She said, "It's okay to question yourself, Jeffrey. You did that, and now you have to move on."
He looked out at the rocks jutting from the lake, and wondered if there would ever be a day in his life when he did not think of Jenny Weaver, and the role he had played in her death.
Sara told him, "You're a good man, Jeffrey."
He did not believe her. Maybe if he still didn't feel pain in his knee from jumping Dave Fine, or remember how good it felt to kick Arthur Prynne in the gut, it would be easier. Maybe if he didn't still see that set of frightened eyes from the back of the closet in Macon.
"Jeffrey," Sara repeated. "You're a good man."
"I know," he lied.
"Know it in here," she told him, pressing her fingers to his chest.
Jeffrey brushed Sara's hair back behind her ear, and all he could think to say was, "You're so beautiful."
Sara rolled her eyes at the compliment. "Is that all you've got to say?"
He offered, "Why don't we go inside, and I'll answer you in greater detail?"
Sara leaned back on her hands, a smile playing at her lips. "Why do we have to go inside?"
Friday
Chapter Twenty-One
Lena gritted her teeth, pounding her feet into the pavement. She could hear Hank's heavy footsteps behind her, his cheap Wal-Mart sneakers popping against the ground like a stick on an oil drum.
"That all you got?" he asked, pulling ahead of her. She let him take the lead for a while, watching him from behind. The sun did not agree with him, and rather than tanning, his pasty skin had taken on a reddish tone. The track mark s on his forearms stood in a burgundy relief against this, and the back of his neck was as red as fire.
His breathing was more like a wheeze, but he held his own against her as she sped up to run beside him. His yellowish-gray hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and the turkey giblet hanging down from his neck bounced with each step he took. Still, Lena couldn't help but think he wasn't in bad shape for an old man. She had certainly seen worse.
"This way," he said.
Lena followed him as he took a sharp turn off the road, and jogged along a path through the woods. The soft ground underfoot brought some relief to her aching knees, and her thighs started to feel like they might not ignite from the heat in her muscles as her second wind kicked in. Before, this was what she had lived for: the intense pain, then overcoming it. Pushing herself past the physical through sheer force of will, making herself finish the course. Her body felt strong and powerful, invincible, like she could do anything she wanted. Like she was the old Lena again.
She knew in the back of her mind where he was going, but she was still surprised when they reached the cemetery. They jogged through the rows of stones, both of them keeping their eyes straight ahead, not stopping until they got to Sibyl's marker.
Lena put her hand on top of the gravestone, using it to steady herself as she stretched her legs. The black marble stone was cool to the touch, and it felt good against her hand. Touching it was like touching part of Sibyl.
Hank stood beside her, lifting his T-shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.
"Jesus, Hank," Lena said, shielding her eyes from the glare off his white belly. There were track marks there, too, but she did not comment on them.
"It's a warm day," Hank said. "I think the heat's about to break, though. Don't you?"
Lena took a minute to realize that he was talking to her and not Sibyl. "Yeah," she mumbled.
Hank continued to talk about the weather, and Lena stood there, trying not to show how awkward she felt.
She looked at Sibyl's gravestone. Hank had taken care of the arrangements, and chosen the words on the stone. Above the dates, chiseled into the stone, were the words SIBYL MARIE ADAMS, NIECE, SISTER, FRIEND. Lena was surprised he had not put "lover" for Nan 's benefit. That would have been just like him.
"Look at this," Hank mumbled, bending down in front of the stone. Someone had placed a small vase with a single white rose at the base, and it was starting to wilt in the morning heat. "Isn't this pretty?"
"Yeah," Lena said, but she could tell from the startled look Hank gave her that he had been talking to Sibyl.
He said, "I bet Nan left this for her. Sibby always liked roses."
Lena was silent. Nan had probably left the flower here that morning. She must have always done this early in the morning, because Lena had never run into her. Not that Lena made a habit out of visiting Sibyl's grave. At first, she had been incapable of making the trip because it was difficult to walk, let alone sit in the car for the ride from the house. Then, she had been embarrassed, thinking that Sibyl knew what had happened, that Lena had somehow been changed, compromised. Lately, it just felt eerie, visiting her dead sister. And the way Hank talked to Sibyl, as if she were still there, made Lena feel uncomfortable.
Hank said, "White looks pretty against the black, don't you think?"
"Yeah."
They both stood there, Lena with her arms crossed, Hank with his hands in his pockets, staring at the stone. The single rose did look pretty against the black marble. Lena had never understood people sending flowers to a funeral home, but she finally realized that the flowers were something for the living to enjoy, a reminder that there was still life in the world, that people could go on.
Hank turned to her, waiting for her attention. "I guess I'm going back to Reece," he said. "Maybe tomorrow."
Lena nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Yeah," she said, "that's probably a good idea." She had not told him that Jeffrey had given her an ultimatum: either take the time to get some help, or don't bother coming back at all. Partly, she had kept this secret because she did not want Hank to make the choice for her. He would easily take her back to Reece, give her a job in his bar, so that she could live her life under his watchful eye. That wouldn't really work, though, because one day Hank would be gone. He was an old man. He would not be there forever, and then what would Lena do?
For some reason, the thought that one day Hank would be dead brought tears to her eyes. She looked away from him, trying to gain her composure. Silently, he took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. The cloth was wet from his sweat, and hot, but she used it to blow her nose with anyway.
"I can postpone it," he offered.
"No," she said. "It's probably better."
"I'll sell the bar," he offered. "I can find a job here." He added, "You could come with me, back home."
She shook her head no, feeling the tears coming again. There was no way to tell Hank that she wasn't upset about his leaving so much as about knowing that one day he would be dead. It was all too morbid, and what she really wanted from him, needed from him, was to know that she could always pick up the phone and he would be there. That was all Lena had ever wanted from Hank. That was actually the one thing he had always given her.
Hank cleared his throat and said, "You've always been the strong one, Lee."
She laughed, because she had never felt so weak and helpless in her life.
"With Sibby, I knew I had to be there, had to hold her hand every step of the way." He paused, staring back at the tent from the recent funeral. "With you, it was harder. You didn't want me. Need me."
"I don't know if that's true."
"Hell, yes, it is," he countered. "You always did everything on your own. Skipped college, joined the police academy, moved here, didn't tell me about it until after it was all done."
Lena felt there was something she should say, but could not think what.
"Anyway," he said, taking back the handkerchief. She watched as he folded it. "I guess I'll take off tomorrow."