Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,60

he moved us out to Tulsa to start his oil business, and it did pretty well. Guess he was a millionaire. Can you imagine that? Me, a millionaire? We had two cars, believe it or not. We was wealthy. I was on my way to Harvard that fall.”

I stare at him. “Harvard?”

He nods. “It’s a university in Boston. You know it? It’s still there?”

“Um, yeah. I just didn’t … I mean …” I blush because there’s no tactful way to say what I’m thinking, that he was uneducated and poor. “So, what happened?”

He looks at me like I have three heads. “I died was what. My dad lost everything in the crash. House was too crowded, so after I graduated I got out and hopped myself a train up north. Ended up on the Bel Del, working odd jobs so I could get up to college. That’s where I met up with Jack.” He bows his head, almost shameful. “You know how that all turned out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t go to Harvard. I’d probably end up living in a house like them friends of yours. One that makes your meals for you and wipes your mouth with a napkin afterward.” He points across the river and laughs. Then he puts his chin to his chest. “Do worry about my momma, though. My body was never found. Not that they looked much.”

“But you said you became a legend in twelve counties. About the boy who couldn’t swim?”

“Where I died, yeah. Not where my momma lived. There were a couple of witnesses, but none of them helped me. All too afraid. They all came up with the rhyme to protect Jack, make it look like an accident. My momma’s the worrying kind. Probably spent her whole life wondering what happened to me. I wrote her letters sometimes, when I was alive. But I never saw her again.”

I think about my father. The thought sends a stab of pain through my chest. I’m never going to see him again.

The little girl on his back has fallen asleep, and she looks like an angel herself with her eyelids fluttering and her cheeks rosy. I look around as we walk past the cemetery I’d spotted a day ago. It’s an old one. Most of the headstones are crumbling and faded, but I can make out some of the years. Most are from the 1700s. The green of the trees frames all the gray stone, making the place look more romantic than frightening. Trey pays no attention to it, just follows this worn stone staircase up a hill, into a line of trees. “Where are we going?”

He stops. “That’s right. You didn’t want to see your momma yet. She’s up at the top of the hill. She likes to greet newcomers. You want to wait here while I bring her up?” He motions toward the little girl.

I look up the pathway, which ends in pine trees the color of new grass, and at the lavender sky. “Does she know about me?”

He nods.

I bite my lip. “She doesn’t want to see me. She was trying to push me away.”

“No, she was trying to protect you, kid. She’ll want to see you. Trust me. Mommas worry.”

He’s staring at me with eyes so intensely blue, almost the exact color the river is now, I wonder if that’s me perceiving things differently or if that’s the way they’ve always been. Before, they’d been so dark, troubled. I look down and realize he has his hand out for me to take. I wrap my fingers around his, expecting to feel the sores I’d seen before, but, strangely, his fingers are soft, maybe even softer than mine.

When we begin to walk again, he mutters under his breath, “You, she’ll want to see. Me, she’ll want to kill. Guess I’m in luck it’s too late for that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ll tell her it’s my fault. You did everything you could. I’m just a stubborn pain in the ass.”

“You said it,” he mutters, turning away, but even though his head is down and his hair is in his face, I see the hint of a smile.

“Hey! I think I liked you better when you were all doom and gloom,” I say, punching his arm.

“ ’Cause I was easier to ignore?” he asks, and by then we’ve reached the landing at the top of the hill. Though we’ve climbed pretty far, I’m not out of breath. Maybe because