The Burnt Island Burial Ground Part 8

"What is it?" Angel asked. She looked across the hall to make sure Boughtflower's door was closed before signaling that Geneva should go on with her story.

"There's something else," Geneva said, lowering her voice. "But you know I'm not one for idle gossip."

"It could be important, Geneva. The man clearly has something he needs to get off his chest," Lindsay said. "Whatever you know, if it's something that would help me reach out to him, please tell me."

Geneva's eyes darted to Boughtflower's closed door. "He was a Klansman."

Angel's eyes widened and her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

"Whoa. What?" Lindsay asked, looking equally shocked.

"You ever heard of the Battle of Hayes Pond?" Geneva asked.

Lindsay furrowed her brow. She'd majored in history in college, and continued to read books and articles about Southern history even after she graduated. However, even her near-encyclopedic knowledge of the region was found lacking. "That was the thing with the Lumbees and the KKK, right?" she said, looking at Angel for confirmation.

Now it was Angel's turn to click her tongue. "'Thing with the Lumbees'?! We still celebrate that 'thing' every year."

Lindsay had noticed, in the years she'd known Angel, how her members.h.i.+p in the Lumbee Tribe, a Native American group centered in southeastern North Carolina, had been a constant source of both pride and consternation. Many people outside the region knew next to nothing about the existence of the tribe. Those pa.s.sing through might have had trouble telling the racially-mixed, mainly Christian, English-speaking people from their neighbors. But the Lumbees' close kins.h.i.+p ties, unique history, distinctive dialect, and deep connection to their land set them apart. Lindsay had sometimes witnessed Angel's frustration when she mentioned her background to patients, only to have them tell her she "looked too black to be Indian," or ask if her family lived in a teepee.

"Wait. It's coming back to me," Lindsay said, clicking her fingers. "The Klan was agitating in Robeson County because Indians were mixing with whites, right?"

"Mmhmm," Angel nodded. "They didn't like the fact that Lumbees can look white or black or tan or any shade in between. I even knew a Lumbee-my friend Sheila Locklear-who converted to Mexican."

"She converted to Mexican?" Lindsay asked.

"Yeah. She was light-skinned and had straight black hair like Dunette's, not kinky hair like yours or mine. Hers was nice. She married a Mexican guy and just decided to let everybody a.s.sume she was Mexican. It's not like she was ashamed to be a Lumbee. She still brings her kids to the Lumbee Homecoming celebration every year. But she said she just got tired of explaining what a Lumbee is. Once you set foot out of Robeson or Bladen County, ain't n.o.body ever heard of Lumbees. I'd never do that, but I understand where she's coming from. Even within the tribe, it can feel sometimes like there's a contest to be the truest 100% Lumbee person, like you've gotta explain yourself if you're more mixed, like I am. And when you've had somebody ask 'What are you?' for the hundredth time, I can understand how it could make you want to convert to Mexican."

"Next time some fool asks you what you are, you tell 'em you're a polite human being whose mama raised you not to ask stupid questions," Geneva said with a sniff.

Lindsay smiled thoughtfully. She'd had her own struggles with her lineage, but never before had it occurred to her to be relieved that these ambiguities were all contained inside her unambiguously white skin. There were a lot of rude, ignorant questions somebody could ask her about her family, but that particular one wasn't likely to be among them. For better or for worse, seen from the outside, she fit neatly into a category.

"Anyway," Angel said, "like I was saying. This was back in the 50's. The KKK said they were gonna have a big rally to scare the Lumbees back into their rightful place, but when they heard we were gonna come out in force, they got scared. Hardly any of those fools showed up, but more than 400 of our boys came out. This white preacher from South Carolina got up in front of the crowd and started his speech. Mongrel this and half-breed that," she said, practically spitting the words. "He'd hardly even started, though, when one of our boys, a sharpshooter who'd been in World War II, shot out the light next to the platform the preacher was standing on. Everything went dark, and the Klansmen all started to run. The preacher hid out in the woods for three days afterwards. That was the last time the Klan ever stirred up trouble for us." Angel smiled with satisfaction, as if she'd actually taken part in the events that occurred almost five decades before.

"So Boughtflower was involved in the Battle of Hayes Pond?" Lindsay asked, turning back to Geneva.

"He sure was. A photographer from Life magazine was there that night. Well, when the story came out, in one of the pictures you could see Boughtflower clear as day, standing like a dope with those fools. His name wasn't mentioned, but everybody around here knew who he was because of how prominent his family was. You used to see him driving all over the county in his fancy Cadillac Eldorado. But after that, no decent folks would go anywhere near him. Even the racists were embarra.s.sed to be seen with him, considering how the Klansmen got their behinds handed to them."

"Did Dunette know?" Lindsay asked Angel. "I can't believe she'd work for Lumbee Enemy Number One."

"I don't think so," Angel said, shaking her head. "She never said a word to me about it, and she tells me everything. But even if she had known, it wouldn't've stopped her from working for him. She's always trying to bring out the good in people. And from what I've seen, he's just as mean to white people as he is to black. He's an equal opportunity son of a b..." she blushed. "Sorry, reverends."

Lindsay crossed her arms. "When it comes to Klansmen, I think even Jesus might speak a colorful word or two."

Chapter 12.

After the women finished their conversation, Lindsay made her way alone across the hall to Otis Boughtflower's room. In her nearly five years of hospital chaplaincy, she'd seen the entire spectrum of human character on display. Everything from a selfless young man donating a kidney to a perfect stranger he'd met at the grocery store to an addict who didn't shed a single tear when her toddler almost died from overdosing on the drugs she left lying around the house. Facing down a Klansman, who had quite possibly confessed to also being a thief and a murderer, was in some ways just another day at the office. Still, as she raised her hand to knock on his door, she felt the same sense of lurking dread she'd felt during their last encounter.

"Mr. Boughtflower, do you mind if I come in?" Lindsay said, opening the door.

"I asked for you, didn't I?" Boughtflower's gruff voice called in return.

A tall, rail-thin woman stood near the windows, arranging flowers in a vase. She turned when Lindsay came in and flashed a timid little smile. As Lindsay extended her hand in greeting, the woman's eyes darted around the room, as if she was unsure whether the proffered hand was meant for her or someone else.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm Lindsay, one of the chaplains here."

"Pleased to meet you." The woman briefly clasped Lindsay's hand, but then quickly withdrew hers and used it to tuck a stray tendril of thick, grey-streaked brown hair behind her ear.

"You must be Mr. Boughtflower's daughter," Lindsay guessed.

"That's right," Boughtflower answered for her. "That's Margo."

Lindsay heard the sound of the door opening again and turned around, expecting to see Angel or one of the other nurses coming in. Instead, a red-faced man with a corn-yellow mustache and matching hair came through the door. He walked with his barrel-shaped chest pushed slightly forward and his arms swinging slightly away from his body, in the manner of many former athletes who'd let themselves go to seed. He held a cell phone to his ear with his upraised shoulder. He smiled broadly and extended his meaty hand.

"Yancy Philpot." He jerked a thumb toward the bed. "The old man's my father-in-law."

"Hi, Mr. Philpot. I'm Lindsay Harding, one of the chaplains." Lindsay searched his face and his wife's for hints of the origins of their daughter's incredible beauty. She could see s.n.a.t.c.hes of resemblance-eye color here, a strong chin there-but clearly in Jess's case, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

"Chaplain? Wonders never cease. I didn't expect a pretty young thing like you to be a chaplain!" He winked at her. "I bet that explains why the old man has suddenly decided to find religion." He laughed and slapped Boughtflower playfully on the shoulder. "Isn't that right, Otis?" He gave Boughtflower a wink, which was returned by an icy glare.

"Who I talk to, or what I do is none of your d.a.m.n business," Boughtflower wheezed.

Yancy turned to Lindsay and, in a conspiratorial stage whisper, said, "Don't let him fool you, Chaplain. He's really just a big, ole' softie. Isn't that right, Otis?"

Boughtflower pressed his lips together and purple splotches blossomed on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he broke into a volley of phlegmy coughs. When he stopped coughing, Margo laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Daddy, Yancy's only teasing. Aren't you, Yancy?"

Yancy laughed. "He knows I am." Yancy gestured to Lindsay to join him in the corner furthest away from the bed. His phone was still balanced in the crook of his neck, giving him the appearance of a hunchback.

"It's hard on him being in here, you know?" he said in a low voice. "He's used to calling the shots. We've got to remember that he needs to feel like he's still in charge, even though I'm really the man of the family now." Suddenly, Yancy's attention turned to his phone, and his hand shot up to grab hold of it. "What's the idea of keeping me waiting for so long, Gary? How long does it take you to pull up this week's inventory?" He put his hand over the microphone on the handset and said, "Will y'all excuse me a minute? I swear, I leave 'em alone for half a day and the whole place falls apart. They're like children."

After he exited the room, Margo turned to Lindsay apologetically. "He's so busy with his work these days. I was worried when he took this big promotion that it would be too much."

"What kind of business is Mr. Philpot in?" Lindsay asked.

"Oh, it's all numbers and s.h.i.+pments. Way over my head. I was never good at that kind of thing. Thank goodness Jess didn't take after me," she smiled.

She walked over and straightened the blankets on her father's bed. "Daddy, did I tell you Jess is making straight A's this semester?"

The old man nodded. For once, he looked genuinely pleased about something. "You did a good job with that girl, Margo. She's your crowning glory."

"Oh, I can't take the credit," Margo said, blus.h.i.+ng. "Heaven knows she doesn't get her brains from me."

"Well, she sure as h.e.l.l didn't get 'em from Yancy," Boughtflower mumbled.

"Do you work?" Lindsay asked.

"No," Margo said, with a nervous giggle. "I didn't have the brains for college or anything. When I was little, I thought I might become a veterinarian until Daddy told me how compet.i.tive it is. He didn't want to see me embarra.s.s myself. Since Jess started school, I've been volunteering at the animal shelter twice a week. Keeps me out of trouble, Yancy says. Anyone can walk a dog and clean out a litter box, you know?"

Yancy returned to the room and put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "Hopefully that'll hold 'em for a few minutes," he said, rolling his eyes theatrically.

Boughtflower shot a contemptuous glare at him.

"Do you want us to leave you alone with the chaplain, Daddy? So y'all can talk in private?" Margo asked.

Boughtflower nodded. "Y'all go get something to eat. There's some money in my wallet." He pointed to the wooden locker that stood at the side of his bed. The key was on a stretchy, spiral band, which coiled so tightly around his enormous wrist that Lindsay feared it would cut off the circulation to his hand.

The effort of removing the band and key from his wrist seemed too much for him, so Margo slid it off and unlocked the locker. She removed the wallet and held it up. "Is $20 okay, Daddy?"

"For dinner? Where are we supposed to go? McDonald's?" Yancy asked with a laugh.

"Could we take $60, Daddy? We'll take Jess, too."

Boughtflower frowned but nodded.

"Thank you, Daddy," Margo said, bending down to kiss her father's sweaty forehead.

"It was nice meeting you. Try not to flirt with him too much now. He's got a bad heart, you know," Yancy said, playfully elbowing Lindsay as he went past.

Although Lindsay appreciated Yancy's lighthearted friendliness, especially in contrast to the sourness of his father-in-law, there was something oily about his manner that made her uncomfortable. In fact, the whole scene-Margo's meekness, Boughtflower's irritability toward his son-in-law, Yancy's jokes, and especially the strange financial arrangements, all gave her the creeps.

When Margo and Yancy were gone, Lindsay turned toward the old man. "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked. "Would you like me to pray with you?"

He began to laugh, but it quickly turned into a choking fit. Lindsay moved toward the nurse call b.u.t.ton, but he waved her violently away. Instead, she handed him a water cup from which he took small sips.

Lindsay sat quietly while Boughtflower recovered his breath. Evening was beginning to fall, and the sun glowed giant and red through the window. In the strange shadows the light cast, Boughtflower's huge form seemed to be draped across the bed like a deflated zeppelin. It was impossible to believe that a body so ma.s.sive would soon be devoid of life.

When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet, a gravelly whisper. "You probably heard that this is the end for me."

Lindsay nodded.

"Well, there's a lot of things I've done that I'm not proud of. But the thing I'm gonna do now, I am proud of. I've made sure that not a single red cent of the Boughtflower money is pa.s.sed on to any of them."

He closed his eyes and Lindsay half-wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Normally, she might have tiptoed out of the room in such circ.u.mstances to allow the patient to rest, but instead she prompted, "Do you mean you don't want your family to inherit your money? You said something before, about the money not being yours?"

His eyes flew open. "That's right. After he died... instead of sharing the money with all the people..." He paused and his attention seemed to drift for a moment, perhaps caught up in memories of the past.

"Right after who died? A relative of yours?" Lindsay asked.

He shook his head. "The Burnt Island people... We took it... Ran away with it... Everything that happened afterwards is because of that d.a.m.ned money. I tried to give it back... Let them be the ones to deal with it." He narrowed his eyes and his breathing became even more labored.

"Who should deal with it? The Burnt Island people?"

He nodded. "Need help... It needs to get back where it belongs." Boughtflower's breath was coming now in ragged gasps, and his lips took on an unhealthy, bluish tinge. "There's somebody else helping, too. Together, you'll make sure."

"Who else is helping? Together with who?" Lindsay asked.

Boughtflower gasped, his eyes bulging.

"Mr. Boughtflower, I'm going to ring for a nurse," Lindsay said, keeping her voice as calm and even as she could. She had stood alongside enough dying people to recognize the signs of an imminent departure. Even though she knew that Boughtflower had signed the paperwork to say he didn't want to be resuscitated if he stopped breathing again, she also knew that it wasn't her place to make medical decisions. And although she didn't want to say it out loud, she feared that if Margo didn't get back very soon, she was very likely to miss her father's last moments.

Boughtflower tried to speak again, but instead began to gasp and flail, his eyes growing wide. In a voice that sounded like air being squeezed from a bellows, he whispered, "Jess...tell her...I thought I'd have more time."

Chapter 13.

Even though Lindsay had covered less than half of the hours of her normal s.h.i.+ft, by the time she finished work just after 7:30 p.m., she was so emotionally drained she felt like she'd been working for several days straight. Boughtflower's words to her had turned out to be his last. He had gasped and choked, his ragged breathing becoming more and more irregular until it finally ceased altogether. The hospital staff hadn't been able to reach Margo and Yancy in time, so the brief deathbed vigil had fallen to Lindsay. Even now, hours after his body had been taken away by emissaries from the funeral home, she could almost feel the weight of Boughtflower's huge, heavy hand in her own. She could still see his eyes, which had stayed fixed on her until the very end. In fact, even after he'd drawn his last, gasping breath and his heartbeats had ceased, his eyes had continued burning into hers, as if he were trying to convey a final message. After the attending physician had called the time of death, she had been the one to reach over with a trembling hand and draw Boughtflower's eyes closed.

Lindsay handed over the on-call pager to the chaplain who was on night duty, gathered her things, and made her way slowly down the hall. She was in no hurry to return home. Although she'd tamed her inner turmoil enough to leave her father's house and get through part of a s.h.i.+ft, she still wasn't sure if she was ready to face her father, Simmy, or Warren. She was caught in a vicious cycle-she was ashamed of her behavior in locking herself away from them, but the shame was now so pervasive, she felt like she needed to hide from them. She briefly toyed with the idea of returning to her own house, which John had informed her via Rob, was now clear for occupancy. But the prospect of sleeping there alone terrified her. Moving back in would have to wait until Simmy and Kipper could join her there this weekend.

She was so caught up in her own dark thoughts that she didn't hear her name being called at first. It wasn't until Adam Tyrell stood almost directly in front of her that she finally registered his words.

"Lindsay! I thought that was you, but when you didn't look up, I thought maybe you'd given me a fake name or something," he said. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm the guy from the parking lot. The tire?"

"Oh, yes. Of course, I remember," she stammered. "I was just daydreaming."

"Good dreams, I hope?"

She avoided the question, which seemed somehow too personal. "So, how's your mother doing?"

"Much better. They think she'll be able to go home the week after next."

"Must've been a pretty major operation if she's going to be here more than a week," Lindsay said.

"They had to remove part of her bowel. She has Crohn's disease." Adam paused, his cheeks coloring slightly. The expression on his handsome face held a disarming boyishness. "I bet you're sorry you asked. The details aren't pretty."

"I shouldn't have pried," Lindsay said. "It's just that people usually like to get up and out of here as fast as possible."

"Mother hates the hospital. She's spent way too much time with doctors and stuff over the years." Gesturing to Lindsay's jacket and backpack, he asked, "Are you on your way home?"

"Yep."

"I don't suppose you'd want to grab dinner? Don't get the wrong idea," he added quickly, putting his hands up in front of him. "I know you're taken. But you're the only person I know in Mount Moriah other than Mother." The corners of his full lips were turned upwards in a shy smile, and his face was tipped slightly forward so that he looked at her through his long, black eyelashes.

Lindsay almost couldn't bring herself to look at his face-afraid that the powerful attraction she felt toward him would pull her into his arms like a physical force. She couldn't remember ever having felt such an instant connection with someone-not with her first boyfriend, Tim, and certainly not with Warren, whom she'd known for more than a decade before they embarked on a relations.h.i.+p. Up to now, she thought that that kind of slow burn, comfortable attraction suited her, but now she began to wonder. What might it be like to throw propriety aside? To be with someone out of pure l.u.s.t? The magnetic sensation she experienced was so palpable that she could almost feel what it would be like to have her body pressed against Adam's. Did she feel this way in reaction to getting engaged? Or was there something special about Adam? And of course there was the overriding question-how could a guy be that good looking?

"I'd love to, but I'd better not," she said, blus.h.i.+ng at her own indecent thoughts.