CHAPTER 37

Seeing Puddy’s mother sitting beside the gravesite, it was apparent where Puddy got his looks. She was a milk jug of a woman, with a large head covered by a black lace mourning scarf, and an elongated chin beneath a toothless mouth. She sat on a metal fold-out chair and, beside her, holding an umbrella above her that shielded her from the sun, stood a man I recognized from Tina’s wedding album. It was the guy with the scary, intense eyes. He leveled them at me as Kenny and I approached the small gathering at the grave.

Puddy was being buried in what must have been a private graveyard on his family’s property. Kenny and I entered a square plot of land enclosed, except for a small entrance, by a two-foot-high decorative wrought iron face. There were several gravestones inside it, some very weather-worn, which I assumed marked the resting places of earlier generations of Salvatores. There wasn’t much room left, probably just enough for Puddy and his mother, when she followed. It was just as well, since Puddy was the end of the Salvatore line.

The property was in Crankerville, a very small borough in Hastings County. It was only a few miles outside of East Hastings, but it might as well have been another world. I’d never been here before, but when we turned off Route 182 onto the road that led to the place and drove down a twisty road that eventually led past wooden clapboard houses with dilapidated front porches, I was shocked at its resemblance to photos I had seen of “hollers” in West Virginia. Suspicious eyes followed us as we drove past people idly gathered on the front porches. Even the young, barefooted children playing in the hard dirt front yards watched us with a hand-me-down wariness.

There were only a handful of people at the funeral, a mixture of older and younger women and men. The women wore simple black dresses. Some of the men wore what must have been their Sunday best suits, white shirts, and ties, obviously uncomfortable with the tight collars in the heat and humidity. A few others wore black leather jackets with identical biker patches, a deep red, fire-breathing silhouette of a devil’s horned head sewn on the back, black t-shirts, black jeans and biker boots. Puddy’s simple, pine coffin sat on a raised platform beside the grave. Two guys wearing overalls and no shirts leaned on shovels a little ways off to the side.

Kenny and I stayed back from the gathering. Kenny was wearing a black suit, white shirt, bola tie and his cowboy boots. Ronald had managed to get the dark suit I had brought with me for Stevie’s funeral pressed at the dry cleaners, and I wore it with a white shirt opened at the collar.

“Those guys belong to the Demons. You should be careful around them,” Kenny whispered to me, nodding in the direction of the bikers.

“Yeah, I kind of assumed that on my own. How about the umbrella-holder? Is he one of them too?” I whispered back.

“Yeah, Ricky Tiffin. They call him Bones. He’s a road captain,” Kenny answered.

I looked at Kenny blankly.

“I’ll explain later,” he said.

The service was down to earth, so to speak. A priest, wearing a simple white vestment over a black robe and a white stole with a bar of gold fabric at each end, said a few words over the grave about Puddy being a loving son and loyal friend and then read the Twenty-Third Psalm. When he was finished, several of the bikers came forward, lifted the coffin with straps that were lying under it, carried it over to the grave, and lowered it down, tossing the straps into the grave. Ricky Tiffin then led Mrs. Salvatore over to the grave, scooped up a handful of dirt, and handed it to her. She took the dirt in her right hand and lifted her veil with her left. Her eyes were moist but she wasn’t crying. She stood quietly for a moment, looking down into the grave. She crossed herself and then threw the handful of dirt onto the coffin. Tiffin then scooped up another handful of dirt and this he threw onto the coffin.

They stood beside the grave for a few more moments and then he whispered something to Mrs. Salvatore. She nodded. With Tiffin holding the umbrella above her, they both turned and walked past Kenny and me out of the iron fencing, neither making eye contact with us or even appearing to know we were there, and off toward a two-story house that sat a short distance away. The other mourners formed a line by the grave and each in turn scooped up dirt and tossed it into the grave before filing past Kenny and me out toward the house. These guys made eye contact with me, and it wasn’t hard to sense what they were thinking. They then looked at Kenny, letting him know they weren’t too pleased with the company he was keeping. He merely nodded and said hello to each by name as they passed.

“C’mon,” Kenny said once they had moved past us, heading toward the grave. “Let’s go pay our respects.”

“You sure I should? Won’t it piss some of these guys off?”

Kenny laughed. “Well, you aren’t exactly the guest of honor, but it’s the right thing to do.”

We walked over to the grave just as the two guys in overalls came over with their shovels. Kenny raised his right hand, palm out, and they stopped. He bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and tossed it onto the coffin. I did likewise, but there must have been a stone in my handful, because there was a loud clunk when I tossed it in. The two guys looked at each other and shook their heads, frowning.

We turned and looked at the house.

“Ready?” Kenny asked.

“No,” I answered. “I still think this is a bad idea.”

He stopped and looked at me.

“Did your balls stop growing when you left East Hastings? I told you nothing is going to happen.”

“Did you see the way those guys looked at me? I know they all have knives--I mean, it is Hastings County so they must--and I felt like they were sizing me up like one of those diagrams you see at the butcher shop that shows all the different cuts of meat, just a matter of who got the choicer cuts.”

“You worry too much,” Kenny said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me out of the gravesite. “You may not believe this, but a lot of these guys actually appreciate what you did to clean up the river. Not all of them, of course--okay, maybe only a few--but that river means a lot to quite a few people.

“You mean I’ve got a fan club,” I said.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. One step at a time. These guys can smell fear so just try to relax. Breathe.”

“Sure, take a breath. I mean, I may not have that many left so I might as well use them before I lose them.” I inhaled deeply and walked with Kenny toward the house.

Several of the mourners had gathered on the front steps and porch. They let Kenny through, but as I followed they inched closer together to block my entrance.

“Guys,” Kenny said, turning back to them. “The man came out here to pay his respect. Let him say his piece, and he’ll be gone.”

The sea parted, and I walked up the steps and onto the porch toward the door, although I got a few not too subtle bumps from shoulders and elbows along the way.

We entered the house through a two-paneled wooden screen door with a rusty spring that squeaked loudly as we opened it. The door closed with a loud bang behind us once we passed through it, and I jumped at bit. I hoped no one noticed.

It was a large, bright room thanks to large, open-curtained windows and filled with scents from flowers arrangements--lilies, carnations, and lavender--sent by people who could not attend but wanted to show their sympathies.

The furniture in the room was simple, old but well cared for. A large sofa sat in the center of the room, covered with a brightly squared quilt. There were a few chairs, all with doilies on the arm rests, a couple of floor lamps and small end tables at either side of the sofa, also topped with doilies. The only modern looking component of the room was a large flat screen television that took up most of the wall directly across from the sofa. The other walls were a light brown paneling and on them hung a few family photos and hand-embroidered artwork in wooden frames. A slowly revolving ceiling fan kept the room cool.

Mrs. Salvatore sat at the far end of the room in a rocking chair to the left of a stone fireplace at the back wall. On the mantel of the fireplace sat a photo of Puddy in happy times, posing next to a Harley Davidson Ultra Glide motorcycle. The frame was draped with black crepe and a single rose sat before it. Hovering next to her was Ricky Tiffin. A small circle of older women were gathered around her. She looked up as Kenny and I approached. The women took notice and moved off, looking over their shoulders to give me a once over and whispering to themselves. Tiffin remained right where he was. Kenny stepped forward.

“Mrs. Salvatore, I am very sorry for your loss. I know Puddy was a good son and never caused a bit of trouble at my place. People liked him. He’ll be missed.”

She looked at him with rather dark, penetrating eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”

Kenny brought me forward. “This is Wes Byrne,” he said.

I stepped up. I noticed Tiffin’s body stiffened a bit and his black eyes burned at me as he sized me up. Mrs. Salvatore showed nothing, just sat there looking at me, her toothless mouth moving in a slow circular motion as if chewing on something. “Mrs. Salvatore, I’m--” I started.

“I know who you are,” she said curtly. There was a slight twang in her voice that was not unfamiliar in East Hastings, owing to a migration of families over the years from points south.

“Well, um, I just want to say how sorry I am. My wife--died about a couple of years ago--and it was terrible. But I can’t imagine the sorrow of losing a child--”

“You wrote that article about that whore Tina, made her out to be some kind of saint. She weren’t no saint,” she replied, moving forward in her rocking chair.

Well it was good to see that some people still did read the Chronicle.

“I--I--just wanted to give her family some peace.”

She sat quietly, rocking a bit. She looked up at Tiffin slowly. Their eyes met and held for a few moments. Then she looked back at me. “Yeah, I can understand them wanting that,” she said.

Kenny was standing behind me and I felt him give me a very quick, discreet poke in the back.

“Well, maybe I could...um do the same for you and Puddy,” I answered. “Perhaps I could come sometime, sit, and talk with you.”

“Can I trust you? You’re not going to make him look stupid, or like a bad man?” she said.

“No, that would not be my intention. Just a story about a good son.”

“Can I read it before you print it, give my final say so?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Of course, you can.”

Again she looked up at Tiffin and I saw the faint trace of smile appear briefly on her thin lips. Her jaw grinded her toothless gums. “Okay, I don’t see no harm. Long as I get to see it first. You got a card.”

I reached into my inside jacket pocket, pulled out a small notepad, wrote my cell number on it, and handed it to her. “You can call me and let me know a time that’s good for you.”

“I will--and Mr. Byrne,” she began, taking the slip of paper from me.

“Yes, Mrs. Salvatore?”

“I am sorry for the loss of your wife.” She paused and looked at me squarely with her black eyes. Her lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “We should all remember that life is short.”

“I will. Thank you,” I answered.

I turned and Kenny and I walked out through the door. I held onto it as I closed it to prevent any banging. We went down the steps. This time the men let me through without a hassle. We continued off toward his car. Except for the poke, he had been quiet throughout my exchange with Mrs. Salvatore.

“That went better than expected,” I said, feeling the dread I’d been carrying lift off my shoulders.

“Yeah, maybe,” he answered. “Seemed a little too easy.”

“Aw c’mon. This was your idea and it worked out great.”

“What was that she said to you at the end?” Kenny asked.

“That she was sorry for my loss. A nice thing to say, considering the circumstances,” I answered.

“No, after that,” he said.

“Um...to remember life is short,” I answered.

We had reached Kenny’s car. We stood on opposite sides, looking at each other over the roof. Kenny used his key fob to unlock the car doors.

“Exactly. Lots of ways a person can take that,” Kenny said, opening his door and getting into the car.

I opened my door but stood for a moment looking back at the house and the men on the porch still watching us. “Life is short,” I said softly to myself, “No, come on.” I leaned down and looked at Kenny through my open door. “You don’t think she was threatening?”

Kenny had an amused smile on his face. “She may not have any teeth, don’t mean she might not bite.”