R for Rook.
R for Rivers.
I pull the initial R ring off my pinky finger and hold it up to the funeral brochure. It’s the same one nine-year-old Will is wearing in the photo.
My young mind told me a crow brought this little trinket to me, but I must have taken it off his finger—like a dirty thief. It’s not mine. It never was. It’s something that belongs to his family.
“In the back of her closet, I found this,” I say to Oscar who stands near the doorway. His deputy Stetson hat politely in his hands, abiding by the Southern gentleman rule of no hats indoors. “I found this coat with this brochure and ring in the pocket,” I lie. But how I found the ring doesn’t matter. I hand him the brochure; he stiffens lightly as he reads it. Then he eyes me, trying to read what I know. I don’t let on that I saw his Unknown drowning victim??? note on my file.
“I think Papaw found a boy a long time ago? It was right around the time he died. I bet he meant to get this back to the family, but it probably got tucked away in the closet to address after his funeral but was forgotten.” I can’t attest to that for certain, but that’s what I believe to be true. My heart still stings from the realization there never was a Rook. Only a Will.
“Maybe you could get it back to his family somehow?” I ask, handing him the ring as well.
“Yeah, sure.” He nods, seeming as somber as anyone might feel when discussing a drowned child.
“I believe this was his coat.” I hold it out for him to take.
Oscar holds the boy’s funeral service brochure and ring in his hand. “You know,” he says somewhat pensive, “this boy’s file came across my desk recently.” When he looks up at me, I keep my face thoughtful and interested, not letting on that I know he was actually looking into the case. “The family never found the boy’s body.”
Something about hearing these words sends my heart into my throat.
“They looked and looked for weeks, never found the kid. They just ended up burying an empty casket.” He holds up the coat with a grateful gesture. “I think this coat and the boy’s ring might give them a bit of closure. Thank you for this.”
I nod, agreeing with him. But inside my head, I’m stumbling over the fact that they never found a body and what that could mean. My imagination, something I tried to let go of, flutters back to life.
“Where ya headed?” Oscar nods toward my packed bags sitting by the door, disrupting my thoughts.
A bear of a suitcase—full of my clothes and some of Adaire’s vivid creations. Then that tiny red suitcase, now filled with all the memories I hold dear: the witching coins my papaw gave me, Adaire’s conjuring cards, a few of the fantasy books she loved. And my wind chime, trinkets the crow brought me, even if only in my imagination.
And my asphidity bag, full of medicinal herbs, a very old recipe box, and two bone-tooth keys.
“I’m going to see the ocean,” I tell him.
“Which one?” Oscar asks. I sigh, thinking about Adaire and my pledge to drive one coast to the other.
“Both,” I answer. “I’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”
From the front door, Davis clears his throat. We both turn to him. “You want to do this?” He taps his watch; his second shift is starting soon.
More casual pleasantries as I thank Oscar again for coming by and him wishing me safe travels.
“I’ve gotta get to work, sweetie,” Aunt Violet says after Oscar leaves. She pulls me into a long hug. “I expect a postcard from every city you stop in, okay? Go out there and have a little fun for me, too. Don’t worry about things around here, I’ll watch over our girl while you’re gone.” We both look over to Adaire’s grave.
Davis stands by it with a bouquet of daisies in his hand. Adaire’s buried right next to our Papaw, who’s properly back in the ground where he belongs.
It’s strange to think I’ve lost four family members in a span of two months. Sure, I didn’t know Ellis or Stone were kin at the time. It might have been nice to have a little brother, though. I’d like to think him and I would have gotten along alright. I thought about going to his graveside; maybe it would ease that ache of never knowing him. But he’s buried next to a father I’m not ready to forgive just yet.
Aunt Violet kisses my forehead as she leaves. I turn to Davis. “I need to grab something first,” I say as I head off into the woods. “I promise I’ll be fast!” I add, after he grumbles about the time.
You can’t properly say goodbye to your best friend without leaving her with something from your childhood. It feels fitting to give Adaire some extra love seeing as Davis is moving down to Texas soon. And me leaving Black Fern with no plans to return.
The old chain-link camper ladder clatters against the kudzu vine wall as I climb the rungs to our old cave. A little bit of Dolly and Patsy will do just the trick.
TWENTY-FOUR
Tuggin’ at Your Heartstrings
The gathering of birds begins as dusk rolls in. A black waterfall dribbles from the sky as hundreds of them settle in the trees.
The hour of crows.
When the day is no longer and the night is not yet.
Davis and I stand over Adaire’s grave. The mounded soil already settled. Tiny violets carpet the top. I wedge the two records in front of her headstone. It’s nothing too flashy, just a rectangle with her name and the dates framing her short life. I tuck a small crow feather in between.
Davis lays the daisies on the ground. “Give ’em hell, baby.” He kisses his fingers, then presses his palm to the earth. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes.” Davis barely gets these words out before he excuses himself, somberly walking over to the edge of the woods. His shoulders shake as he tries to gather himself.
“I wouldn’t insult you by bringing you roses.” I hold up the thistle I found in the woods. “An homage to our Scottish roots.” I lay the purple prickly flower at the head of her grave and sit crossed-legged on the grass.
“He looks good in a uniform, I have to admit,” I say slyly to Adaire, looking over my shoulder at Davis. “He’s moving to Galveston, it’s way more metro than Black Fern. Mrs. Yancey sold the junkyard, and they have family down there. That’s why they chose it. Don’t be mad at him. It hurts, you know, staying here. Because everywhere we turn, we see you. He’s gotta move on. We all do.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I whisper into my palm, the words rattling in my chest. “I can’t say goodbye. Not to you. Never. But there’s nothing keeping me here anymore.” The house I’ve lived in my entire life looks tiny and frail now, empty. It’s a reminder of all that happened—good and bad—to me in Black Fern, and that’s not something I need anymore.
“Bone’s sticking around, though, to make sure you and Papaw are never alone. I know, I know, he’s not a prize to be won, but he’s a good man...deep, deep, deep down under all that stoic silence. Plus, you have Papaw, right?
“I won’t forget you. I can never forget you. Jesus, who could forget those freckles on your face, like dirt they were. I swear to God if my kids inherit that chicken-scratched hair of yours—” I laugh. “Oh, Aunt Violet cleared out your closet—a part of her get-sober-clean-up-my-life commitment. I think she means it this time. I might have rescued a piece or two for myself. Felt sorry for the church’s free-clothes bin. Who knows, maybe I’ll start a flannel plaid miniskirt trend down in Florida.” I pull the little seashell out of my pocket and fiddle with it between my fingers.
“I’m going to the beach, like we always planned. I hear warm sand feels amazing under your bare feet. With nothing but water to see for miles.” I set the seashell my mama gave me on the granite of her headstone. “It won’t be the same without you.” I let the weight of those words seep into the earth. “But I think you’ll be pissed if I don’t go—or that’s the story I’m going to tell myself.”
