I shook my head. “No, I haven’t,” I said.
Luke seemed surprised. “Why not?”
I couldn’t answer him with the truth, that whatever story I might tell my daughter would have to be a lie, and that it was really Luke himself who most deserved to hear the truth, since it was his incessant probing that had never let me rest, that had continually plucked at the slender thread that bound our lives together, year by year, unraveling it a little, and with it, the fabric of a long deception.
“It’s never come up,” I said, then moved quickly to a different story, briefer and with that philosophical edge that I knew Luke enjoyed. “You know Louise Baxter, don’t you?”
Luke nodded.
“She brought her little boy in to see me last week,” I told him. “He’d just come back from a trip to Venezuela.” Then I went on to describe how the boy’s right thigh had been hideously swollen, the skin stretched tight over a large boil that had taken on a sickly yellow color.
“It looked dangerously infected, and I knew it had to be cleaned out,” I continued. “So I gave him a local anesthetic, then made a cut over the head of the boil and pried it apart.”
Luke nodded, waiting for my point.
“The inside of the boil was red, of course, very inflamed, but right in the middle of it there was a small fleck of pale green, and when I touched it with the tip of my scalpel, it flipped away from the blade.”
Luke suddenly looked more engaged.
“So I took a pair of tweezers and pulled it out.” I looked at Luke wonderingly. “It was a worm.”
“A worm?” Luke asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I looked it up in a book I have. It turns out that this particular worm is a common parasite in South America.”
It had wriggled savagely between the metal tongs, and as I’d watched its green body twisting maliciously, it had taken on a terrible sense of menace, as if, in this small worm, I had glimpsed some malevolence at the core of life.
“And I just said to myself, ‘There it is, there is evil.’ ”
Luke thought a moment, then dismissed any such windy notion. “No, that was just a worm, doing what worms do,” he said. He let his eyes drift up toward the mountain. I knew that I had not succeeded in drawing him back from that summer day so long ago. “I should never have let her go into those woods by herself,” he said.
“She wanted to,” I told him. “You had to let her.”
“Something was bothering her. I could tell that.”
“She was high-strung.”
“No, I mean she had something on her mind. I guess that’s why I didn’t want to leave her there. The way she looked, I mean. Troubled.”
I drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. It was the same description Luke had offered many times before, each time relating every detail in the same unvaried order, like a detective incessantly returning to the scene of the crime, as if by one more pass he might find the key to what happened there.
“I guess that’s why I wanted to wait for her. But she said no. So I asked her if she wanted me to come back for her a little later. She said no to that, too.”
I nodded silently.
“She was sure about that, Ben. She said, ‘No, you go on home, Luke. You don’t have to come back for me.’ ”
But he’d gone back anyway, though several hours later, and only after calling Miss Troy to find out if Kelli had returned home. And so it was Luke who’d found her lying in the vines, Luke who’d bent down to check for any sign of life, Luke whose faded jeans had soaked up a small portion of her blood.
He watched me intently. “The look on her face, Ben. When I found her, I mean.” He shook his head. “It was like her soul had been scooped right out of her.”
I glanced away from him, but not toward the mountain. “There was a fire over at Lutton last night,” I told him, once again changing the subject. “An old, abandoned church. I thought I might drive over and take a look.”
Luke smiled quietly. “That’s the sort of thing your father used to do, isn’t it? Go to where something had burned down or been blown away by a tornado.”
“You want to come along?”
Luke loosened the knot of his tie. “No,” he said. “I better stop by the nursery on the way home. I have some seedlings to put in. Probably be working there till late into the night.” He got to his feet, moaning slightly as he rose. “My back’s been bothering me a little.” He offered a thin smile. “Old age creeping up.”
I nodded, then watched as he headed down the short walkway to his car. Once he’d reached it, he turned back toward me, gave a short wave, then got in and drove away.
And so that evening I went to Lutton by myself, driving slowly up the winding mountain road, then over its crest and onto the plateau that swept beyond it, until I found the old church in its blackened ruin. I stared at it awhile, my eyes moving emptily from one pile of charred rubble to another, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and headed back toward Choctaw.
On the way home, my thoughts turned to my father, the night he’d found me in the rain, the feel of his arms around me, the comfort of his voice. I know how much you loved her, Ben.
He had not been the sort of man who’d taken me hunting and fishing, as Luke’s father had often taken him, but from time to time he would come through the front door, a look of unusual anticipation and excitement on his face and blurt out, “Get in the truck, Ben, I want to show you something.”
The “something” he wanted to show me was usually some natural oddity bizarre enough to attract his attention. Once he took me to a field which, as we approached it, seemed to bubble with a thick black oil. It was really locusts, enormous black ones, thousands of them, which, he said, had swept in from Texas and would be gone by morning. There were other odd visions that attracted him: a field of smooth white stones, for example, that was actually a pond in which hundreds of fish had suddenly surfaced, belly-up and dying, killed, as my father told me, by “some kid” who’d used a portable generator to electrify the water.
I still don’t know what effect such scenes had upon my father. I was never even sure what drew him to them. I do know that human disasters attracted him with the same steady call as natural ones, although I never saw any sign that they had any more lasting impact.
But they did on me. Or at least one of them did.
It was the single worst calamity that ever struck Choctaw, and in the park, on a Saturday evening, the old-timers who gather at a place called Whittlers Corner still talk about it.
One night in the middle of July 1954, a family of twelve set out in two narrow boats from a small, wooded island in the middle of the Tennessee River. It was very dark, and the boats had no lanterns to mark their positions. Somewhere along the way they lost track of each other in the darkness, began to cross paths, and finally collided at a place almost exactly halfway between the island and the farther shore. In the terrible confusion that followed, all but the husband had drowned—eleven people, a wife, a grandmother, and nine children ranging in age from seven months to sixteen years.
Two days after the drowning I heard my father’s truck pull into the driveway, then his voice calling to me from outside. “Come get in the truck, Ben. I want to show you something.”
I did as I was told, and we headed up the side of the mountain, driving briskly along its curling road until we passed onto the broad plateau of farmland at its top. On both sides of the road, I could see tin silos rusting in the tall, dry grass, and miles of barbed-wire fence running in thin brown scars across weedy, unplanted fields.
It was midafternoon when we arrived at my father’s destination, a small country meeting hall which, from the look of it, had once been a barn. A few pickup trucks and old cars rested here and there around the building. They were dusty and battered, and I knew that the people who drove them were the hardscrabble farmers who struggled to live off the barren lands through which we had just driven.