"Sure," I lie.
His eyes narrow. "Damn."
And then he does an unexpected thing. He laughs good and loud. He laughs so hard that he coughs, which turns into a fit. He puts a hand to his mouth to stop it.
"Grandpa, you okay? You catch something?"
Finally, he stills and pulls his hand back.
His chin and palm are covered in bloody speckles.
"Well, hell," Grandpa says. "Here I thought you came to talk about me dying, when all along, you didn't know. I caught something, all right. A fatal lung cancer."
I stagger back a step.
Fatal.
I try to blink away the shock of his statement. Despite my best intentions to stay so carefully guarded, I'm going to lose another person in my life.
"But you've never smoked a day in your life." I don't know why I say it. It's just the first thing that comes to mind.
Panic surges through my veins. I wonder if the anguish I feel is reflected in my expression. I consider Grandpa closely. My stare goes again to the red flecks on his skin. Does it hurt to know he's dying?
"Don't be dense, boy. You don't have to smoke to get cancer. 'Course, you sure increase your odds if you do, but cancer handpicked me, and so here I am. For all my sins, seems like a mighty right way for me to go. Could have been worse."
I grab a towel from the side table and hand it to him.
"How much longer?" I ask. I don't want to know. But I can't not know.
"A week? Two? I don't know. Haven't eaten much. Can't keep most things down. Mind is going in and out. I'm tired, Beau. It's close to time."
"How long have you known?" I ask. My voice is steady, though my thoughts are not.
Grandpa is dying. I feel as though I am dying, too. And suddenly, the weight is too much. I take a seat, my head in my hands. I stiffen, fighting back the sobs that threaten to wreck me. Not again. Not Grandpa, too. I can't lose him, too.
"About six months. Went to the doctor in town. He sent me to the hospital. Know what it's like to get stuck with needles and poked a million times, feeling like a pesky porcupine went and put its quills in you? Well, it's about as awful as it sounds. Actually, worse."
"What about medicine?" I ask. "There must be something they can do."
Grandpa wheezes. "They offered treatments, sure. I'm not taking them, though. I want to die the right way. Here in my own home." He stops to catch his breath, which never seems to happen. "Let the swamp have me when it's over, will you? That's all I ask. Sink my ashes in the muddy gator water. Wouldn't want it any other way."
I came to talk to Grandpa about strategy, and now I'm taking an oath to respect his death.
"I'll do it, you know I will," I say. A pinch of anger rolls through me. "But were you ever going to tell me? Was I just supposed to wake up one morning to learn that you never will again?"
Anger gives way to sadness. I take a ragged, steadying breath and place a palm against my chest, over my heart, where it feels as though I'm being split in two.
Grandpa shrugs. "What would you have done, Beau? On the one hand, I suppose telling you lets you see it beforehand. But I wonder what good that does. Can't change a thing."
"It gives me a chance to say goodbye. That's more than I got from Dad and Mom."
"Then say it," he replies.
"Not now, you're not that close to being gone yet."
"Might as well be. The worst is comin'. Can't promise I'll remember if you don't say it now."
"I'm not going to," I say, a note of finality in my tone.
It's not fair, none of it. I press two rough fingers to my lips to keep the goodbye from slipping out. Each breath feels as though it's sawing through my lungs, too painful to bear.
"Suit yourself. Maybe I can tell you something, though?" Grandpa requests. "I want you to know that I've only truly loved a few people in my life, and you happen to be one of them."
I'm silent. I'm stone, unmoving. The Cadwell family doesn't express emotions. It's not who we are, damn it. But I see it anyhow. It's written in the way my hands shake. In the way I open and close my mouth several times in indecision. I want to tell him how much he means to me, too.
Maybe I should be telling Grandpa that I love him, but I can't seem to pull the words out past the rock in my throat.
Grandpa wraps a blanket around his shoulders even though it's about a hundred degrees with the windows open. His eyes are getting heavier, drooping nearly closed, like even sitting here and staying awake is too much of an effort for him.
Charlotte rounds the corner. Grandpa takes shallow breaths, sounding wet like the slurp of mud tugging at boots.
"You've told him, then," she says.
Grandpa nods, saving his voice. Even the slightest sigh sends him trying to swallow down coughs. Now that I think about it, it makes sense. He's been weak, tired. Staying to his room. Off balance, maybe due to dizziness from not eating much. The cancer is swallowing him whole.
For once, Charlotte's face is somber.
"Now what?" she whispers.
"Now we wait," Grandpa says.
The end of his sentence hangs silent and invisible, but I say it in my mind anyway.
We wait … for his death.
35
Willow
A water moccasin coils and waits like a stump by the tree, but I see it good and clear, even though it mostly blends into the dirt.
"Watch your step," I tell Jorie.
We pass the snake without incident. Occasionally they give chase, but not today.
"How about that tree?" Jorie asks.
The weeping willow is clear of snakes, and so we take a seat under its hanging limbs. I place the picnic basket between us and get to work opening its contents. Down the way, a gator suns himself, side-eyeing us. I can tell by the way he hardly moves that he's cold from the water, needing warmth to reenergize him. It's the ones that have been out in the heat for hours that you need to worry about. They're faster than fast and feisty, too.
"What've you got?" she asks.
"Ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches with grapes, melon, and sweet tea."
I unzip a baggie and take a bite of a sandwich. Gran made them just the way I like-thick honey-cured ham sprinkled with brown sugar, salty eggs, cheese melted into a crispy croissant shell. Suddenly, I'm hungrier than I was a minute ago.
"Sweet Lord," Jorie says as she sinks her teeth into a sandwich. "Your gran sure knows her way around the kitchen."
It takes all of a minute for us to finish our sandwiches. I eat mine so fast that I forget to get out the mason jars to pour Jorie and me some tea. The mason jars are already packed with ice, lids screwed on tight. The ice has only just barely melted in the heat. I drink the water that's collected on the bottom of my jar, and then fill it with tea. Sugar shocks my senses in the best way.
With several gulps in me, my mind finally casts off the last dregs of sleep. I get a feeling sort of like my bones fit right in a place like this. The trees, the murky water, the creatures, all of them are a constant in my life now, and I wonder how I lived anywhere else.
"You ever get the feeling you're meant to be somewhere?" I ask Jorie. "Like here, in this swamp? Does it ever call to you?"
She nods. "It does. It always has. My family and me, we've visited other places, sure. But I can't handle being away for more than a week. I get homesick."
Home. That's what the swamp has become to me. I'm sure of it. This place has completely claimed me.
"The swamp gives me a sinking feeling in my bones, but in a good way," I say.
"I know just what you mean," she replies. "It's as though you are chained to a place but somehow totally free."
"Exactly. I never did feel that when we lived in Florida, or in another part of Georgia for that matter. But then again, I never did live in the swamp proper, so there you go."
Jorie sips her tea, crunching on a piece of ice. Today her hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her lips are painted a deep brown that goes perfect with her skin.
"You know, it nearly makes me sick to separate myself from this place," she says. "Where else can I get fresh gator tail, or frog legs, or catfish that tastes just right?"
"You think after high school finishes that you'll go off to college? Or will you stay close?"
There is no college close by, which makes me question what I want to do. And considering that we have only a couple of months left of senior year, I need to make a decision.
"Haven't decided yet." Jorie reaches a thin hand into the wicker basket and pushes aside the flannel towel to grab a bundle of grapes.
"My mom asked me today if I had applied," I say.
"What'd you tell her?"
"The truth. I haven't applied anywhere." I don't tell Jorie that Beau, his family, and the murderer have occupied my mind and time. "But I might. Suppose it can't hurt to take classes a few days a week at the community college. It'll be a long drive, but I'm sure I want to stay in the swamp. Maybe I can even take some of the courses online."