“Right. Yeah, I know that. I was just thinking that I like our life, our memories. It makes me sad to think we might not have ever learned to play if we hadn’t stumbled across Papa’s old instruments out in that shed. Kind of makes me feel guilty, like maybe I should’ve missed mom and dad more or—”
“You were a kid, Dix.” He glances over at me but his eyes are distant, as if seeing a different version of me than the one currently with him. “You barely spoke for an entire year after they died. Believe me, you missed them plenty. Thinking about what could have been different is a waste of time. Only thing we need to be thinking about right now is where Papa’s brown suit is, the one he wore to weddings and funerals. Mr. Phillips needs one of us to bring it to the funeral home first thing tomorrow.”
My brother’s jaw flexes and I know he’s uncomfortable. Dallas has always been able to focus on what needs to be done instead of his emotions. Somehow he’s learned to keep them at arm’s length. Shut them off and lock them away. Sometimes I wish I knew his secret.
“Okay. I’ll handle it,” I say quietly.
Dandelions can thrive almost anywhere, Dixie Leigh.
The funeral is held at Phillips Funeral Home on the edge of town and a surprising number of people show up to pay their respects. The men Papa used to sit with at the corner market café, eating breakfast and gossiping more than women, each give me a hug, holding their hats in their hands and telling Dallas and me how much they admired Papa for his service in the navy and how they enjoyed his stories. Papa never told us those stories, so I just nod and smile. After that, everyone becomes a blur. Faces in an endless stream flowing with tears and I’m so sorrys. The pastor of the Baptist church that Papa stopped attending after Nana died says a few words and invites everyone to the cemetery.
At his grave site, I play “Amazing Grace” on Oz and everyone ambles off to their cars with heads and hearts that seem significantly heavier. Mrs. Lawson and a few older ladies from the Junior League come by the house with casseroles, cakes, and more pies than I have room for in the fridge. I make coffee because a few of them linger, looking at old photo albums and discussing the way the world used to be. Glancing around I catch sight of Jaggerd sitting on the porch swing alone and Gavin making the rounds refilling coffee cups in the living room. I’m reeling a little from that odd sight when I hear my brother speaking harshly to someone in the backyard.
At first I think he’s on the phone, but peering out the kitchen window I see the unmistakable red locks that belong to Robyn Breeland. She was at the funeral and hugged both mine and Dallas’s necks, but he stepped away. Thanking her for coming without actually looking at her. Nana would’ve yanked his ear clean off for having such bad manners, but I know better. I don’t know his exact reasoning because he’s never told me. But I have a strong suspicion that Dallas keeps his distance from Robyn because he cares about her, not because he doesn’t.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“There isn’t,” he tells her, cutting her off and causing a wounded look to cross her face. “We’ve got everything under control. Thank you, though.”
At least he said thank you.
I sigh, knowing he doesn’t understand how hurtful he’s being. Or at least I hope he doesn’t.
“Hey, stranger,” Jaggerd says, surprising me in the kitchen.
“Hey, Jag.” I turn and smile, offering him a piece of pie, but he shakes his head.
“Can we sit a minute? I have something I need to talk to you about.”
“Sure.” I sit gingerly on a kitchen chair and fold my hands on the table. I feel like I’ve hardly taken a breath since arriving at the hospital only to learn that Papa had passed away in his sleep. And that was three days ago.