Into the Free A Novel by Julie Cantrell

Author:Julie Cantrell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Faith, Mississippi, Domestic abuse, Surrealism, violence, Gypsies, Religion, rodeo, Poverty, Classism, South
Publisher: David C. Cook
Published: 2012-01-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

It is the end of December, and the air is thin and frigid. Now, the rain falls. A soft, slow drizzle slides through the gray afternoon.

The funeral has ended with another prayer, and we are supposed to drive to the burial site. I figure we’ll be going out to Hope Hill, the same cemetery that holds the gypsy king and queen. And my brother. But Mr. Tucker surprises me again.

He meets me at the car and says, “Millie. I know Jack wouldn’t want to be laid to rest in a crowded row of stones. He’d want to be out in the wild. Where the horses and the cattle roam with him. And from what I hear, your mama would have wanted the same. A field of wildflowers. So, I’ve made arrangements with Mr. Sutton, and he’s agreed to give you a little corner of his pasture. A shady place under a big oak. I hope that’s fine with you. I want it to be a place where you can remember the good times, Millie. I know there must have been plenty of those.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tucker,” I say, grateful for his kindness.

Mr. Tucker closes our car door, and we follow the caravan to Mr. Sutton’s plantation, the place I call home. My wheelchair isn’t able to make it up the hill in the thick pasture grass, so I watch from the car. I am glad not to have to hear the sound of dirt falling on Mama’s coffin. I think of the mama mutt dog, all those years earlier, and my frantic race to uncover her pups.

The coffins are carried up the hill, and I worry that the pallbearers, all tough-skinned cowboys, will slip on the slick grass and Mama or Jack will go tumbling down, tossed from their pinewood boxes and rolled through the weeds. Hilda leans over to roll up the windows in the rain. I leave mine cracked open and watch the water drip down the glass. Soon, I hear the crowd sing “Be Not Afraid,” another one of Mama’s favorite hymns.

Diana moves from the front seat to the back and wraps me in her coat. She pulls me into her warm chest and lets my tears fall over her. When the crowd disperses, visitors stop by the car to offer their sympathy and to wish me well. Some invite me to stay in their homes, but I don’t know who they are or what they would do if I actually showed up at their doors. I just try to smile and nod and shake hands and say thanks and do all the things I am expected to do to make them feel better.

Diana sits next to me, rubbing my back. “Have you seen your grandparents?” she asks.

I shake my head no. Diana’s probably been holding out hope that they would show up and give it one more shot. Try again to take me with them. What she doesn’t know is that Mama has been dead to them for years.

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