Part 41 (1/2)
”Shane.”
”Frankness is expected from a dying man. It's the only time in life when honesty goes unpunished.”
”Wouldn't you rather conserve your strength than talk about this?”
His chins jiggled, causing rivulets of sweat to run onto the quilt. ”Do you know why all these disasters happened?” he asked.
I looked at my feet. ”Alcohol.”
”Correct. Now, since you caused my demise, I have the right to demand a promise.”
I kept my eyes on the hardwood floor and didn't say anything. Whatever atonement he had in mind would be brutal. Shane wasn't the type to ask for small favors.
”Do you agree you owe me a promise?”
”I agree already.”
”I want you to promise you won't take another drink until I am dead.”
I exhaled. I'd been expecting a dry-for-life pledge. This was short-term enough to deal with. ”I was planning to quit forever, Shane.”
His smile made him look ghoulish. The man was melting before my eyes. ”Quite admirable, and I hope you follow through,” he said, ”but what I demand is a solemn oath-cross your heart and hope to die-that you won't touch a drop of alcohol while I am alive. If you honor the vow, I shall forgive you for killing me and, even better, give you permission to forgive yourself.”
I looked over at Granma, who was furiously writing in a ledger. She didn't care if I promised. Shane watched me from sparkly eyes that seemed to be sinking into his flesh. Normally, I don't care for commitments, but the guy was dying, and it was my fault.
”Okay.”
”Okay what?” he asked.
”I solemnly swear not to touch a drop of alcohol while Shane Rinesfoos lives.”
He nodded. ”Cross your heart and hope to die.”
”Don't you think we're a little old-”
”Cross your heart and hope to die.”
”Okay. I cross my heart and hope to die.” Interesting phrase for someone who recently attempted suicide.
Shane took my hand again. ”Send Lloyd in. Opportunities such as this are rare.”
Feeling dismissed, I stood up. His hand tightened on mine. ”Good-bye, Maurey, take care of them.”
”Take care of who?”
”Lloyd and Brad. Marcella and Andrew. They'd be in big trouble without you.”
How was I supposed to take that? ”I'll look in on you later.”
He squeezed my hand one more time. ”Life is lovely, Maurey. Don't forget.”
48.
Shane didn't die that night, or the next day while I was crawling around the strawberry fields, feeling sick. When we stopped for lunch-which Granma called dinner-Marcella said he was in and out of delirium, mostly in. One of the times he was out, he'd had the strength to ask about me.
”I told Shane you were picking,” Marcella said.
”Was he entertained?”
”He said you must be having kittens. I don't know what he meant by that.”
My stomach refused to accept fried okra or corn bread. It's like I looked at the glistening grease and a fist grabbed my belly. Instead, I drank a half gallon of pre-sweetened iced tea.
That afternoon Lloyd finished whatever it was he'd been doing in the burned-down barn and came out to help Brad, Hugo Sr., and me with our migrant worker act. Lloyd looked right at home in those white overalls with no s.h.i.+rt, all he lacked was a tattoo-Born to Farm. He worked the row next to mine, which made me somewhat nervous because I knew he was on the lookout for crash symptoms. So was I. I kept expecting the earth to boil over with spiders and c.o.c.kroaches, but all I saw were a couple of worms that I suspect were real.
”You ever get DTs?” I asked Lloyd.
From the crouch position, he rubbed his overalls leg. ”I never hallucinated that much, but for a couple weeks there whenever I tried to sleep I felt rats running over my body. They would bite me in the face and I'd come to screaming.”
”How did Shane handle it?”
”Made me sleep in a bathtub full of cold water while he watched to keep me from drowning. It was his own technique. I've asked people in AA, and no one ever heard of his therapy.”
”Whatever works,” I said.
”Once I felt a snake crawl up my a.n.u.s.”
”You think that'll happen to me?”
”I'd been drunk twenty-three years, you've only lost eight months.”
I went to turn in a rack of strawberries, and Patrick told me I wasn't picking fast enough. He compared me to mola.s.ses. His family owned a place down the road where they grew green peppers and tomatoes, but every May he and the kids came over to help Granma harvest. Patrick's respect for a person was determined by their ability to do farm work, so he didn't have much use for me.
”You'd never last a day in peppers,” he said.
”Yeah, but I can dehorn steers. And I'm a whiz at castration.”
I'd made nine dollars twenty-five cents on the morning s.h.i.+ft-price of a midlevel bottle of Canadian whiskey. I wish. At least the temperature was nice. It would have been an okay day if I hadn't been farming sober.
”Has it occurred to you that Shane drug us across the country simply because Granma needed help getting the crops in?” I said to Lloyd.
He straightened and put both hands on his back. ”He had more on his mind than picking strawberries.”
”I mean besides nookie.”