Читать книгу Piano in the Dark - Eric Pete - Страница 5

We stare each other down. Neither wanting to budge from our position. But I’ve come too far to back down. So many resources exhausted, including my patience as well as my soul.

“You sure you cain’t wait ’til tomorruh?” he asks, pulling his slicker close to his grizzled face. His chewed-up cigar has long been extinguished, yet he doesn’t relinquish his toothy grip. One hundred percent misery with a chance of despair is forecast for today. My arm, although fully healed, aches. My shoes are ruined by the deep, muddy puddles before I even travel a yard.

I consider his request, but don’t relent. I have to know. “No. I need to do this now,” I reply.

He grimaces before considering what I’ve paid him for this task. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. A crack of thunder erupts, announcing the next harsh downpour. My tiny umbrella from Walgreens has long succumbed to the brutal gusts, offering me nothing but the illusion of shelter. Rain’s coming down so hard now that I have to focus just to see him as he restarts his hasty clip. Headstones and markers of bygone eras only serve as the briefest of obstacles to someone as familiar with the grounds as he.

I quickly pursue, wondering if after all the searching that I’ve finally come to the right place. And if he knows what he’s talking about. My pulse is racing and part of me wants to puke. A raw mix of exhaustion and nerves. I swear if this is a wild goose chase, I’ll kill him.

“Should be right about…here,” he proclaims, trying to read from the hastily torn piece of paper removed inappropriately from the church records he’d spent days sifting through. I rush past him, eager to put the haunting to rest. Through the deluge, I read the words etched in the worn stone.

“This isn’t it! This is not frickin’ it!” I belt out. The surly old Cajun doesn’t take kindly to my barking. Probably wants to cause me grave bodily harm.

“Wait, wait,” he says, acknowledging my frustration before it boils over. I watch as he flips the paper in his hand, scowling as he deciphers it. “It’s over there,” he says, having righted his treasure map. He points at a different section of Saint Joseph’s Cemetery, newer than where we are now. Makes sense. More puddles to navigate. I lower my ruined umbrella, considering whether to abandon it if not for hallowed ground.

“C’mon then!” I yell over the din, nature’s fury telling me to leave well enough alone. I can be hardheaded. We continue our march through the graveyard, my own personal Trail of Tears, until he stops. A final glance at the barely legible scrap in his hand and he nods.

“Here,” he solemnly says, the cigar fragment wiggling between his teeth. “Dis it here.”

He steps aside, bowing his head as he makes the sign of the cross. I get down on one knee, muddy water soaking through my pants leg and chilling me further. I silently mouth the name on the headstone while reverently touching the tiny gravesite, my search at its end. I feel the lump welling up in my throat and try to suppress it. “I found you,” I mumble, more out of astonishment than accomplishment.

“Loved one?” he asks, daring to interrupt the moment.

“You might say that,” I answer, not taking my eyes off the grave that held a small child. Rainwater continues to run down my face with a steady stream rolling off my nose.

Who knows tomorrow’s plans for you, I think to myself, those words having once been said to me by another.