WE DIDN’T TALK much on the drive through the countryside. Steve leaned against the headrest and shut his eyes. The past week had been exhausting. The cops had hounded him about the accident. He said he remembered only bits. He remembered shouting at Tommy. Tommy taking off. He remembered chasing Tommy’s truck through the dark. Spoiling to fight.
I wasn’t sure I should push him, but I needed to know one more thing. “Steve, the cops found my shotgun near your truck. It had been fired. Do you remember shooting it?”
He opened his eyes and looked at me. I saw fear in his eyes. He shook his head.
“It could have gone off in the crash,” I said.
Still Steve said nothing, but his chin trembled.
“I never liked it anyway.” I said. “Maybe I’ll get rid of it.”
Finally the ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Good idea.”
I felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t much, but for a guy who’d wanted that gun by his side, it was a start. Maybe he was going to be okay.
Up ahead, a little church sat at the empty crossroads that had once been Watkins Corners. It was built of limestone the locals had probably dug up with their own hands over a hundred years back. It had a steeple, a rusty bell and a peeling sign outside that gave the times of the services.
The graveyard too had seen better times. A couple of headstones had bits of dried flowers on them. Someone had mowed the grass near the church, but the rest was overrun with weeds. Steve had phoned the church from his hospital room. He’d spoken to the sexton, who had given him the general location of our father’s grave.
Steve studied the paper in his hand and pointed. “It should be in the northeast corner, near the far fence.”
There was nothing but overgrown grass and weeds in that corner. Steve was leaning on his cane, already worn out. I wanted to tell him to wait while I searched. But I knew he’d never agree. So we set out, kicking a path through the tall grass. As we neared the far fence, I swept the weeds away with my foot.
“I guess he’s around here somewhere,” I muttered.
Steve poked. His cane hit something hard. He parted the grass and uncovered the edge of a plaque. “Look!”
“But Dan Picard said the grave was unmarked,” I said.
Steve ignored me. He pushed more weeds aside. “Rick? Doesn’t that say…”
I peered. There it was—a small brass plaque gone green with age. Together we stared at it. There wasn’t much on it, and the letters were worn. Wesley Campbell. Born June 5, 1957. Died February 20, 1985. Rest in Peace.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to feel. It was just a plaque in the ground. Marking the death of a stranger. This was the end of my search. I thought I should feel more.
Steve heaved a deep sigh, like his search was over too.
“Do you remember him at all?” I said.
He shook his head. “I was only four when he left.”
I looked around. It was a peaceful place. An old oak gave some shade. The breeze was soft, and bees buzzed in the clover beside the fence. Cows dotted the pasture in the distance.
I felt something give inside me. A coiled spring I hadn’t even known was there. I leaned over to rub the stains on the plaque. “With some vinegar and salt, this will look new again.”
“Or we could get him a proper headstone.”
“That would cost money.”
“I’ve got money.”
“But…” How could I explain it? His father was dead because of my family. My mother had only been sixteen, but she and Tommy were the ones who had left him. She was the one who didn’t call for help.
Steve grinned. Punched me in the arm, almost like the old Steve. “And you’ve got all that stuff I can sell on Kijiji.”
“Okay. I’d like that.” So would my mother. A small start at putting things right.
“And after this,” he said, “we’ll go check if our DNA kits have arrived.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “But I don’t think we need them.”
We stood side by side, looking at the plaque. Finally Steve spoke. “About that DNA. Maybe we shouldn’t bother?”
A smile spread through me. “No. We’re good.”