I can’t recommend it. And I don’t know if he’ll survive it. But if you’re asking me whether I think my old friend would rather look his last over the Mississippi River or at a blank wall in the ICU—I think you know the answer.”
My last resistance gives way. “Okay. How do I get him out of here?”
“To take him anywhere but home, you’ll have to check him out against medical advice. He’ll have to sign something.”
“No problem there. I’ll talk it over with Mom, but I have a feeling she’ll agree.”
“I do, too. Let me call admissions and try to smooth the way for you.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
“By the way—I really enjoyed my newspaper this morning. That’s the way to stick it to the bastards.”
“It felt pretty good.”
“You still carrying that pistol like I told you?”
“I am,” I tell him, even though I left it in the Flex.
“Good. Head on a swivel, boy. Remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
After staring through the thin curtain at the nurses sitting before their monitors, I turn back to the bed.
“What did he say?” Dad asks.
“We’re going to the cemetery.”
My father’s eyes shine with pleasure. “I told you. Jack’s a good egg.”
Mom looks from Dad to me, then back again.
“Are you coming, Blythe?” he asks. “Are you up for it?”
She gives him a smile that must have taken immeasurable strength to summon. “No, darling. I need to run back to the house and check on some things. To be ready for your homecoming. You two go ahead. You need this trip. It’s been a long time since Marshall went out there.”
Dad looks at her for a few seconds, then nods. “Just the men, then. Let’s pull out these tubes and hit the road.”
Chapter 48
In the end, it’s Jack Kirby himself who helps me lift Dad out of the hospital wheelchair and fold his rigid body into my passenger seat. Thankfully, the Flex sits lower to the ground than any other SUV, but still my mother stands to one side, waiting to grab him if he starts to fall. After I close Dad into the vehicle, Jack takes Mom’s arm and walks us to the rear bumper.
“Anything could happen at this point,” he says, his eyes on my mother’s. “We all know that, right?”
She nods silently.
He turns to me. “I’ll be here a little longer, then over at my office. If something happens, just head back this way and give me a call. I’ll meet you here.”
Mom squeezes his hand. “We appreciate this, Jack.”
The old doctor smiles and give her a hug, then walks back into the hospital.
“I think this is the right thing, Mom,” I tell her.
“I do, too. Call me if you need me.”
“Are you really going home?”
She shakes her head slightly, and I see the truth in her eyes. “I’ll just wait here. I’ve got a book to read.”
And with that we part.
There are basically two ways to get from the hospital to the Bienville Cemetery, and they take roughly the same amount of time. Most people would take the bypass to the river, then drive along the bluff, through the Garden District, and up to the cemetery. But you can also skirt the town until you hit Cemetery Road, then drive in east to west, the way farmers and soldiers and slave traders came in during the heyday of the town. I choose that route, because it will take us past many of the landmarks of our lives, both nostalgic and sorrowful.
Dad doesn’t speak as I take Highway 61 around the eastern edge of town. He shifts in his seat as I turn onto Cemetery Road, which grumbles under the tires, a dozen layers of too-thin asphalt and pothole patches, eroding under the weight of log trucks rumbling between the Matheson sawmill on the river and the north-south artery of Highway 61. In a few minutes we’ll pass the turns for the barn and my parents’ neighborhood. Then we’ll enter the city proper, transect the northern quarter of town, and arrive at the rear of the cemetery, where the road sweeps in a great circle around the lush green hills of the graveyard. An unbroken wall of gray cloud stands to the west, towering over the river. I hope the rain will hold off until our pilgrimage is concluded.
Without turning to Dad, I say, “Sometimes I feel like Cemetery Road is the only road in this whole town. You know?”
He grunts but doesn’t comment.
“No matter where you’re going, you either cross it or end up