15. James
15
JAMES
A semicolon.
A semicolon.
A fucking semicolon.
Inhale. Exhale.
The semicolon first made its unwanted appearance on parchment in 1494 when Aldus Manutius included it in his publication of a Latin text. It’s a combination of two separate, perfectly reasonable grammatical devices—the colon and a comma. The semicolon is a mad scientist, messily stitching together two independent clauses with ruddy tools like a drunken Frankenstein.
Writer Donald Barthelme once said the semicolon was as “ugly as a tick on a dog’s belly.”
Disgusting. Bloodsucking. Leech.
I will never, ever use a semicolon. As long as I live.
I’m cursing the written language, Aldus Manutius, and Herman Melville as I check my watch. Again.
“Harding is late.” Even I can hear the terse anger between my teeth.
Claire side-eyes me. She folds her arms over her chest. “What’s Daddy going to do? Get up and walk out of the coffin? I think he’ll wait for us.”
She’s wearing a conservative black dress with a keyhole neckline and quarter-length sleeves. A slender, dark purse hangs over her shoulder. Kitten heels adorn her feet.
I’ve put on a black turtleneck underneath a blazer and crisp slacks. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the fabric around my neck feels like a noose, and it takes everything in me not to pull at it.
I dip my hand into my pocket and press a button on my phone, activating the white noise. The hushing sound in my ears acts like a blanket, smothering the punch of my heart.
The gates open, and for a second, I’m relieved. But just as quickly, my hope is dashed.
It’s not Harding.
Ransom’s ugly, weathered red pickup truck bounces down the gravel toward us.
I watch Claire. She runs her fingers over her hair, touching the two tiny braids pinned to the crown of her head.
The truck comes to a stop in front of us. Ransom hops out. He hangs off the open door. He’s wearing a black button-up, dark pants, and a black bandana around his neck. His “funeral bandana,” I assume.
He cleans up well. How annoying.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Claire replies.
Tension echoes in the space between them, but they’re both being very polite about it.
A fucking semicolon.
“Just wanted to check in. See if y’all needed anything.”
“We’re fine,” I answer.
His gaze moves between us. “Y’all need a ride?”
“No,” I say at the same time Claire says, “Yes.”
But just then, the rusted hinges of the front gate squeak.
I’m not a praying man, but I’m tempted to thank God.
Our black limo slowly meanders toward us.
“That’s us,” I say. I close my hand around Claire’s bicep.
Mine .
Ransom tilts his hat. Everything he does is like staples underneath my fingernails. “See y’all there, then.”
“See you,” Claire says. Wistfully.
Hmm.
Ransom gets back in his shitty vehicle and gets out of the way. The limo winds around the fountain and creeps up to the front of the house.
The back door opens. A silver-haired man steps out of the limo. He drops his black hat to his chest.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he says. “I had to get you these.”
He procures a bouquet of flowers, extending them toward Claire.
Claire does something unexpected. Her expression goes soft. Gentle as a duckling, she bypasses the flowers and folds herself into his arms, cuddling against his chest.
“ Arris ,” she says, her voice like a prayer.
Arris Dagney sits across from us in the limo. It’s a small, square space, and it’s hard to keep our knees from knocking together. We cross the train tracks to get to the church grounds, and the roads make a swift shift from smooth, paved asphalt to bumpy, uneven ground. Arris clutches the handhold above the window and presses his mouth into a tight, we’re not in Kansas anymore smile.
Here is what I’ve surmised from Arris Dagney:
He looks to be in his forties, but my guess would be late fifties. The oil-black of his hair suggests he’s been dying it ever since the grays started coming in, and the lack of wrinkles around his eyes makes me think he’s had some work done. Appearance is important to him, and the cut and fabric of his black suit suggests he’s paid a pretty penny to keep appearances up.
The collar of his shirt is fitted with little silver triangles, and he wears horseshoe-shaped silver cufflinks.
He owns and runs the Equestrian Club, and he’s a founding member of the Benefactors’ Society. He befriended Mr. Preacher over thirty years ago and has been working with him ever since as his bloodstock agent, organizing and coordinating the sales made from breeding the Preacher horses. His close relation with Mr. Preacher made him something of a second father to Claire, hence her soft affection for him.
I also recognize his face, but I don’t know from where, and being unable to place it is driving me crazy.
Not-knowing is my least favorite state of being.
Arris tightens his hold on the grip handle and leans forward. His leg touches mine, and I force myself to allow it. His eyes are deep blue, and they fix on me.
“What’s the score?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?”
He taps his ear, motioning to the earbud in my ear. “Are you listening to the game? ”
“No. Mozart.”
He smiles. His teeth are perfect. “I don’t know how they do it in the UK, but here, it’s a touch rude to be all wired in when you’re with people.”
His tone is collected, but there’s an undercurrent of threat running through it.
The worst thing you can be in Belleflower, I’ve come to learn, is rude.
Claire’s hand slides over my thigh, settling at my knee. She gives a small squeeze. “James gets sensory overload,” she explains. “He focuses better when there’s white noise. This is him being polite.”
Arris cocks his head. A mea culpa . “Ah. That makes more sense. Here, I thought maybe you were a spy. Relaying your every move to your team.”
I laugh. It’s a tight sound in my throat. He laughs in turn.
I don’t like this man very much.
The limo pulls up to a narrow, white church with a thin, pointed spire that looks as though God himself pinched the building between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a sturdy tug.
A ramp zigzags the front of the church, and people dressed in black somberly walk in. A gravel lot flanks the church, and I see Ransom’s red truck in there. He’s in the bed of his truck, unfolding a wheelchair. He pulls it out, climbs down, and assists an older man into the chair.
Of course he helps the infirm.
Annoying, bleeding heart.
The three of us climb out of the limo, and I help Claire to her feet. Immediately, I notice the heads turning toward Claire. She ignores the attention, avoiding eye contact with the expertise of a Hollywood star, looking up at the church instead .
“Are you ready?” I ask.
She lays her arm lightly in the crook of mine. Claire and I fall behind Arris Dagney, and together, we walk through the twin church doors.
A willow tree spreads an umbrella of shade, leaves rustling like wind chimes. The sound climbs my shoulder like a horde of spiders. I crank up the volume of my earbuds.
We’re greeted at the door by a somber pastor who looks half Grim Reaper himself, cheeks long and sallow. The church inside is surprisingly humble, with simple wooden pews, stained glass windows, and open beams that spread across the ceiling like the rib cage of a giant beast. There’s an overwhelming smell of cedar and sawdust.
An ornate mahogany coffin sits in the pulpit. Closed. A framed picture of Mr. Preacher stands beside it, the man serious and unsmiling in his portrait. White calla lilies bow their heads as though in reverent respect.
It’s a slow descent down the aisle as Arris Dagney stops to share small talk with everyone. I’ve gathered that the Dagneys and Preachers are Belleflower royalty. When people talk to them, they clasp their hands and speak in reverent voices. I half expect them to get to their knees and kiss the gold signet ring that adorns Arris’s pinky finger.
Claire, to her credit, shakes hands and politely thanks people for coming. The Promise Sisters briefly flutter around Claire, each wearing thick black dresses and small black fascinators and the same crocodile tears. Second to the front, we pass a very pregnant woman, who takes Claire’s hand.
“Thank you for coming, Bonnie,” Claire says. This one, she looks genuinely pleased to see, and I watch the women exchange a squeeze of hands .
Arris slides his hand over the bump of Bonnie’s stomach. “How’s our girl?” he asks.
The man beside Bonnie—her husband, I presume—nearly trips over himself as he gets to his feet. He clutches his hat, worrying the brim in his tight grip. “She’s great, sir. Thank you very much. Doctor says she’s in great health.”
“Wonderful.”
Arris’s hand cups the back of Bonnie’s head far too affectionately for my liking. Bonnie’s expression goes blank.
Hm.
Finally, the four of us take our seats in the front pew.
“No, Grandmimi, you can’t see him—it’s closed. I ain’t telling them to open it up.”
Ransom’s voice is a big, booming thing, and it carries, even when he’s trying to be quiet. I glance over the back of the pew. He’s seated far in the back, between the old man in the wheelchair and a matching old woman beside him.
The woman fusses at him. He folds his arms across his chest.
Our eyes connect across the church. I slide my arm around Claire’s shoulders.
“Are you okay?” I ask Claire.
Her jaw is a thin, tight line. She stares ahead at the coffin containing the remains of her father.
“If you ask me that again,” she says, “there will be two bodies in that coffin.”
I shut my mouth. Her shoulders are tense and tight under my embrace.
The Grim-Pastor takes the stand. He nods toward the pallbearers at the end of the hall, and they begin to close the door.
“Hold on! One damned minute.”
The doors shutter back open to allow the latecomer to enter. She’s in a classic, elegant funeral dress. Her heels click loudly across the marble floors. She walks with purpose around the pews, all the way to the front, and takes her seat beside Arris.
This, I take it, is Mrs. Dagney.
She fits the bill. The epitome of trophy wife—beautiful, poised, and elegant. Her dark skin is without blemish. Her hair is strung into perfect ringlets. Her makeup is sharp. She walks with the confident air of someone who owns the entire town.
Arris’s mouth is a bitter, thin line. “You’re late.”
She drops her purse beside her. “You left me at home.”
“I assumed you were getting a ride.” There’s a pointed edge to his tone.
“Mm. You’d be so lucky.”
The pastor clears his throat. Loudly.
Even the Dagneys go quiet under the narrowed eyes of the man of God.
“Let’s begin,” he says.