Blackberry Winter

“Mostly,” he said. “It keeps me in pocket change. Like I said, Mrs. Jenkins doesn’t have to worry about the competition.”

“Business is good at Lilac Hill, then.”

“Up and down, I guess. She does a lot of advertising, but it’s still feast or famine. Depends on…I don’t exactly know what it depends on. Whatever the flatlanders feel like doing that week, I guess.”

“Did you ever try it? Being a flatlander?” she asked.

“Yeah, I tried it. I was in the military long enough to see the world and to find out the world isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

He could feel her looking at him.

“I’m…sorry,” she said.

He shrugged. “I got a college education out of it. Ma’am, would you mind if I ask you your name?”

“Maddie,” she said.

He waited for the rest of it and, for a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to tell him.

“Kimball,” she said finally.

“Meyer Conley,” he said to refresh her memory.

“Yes. I know. Do you mind if we don’t talk?”

“No, ma’am.” He reached to turn on the heater.

“Are you cold?” she asked.

“Me? No, ma’am.”

“I’m not, either,” she said, and he left the heater alone.

They rode along in silence.

“What parts of the world did you see?” she asked abruptly, in spite of what she’d just said.

“The Balkans. Korea. Two tours in the Middle East. People around here—in this valley—are a lot better off than I used to think. There are some bad places in this old world. Of course, us folks here didn’t have any idea we were so bad off until the government sent people to tell us.”

She smiled. “You grew up here.” It wasn’t quite a question.

“Yes, ma’am. Mostly. I lived in Chicago for a while when I was young until my great-aunt Nelda came and got me. One of the best days of my life.”

“Nelda…Conley?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She lapsed into silence again, staring at the passing scenery—a Christmas-tree farm, then another one, then the volunteer fire department with a sign out front announcing the Brunswick stew supper next Saturday night—one with live music. Eat in or take out.

“Interesting name,” she said absently.

“Ma’am?”

“Lilac Hill.”

“Well, it’s on a hill and there are a lot of lilacs,” he said, and she smiled again.

“Do you have a flashlight?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not far to the cemetery now.”

The church steeple came into view, and the Garth house halfway up the hillside. He pulled into the circle drive in front of the church because the backhoe now blocked the narrow drive that divided the cemetery into two sections. The wind buffeted the truck as it rolled to a stop.

She got out immediately, pulling her coat collar up against the wind, crossing the road quickly. He watched her moving among the headstones, clearly looking for something—or someone—in particular. Sometimes she seemed to know where she was going, sometimes not. He saw her reach out and touch one of the tombstones, then move on. It would be dark soon. She had to be cold out there.

He saw her abruptly stop at another grave, and he knew whose it was because it was the only one made of black marble. The grave belonged to Tommy Garth’s son.

Meyer suddenly got out of the truck because he’d forgotten to give her the flashlight. He crossed the road and called to her, but she didn’t hear him.

“Ms. Kimball?” he called again.

She looked around and he came at an easy run toward her with the flashlight.

“Here you go. You might need this,” he said, handing it to her.

He made no attempt to leave, and she went back to looking. He glanced toward the church—and saw Estelle bearing down on them.

“Damn,” he said and Maddie Kimball turned around.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“The cemetery police,” he said as the woman neared.

“The what?”

“Meyer Conley, what are you doing out here?” Estelle demanded before he could answer.

“He’s with me,” Maddie said and he couldn’t help but grin.

Estelle looked at her, clearly annoyed that a stranger would put herself forward like that, especially on his behalf. Then, she gave a sharp intake of breath. Even in the waning daylight, Meyer could see the range of emotions that crossed her face, the self-importance giving way to confusion and then to denial and, finally, to what he could only describe as fear.

“I was just looking at the graves—like that one,” Maddie said to her, gesturing in the direction of the black marble headstone that bore Estelle’s last name.

Estelle didn’t say anything. There was only the sound of her rapid breathing, clearly audible in the stillness of the cemetery.

“You ain’t supposed to be out here,” she said abruptly, finally finding her voice. “We ain’t wanting people who don’t belong here messing with the graves—”

“Well, that’s a little harsh, Estelle,” Meyer said. “Ms. Kimball, there’s no reason why you can’t look around out here if you want to.”

“No, it’s my mistake,” Maddie said. “I shouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right?”

A question formed in spite of all Estelle could do. “You ain’t that Kimball,” Estelle said, twisting her hands.

“Yes,” Maddie said quietly. “I am.”

Estelle began to back away. After a few steps, she turned and walked rapidly in the direction she’d come, stumbling once when she reached the edge of the road.

Maddie Kimball stared after her, the flashlight clenched tightly in her hand.

“Well, that was interesting,” Meyer said after a moment.

“I…have a favor to ask you,” Maddie said.

“Go ahead.”

“If…Bobby Ray Isley is—if he still lives here, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him I— Tell him Maddie wants to see him. As soon as you can.”

Meyer stood looking at her. “You’re not going to hurt him or anything, are you?” He was serious.

She smiled slightly. “No. I’m not going to hurt anybody. I just want to see him. It’s…personal.”

“Personal,” he repeated. “How personal?”

“I…don’t want my daughter to know anything about it. Will you tell Bobby Ray? And tell him not to come to the house. If you let me know where, I’ll come to him.”

“Okay. I’ll tell him.”

“I’m not answering any more questions, Meyer,” she added when he was about to say something else.

“No, ma’am. No more questions. I was just going to say…welcome home.”

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