“THOSE FOOTPRINTS ON THE MOON,” Thomas Noble said. “The Apollo astronauts made them and they’ll stay there for at least ten million years.”
She saw sky no longer endless. She knew about souls and the prophetic, about divine reunion and a world to come. She tried not to think of Robin, if he woke that morning frightened, she swallowed a lump of such bitter shame she almost cried out.
“Where will you go?”
“I have business to attend to.”
“You could stay here.”
“No.”
“I could come with you.”
“No.”
“I’m brave. I took a blue eye for you.”
“For that I will always be grateful.”
They lay at the end of his yard, the woodland behind made shadows of them.
“What you’ve been through,” he said. “It isn’t fair.”
“You sound like a child. The notion of fair.” She closed her eyes.
“You know nothing good will come of any of this.”
A star bled from the sky. She did not make a wish. Wishing on stars was for children, and Duchess knew she was no longer one of those. She wondered if she ever had been.
“All these people,” Duchess said. “They spend a lifetime looking to the sky and asking questions. Does God intervene, if he doesn’t, why do they still pray?”
“Faith. The hope that he will.”
“Because otherwise life is too small.”
He spoke again quietly. “I worry you won’t find a way back.”
Duchess watched the moon.
“I used to ask God about my hand. Why? That kind of thing. I used to pray I’d wake up normal. You know what, those were wasted prayers.”
“Maybe they’re all wasted.”
“Stay here with me. I’ll hide you.”
“I have to do something.”
“I want to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“You want me to just let you go alone. Is that brave?”
She took his good hand and they linked fingers. She wondered what it would be like to be him, his troubles so slight, his mother in the house sleeping, his future so unblemished, so wide open like that.
“They’ll look for you.”
“Not all that hard. Another Welfare runaway.”
“You deserve to be found. And what about Robin?”
“Please,” she said, so close to the edge. “They might come see you. Cops. They might come ask you where I am and where I’m going. You’ll think about telling, that you know what’s best.”
“And if I do.”
“You don’t.”
She lay till morning. His mother left early, dressed in workout gear, her Lexus creeping silent from the driveway as Thomas Noble opened the back door.
Duchess went into the Noble house, washed up and ate cereal.
There was a safe, Thomas Noble took fifty dollars and handed it to her. She fought to say no, he stuffed the bills into her hand.
“I’ll pay you back.”
She filled her bag with a couple of cans, beans and soup. She moved fast, saw Shelly was moving faster because the telephone rang and the machine picked it up.
They listened.
“She sounds worried.”
“She has a thousand more like me.”
At the door she saw bags ready to be packed. Thomas Noble would go on vacation in a few days. He would forget her. His life would go on, she smiled at that thought.
Outside the street woke, garbage truck at one end, mailman at the other.
Thomas Noble wheeled out his bicycle and leaned it against the gate. “Take it.”
She went to say no but he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just take it. You’ll get further before they pick you up.”
“I’ll be a ghost. I already am.”
“Will I see you?”
“Yeah.” They both knew it was a lie, he let it go, leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
She got on the bike, bag over her shoulder, all she had in the world.
“Later, Thomas Noble.”
He raised his good hand as she rode down his driveway and into the street. Then she pedaled hard, not looking back, wind streaking her face as she left the light roads behind and sought out the dark.
An hour and she was on Main Street. She left the bike out front of Jackson Hollis Funeral Parlor and stepped inside, the central air hitting her so hard her skin pricked.
“Duchess,” Magda said with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”
Magda ran the place with her husband, Kurt, a man that shared pallor with his clientele. He must have been with someone because the drape was pulled, the coffins hid.
“I wanted to collect my grandfather’s ashes.”
“I wondered when you’d come. Shelly said she’d bring you one day.”
“She’s in the car.” Duchess nodded toward a Nissan across the street, parked at an angle that blocked the view.
Magda headed out back and returned a minute later with a small urn.
Duchess took it, turned to leave as the drapes parted and Dolly came out, Kurt behind. Duchess slipped out and onto the sidewalk, made it almost to Cherry’s before Dolly caught up with her.
“Duchess.”
Dolly led her inside and sat her down in the corner. She went to the counter and ordered for them.
Dolly had aged, makeup not quite so perfect, hair not curled so neat. She still wore the names, Chanel bag and shoes.
“I’d say it’s nice to see you back here.”
“But.”
Dolly smiled.
“I’m sorry about Bill. I didn’t know.”
“He was ready. Turned out I was not.”
Duchess’s bag lay open, the clothes, the cans. She pulled it closed and zipped it.
Dolly looked at her with sadness.
“What will you do now?” Duchess asked.
“Bury my husband. Beyond that I haven’t given it much thought. There were trips, places we wanted to see. I don’t know if I’ll do it alone. But he had a good life, that’s all we can ask, right?”
“Thomas Noble talks about fair.”
Dolly smiled. “I get that.”
“Fair means someone is in control.”
“I heard about the man. It was on the news. I thought of you, and of Robin. Maybe that’s what Thomas Noble meant. About how someone goes through life causing pain to others, and some people just try and get on. The two always seem to collide.”
Duchess thought of Dolly, her life, her father, impression cast. “Hal said that man was the cancer of our family. His reach is far, to me and Robin. To my brother. I can’t …”
Dolly reached over and closed a hand over hers. “Maybe you don’t choose who you get to be. Maybe it’s predefined. Some of us are outlaws. Maybe we find each other.”
“And maybe it’s all nothing. No one in control but the person willing to go out and take what they want.”
“Do you know about justice, Duchess?”
“Three-Fingered Jack. He rode five hundred miles to avenge the death of his partner, Frank Stiles.”
“But what do you think it means? And I don’t mean defined, I mean what do you think it means for the people that get hurt.”
“An end. I could take it back to breathing. But I know that’s not enough.”
“And for Robin? What do you think he wants?”
“He’s six. He does not know what he wants. He does not know a world beyond the immediate.”
“And you?”
“I know too much.”
The waitress came over with two cocoas and a small cupcake with a single candle in it. She placed them down, winked at Duchess and then returned to the counter.
“Happy birthday, Duchess.”
Duchess stared at the cake. “You didn’t need to—”
“Hush, now. It’s not every day a girl turns fourteen. You need to make a wish.”
When she realized Dolly would not quit she leaned forward, closed her eyes and blew.
Outside they walked the shaded side of the street. When they got to the parlor Duchess picked up the bicycle and wheeled it along.
Dolly stopped beside her truck. “There’s a lot I should say here.”
“But nothing I don’t already know.”
“Will you come back to the house? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
“I can’t. I have to get on.”
“Another time.”
“Sure.”
Dolly took her hand. “Promise me you’ll stop by one day.”
“I will.”
“And I know you’ll make good on that. An outlaw is only as good as her word.” Dolly looked frail then, written with concern, like Duchess was even close to being her problem.
“I can check on Robin.”
Duchess nodded, a slight tremble in her lower lip. She would have to get tougher for what would come.
“You stay safe, Duchess.”
And then Dolly reached into her bag and took out her purse. As she began counting bills Duchess got on the bicycle and rode.
She turned at the end of Main.
She waved and Dolly raised a hand.
Duchess made it to Radley land an hour off noon, legs burning, T-shirt damp through, hair slicked down. She buried the bike in grassland by the gates and walked slowly up the winding driveway, beneath the praying trees, beside the dead water.
She thought of Robin, if he was at school now, if Shelly was with him. It took all she had not to break from her path, return and fall to her knees and take him in her arms. She’d kept one photograph, him smiling, a year back when his hair was longer. She took it from her bag as she climbed the old porch steps and sat on the swinging seat.
There was a board back on the gates, SULLIVAN REALTY, there would be an auction one day in the future and someone else would move in, take care of the land, run the same tired circle.
In the distance Duchess watched elk, clustered like always at the foot of the hills. The fields needed tending. She thought of Hal out there, a lifetime alone.
At the red barn she opened the door and saw his tools still where they were, nothing of value to anyone. She crossed into the shade and walked to the rug and dragged it back.
She pulled up the door in the floor, it was heavy. Sweat dripped from her chin. She propped it and walked down the steps.
A low store. Guns on shelves, a rifle rack.
An old leather chair, Hal’s place where he could be alone. Beside was a small table, and on it a thick stack of letters. She thumbed them, settled on the last and opened it, and as she did, two papers fluttered to the ground. She picked them up, two halves of a check. She pressed them together, swallowed dry, a million dollars. Post-dated, a couple months after the trial was due to start. The signature was simple, more like print. Richard Darke. On the back she saw Vincent had endorsed it, signed straight over to Hal.
She placed it all back, thought of the cost of atonement, warmed by the thought of her grandfather ripping it in two.
She stood.
Across she saw boxes.
She walked over, took a knee when she saw the colored wrapping paper. Gifts. She checked the tags, saw her own name scrawled, and then her brother’s. There were dates on each, going back each of her years. She sat back on the low rung and tore one open. A doll. Then another. A puzzle. She did not open any of Robin’s.
She stalled at the last one, dated that day. She opened it with care, took the lid from it and swallowed when she saw what was inside.
She lifted the hat out and admired it. Leather studs on the band, vented crown and four-inch brim. She thumbed the tag, the intricate gold.
John B. Stetson.
And then, slowly, she placed it on her head, the fit perfect.
She took two guns, hers and one of his. She took a box of bullets, the kind he’d shown her.
When she was done she placed everything back, loaded her bag and felt the weight.
His ashes drifted away by the water, in the spot they sometimes sat.
She steeled herself and dipped her hat. “So long, Grandpa.”