In the remodeled kitchen of the house where I grew up, Nana Mama stared at me blankly and said quietly, “Your father lived another two years?”
I nodded and gave her the rest of it, including the suicide, including a description of her son’s small tombstone.
My grandmother held a trembling fist to her mouth. With her other hand, she plucked off her glasses and wiped at tears.
“Why’d he kill himself?” she asked.
“Guilt? Grief? The aloneness?” I said. “I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
“He must have been the one.”
“What one?”
“The caller,” Nana Mama said. “For the first year or two that you lived with me, always around a holiday or, come to think of it, one of you boys’ birthdays, I’d get a call with no one on the other end. At first I thought it was just a mistake, but I’d hear things in the background, a television or music playing. And then the line would click dead.”
“When did that stop?” I asked.
“Around two years after you came to DC?”
The timeline fit, but before I could say so, Jannie rapped on the frame of the kitchen entrance. “We have to go. I want a chance to warm up on my own.”
I checked my watch. We did have to go.
“You all right?” I asked Nana Mama as I stood up from the table.
She hesitated and then said, “I suppose I am. Better than before.”
“He was punished for his sins, and then he died,” I said.
My grandmother said, “There’s balance there. Should we go?”
“You’re up to the ride?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said, and she got to her feet. She put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Alex.”
“For what?”
“Clearing things up.”
“Wish it had turned out some other way for him.”
“I do too. I always will.”
I helped Nana Mama out onto the porch, where Jannie, Bree, Ali, and Pinkie were waiting. We trooped out to the car and my cousin’s truck. Ali and Jannie wanted to ride with Pinkie. To my surprise, so did my little grandmother, who looked cute and ridiculous in the front seat of the one-ton pickup.
“I’ve never ridden in one of these,” she called out the window, and she waved with such enthusiasm that Bree and I had to grin.
“She’s one of a kind,” Bree said, climbing into the Explorer.
“Could you imagine if there were two?” I said, starting the car.
“I don’t think the world would be big enough.” Bree chuckled, leaned over, and kissed me. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too. And by the way, I loved the welcome-back celebration last night.”
She laughed contentedly, said, “Mmm. That was nice, wasn’t it?”
We held hands as we followed Pinkie through town. Nearing the railroad tracks, Bree said, “Think we have time to stop?”
“Probably, but I don’t know the way. Can we do it coming back?”
Bree looked longingly at the tree line beyond the tracks. “It’s funny how you want to check every couple of hours. It’s like gambling.”
“I can see that,” I said, and we drove on.
The road soon became steep and windy, and it dropped off the plateau in a series of lazy S turns. I noticed play in the Explorer’s wheel that hadn’t been there before. And the brakes were slightly sluggish.
“Remind me to check the fluid levels in Raleigh,” I said.
“Didn’t we do everything before our drive down here?” Bree asked.
“Yes, but something doesn’t feel quite—”
There was a slight clanking noise. The car shuddered.
“That can’t be good,” Bree said. “You better pull over, take a look.”
We were on a 10 percent, maybe 12 percent grade at that point, with low guardrails giving way to sheer banks and trees. Ahead, there was a scenic lookout. I put on my blinker, tapped the brakes. Nothing. I pumped the brakes. The car slowed only slightly, then gave another clank and shudder.
Then the vehicle seemed to break free of all restraint and we went into an accelerating, pell-mell, runaway descent.