The Chamber (Page 73)

"What year was it?"

"Nineteen sixty-one, I think. He wanted to join the Army so he could leave Clanton and get away from Sam. I didn’t want my little brother in the Army, and we discussed it until the sun came up."

"He was pretty confused?"

"He was eighteen, probably as confused as most kids who’ve just finished high school. Eddie was terrified that if he stayed in Clanton something would happen to him, some mysterious genetic flaw would surface and he’d become another Sam. Another Cayhall with a hood. He was desperate to run from this place."

"But you ran as soon as you could."

"I know, but I was tougher than Eddie, at least at the age of eighteen. I couldn’t see him leaving home so young. So we sipped wine and tried to get a handle on life."

"Did my father ever have a handle on life?"

"I doubt it, Adam. We were both tormented by our father and his family’s hatred. There are things I hope you never learn, stories that I pray remain untold. I guess I pushed them away, while Eddie couldn’t."

She took his hand again and they strolled into the sunlight and down a dirt path toward the newer section of the cemetery. She stopped and pointed to a row of small headstones. "Here are your great-grandparents, along with aunts, uncles, and other assorted Cayhalls."

Adam counted eight in all. He read the names and dates, and spoke aloud the poetry and Scriptures and farewells inscribed in granite.

"There are lots more out in the country," Lee said. "Most of the Cayhalls originated around Karaway, fifteen miles from here. They were country people, and they’re buried behind rural churches."

"Did you come here for these burials?"

"A few. It’s not a close family, Adam. Some of these people had been dead for years before I knew about it."

"Why wasn’t your mother buried here?"

"Because she didn’t want to be. She knew she was about to die, and she picked the spot. She never considered herself a Cayhall. She was a Gates."

"Smart woman."

Lee pulled a handful of weeds from her grandmother’s grave, and rubbed her fingers over the name of Lydia Newsome Cayhall, who died in 1961 at the age of seventy-two. "I remember her well," Lee said, kneeling on the grass. "A fine, Christian woman. She’d roll over in her grave if she knew her third son was on death row."

"What about him?" Adam asked, pointing to Lydia’s husband, Nathaniel Lucas Cayhall, who died in 1952 at the age of sixty-four. The fondness left Lee’s face. "A mean old man," she said. "I’m sure he’d be proud of Sam. Nat, as he was known, was killed at a funeral."

"A funeral?"

"Yes. Traditionally, funerals were social occasions around here. They were preceded by long wakes with lots of visiting and eating. And drinking. Life was hard in the rural South, and often the funerals turned into drunken brawls. Nat was very violent, and he picked a fight with the wrong men just after a funeral service. They beat him to death with a stick of wood."

"Where was Sam?"

"Right in the middle of it. He was beaten too, but survived. I was a little girl, and I remember Nat’s funeral. Sam was in the hospital and couldn’t attend."

"Did he get retribution?"

"Of course."

"How?"

"Nothing was ever proven, but several years later the two men who’d beaten Nat were released from prison. They surfaced briefly around here, then disappeared. One body was found months later next door in Milburn County. Beaten, of course. The other man was never found. The police questioned Sam and his brothers, but there was no proof."

"Do you think he did it?"

"Sure he did. Nobody messed with the Cayhalls back then. They were known to be half-crazy and mean as hell."

They left the family gravesites and continued along the path. "So, Adam, the question for us is, where do we bury Sam?"

"I think we should bury him over there, with the blacks. That would serve him right."

"What makes you think they’d want him?"

"Good point."

"Seriously."

"Sam and I have not reached that point yet."

"Do you think he’ll want to be buried here? In Ford County?"

"I don’t know. We haven’t discussed it, for obvious reasons. There’s still hope."

"How much hope?"

"A trace. Enough to keep fighting."

They left the cemetery on foot, and walked along a tranquil street with worn sidewalks and ancient oaks. The homes were old and well painted, with long porches and cats resting on the front steps. Children raced by on bikes and skateboards, and old people rocked in their porch swings and waved slowly. "These are my old stomping grounds, Adam," Lee said as they walked aimlessly along. Her hands were stuck deep in denim pockets, her eyes moistened with memories that were at once sad and pleasant. She looked at each house as if she’d stayed there as a child and could remember the little girls who’d been her friends. She could hear the giggles and laughs, the silly games and the serious fights of ten-year-olds.

"Were those happy times?" Adam asked.

"I don’t know. We never lived in town, so we were known as country kids. I always longed for one of these houses, with friends all around and stores a few blocks away. The town kids considered themselves to be a bit better than us, but it wasn’t much of a problem. My best friends lived here, and I spent many hours playing in these streets, climbing these trees. Those were good times, I guess. The memories from the house in the country are not pleasant."

"Because of Sam?"

An elderly lady in a flowered dress and large straw hat was sweeping around her front steps as they approached. She glanced at them, then she froze and stared. Lee slowed then stopped near the walkway to the house. She looked at the old woman, and the old woman looked at Lee. "Mornin’, Mrs. Langston," Lee said in a friendly drawl.

Mrs. Langston gripped the broom handle and stiffened her back, and seemed content to stare.

"I’m Lee Cayhall. You remember me," Lee drawled again.

As the name Cayhall drifted across the tiny lawn, Adam caught himself glancing around to see if anyone else heard it. He was prepared to be embarrassed if the name fell on other ears. If Mrs. Langston remembered Lee, it was not apparent. She managed a polite nod of the head, just a quick up and down motion, rather awkward as if to say, "Good morning to you. Now move along."

"Nice to see you again," Lee said and began walking away. Mrs. Langston scurried up the steps and disappeared inside. "I dated her son in high school," Lee said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"She was thrilled to see you."

"She was always sort of wacky," Lee said without conviction. "Or maybe she’s afraid to talk to a Cayhall. Afraid of what the neighbors might say."

"I think it might be best if we go incognito for the rest of the day. What about it?"

"It’s a deal."

They passed other folks puttering in their flower beds and waiting for the mailman, but they said nothing. Lee covered her eyes with sun shades. They zigzagged through the neighborhood in the general direction of the central square, chatting about Lee’s old friends and where they were now. She kept in touch with two of them, one in Clanton and one in Texas. They avoided family history until they were on a street with smaller, wood-framed houses stacked tightly together. They stopped at the corner, and Lee nodded at something down the street.