The Dead Don't Dance (31 page)

Accountants, doctors, and other constipated pains-in-the-butt came to mind. “Who?” I said, wrinkling my brow. “If they want to talk about the bill, I just got a letter from Jason Thentwhistle . . . ”

Amos held his chin in his hands. His eyes looked down on me, and his teeth showed pearly white. Then his bottom lip quivered, and he broke into a smile.

M
Y SPEEDOMETER WAS PEGGED AT JUST OVER ONE HUNDRED
miles an hour as I jumped the railroad tracks on my way to the hospital. The engine was whining as all four tires came off the ground on the other side of the tracks.

Amos followed in his Crown Vic, flashing blue lights, tooting his horn, and shouting over his PA system, “Slow down, you fool!”

Blue lay sprawled and whining on the floorboard, covering one eye with his paw. When I turned the corner and crested the hill that led up to Bryce's trailer, Bryce stood piping at his gate in full regalia, decked out with all his ribbons. He stood, feet together, red-faced, and blowing for all he was worth, but I was going too fast to hear what he was playing.

The hospital was a zoo when I arrived. I bounded up the stairs, tripped on the top step, and slid three rooms down on the janitor's nicely waxed floor. Blue jumped over me, disappearing down the hall and into Maggie's room, where a crowd stood looking in. I began to raise myself off the floor, but the sound stopped me—a sound that I had heard only once in almost five months.

The last time I had heard Maggs's voice, she was crying and screaming, “No, God! Please, no,” as the doctor pulled the sheet over my son. Now I sprawled paralyzed on the floor, listening. The voice that had said “I love you” ten thousand times, the voice that said “Dylan Styles!” the voice that whispered “Let's go swimming” had cracked back into the world and filled my empty soul.

Moments before, I lived in a world where wisteria snaked across my son's grave as he rotted beneath a cement slab; where Vietnam Vets inhaled beer to help them forget the day they wiped Vicks salve in their noses so they wouldn't have to smell the bodies as they zipped up the bags; where a no-good farmer bathed in a cornfield but couldn't wash the blood clean; where snow fell on iced-over railroad tracks; where used-car salesmen robbed old women with inflated prices and double-digit interest rates; where little boys peed in the baptistry and pastors strutted like roosters; where evil men tied innocent girls to trees, stripped them, raped them, and left to them die; where students cheated and burnt-out professors scribbled useless information on sweat-stained chalkboards and couldn't care less; where not-so-innocent girls paid $265 for scar tissue; where the most precious thing I had ever known lay listless, scarred, childless, and dying in a nondescript hospital room in the armpit of South Carolina.

But then came Maggie's voice.

I looked around and found myself in a world where wisteria blooms in December; where a Scottish piper sings through his pipes; where used-car salesmen open car doors for little old ladies; where pastors dunk themselves with scared children who emerge clean and hungry; where students say, “He'd call it cheating”; where not-so-innocent girls carry receipts in their pockets and write books that will be read by Oprah; where a no-good professor bathes in the river, burns dead cornfields, and basks in moonlight and flames; and where my wife speaks.

I now lived in a world where the dead danced.

I walked into my wife's room, and there, under the window and glowing like the sun, lay Maggie—her big brown eyes meeting mine for the first time in so many months.

Breathing heavily and fumbling with my hands, I didn't know what to say.
Where do I start? Am I the same Dylan that she fell in love with, and is she the same Maggie? How deep are the scars? Are we the same us?
Standing there in my new boots and covered in pig smear, I didn't know who to be until I knew where she was. I needed Maggs to tell me who to be—because that would tell me where she was, and most importantly, who we were.

I closed the door, knelt down next to Maggs's bed, and watched her cracked lips quiver. I slid my hand beneath hers and searched her eyes, aching to know and be known. She blinked a lazy blink, tilted her head, and smiled.

afterword

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN WE HEARD THE PIPES.
W
E
crawled out of bed, slipped on some jeans, and walked hand in hand along the tree line. Standing under the overhang of oaks, next to my son's grave, was Bryce, decked out in full military regalia, ruddy-cheeked and blowing so hard the veins on his neck stood out like rose vines. He was somewhere in the middle of “It Is Well with My Soul” when we walked up. A gentle breeze skirted along the bank and fanned over us as we stood facing the river. Our long shadows ran down to the river and disappeared into the water.

Without a pause, Bryce slipped into “Amazing Grace.” The music went through us like the morning sun, warm and glowing. As the last hollow note of his pipes echoed off the river and faded into the distance, Maggs walked over and kissed him on the cheek. Bryce stood rigid, heels together, at attention, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He was wearing a green beret, his military dress shirt, and a chest spangled and twinkling with medals. Everything, from his hat to shirt to kilt to socks, was clean, pressed, and worn for the first time in a long time. Without saying a word he turned, began blowing, and disappeared like an angel into the darkness. As we stood underneath the canopy of oaks, the pipes faded away downriver.

Maggie slid her hand under mine and tugged on my arm. The air was cool, but nothing compared to the previous year. I stood on the bank while she ran in front of me and climbed the sandy bluff. In the moonlight, she stripped off her jeans and stood silhouetted against the moon, which formed a halo around her body and threaded her hair with silver. I watched, waist deep in the water, mesmerized. Enchanted. The slender calves, the small curve of her lower back, the graceful shoulders. She skipped to the edge and took a swan dive off the bluff, splashing into the water a few feet away from me. The ripples lapped against my stomach and brought chill bumps to my skin. When she broke the surface, and that black water dripped off her nose and ears, a sweet and sneaky smile creased her face.

Half a dozen wood ducks soared overhead, brushing the tops of the cypress trees with their wing tips. An owl hooted low and hauntingly; farther north along the river, a lone bluetick hound sounded a single lonely ping somewhere in the Salk. A mile south of us, the sound of singing, pungent with joy and ripe with smiles, rose like a flume of steam from Pastor John's church steeple. Maggie and I swam close together, swaying with the slow rhythm of the river while the echoes of voices showered down on us like a warm summer rain. Beneath it all I had only one thought, one need.

Lord, I'm begging You. Please give me sixty-two more years with this woman.

acknowledgments

S
OMEWHERE IN
D
ECEMBER OF 1995,
I
BEGAN THINK
ing about this story. I was driving through one of the bridge tunnels in Hampton Roads on my way to UPS, where I worked in the early morning preload. It being the Christmas season, I think we had to clock in before 3 A.M. It may have been earlier, but I've tried to block that out. I had been in graduate school at Regent University, and in order to remain focused on school, I had suppressed my stories for so long that they had begun to rebel and bubble their way to the surface. Cream does that.

Let me interject one thing—my graduate school experience was phenomenal. One lightbulb after another clicked on and lit my path. I wouldn't trade it for the world. Three men in particular contributed to this, and I am greatly indebted to each—Doug Tarpley, Michael Graves, and Bob Schihl. Guys, thanks for a seat at the table. My hat's off to you.

At any rate, I remember driving through the tunnel and could hold it back no longer. Remember the grammar school project where the kid pours the vinegar over the baking soda in the papier-mâché volcano? As I was nearing the bottom of the tunnel, one scene erupted and flashed across the screen on the back of my eyelids: a man standing in a ditch, screaming at God. I knew he was cold, alone, and at the end of himself. Much like Crusoe, he was shipwrecked, a castaway in need of Friday to rescue him off the island.
The Dead Don't Dance
grew from that early-morning flash, or hallucination, as the case may have been. In later drives, mostly through the back roads of South Carolina, I saw a beautiful girl and somehow knew her name was Maggie, a handsome black man who looked like Mr. Clean with a badge, and a farmhouse with a rusted tin roof—one I knew well.

The path from idea to trade paper has been, as with other first novels, a graveled road marred with washouts, blind corners, stop-and-go traffic, and U-turns. Yes, I've worked hard, early mornings, late nights, stoplights, but that is the least of it. Many writers work hard. I, and this book, are in large part a product of other people's unselfishness. People who gave me a chance. Who believed in me. Without them, I'd not be here, and you'd not be reading this book.

I won't backtrack to my youth, but I need to start by thanking one of the finest writers I've ever met: John Dyson. John worked for
Reader's Digest,
writing some 160-plus articles and more than twenty-three books over a three-decade career. He's a writer's writer, a true craftsman and wordsmith. Not to mention a pretty good sailor. I won't bore you with the story, but John was instrumental in my first work as a writer. You know that process of smelting, where the silversmith heats the silver and removes the dross? John did that to me. Painful too. Somewhere in that furnace, he taught me what good writing looks like, and maybe more importantly, sounds like. Somewhere early in our work together, he told me “Charles, an editor is one who walks back through the battlefield and shoots the wounded.” He was right, and true to form, came with both barrels blazing—though, in my case, that's not always bad. As a dwarf running among giants, I stand with one foot squarely atop John's broad shoulder. John, thanks for allowing me the view, for letting me whisper in your ear and ask the same irritating questions over and over, and for not brushing me off your lapel.

While one foot is resting on John's shoulder, the other is balancing on the tall shoulders of Davis Bunn. About two years ago, I had come close to my wits' end. I had finished the book, bought the
Writer's Guide
like all writers are supposed to, and sent out a couple hundred dollars' worth of manuscripts and postage to as many agents and publishers as I could find. Soon my mailbox began filling up with some of the nicest letters of rejection I've ever received. Each one was so kind and so completely rejecting that for about eight months, I quit going to the mailbox. During that time, Christy would walk in, drop the letter on my desk, kiss me on the cheek, and say, “You're not a reject to me.” It was little consolation.

At any rate, Davis—who's written some sixty-plus novels—attended a party in D.C. and got cornered by my well-meaning but not-to-be-refused grandfather. Looking for an exit but hounded by my mercilessly pestering grandparents, Davis relented and broke his never-read-a-first-novel rule. A few days later, he invited me to lunch, where he fed me a sandwich, made two quick phone calls, and befriended me. Something I was in need of. When I got home, I had received two e-mails and one voice-mail asking to see this manuscript. A week later, I had an agent. And six weeks later, a publisher.

Granted, I'd not have had those if the work couldn't stand on its own, but Davis helped open the door. One I'd been bashing my head against. Maybe he recognized the flat spot on my forehead, and it reminded him of his own. Davis is a true professional who's taught me much about this business, how to navigate it, and what to do when the storms come—because they will. Davis, thank you for the view, the conversation, the friendship, and for relenting.

Davis led me to the office of a true statesman, one of the real patriarchs in this business, Sealy Yates. Sealy introduced me to a young bulldog in his office named Chris Ferebee. Chris read my novel over the weekend and called me on Monday night. “Charles, I'd like to help you get this book published.”

It took me a few minutes to recover from that phone call. I'm not sure my neighbors ever have. Chris made a few suggestions, I made a few corrections, and six weeks later, Thomas Nelson offered to publish my work. Chris, you're a true counselor, sounding board, ally, and friend.

Chris sent my work to an editor at Nelson named Jenny Baumgartner. Jenny read it and offered to buy me breakfast at this pancake restaurant in Nashville where they serve these fantastic buckwheat pancakes. We struck up a conversation, and not long after, Nelson bought this book, and Jenny became my editor, and maybe more importantly, my advocate at Nelson. Jenny has a great eye for fiction, a remarkable ability to take something good and make it better, and a unique talent to communicate all that into a form that even a writer can understand. I am also indebted to the team around her: Jonathan Merkh, Mike Hyatt, and Allen Arnold. To the rest of the team at Nelson and the many people that I've never met who have worked so selflessly, from designers to salespeople, please accept my sincere thanks.

Throughout this eight-year roller-coaster ride, my family and friends at home have helped me maintain my perspective and keep me off medication, and out of a room with padded walls.

Without getting too sappy, I'd like to thank: Johnny and Dave. True brothers. When I scraped my knees, you guys—at different times and in differing ways—picked me up, brushed me off, and helped me strap my helmet back on. My in-laws, Alice and O'Neal. Thank you for your encouragement and for not disowning me when I said, “I'm working on a book.” My sisters, Grace, Annie, and Berry. You all read my stuff and told me it was good even when it wasn't. Thanks for lying to me. Keep it up. My grandparents, T.C. and Granny. When you asked to read my work, I was a bit worried that you'd find it foolish. “All that education and he's doing what?” You didn't, and what's more, you became two of my best cheerleaders. Thanks for cornering Davis. Mom and Dad. Thanks for your sacrifices, for loving each other, and for teaching me to run with reckless abandon and then letting me do it.