Shine - Lauren Myracle [100]
I nodded. My tears ran down my face, a waterfall of sorrow.
“And now he’s dead,” Robert said. “He’s up there on those rocks, ’cause he wasn’t lucky.” His expression changed, and he looked very young. “But I was real brave, and so was Cat.” His hand found mine. “She took real good care of me.”
I looked over Robert’s head at my brother. I didn’t have to say anything for him to know what I was thinking, which was that he’d taken real good care of me as well.
BEEF’S FUNERAL WAS LAST SUNDAY. EVERYONE showed up for it, even my daddy. Beef’s mama was there, too, looking older than I remembered. Her eyes were sunk deep in her uncomprehending face, and I wondered what she could possibly be thinking. She’d missed out on her son’s entire life, practically, and now he was gone.
It was a closed-casket service, but a framed picture of Beef sat on top of the coffin, showing Beef after a wrestling meet, his arms thrust up triumphantly and a grin splitting his face. Tommy’s grandmother made sure there were flowers: a vase on either side of his photo.
People said nice things about the boy Beef once was, and no one said a word about his gun, which was buried in the muck and decay at the bottom of the swimming hole. Nobody was sniffing around for it, because no one but me and Christian knew about it.
“Beef fell, and that’s that,” Christian had said to me the day it happened, making sure we were out of Sheriff Doyle’s earshot. “No reason to complicate things.” He was protecting himself, yes, but more than that, I think he was protecting Beef’s reputation. Taking a fall, though awful, wasn’t as awful as the truth.
As for Robert, he seemed muddled about the whole incident, and he didn’t talk about it, except occasionally to me. He wanted to erase it from his mind, I suppose. Maybe, rarely, that was the best thing to do.
During the service, Pastor Paul talked about how sometimes bad things happened and we couldn’t see the bigger picture, because only God saw the bigger picture. He said that grief had the power to transform us, because when our hearts were hurting, we often let God in. We were imperfect, every one of us, but through God’s love, we could be healed.
Aunt Tildy was sitting next to me in the church pew, and at that part of the sermon, her hand found mine. She focused on Pastor Paul, but she gave me a squeeze. After a moment, I squeezed back.
Later, at the burial, I stood by Gwennie, who’d stepped away from Roy and her shell-shocked mama. I knew there were certain sadnesses a person had no choice but to live through, but I put my arm around her anyway. I decided a hug did make a difference, and even if it was the tiniest difference ever, it was better than nothing.
When Beef’s coffin was lowered into the earth, I bawled like a baby. I hoped that wherever Beef was, he was himself again, free of pain and pure of spirit. I squeezed shut my eyes and silently uttered my favorite benediction, sending it to Beef with all my heart: The Lord bless you and keep you. May He lift His face to shine upon you.
Since then, I’d been spending my days going back and forth between Patrick’s house and the hospital. At Patrick’s house, I pulled out their old push mower and mowed the lawn. I cut back the trumpet vines with their huge orange flowers, and I used a broom to sweep the cobwebs from the eaves of the porch. I also climbed on top of the porch railing and carefully lifted Mama Sweetie’s wind chimes from the screwed-in metal hook. The nurses, who decided I was as close as Patrick had to a relative, said it was fine to hang them in his room, so now they dangled near his open window. The hospital had air-conditioning, but fresh air was good for a person’s health. That sweet nurse, Kelly, agreed.
Often when I visited Patrick, Jason accompanied me. Christian came once, standing over Patrick’s thin frame and looking at him for a long time.
“Get better, buddy,” he said in a husky voice, and he lightly punched Patrick’s shoulder.
Today Christian was off with Tommy, probably riding their motorcycles