Those four decades of marriage to a man whom she had loved and who had given her two of her children had been an enormous gift. If you had been blessed with such a life, if someone else had taken such a great risk to help you, what would you have been willing to do?
More than fifty years later, Covey’s children will dare to ask the question outright. They will ask their mother’s oldest friend if she thinks that Covey Lyncook killed Little Man Henry in 1965. They will be relieved to see Bunny Pringle shake her head, slowly and firmly. Relieved to hear Bunny say that there were any number of people who had wanted to see Little Man dead. They will realize, also, that Bunny’s answer had not brought them any closer to the truth of what had happened on that day.
Back Then
Back then, there were no video surveillance cameras. The wedding photographer was off in a corner changing his film. The music men were busy making music. The waiters were still delivering plates of cake to some of the tables. The father of the bride was finishing yet another drink. The bride was stabbing at her cake with a fork, trying not to cry. Everyone was busy looking somewhere else as one of the guests pulled a small bottle out of her purse.
Back then, everyone knew that champagne could go to a young lady’s head. That she might wander from one table to another with a glass in her hand, that she might lean in between the newly married couple and deposit a kiss on her friend’s cheek, that she might rest her glass on the table, that she might knock a plate of cake onto the bride’s lap then accidentally pick up the bridegroom’s flute instead of her own. No one would think anything of this because, out of the water, Bunny Pringle had always been a clumsy girl.
No one would even realize, at first, that it had been a glass of champagne to bring an end to Little Man’s life. When a police officer finally sniffed at the broken flute and uttered the word poison, some of the wedding guests would think of their own secret wishes, their own deep resentment toward the dead man. Toward the kind of man who drew satisfaction from the coercion of others. They would hope that the person who had done this would never be caught. So many people had been in and out of the kitchen that day, it could have been any number of them.
Back then, it was easier to commit murder. You only had to concentrate, know where your loyalties lay, and not think of the consequences.
“Isn’t there some kind of law against digging up bodies?”
“But it’s our father.”
“Would it be different because they’re ashes?”
“Let’s ask Charles. He’ll know.”
It has taken a while, but Byron and Benny have finally grown accustomed to calling Mr. Mitch by his first name. Charles is, after all, someone their mother cared for deeply. And he knows more about their lives than most people ever will. Plus, his nose turned pink the first time Benny called him Charles. That alone made it worth the switch, Byron said that day, laughing.
Yes, Charles tells them, they will need a license, but there are services that can help. They’re not the first to make this kind of decision. Eventually, Byron and Benny get permission to exhume their father’s remains.
One year after Eleanor Bennett’s death, Marble and Etta fly in together from London. The next day, Benny and Marble chop scallion and garlic and stir coconut milk into a pot of rice and beans. Byron fires up the barbecue and Etta makes a sweet rum punch that goes down a bit too easily, while Lynette dances with their baby on the deck at their beachside place. It is the kind of lunch that gathers people as the hours go on, Charles and one of his daughters, Cable and his wife and kids, plus the neighbors from across the way.
The old house, the bungalow where Byron and Benny grew up, belongs to another family now, a young couple with small children who have put in new plumbing. It seems a fitting role for the old Bennett house, to grow a new family, and the thought makes Byron smile. Still, he tries not to drive down that street if he can help it.
When Etta is sufficiently tipsy, Eleanor’s children extract a promise from her. Yes, she says, she will take them all to the island someday. They can work on a plan. They, their partners and children, even Charles, if he wants to. Surely, enough time has passed between now and then, they say, though none of them is certain.
But first, this.
Eleanor’s children are taking her ashes, now mingled with those of Byron and Benny’s father, out to sea. Etta swims out ahead of the boat, her neon-colored cap the same orange as the inflatable buoy strapped to her body. Once they’ve gone three miles off the coast, they drop the ladder and pull Etta out of the water, throwing a towel around her. They stand there for a moment, listening to the creak of the boat against the waves before they nod at one another and scatter the ashes overboard. Then Marble, Byron, and Benny take what’s left of their mother’s last black cake, crumble it, and let it fall into the water.