Page 83 of The River We Remember

“She lives in Des Moines now, is that right?” Charlie said.

“Last I knew.”

“Only three hours away. An easy drive for anyone who’d care to come. Have you heard from her at all since her father’s death?”

He shook his head. “But maybe she’s been in touch with Terry or Marta.”

Someone else called his name, and Brody said, “I have to go.”

Charlie stood there until the sanctuary was empty. She considered why Fiona McCarthy might have missed this important ritual in the cycle of a family’s life. Charlie hadn’t attended her own father’s burial, and at the time had felt her reasons were sound. She wondered now about the reasoning of Fiona McCarthy.

THE QUINN FAMILY had burial plots together in the Catholic cemetery, which topped a small rise overlooking the Alabaster. James Patrick Quinn’s plot was marked with a tall monolith, his name chiseled in great scrolled letters into the granite. Many of Brody’s family were also buried in that cemetery, but they lay scattered among all the other plots. Although the gathering of mourners in the cemetery was smaller than it had been at Saint Ignatius, there were still a great number of cars parked along the tendrils of road that threaded through the cemetery. The sun was high and hot by then, and Brody stood far back in the shade of a tall hackberry tree. He listened for a while as the priest performed this final ritual, then he drifted away to another grave with a small, nondescript headstone that read ROBERT DERN. LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER. 1896–1941.

Loving. Brody had always wondered about that. His father had never been a cruel man, never raised his hand against Brody. But in Brody’s opinion, that was setting the bar pretty damn low for love. If loving was indeed what his father had been, he’d kept it well hidden. At least from his younger son.

“I remember the day we put him there.”

Brody turned and found his brother standing behind him. Taller than Brody by a couple of inches and broader in his chest, Tom had been a football and baseball star in high school and had played a year as tight end for the Cyclones in Ames before damaging his right knee in a way that had ended his collegiate sports career. The sudden death of his father a year later had ended any other hopes he might have had in Ames.

“It was raining cats and dogs.” Tom stared at the gravestone steadily, as if it wasn’t that marker he was seeing but instead the relentless downpour seventeen years before.

“I remember the mud,” Brody said. “Ankle deep. Ruined the only good pair of shoes I owned.”

“And Mom’s and mine and Amy’s. And probably everybody else’s who was here.

“A lot of folks turned out despite that rain. People thought the world of Dad.”

Brody made no reply and the brothers stood together, silent. Brody could hear the distant drone of the priest and the periodic responses from the gathering. He was uncomfortable in his brother’s presence. Guilt, he well knew.

“A shame about Noah Bluestone,” Tom finally said.

“You know him well?”

“He’s kept to himself since he came back, but I knew him pretty well in the old days. We graduated from high school the same year. Played football together. Never saw a more fearless competitor. A guy you definitely wanted on your side. Spoke his mind. Honest to a fault. You always knew where you stood with Noah Bluestone. That’s a rare quality these days.” He glanced at his brother with a look that made Brody wonder if he ought to interpret it as an accusation.

Brody said, “He won’t speak a word in his own defense.”

“So I heard,” Tom said. “Have to ask yourself why. Here’s a story about Noah Bluestone. Even though he didn’t wear moccasins or feathers or anything, he still took a lot of crap for being Indian. I remember he was always in fights when he was a kid. Then he started playing football. We’d never had good teams, but all of a sudden we were winning games. And you know what? Him being Indian wasn’t a big deal anymore. I remember he had this fine head of black hair that he wore slicked back. Girls loved it. Then his mother died, and he cut all that hair off, almost all the way down to his scalp. An Indian mourning tradition, I guess. His head looked like the backside of a bristly hog. They threatened to kick him out of school because of it, but he stood his ground. Lot of iron in that man.”

“Your point?” Brody said.

“It’s not easy, what you do. Trying to get to the truth of something like Quinn’s death.”

“You don’t think it was Bluestone?”

“Here’s something you might throw into that cement mixer you call a brain. Years ago, Terry Quinn was all set to get married and buy his own place. He’d saved his money and found the land, the old Ingersoll farm out by Eddington. Made an offer, a good offer, I understand, and the deal was looking done. Then you know what? Jimmy bought it right out from under him. Paid way more than it was worth. Took away his son’s farm. That was after you’d gone into the service, so you probably don’t remember it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?” Tom ran a finger under the tight collar of the white shirt he wore, then undid the top button and loosened his tie. “Terry talked a good game at the service today. Built up his old man pretty good. But you have to wonder what’s really in his heart. He’s not like Noah. Never has been.”

The service had ended, and the gathering was breaking up. Tom turned from his father’s grave and made ready to rejoin the others. “We’ll see you for dinner on Sunday?”

“I’ll probably be there.”

“Mom counts on it.”

As those who’d come that afternoon filtered away, Terence Quinn remained behind, talking with the priest. Brody waited until their business seemed completed, then he approached Quinn, who appeared glad to see him.