Chapter Twenty-Three

Feel It in My Bones

Grandmama's people came from Appalachia a long way back. Taking care of the dead was the way of things.

Aunt Violet and I tie her body down to the heirloom laying board with the twine Bone Layer gives us, so her body doesn't sit upright when the bone cracking starts. Her body is still cold after being in the hospital morgue these last few days.

I lick the tips of my fingers to thread the needle, then I dip the fine string in dove's blood. Carefully, I stitch her frail, thin eyelids shut. Zigzagged across twice, so she can't see her way through the otherworld or this again.

Three things I stuff inside her mouth. Cocklebur seeds, so their prickly spines bring her uncomfortable suffering for all eternity. A crumpled strip of paper cut from her Bible; Galatians 6:8. Most fitting.

"Those who live only to satisfy their own sinful nature

will harvest decay and death from that sinful nature..."

The last item—the heart of a freed chicken—so the Devil can welcome her home.

Four safety pins, blackened by my Sin Eater Oil, pin Grandmama's mouth shut. When it's time to remove her innards, we fill her with ash so her body knows exactly where her soul should stay at rest, in the fiery pit of hell. Aunt Violet stands off to the side, chain-smoking, refusing to watch as her mother heads for the afterlife.

Davis helps us move her and the heirloom laying board to the pine box Bone Layer built, something he forged many a year ago, waiting for this day.

"You ready?" Bone stands in the doorway, shovel in his hand, sweat across his brow.

The three of us manage down the short porch steps with the small pine box, Grandmama not even weighing a whole buck. The coffin itself made from thin cheap pine. On purpose, so that it won't last past a year. That's the way we want it, the earth to gobble her up as soon as possible.

We stand over the hole in the ground.

Deep enough to cover, not enough for forever.

It's a patch of worthless land you couldn't grow a garden on even if you wanted to. An unmarked grave that will eventually be consumed by vegetation and the forest, and the existence of Agnes Wilder will simply disappear.

Grave dirt scatters across the lid as I make a small prayer to the Lord that he treat her as she treated those in her life. Then I ask him to give her what the Bible promises, that ye shall reap what you sow. I'm certain my prayers will be heard. I can feel it in my bones.

From the driveway, gravel crackles under tires. Bone Layer and I both turn to see Oscar's Bronco pull up.

"Give me a minute," I say as Bone finishes covering her grave while Aunt Violet stands there still staring—just staring.

We meet halfway, Oscar and me, under the guarding limbs of the oak tree. There's a measure of silence as he scans the house and yard.

"Place looks good," he says, though I know he can't quite put his finger on why. It looks pretty much the same but feels so different without Grandmama.

The energy lighter, calmer. Freer.

"Did you find Lorelei's car?"

He nods. "Yeah, we did. I had the local law enforcement up there in Ohio document it into evidence. Hair and blood were found under the carriage. We're getting it tested for human or animal. Good chance they'll follow through with charges, once the lab work comes back. Just so you know, it was the sheriff who pushed for me—and only me—to handle Lorelei's car. Looks like Deputy Rankin's report after Adaire's accident wasn't exactly accurate."

I truly couldn't imagine Sheriff Johns would allow such corruption under his watch. But I also believe people with as little integrity as Deputy Rankin can be bought—bought by the likes of Lorelei Rutledge, from the sound of it.

"You said you wanted to give me something?" he asks. I wave for him to follow me inside.

"I was going through Grandmama's closet to find something to bury her in."

Oscar waits in the living room while I disappear into Grandmama's bedroom.

It was weird being in her space, pilfering through her things; something I would have never dared to do while she was living. I didn't even realize how many of Papaw's clothes she still kept in the back of her closet. It's amazing how something as simple as clothing could bring back such vivid memories. Like his favorite blue dress shirt he wore to church that brought out the sapphire in his eyes. Or a brown-plaid coat he used in winter when he worked on the tractor. Small things I'd forgotten over time that came rushing back at the sight of them.

I probably wouldn't have noticed it, had it not been for the folded piece of paper sticking out of the front coat pocket. Picture of a boy tugging at my curiosity.

A black corduroy jacket, something a young boy would wear. The bumpy ridged texture like brail underneath my fingertips. My thumb rubs over the lapel's copper button. A missing patch of fabric ripped from the cuff sleeve tells a tragic story. One I know well.

Stuffed in the pocket a funeral service brochure for a William Robert Rivers, from Blackbeak Falls, Tennessee. Called "Will" by his family and friends. He was the beloved and only son of Jesse and Lola Rivers. Taken from this world at the age of nine after drowning in the Cumberland River.

Right there, smack-dab on the front of the brochure, Rook's big happy grin. His third-grade photo—or rather Will's. It was the proof I needed to know that Rook was more than something in my head.

A boy did drown.

A family did bury him.

And a girl brought him back to life in her imagination.

Between him being from Blackbeak Falls and that crow feather I wished on, no wonder my mind made Rook into this spectacular creature.

Rfor Rook.

Rfor 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.