. He killed his first buck in these woods. “Deddy!” he kept yelling. Still nothing. Then he saw it. Something white on the ground about thirty feet in front of him. He ran and tripped over an exposed root. He hit the ground hard on his knees, scraping up his hands. “Goddamn it,” he said, slowly getting back to his feet. He’d dropped the lantern, so he moved cautiously by the moonlight toward the white thing in the distance until it started to take the shape of an old man—his old man. He could see Cooper’s body well enough to know it was him but stopped cold before he could see him well enough to see what he’d done to himself. The rifle was on the ground next to him. His pale naked body was luminous in the moonlight, and all the blood looked glossy black. Gareth fell back down to his knees. “Aw, Deddy, what did you do? What did you do?” Gareth knew what Cooper had done. Suddenly he was very aware of all the things his father had done in these woods. He stayed there on his knees, recalling it all. He thought about his uncle that day. He thought about the hole Cooper had made him dig. He didn’t cry. He sat down in the cool grass and reached into his pocket for his smokes. He lit up and pictured his uncle lying in the woods only a mile or so from where his father was lying now. He thought about Annette. After a while he got to his feet and looked down on his father’s naked, feeble dead body. Cooper used to say there was no dignity in birth or death. You entered the world helpless, naked and alone, and you were more than likely to go out the same way. Gareth didn’t necessarily agree with that, but there was no shortage of indignation in these woods.
“Well, old man. I guess that’s that.”
CHAPTER
15
CLAYTON BURROUGHS
2015
1.
Darby pulled the Bronco up in front of a small cottage. It was a humble place, no more than two, maybe three, rooms inside, with an outhouse and a rusty but still-operational John Deere tractor in the yard. The porch was covered with potted plants, and armies of violets and red Gerber daisies lined the stone walkway. This place looked more like the bed-and-breakfast cabins tourists rented out in Helen, Georgia, or by the vineyards in Dahlonega. It was in direct contrast to the sun-bleached compound they’d just left. The colors were vibrant in the late-afternoon sunlight and for a split second Darby entertained the idea of this being the home of a mistress Clayton was keeping on the side. It sure had the look of a woman’s touch. That idea vanished as soon as the seven-foot black man holding a shotgun appeared on the porch.
“Who’s that there?” the man said. He looked to be in his late sixties, maybe older. A ring of silver-gray hair dusted the sides of his bald head, and matching tufts of gray sprouted down his chest. His shoulders were broad, but they sagged under his age, and his belly folded over his red boxer shorts. His muscle tone wasn’t the same as it used to be, but he was still a hulk of a man.