Amity’s smile was strained. “About Troy? Yeah, he knows.”
“And?”
“And Troy’s a bit ... unreliable, so the sheriff’s not thinking anything of it. I asked Bonnie Jean to mention it at the next town council meeting, but”—Amity shrugged—“my sister’s so worried about impressing the mayor that I’m not really counting on her.”
The door opened. A half-dozen men stood there. The one in the front of the group looked at the two of them; he took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Ma’am?”
Amity’s barmaid smile returned instantly; she motioned them forward. Then she murmured, “Break’s over, Bek. Set us up with something loud. Nothing country or blues tonight.”
Rebekkah nodded and went over to the old jukebox. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Amity, but the bartender was beckoning to the men tromping into the bar, acting as if the two of them hadn’t had any sort of personal conversation.
“Belly up, boys. Those tip jars don’t fill themselves, and we’ve got a new barmaid to train. Can’t train her if you don’t order up a bunch of drinks.” Amity hopped up onto the bar, swung her legs over, and jumped down. “What’ll it be?”
Chapter 21
B YRON SAT AT THE TABLE WITH CHARLIE AND HIS FATHER. A WOMAN IN a floor-length dress with charcoal-dark hair and smoldering appeal reminiscent of Bettie Page sashayed across the room. She paused at their table.
“You wanted me, Charlie?” Her voice was breathy, but that could’ve been a result of the corset and bustier that cinched and lifted her breasts so they were a gasp away from spilling out of the deep-V cut of her dress.
“Be a good girl, and go sing for us.” Charlie patted her ass absently. “I can’t stand the quiet.”
A single spotlight came on with a sharp click. The curtain over the doorway opened, and three dead musicians came through it to join the singer onstage. One carried a cello, and the other two took their places on the stools in front of the piano and drums.
“Graveminder?” Byron prompted.
Charlie lifted his glass in a toast as the breathy girl started singing. “Ahhh, that’s what we needed. Now, back to business ... Graveminder: the woman who keeps the dead from going out on rampages; the partner of the Undertaker. Maylene’s replacement is”—he tilted his head as if thinking—“Rebekkah.”
Byron looked from Charlie to his father. “Rebekkah?”
“Yes.” Charlie snapped his fingers.
The waitress came over carrying a dark wood box. She placed it in front of Charlie, glanced at him, and then turned away when he neither spoke nor acknowledged her presence. As she walked away, the singer sang-whispered something almost too soft to hear into the mic.
Charlie reached in his pocket and drew out a key. He slid the key into the box’s lock. “The Graveminder keeps the dead in the earth or brings them to me if they go out walking. You need a new one to replace Maylene.” He unfastened the latches on either side of the box. “The Graveminder is the only living person—other than you now—who can come here.”
“Why would she do that?” Byron stood. “Why would I , for that matter?”
The spotlight seemed to brighten as the pianist’s fingers danced over the keys. The rhythm from the drums added a sense of urgency to the music as Charlie opened the lid of the box.
“Because the alternative is violating the contract.” Charlie reached into the box and grabbed a scroll. “Because the alternative is that the dead will kill the lot of you.” He unrolled the scroll, pulled a pen out of the box, and tapped the pen on the scroll. “You sign here.”
Charlie held out the pen, and the musicians stopped all at once as if they’d been cut off. They, much like everything else since Byron had arrived in the land of the dead, seemed to be under the control of the man currently watching him expectantly. Byron wasn’t eager to be under anyone’s control. “What’s my part? You talked about the Graveminder, but what is it that I’m supposed to be promising to do?”
Charlie smiled magnanimously. “The very thing you want, Byron, the thing you’ve wanted since Ella died: you protect our Rebekkah. You love her. You keep her from wanting death.”
Byron fixed his gaze on Charlie. “Can you come to our side?”
“If the Undertaker and the Graveminder do their job, none of the dead will come to your town. Your children will stay in the town, be safe from ... well, quite a few things. Your town will stay strong, safe, flourish, all that rot.” Charlie tapped the scroll. “It’s all there in the fine print, spelled out in black and white.”
“It’s simply the order of things, Byron.” William’s voice was weary. “Go ahead.”
“Why? You expect me just to ...” Byron backed from the table. “No. You’re not thinking clearly, but I am. Let’s go.”
He turned and made it as far as the door before he heard his father’s voice: “You drank with the dead, son. You sign, or you stay.”
Byron put his hand on the door, but he didn’t open it. His father had knowingly brought him here and put him in this predicament.
“I’m sorry,” William added softly. “There are traditions. This is one of them.”
“Your old man is right.” Charlie’s voice echoed in the quiet room. “Make your choice.”
Slowly, Byron turned around to face them. “And if I don’t sign?”
“You die. It won’t hurt: you simply stay here. He finds a new Undertaker over in the land of the living. His Graveminder died; he’s done with his duty now.” Charlie didn’t rise from his seat. Nothing in his expression offered any clue to what the dead man thought. “I can’t force your hand. If you stay, you won’t lack for entertainment, and if you sign, you’ll go back and forth between worlds. It’s no matter to me in the end.”
While Charlie spoke, the cellist and pianist had begun to play, and the girl started singing again softly . She stared only at Byron.
He took a step back toward the table. He looked at his father. “How could you—” He stopped, not even certain what he wanted to ask. “Help me understand, Dad. Tell me ... something. ”
“After Ella Mae died, Maylene and I agreed that it was for the best to delay telling you until you were ready ... or it was necessary.” William looked as implacable as he had looked during all the years Byron asked questions without answers. “She was a child. We couldn’t risk losing you or Rebekkah, too. Now here we are.”
“Ella died because of this ?” Byron’s mouth went dry. His heartbeat pounded too loud under his skin. “She knew. That’s what she wouldn’t tell us. I thought ... I thought all sorts of things. That someone hurt her or that she saw something or ... but it was this.”
“It was,” William admitted.
Gracelessly, Byron walked over to the table and dropped into the chair he’d vacated.
William tossed back the rest of his whisky. “Being the Graveminder is a family burden.”
“Bek’s not Maylene’s blood-family.” Byron felt stupid saying it, but it was true. If blood-family was the criterion, that would leave the role to Cissy or one of her twins. He grimaced at the thought.
“Ahhh, yes, Cissy,” Charlie said. “She’d make of mess of it, but it would be entertaining nonetheless. Her Elizabeth’s not a bad sort, though. Do you fancy her?”
“Why?” Byron tasted his Scotch; it had the delicate aroma and slight saltiness that bespoke a Northern Highlands origin, one of his favorites. That’s probably not accidental either. Is anything coincidence?
“If your Bek dies, it’ll be one of the others. That’s how it works. Chain of command and all. Maylene was a clever old bird. She designated Rebekkah, but if she’d let things fall as they might ... things aren’t always predictable with so many women in the family. One of the girls would be your partner then ... you are signing, aren’t you, Byron? Going back, keeping the girl safe and all that? Doing your part?”
“You’re a bastard.” Byron reached out his hand, though.
“Atta boy.” Charlie extended a
pen and then smoothed out the scroll. “Right here on the line, son.”
For a moment, Byron paused. His fingers played at the edge of the scroll.
“Sign it,” William instructed. “The terms don’t change the truth: you sign or you stay. You can read it later in search of the loophole. We all do. None of it changes what you need to do right now.”
Byron ran his finger over the column of names.
1953–2011 William B.
1908–1953 Joseph
1880–1908 Alexander
1872–1880 Conner
1859–1872 Hugh
1826–1859 Timothy
1803–1826 Mason
1779–1803 Jakob
1750–1779 Nathaniel
1712–1750 William
Some of the signatures were in tight script; others were jagged. He wondered how many of the men on the list had been as clueless as he felt, how many wondered at their sanity. How could they bear to sentence their own sons to this? How had his father? Byron let his gaze lift to William for a moment. William didn’t flinch or look away.
“I don’t have all day,” Charlie nudged. “Actually I do , but I’m getting bored. Sign, or send your father back to find a new Undertaker. Rebekkah needs a partner, and until she’s brought here to my domain, she is only a shadow of what she needs to be. They will see her, but she won’t know what they are or what she is. She’s vulnerable to them. Either be her partner or move out of the way.”
Byron wasn’t going to abandon her, or his father, or accept dying. He scrawled his name beneath his father’s.
Charlie flipped the page over, and on it, Byron read THE BARROW WOMAN followed by another list. This time, the names were all written in the same hand. These weren’t signatures, but a list of women who were selected to fill a role. For them, there was no real choice.
2011 Rebekkah
1999 Ella
1953–2011 Maylene
1908–1953 Elizabeth Anne (called “Bitty”)
1880–1908 Ruth
1872–1880 Alicia
1859–1872 Maria
1826–1859 Clara
1803–1826 Grace
1779–1803 Eleanor
1750–1779 Drusilla
1712–1750 Abigail
Byron’s gaze lingered on Ella’s scratched-out name. She was to be the one. He clutched the edge of the paper. “Why? Why don’t they get a choice?”
“I wasn’t going to make everything easy.” Charlie rolled up the scroll, returned it to the box, and locked it.
The waitress came over and took the box away.
Abruptly, Charlie stood. “Feel free to stay and enjoy the show.” He nodded at them both and put his hat on his head. “Be seeing you soon, William.”
As soon as Charlie left, the bar started filling up. Whatever privacy they’d had before vanished as dead men and women sat down at the tables. Many of them nodded to William.
Byron turned to his father. “I have questions.”
“I don’t know that I have answers you’ll like.” William motioned to the waitress. “The bottle.”
After she was gone, Byron stared at his father. “Did Mom know?”
“She did.”
“But what about Maylene? If Graveminders and Undertakers are together , and each job’s passed on in families ...” He paused, thinking. “It doesn’t work after one generation.”
“Love doesn’t mean marriage, son. If they choose to be together, one of them has to pick a new family to pass his or her duty on to. The son or the daughter is spared. That’s the benefit of the contract. You pick one of the children to let free of it.” William laughed, but there was only bitterness in the sound. “If I’d married Maylene, one of our children would have been chosen, and the other role would’ve moved to another family in town—someone we chose. If we had no children, or if we had no blood-heirs we deemed worthy and capable, we could pick a successor. That’s the loophole that Maylene was clever enough to use to choose Rebekkah: she decided that the choice to be Graveminder was part of being worthy, so she decided to give Ella and Rebekkah both the choice, but Ella made a different choice before Maylene even told Rebekkah.”
“So you could’ve ...”
“Only if you were a wastrel. Only if you couldn’t handle it. Only if it was— in my heart’s truth —better for the town. There’s no one I’d trust more with the duty; you’ve always been meant to be the new Undertaker.” William accepted the bottle from the waitress before she had a chance to set it on the table. Silently, he poured Scotch into their glasses.
When Byron realized that the waitress was still beside the table, he looked up at her.
She bent down and whispered, “If you want”—she flicked her tongue along the curve of his ear—“Mr. D says you can have a full night on the house.” She straightened up and gestured around the room. “ Anyone. Anything. No kink too bizarre.”
Most of the club’s occupants were staring at him. Amused smiles, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, disdainful glares, and raw hunger—there was no continuity in expression. Byron felt curiously exposed and uncertain of how to react.
The waitress pressed an envelope into his hand. “Here’s a chit. It’s got no expiration date ... unless you die, of course. As long as you’re alive, though, we’re available.”
“Thank you,” he said, not because he was truly grateful, but because she looked at him expectantly. “I’m just not ... I don’t know what to say.”
She bent closer and brushed her lips over his cheek, quickly tucking a book of matches into his hand as she did so. “Welcome to our world, Undertaker.”
Chapter 22
D AISHA LIFTED HER HAND TO KNOCK ON THE TRAILER DOOR. SHE FELT odd knocking, but the alternative was walking in unannounced and that didn’t feel comfortable either. Nothing felt quite right: being here wasn’t right, but not-being-here was wrong. So she knocked.
The door opened, and her mother stood in front of her. She wore a clingy T-shirt and too-tight jeans. Makeup hid some of the splotchiness of her skin, but it couldn’t do anything for her bloodshot eyes. She had both a cigarette and a beer bottle in her hand. For a moment, she simply stared at her daughter.
“You’re gone. You left.” Behind her, the light from the television flickered and cast blue-tinged shadows on the wall.
“Well, I’m back.” Daisha thought about shoving her mother aside and going into the trailer, but the idea of touching Gail made her hesitate.
“How come?” Gail leaned again the doorjamb and studied Daisha. “I don’t have the time to be bailing you out if you’re in some sort of trouble, you hear?”
“Where’s Paul?”
Gail narrowed her gaze. “He’s at work.”
“Good.” Daisha stepped past her mother.
“I didn’t say you could come in.” Gail let the door slam closed even as she said the words. Absently she flicked the ash from her barely smoked cigarette in the general direction of one of the overfull ashtrays on the scarred coffee table.
“Why?”
“I’m not running a motel. You left and—”
“No. I didn’t leave. You sent me away.” Daisha didn’t feel the confusion she’d been feeling since she’d woken up. The walls had the dirty tinge of too much smoke trapped in a small space; the carpet had the burn marks and stains of too many drunken nights; and the furniture had the cracks and tears that told of fights and poverty. As she stood in the tiny structure that had once been her home, she understood more than she had so far: this was where she belonged. It was hers, her home, her space.
“He said he’d be good to you, and it’s not like I was sending you off to some stranger.” Gail lit another cigarette and then flopped back onto the sagging sofa with the same bottle of beer and the cigarette in hand. “Paul said he was good people.”
Daisha stayed standing. “You knew better, though, didn’t you, Mom ?”
Gail lifted the beer bottle to her lips and drank. Then, with a vague up-and-down gestur
e, she motioned at Daisha. “You look fine, so what are you bitching about?”
“For starters? I’m dead.”
“You’re what?”
Daisha stepped across the small room to stand at the edge of the sofa. She looked down at her mother and hoped to see some sort of emotion, some hint that Gail was relieved to see her. There was nothing. Daisha repeated, “I’m dead.”
“Right.” Gail snorted. “And I’m the fucking queen of Rome.”
“Rome doesn’t have a queen. It’s a city, but”—Daisha sat down beside her mother—“I am dead.”
The words felt unnatural, admitting them felt impossible, but they were right. Her body didn’t live. Her heart didn’t beat in her chest; her breath didn’t fill her lungs. The things that made a person alive had stopped—because her mother had let someone make her dead.
“Dead,” Daisha whispered. “I am dead, not alive, not right, and you’re the reason why.”
“You think that’s funny?” Gail started to stand, but Daisha shoved her back before she was all the way upright.
“No,” Daisha said. “It’s not funny at all.”
Gail raised a hand, the one holding the cigarette, as if to slap her daughter. The cherry of the cigarette was almost pretty.
For a tense moment, Gail’s hand stayed upraised and open, but she didn’t touch Daisha. Instead, she took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled noisily. “I’m not laughing.”
“Good. It’s not funny.” Daisha took her mother’s wrist and forced her arm back down. The bones under her mother’s skin felt like brittle twigs wrapped in sweet flesh and warm blood. It was hard to believe she’d ever thought her mother was strong.