CHAPTER 37
Shamus’s funeral would be held in drought, under blue, piercing sky—a canopy of dry tears.
James sat on his haunches, his worn boots creased permanently at the toes, the hems of his moleskin breeches stained orange with dirt. He rubbed his fingertips across the ground and picked up the fine dust, rubbed the granules with his thumb before letting the powder fall from his palm. He stood, his tall body stretching from its folds, his back broadening under the white, ironed shirt, only now relaxing from starch. He wiped his hand on his trousers. With legs straight and slightly open in a V, he was the tallest form for a mile under the cloudless blue sky. The sun beat mercilessly atop his leather hat. Only mulga scrub, spinifex and the occasional lizard brought any life to the spot. Life but no comfort.
Mrs. Shelby stood to James’s left, covered in black, a worn dress now faded with memories of those long buried. Tom stood to his right, their postures even. The ring of red-haired girls flanked him. John and Will were away at war but their presence still strong. The Shelby circle stood close, a buffer against the outside world as they had always been.
The preacher offered the only shade in the high noon, his imprint stretched on the ground in front of the tombstone. The ground below his feet lay unbroken, no fresh mound of disturbed dirt, for the marker was only that—a reminder of a life that was; a reminder of who was buried far out in the fields, unmarked.
“And so we mourn the passing of Shamus O’Reilly,” the priest heralded before sprinkling holy water on the ground, the dust sucking God’s moisture in quickly. “May he rest in peace.”
Two white tombstones. Side by side. Tess O’Reilly. Shamus O’Reilly. Mrs. Shelby tucked her hand through James’s arm—orphaned twice in one lifetime.
The preacher clicked the gate of the cemetery, a useless bit of metal to keep the ghosts tucked in and the living pushed out.
“Come back an’ eat.” Mrs. Shelby touched James’s elbow. “Leave this day behind. No mass, I promise.”
“I’ve got some things to clear up at the house.”
Mrs. Shelby nodded and squeezed his arm, then turned to Tom. “You still heading out?”
“Yeah. It’ll be late.”
“Be good, Tommie, or so help me . . .” Mrs. Shelby pointed a finger in his face.
Tom smiled and batted her hand away. “Always.”
“Orright,” said Mrs. Shelby. “I’ll ride back with the preacher. Children gettin’ rowdy. Better feed ’em before they start killin’ each other.” Mrs. Shelby patted James’s shoulder. “You go back to that house an’ do what you have to. After that, you put this day behind you, son. That place ain’t your home no more. Your home’s with us now. Always has been.”
James bent down, kissed her cheek. She squared her shoulders, yelled out to the children, “Pile on! We’re headin’ back.”
James watched the wagon grow smaller, the empty land grow wider. He turned to Tom. “Where you off to?”
“The Cross.” Tom kicked the dirt and looked up shyly.
“Yeah?” James grinned. “What’s her name?”
“Ashley.” His eyes bounced with the name. “From the dance a few months back.”
“I remember.” James crossed his arms and eyed his friend. “Also remember we didn’t see you for two days after.”
Tom laughed and raised his eyebrows. Then he turned his face to the cemetery and grew serious. “Want me to come with you? Just say the word, mate.”
“No, thanks,” James said. “Just need to be alone. Do this myself. Long time coming.”
Tom nodded. “See you back home then.”
“Be good.” James pointed a finger at him, just as Mrs. Shelby had done.
“Always.” He smirked.
Once Tom left, James walked past the cemetery, lowered his hat over his brow. The sun beat from the front, so he kept his head down, watched his boots spray red earth with each step. The buzz of cicadas rose from the ground and hovered until it seemed no other sound existed.
To the east, a thin line of wheat bordering an acre of Livingston property shimmered in brushed gold. A breeze blew, perhaps as far away as the sea. The gold strands rippled as thin and smooth as hair. Warmth flooded his chest as the memory of a friend, of hair and sea and light carried on a wind from very long ago. But then he blinked, raised his chest, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned the wheat back into wheat.
On Leonora’s wedding day, Eleanor Fairfield tapped her foot harder and quicker as she assessed her niece. “Thank God for veils. You look like a ghost.” She adjusted a few strands of Leonora’s pulled-back hair.
“Did you find those diamonds?” Eleanor snapped at the maid.
“Yes, Mrs. Fairfield.” The woman handed her a rosewood jewelry box.
Eleanor raised the lid and grimaced. “I swear, you’re like a five-year-old child, Leonora.” She picked up a small, round stone. “Stashing gravel with diamonds!” She flung the rock across the room. Without moving her head, Leonora watched its path until it rolled under the bed.
Roughly, Eleanor pushed the diamond studs through her niece’s ears, looked her over one last time. “That will have to do. We’re already late.” Her aunt opened the door to leave, then turned back. “Well?”
“I just need a minute,” she said softly. “Please.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes and bustled into the hall, her voice trailing orders as the maid followed at her heels.
Leonora scrambled to the bed, scrunched the wedding dress around her knees as she bent down and reached across the floor, rescued the stone that was as smooth and perfect as a tiny bird’s egg. She rubbed the surface, saw the kind smile of a dear friend and felt an old warmth that went beyond the sun’s.
James stood upon the sloped porch of his old home, the splintered wood buckling under his weight. Tobacco spit stained the walls like splattered blood; broken bottles littered the floorboards. He opened the screen door, the hinges screeching from rust. Flies were everywhere. Disrupted, they buzzed at the intruder before settling back into favorite corners. The curtain wall that divided his room from the others was torn, the mattress on the floor hollowed out from rats.
Shamus’s room lay gutted, the iron bed pushed against a wall, no blankets or pillows. The striped, thin mattress was stained from rusted springs, soiled with yellow spots. Drawers were gone. No remnants of good days remained—only scars of the bad days, the bad years.
James left the house and went to the small shed in the back, pushed the cans and tools aside until he found the kerosene. He twisted the cap, doused the base of the wood frame and the steps along the porch with short, quick splashes. The wood was dry and old; the fuel, a guarantee. James lit a match against a stone, the blue flame hissing with new life.
Leonora stepped from the car, blind to who carried the gown’s train or put flowers in her hand. Life moved through the veil in a foggy haze.
Music began. Violins and cellos stretched bows across taut strings; resin powdered under bridges. Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. Voices and chatter hushed within the hall. Her uncle took her elbow, whispered in her ear, “You’re breathtaking, darling.” And her feet moved. One step at a time. One step closer.
James threw the match at the kerosene-soaked timber, stood back, his spine firm, his thumbs tucked in belt loops. He watched the fire fill the space under the porch, wrap around the boards.
Leonora looked through the smoky veil. Alex took her hand. The priest spoke. “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”
Fire inched up the posts, the weak fibers collapsing quickly into a fountain of sparks. Spastic flames licked each beam, blackened fissures sizzling under their tongues. The fire reached inside, disintegrated the flimsy curtain shreds.
Leonora answered, “I do.”
The porch collapsed. The charred slats of the house crumbled.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Harrington.”
Smoke choked James’s throat.
Tears burned her eyes under the veil.
Flames of regret—embers of pain.