72
The funeral was held on a damp and chill Thursday morning. It was only ten days since the old man had been buried here, but now the last of winter had been washed away by the rains, and the grass was coming in pale green and tender over his grave.
There had been no formal service—Sheriff Kinney had seen enough of the press and other gawkers and wanted only to get his brother laid to rest and for all of this business to be behind them, although he knew it never would be, and those who attended the burial had received a call from him the day before, when the time and day had at last been set. Among the mourners were the Gatskill girl, wearing the same black dress she’d worn ten days ago; the old veterinarian, Dale Struthers, and his wife, Evelyn; Maria Valente and her daughter, Carmen; the sheriff’s two deputies and their wives, and
Kinney’s own wife and his daughter, Josephine, who’d driven down from Boulder again and who was unable to keep her eyes from the Courtland girl, so thin and quiet in her wheelchair, so pale in her dark dress and dark hair, her eyes gazing into the distance while the pastor spoke graveside once more, committing on behalf of those gathered this soul to God’s keeping. The breeze took up his words and carried them along over the graves and into the far border of trees where the crows sat in the boughs watching.
The casket descended mechanically into the earth and a few flowers were cast down onto its black enamel hood and Denise Gatskill dropped some small unseen thing that rang lightly along the curve of the lid and fell down into the dark. Then she was led away in the care of another young woman and a young man who, like her, had nothing more to say to anyone there.
One by one the remaining mourners turned from the grave and shook the sheriff’s hand again or embraced him, and then moved on to the Courtlands and the girl in the wheelchair, the men nodding to the girl and patting her stiffly on the shoulder, the women bending to press their faces wetly to hers. They shook hands with Grant and Sean and Angela, and as there were no words for what they felt they said none and moved on, some to pay respect to other graves, the rest returning to their cars.
Kinney lacked the heart to open up the ranch house again and instead the mourners were invited to the Whistlestop Cafe, where Tom Hicks was preparing a brunch buffet, and for this reason Maria Valente and her daughter were brief with their respects, Maria saying as she held Angela’s hand that she hoped she would see her again at the cafe and then turning from Grant Courtland and his family and walking away hand in hand with her daughter. At their car the girl stopped and looked back, and Sean, holding his tie down against the wind, went to her. Maria slipped into the car, and Sean and Carmen stood talking for just a moment. Then she raised up on her toes to kiss his cheek, and he turned and came back, head down, refusing to meet his sister’s eyes or to acknowledge in any way her sly smile.
Kinney walked the old pastor to his car for the chance to press a fold of bills into his hand, but the pastor would not take the money, as he had not taken it when he’d buried the sheriff’s mother, and then the sheriff’s father, who had been members of his parish. On his way back Kinney stopped behind an iron bench and lit a cigarette, and after a moment Grant walked over to join him. Kinney shook another cigarette up from the pack and Grant looked as though he would take it but then didn’t.
“Told myself I’d quit,” he said.
“You can quit some other day.”
He took the cigarette and leaned toward the sheriff’s cupped hands, and they stood smoking, watching the small huddle of their families in their dark clothes, all standing but one.
“How’s she coming along?” said the sheriff.
“Healing fast, the doctor says.”
“I ain’t surprised.”
“I appreciate you putting this off like you did, Joe. We all do.”
Kinney waved this away.
Grant read the inscription again on Emmet and Alice’s shared stone, and he read the new stone already in place: WILLIAM MICHAEL KINNEY, BELOVED SON AND BROTHER.
“I don’t know how else to put it,” he said, “but I wish your dad had lived to see this.”
Kenny nodded. “I do too.”
“My last words to him weren’t very kind ones,” Grant said. “To Billy. I would like to have them back.”
Kinney blew a stream of smoke. “Mine weren’t either, Grant. He didn’t go out of his way to bring out the best in people.”
“Well,” said Grant. “I’m not likely to remember that part.”
They smoked. They watched their families, each one of whom glanced in turn to see that the men were still there behind the bench, still smoking. As the wives talked and the men looked on, Caitlin slipped her hand into the sheriff’s daughter’s hand and without looking at her simply held it.
“I guess she didn’t get to them other funerals, then,” Kinney said. “Them two girls and that other man, the hiker.”
“No. But the families came to see her at the clinic. The girls’ families.” Grant looked away and drew on the cigarette. “I’ll tell you, Joe, it reminded me of when she’d win a race, and the parents of the other girls would come over to shake her hand, hug her.”
Kinney flicked the ash from his cigarette. He peered into the gray sky.
“They ever find any family of that man?” Grant said after a moment.
“Not much. Both his folks are dead. They found his old granny in a nursing home in Sterling but she didn’t hardly know her own name so they just let her be.”
Grant stared into the distance. Then he said: “I’d have killed him if I had a chance, Joe. You know that?”
“I know it.”
“I pictured it a thousand times. Walking up to him with your dad’s shotgun, putting it in his face. I wouldn’t have cared what happened to me.”
The sheriff looked down at his boots.
“I had the TV on this morning at the motel,” Grant said. “And they were talking about a little girl nine years old got taken by some man down in, I don’t remember the name. It wasn’t too far from here.”
“Pueblo.”
“Pueblo. Yes. Little thing got away when the man’s van broke down and he took her into a 7-Eleven and she started screaming.”
“Brave little girl.”
“Yes,” Grant said. “But say that van didn’t break down, Joe?”
“Well,” said Kinney. “I guess some would say God was looking out for her.”
“Is that what you’d say?”
Kinney looked out over the stones. “Some days I would,” he said.
Grant nodded. He said, “Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t make a mistake, not seeing him for myself, that man. His body. Seeing it with my own eyes. I wake up sometimes and I know he’s not dead. That he fooled everybody and he’s out there still.”
Kinney looked at him until he looked over. “That was some other man took that little girl, Grant. I can by God guarantee it.”
“I know it, Joe. I know it. But it’s no comfort.”
At the cars Kinney leaned down so Caitlin could put her arms around him once more, and Grant lifted her from the wheelchair as he had once lifted his son, and he and Angela got her settled in the backseat of the new car with the pillows behind her and more pillows under her leg along the seat. A few days before, down in Denver, he’d traded in the blue Chevy for the wagon. He’d wanted to throw in the green Chevy too, but Sean said the car would be too crowded and that he’d follow along in the old truck.
Angela reached to embrace Kinney and he stood stooped and patting her back while his wife and daughter waited. He shook Grant’s hand and he shook Sean’s casted hand, and Sean wanted to tell him something but the sheriff raised his free hand as if to deputize him and said that everything that ought to be said about Billy had already been said. None said good-bye and neither did they say they’d see each other at the cafe, and the two families got into their cars and Kinney sat behind the wheel watching until the new wagon with its three riders and the old Chevy with its one had both passed under the arms of the ponderosas and turned onto the county road, and he waited a little longer still before putting his own car forward, knowing he would never see any of them again.