Mockingbird Songs

  “And if that’s just a record of people who have died, then there wouldn’t be any harm in having a look for our cousin, right? I mean, it’s not going to tell us anything that isn’t on public record elsewhere,” Henry said.

  “And if we found out that she did die here, then maybe we have a hope of finding out what happened to her, where she was buried and all that.”

  “Do you think she might have been buried here?” Anne asked.

  Henry frowned. “Here? What? At the hospital?”

  “No, I don’t mean in the hospital grounds themselves,” Anne said, “but if someone dies in the hospital and there is no family to take care of everything, then they are given a plot in the county cemetery.”

  “Which is where?” Evie asked.

  “Well, the cemetery itself is about twenty-five miles away, but the administrative facility and the crematorium is about five miles west of here, right along the highway,” Anne said. “I’ve never been there, but I know that’s what happens when we have someone die and they’ve got no relatives.”

  “That’s really good of you, Anne,” Evie said. “We’re gonna go see right now.”

  “You’re not going up to see Grace again?”

  “Maybe not such a good idea, seeing as how the doctors are going on their rounds,” Henry said.

  “Could you see that she gets these things?” Evie said.

  “Flowers, yes, but pastries I’m not so sure,” Anne said. “I know they don’t much care to have their diets varied.”

  “Then the pastries are for you,” Evie said, and she set the box on the reception desk.

  “Er … er, thank you,” Anne said, somewhat surprised, by which time Evie and Henry were halfway to the door.

  “Appreciated,” Henry called out to her, and then both he and Evie were gone.

  The county cemetery facility was exactly where Anne Regis had told them it would be, little more than five miles west along the highway. Notwithstanding the fact that it was Sunday, it was staffed and receiving visitors.

  Henry and Evie parked and surveyed the scene in front of them. A narrow path dissected a neat lawn, at the end of which sat a low-slung white stone building, the legend over the door reading ECTOR COUNTY CREMATORIUM. Beneath that it said COUNTY RECORDS DEPARTMENT and gave the opening hours.

  Once inside, they were greeted by a dour-looking man in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit. His face was white and pinched, as if he and sunlight had been strangers for years. A brass plaque on the desk gave his title as chief registrar, his name as Mr. Langford Crossley.

  “And how might I assist you?” Mr. Crossley asked Henry and Evie.

  “Hello,” Evie said, and shot him her best smile.

  Mr. Crossley didn’t respond in kind. Apparently, it was neither his job nor his predilection to demonstrate any degree of friendliness.

  “We wondered if you might be so kind as to help us,” she went on. “We are trying to locate some details concerning a long-lost relative whom we think might have passed away at Ector County Hospital some years ago.”

  “Her name?” Mr. Crossley asked.

  “Rebecca,” Evie said.

  Crossley smiled, as if humoring a child. “That’s very good,” he said. “And her family name?”

  Evie laughed, somewhat embarrassed. Henry realized then that she was putting it on, giving Crossley the opportunity to assist this slightly backward young woman. “Oh, I’m sorry, yes. Wyatt. Rebecca Wyatt.”

  “And your names?”

  “Mary Wilson,” Evie said. “And this is my husband, John.”

  Henry stepped forward, extended his hand. “How do you do, sir.”

  Crossley merely grazed Henry’s hand with his own, as if the prospect of shaking hands with strangers was just a little too much to bear.

  “And your relationship to Rebecca Wyatt?” Crossley asked.

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated,” Evie said.

  Crossley gave a weak smile. “I have time, my dear.”

  “She was the daughter of my grandmother’s niece on my father’s side.”

  “Very good. And when did she die?”

  Henry stepped forward. “Well, we’re not exactly sure,” he said. “We’re sort of on a mission to find out whatever we can, and we’re following little snippets of information. So far we’ve learned that she might have died at Ector County Hospital, but her father was already dead, you see, so we thought that maybe everything was taken care of by the county. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”

  “Why, indeed,” Mr. Crossley said.

  “So can you help us, do you think?” Henry asked.

  “I can do my best, Mr. Wilson. If you would care to sit, then I shall consult the ledgers and see if there is any record of your grandmother’s niece on your father’s side.” Once again, the slightly ingratiating smile, and then Crossley retreated through a door behind the desk and his footsteps receded into silence.

  “Is it just me, or do you want to slap that smug expression off of his face?” Evie asked. “I mean, the guy sits in an office and checks records of dead people, for Christ’s sake. What the hell is the attitude for?”

  Henry smiled. He reached out and took Evie’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly. “The less important you are, the more important you pretend to be. That’s just the way some folks are. Had it the same with some of the wardens in Reeves.”

  “Asshole, plain and simple,” Evie said.

  They waited in silence, and they didn’t wait long. A handful of minutes, and the footsteps could be heard once again. Crossley came through the door, in his hand a thin manila folder.

  “Are you aware of any other details regarding the family?” he asked Evie. “Just as a matter of security, you understand. Though we are dealing with those who have passed away, there is still a certain degree of privacy and protocol that we have to maintain.”

  “Well, Uncle Ralph was her dad. I mean, whether he really was an uncle or not is a different matter, but his name was Ralph, and he died …” Evie turned to Henry. “When was it, sweetheart?”

  “When what?”

  “Aren’t you listening to me and Mr. Crossley?” Evie turned, rolled her eyes at Crossley. “Never listens,” she said. “When Uncle Ralph died. Forty-nine, right?”

  “Yes, 1949. August, as far as I remember.”

  Crossley opened the file. “Rebecca Wyatt,” he said. “Daughter of Ralph and Madeline Wyatt, née Ellsworth. You are right, Mrs. Wilson. Rebecca Wyatt passed away in care at Ector County Hospital in June of 1951.”

  “Oh my,” Evie said, feigning something akin to shock and sadness. “Oh dear.”

  Henry stepped forward, put his arm around her shoulder. “There, there, sweetheart,” he said. “We kind of knew, didn’t we? It isn’t exactly a surprise, is it?”

  “I know, John, but nevertheless …”

  Crossley closed the file. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

  “I assume she was cremated here,” Henry said.

  “That is correct, Mr. Wilson.”

  “And her ashes?”

  “Would more than likely have been interred at the county cemetery. Precisely where … well, they would have that information at the cemetery itself.”

  Evie continued to play her part.

  Henry smiled, extended his hand to have it grazed once more by Crossley’s pale fingers, and said, “You have helped us enormously, but I think I better take her home.”

  “I understand completely,” Crossley said. “I am pleased to have been of assistance.”

  They left the building, certain now that Sarah’s mother was dead, that her grandfathers had died on the same day, and that both Evan and Carson Riggs knew a great deal more about these events than either of them had communicated.

  As they pulled away from the side of the highway, Henry said, “Let’s go upset Clarence Ames. Seems to me that there’s a man who knows a great deal more than he’s letting on.”

  THIRTY-THREE
>
  Grace Riggs knew her sons better than she knew herself. She knew when things were right and when they were awry.

  When Carson came to her on the Sunday afternoon after Evan’s farewell party, he was damn near bursting with excitement. She had not seen him so uplifted since … well, since she did not know when.

  “She said yes, Ma … She said yes.”

  Grace knew who had said yes and what she had said yes to. More important, she knew why—after all these years—Rebecca Wyatt had finally consented to marrying the eldest of the Riggs boys.

  Grace called William down from upstairs. William shook Carson’s hand, slapped him on the back, pulled him close, and hugged him half to death.

  “I couldn’t be happier, son,” he said, which was the truth. Friday night had seen him on fire with pride for Evan, and now his eldest was to be married, and as far as William was concerned, there was no better girl in the world for him. Rebecca Wyatt was an anchor, a stabilizing influence, possessing not only a wealth of feminine sense, but also sufficiently strong a personality to never be overwhelmed by Carson. There was a great deal of Grace in Rebecca, and that was precisely what Carson needed.

  However, William was a man, and thus he saw only what was in front of him. He did not look left, nor right, nor behind the thing. He saw what he wanted to see, and that was just fine.

  Despite the fact that she’d said nothing, Grace knew how long Evan had been away that night. She guessed—and guessed rightly—that something had happened between Evan and Rebecca, that they had said their goodbye in the most personal and intimate way, and she hoped—for Carson’s sake, for everyone’s sake—that it never came to light.

  In that moment, she allowed herself to be as happy as the event befitted, but there was a shadow behind her smiles, the very same shadow she saw lurking among Evan’s features when Carson told him of the news.

  Outwardly, Evan was overjoyed; inwardly, his mother knew he was heartbroken.

  Like oil and water, Evan and Rebecca would not mix. Had Rebecca merely permitted herself to be who she really was, then she and Evan would have had the kind of marriage, the kind of life, of which most folks could only ever have dreamed. But the vast majority of people spend their lives being not who they are, but the person everyone else requires them to be. Rebecca was no different; by denying what she felt for Evan, she was also denying herself.

  Grace let it be. Carson could not have been happier. Evan would live the life that only Evan could live. She and William had to accept that the lives of their sons were not theirs to dictate, direct, or control. At least they had raised boys possessed of their own minds, and neither would be swayed by the opinions of others.

  Sunday supper done and dusted, out on the veranda as the sun slipped away, Evan told his mother that what had happened was inevitable.

  “I don’t know that anything is inevitable,” she said.

  Evan did not reply, merely stood looking out toward the horizon as if some answer lay there.

  “Do not let her break your heart,” Grace said. “I understand how you must feel, Evan, but feelings are transient. Just because you feel this now does not mean you have to feel it forever.”

  “I won’t feel it forever,” he said, “and regardless of what anyone may say or do or think, I couldn’t be happier for Carson.”

  “I know you couldn’t,” Grace said. “You are not a selfish man, Evan. I know that. At least that much, eh?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning you know what exactly.”

  Evan laughed. “Meaning you think I am a troublemaker.”

  “I don’t think you are a troublemaker, son. I know you are.”

  “Well, some of us have to cause trouble, or life would just be … well, you know.”

  “I do, and I don’t disagree. You’re plenty capable of causing trouble for yourself, and that’s all I’m asking you to be mindful of.”

  “I can take care of myself, Ma.”

  “I don’t doubt it, and I know you can take care of others as well … but …”

  “But what?”

  She shook her head, smiled in that philosophically resigned manner that was so much Grace Riggs. “A son will never understand a mother’s viewpoint, Evan. You have to appreciate that Carson was not … well, he was neither expected nor accepted at first. Your father had great difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he was a father. He managed it, eventually, but that had more to do with you than anyone else. Fatherhood … the responsibility of fatherhood scared him, I guess. Maybe it’s the same with all men. Maybe they just fear that they won’t make the grade. Anyway, he managed as best he could, but he and Carson never really bonded. And then you came along.” Grace smiled nostalgically. “Your father changed. His attitude toward Carson changed. Even his attitude toward me. Of course, this is all distant history now, but still the fact remains that had you not come along, things might have been very different indeed for all of us.”

  “Do I make you happy, Ma?” Evan asked.

  The surprise in Grace’s expression was impossible to misinterpret. “Happy? What a question, Evan. Of course you make me happy.”

  “Do you worry about me … what will become of me?”

  “Every mother worries what will become of her children.”

  “You know what I mean, Ma.”

  Standing beside him, Grace reached out and closed her hand over his. She looked out toward the darkening horizon as she spoke.

  “You are different, Evan. I don’t mean different from Carson. I mean different from everyone. The whys and wherefores are unimportant. It just is. You have a gift to do something, and that gift is important. Look at Friday night, the happiness you brought to people, how much you made people smile. As far as I can see, the ability to do that is kind of magical, you know? People who can do that are rare. But it carries a price, I guess. I can see it, and I have heard about the kinds of difficulties people like you experience—”

  “People like me?”

  “Artists, musicians, singers, poets, actors, the Hollywood folk you hear about with their drinking and their … well, their other vices, you know?”

  “What have you been doing? Reading gossip magazines in the hair salon in Sonora?”

  “Well, you hear things, and sometimes you hear them enough to think there might be some substance to them.”

  “You’re worried I’ll be a drunk and a womanizer, Ma?”

  “No, son. I’m worried that there’s a fire inside you that won’t be lit by anything but attention. That’s the addiction that worries me.”

  “I think you see something inside me that no one else sees.”

  “Rebecca sees it. That’s why she doesn’t dare follow you.”

  “Rebecca doesn’t dare follow me because she loves Carson and wants to settle here and raise a family.”

  The silence was a punctuation mark in the conversation, obvious enough to be unmistakable for anything but Grace’s lack of concurrence.

  “You don’t think she loves Carson?” Evan asked.

  Grace reached out her hand and gently touched Evan’s face. “Sometimes I wonder whether your blindness is selective, or if you are, in fact, a little dumber than we give you credit for.”

  “’Preciated, Ma.”

  “You really don’t see it?”

  Evan was silent. He turned his face away slightly. His ma could read him clearer than any sign of changing weather.

  “I know, Evan,” she said eventually, and her voice was barely a whisper. “I know, and I have always known, and you have known, too. Rebecca convinces herself that she is making the right decision, and perhaps she is. Perhaps following you around the country would bring her nothing but unhappiness, but she will never know. Therein lies the danger. It will haunt her forever, and she knows it. Carson can’t see it. Carson doesn’t want to see it. Your father just wants the best for you both, and he ignores anything that falls into the category of feelings or intuitions. But you and I know be
tter, and we have always known better.”

  “Ma—”

  “I know what happened Friday night, Evan. I could see it painted as large as life on your face. Maybe that’s all there is to it. Maybe it has all ended here, and I hope for the sake of both your brother and his wife-to-be that it has ended here.”

  Once again, Evan opened his mouth to speak, but Grace cut him short with, “Enough now. What’s been said is all that needs to be said. No amount of words can turn back time.”

  She moved sideways and put her arms around him. Evan pulled her close and hugged her.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” he said.

  “Not me you need to be saying sorry to, son. If anyone, it’s Carson who needs an apology, but Carson would never take an apology from you, so best not give him a chance.”

  Grace leaned up and kissed Evan on the cheek.

  “Goodnight, Evan,” she said.

  She let him go and disappeared back into the house, leaving Evan in silence.

  He stood there for a while, wondering what kind of man he really was and if what he’d done had consigned them all to disaster.

  The following morning, Monday the seventh, Carson asked Evan to take a walk with him.

  “Some things I just want to talk to you about,” he said.

  Evan went, no fear that the matter for discussion was Rebecca Wyatt, but concern that it was something else just as significant. He had sensed it in Carson for some while, and he knew it related to their future.

  They walked a good quarter mile before the subject of interest was broached.

  “Pa’s not getting any younger,” Carson said. “I know he’s only in his early fifties, but this life has taken its toll on him physically. Mentally, as well. Farming is unpredictable, dictated by weather, other things you can’t understand or control, and it wears a man down. I could never do it, and I know you couldn’t, either.”

  “Could never see myself staying here, let alone farming,” Evan said.

  “I have my job now,” Carson went on, “and I guess this is what I’ll always do. Idea of being sheriff of Calvary, marrying Rebecca, raising up some kids an’ all … well, I have to say there’s little else that I could ask for.”