They buried her in the small cemetery beside St. Raphael, on a day when mist eddied in the hills and the sky unfolded somber grays toward the Cedar Valley; where only smoke from the John Deere factory over in Pecaut reminded Patch people still went on during such a hateful day.
Charlotte wore a navy dress and did not cry. Her shoes were patent-leather sandals. He looked at her toes and her ears and the fine blonde of her hair. He thought he might take her to the Clear Spring Lake, to walk the villages and maybe head out on the water to fish for walleye and white bass.
She asked pointed questions about his life and his past, and he answered too truthfully, which pissed off her grandmother, who sometimes looked at Patch like he could do little but break her granddaughter’s heart in the same callous and understood way he had her daughter’s.
Patch noticed women who were once girls he had gone to school with, and they dabbed at mascaraed eyes. When the tall men lowered the polished casket, Misty’s mother finally cried out.
He wanted to tell Charlotte it would be okay.
He did not want to lie.
Patch followed his daughter, and in her small hand she clutched petals and tossed them onto the wooden box that held the body of her mother.
“You don’t cry because it’s over, you smile that it happened,” she said.
He thought of Charlotte’s books, but still, he could not muster a smile.
When it was done and Charlotte was led toward the small hall, Patch walked over to Chief Nix, who stood to one side alone.
“This day,” Nix said. He wore sunglasses but they could not hide his sorrow. It was still his town, the people in it under his care. “It’s good to see you, Joseph.”
Patch finally smiled and the two men shook hands. The chief’s grip was loose, like he carried no strength at all. Saint had told Patch of the stroke, how it came on when Nix was fishing. They said it was minor.
They looked at the ground. The flowers in their abundance. A grosbeak called and both men watched it.
“Monta Clare…any other day it would be beautiful,” Nix said.
“I don’t think it can be again. Not in the same way.”
“How are you, Joseph? Tell me you did something good. That it didn’t bury you.”
Patch wondered at his directness and thought maybe it was the stroke. He had no time for small talk.
“I’m still looking for her.”
Nix closed his watery eyes and nodded, and when he opened them again a tear fell but he did not move to wipe it away.
“Saint said you won’t ever give up.”
“Did you?” Patch said.
“I never gave up on you. I never stopped hoping you’d find your way into another life. A better…” He swallowed.
“My mother…she always spoke highly of you, Chief.”
“Just Nix now. I haven’t been chief since that day, Joseph. Not really.”
Nix glanced back at the grave, crossed himself and turned to walk away.
“Will I find her?” Patch called, and felt like a child.
Nix turned. “That day, when it happened. You came out different. You were strong, and focused.”
Patch thought about that often. The divergence. Sometimes he played an alternate version, where he heard Misty scream and did not intervene. He imagined himself and the life he led parting ways. His mother still alive. The pieces of their lives gathered up like a broken vase, rebuilt so tightly that afternoon barely left a flaw.
“But your old self, who I used to come see sometimes…Maybe it was him you left in the dark. And only him.”
“I don’t even remember myself before that day.”
“You came back so fucking hot, kid. So burning hot there was only one place you were heading. I was sad when I heard, but surprised? No.”
Patch looked back toward the town of Monta Clare, saw what Nix must have seen, a lifetime of decorous order, of being invited in for coffee, turning up at the elementary school and letting the children hold his badge. And then that day.
“You think people are good?” Nix said, and there was nothing mocking in his tone.
“We’re all capable of goodness.”
“Yin and yang were born out of chaos to exist in perfect harmony.”
“That’s a fable,” Patch said.
“People think maybe the good and bad find a way to coexist, to keep balance, the bad reminding everyone of the need for a line.”
“So Marty Tooms was just placed on this earth as a cautionary tale?”
Nix softened then. “Marty Tooms is…” he cleared his throat. “Have you ever been to Yellowstone? A town called Cody sits in the flatland…frontier image. The North Fork of the Shoshone. You go there, you see something so beautiful, you meet certain people and you just, you feel it.”
“What?”
“That there ain’t a god up there. It’s all so perfect there’s not a way he’d let us all loose down here to ruin it.”
“I’m tired, Chief.”
“You’ve got a daughter now. Take a little time for her. And when she doesn’t need you so much, you go on back to your search. And I wish you the best life. There isn’t a single person more deserving.”