Page 5 of Broken Cedar

I climb out of bed and stand at the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. Outside, the yard is already alive. Trucks in the drive. Pickups, mostly—Fords and Chevys and one ancient Dodge that might predate me. There are people moving between them, carrying casserole dishes wrapped in towels and bouquets of flowers cut that morning.

I dress quickly and head downstairs.

The kitchen is a war zone. My mother stands at the center of it, wielding a spatula in one hand and her list in the other. She’s always been like this, constantly needing to be productive. I guess it’s her way of feeling like she’s in control of her emotions.

“Hallie,” she says without looking up from her list. “Good. You’re awake. I need someone to take these trays out to the front porch while I start greeting guests.”

“I’m on it,” I say automatically, picking up a tray and heading outside.

The yard is full now. Voices overlap. Laughter rises and falls. The memorial proper will begin soon—people are gathering chairs in loose rows facing the porch, where someone has setup a microphone and a small amplifier. Mom moves through the crowd, touching shoulders, accepting embraces. She looks steadier than she did yesterday, at least.

A pang of guilt washes over me. I’ve been a shitty daughter. I should have come home sooner. At the very least, I should have considered what my leaving did to Mom. It was bad enough that she lost Jim. I guess, in a way, she lost me too, just to the city instead.

I help finish the setup while Mom continues greeting the neighbors and other locals. It’s nice to see that so many people came. I guess that’s the thing about small towns. Everyone knows everyone. And Jim, he knew everyone, and everyone loved him.

I finish setting up the last of the items on Mom’s list and stand on the porch for a moment, taking it all in. My eyes are drawn, as always, to Colt. I watch him lift a heavy ice chest for an elderly woman and carry it into the shade without being asked. Then I watch him kneel to tie a child’s shoelace while the child’s mother is three conversations away. I can’t help but smile.

The chairs fill as people begin taking their seats. I make my way toward the front and slip into the seat beside Mom. I glance over my shoulder until I find Colt standing near the back of the crowd, hat in his hands, his thumb working slowly around the brim the way it always does when he’s forcing himself to stand still.

I catch his eye and nod toward the empty chair beside me. He gives the smallest shake of his head. For a second, I wonder if he simply doesn’t want to be that close to me. Then I realize he’s exactly where he belongs—at the back, where he can see everyone without being seen himself.

One of my stepdad’s closest friends, Earl, steps up to the microphone on the porch and calls for attention. “We’re here for Jim Walker,” he says. “Some of you knew him your whole lives. Some of you knew him as a neighbor. He was steady. Honest. Stubborn as an old mule when he thought he was right.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the audience. The yard is full—fifty people, maybe sixty, arranged in chairs and leaning against truck beds at the edges.

“So that’s what we’re going to do today. We’re going to tell stories about Jim to celebrate his life. The good ones. The ones that made you laugh. The ones that made you shake your head and wonder how one man could be that stubborn and that generous at the same time.”

A man I vaguely recognize stands, takes the microphone, and clears his throat.

“Jim took in a hurt coyote once,” he says, and there’s laughter before he finishes, because everyone knows this story or one like it. “Pup was…maybe two months old. Leg busted. Found it in the ditch by the north road. Most men would’ve left it. Or worse.” He shakes his head. “Not Jim. Brought it home. Splinted the leg himself. Fed it with an eyedropper. Had that thing living in a box in the barn for six weeks until it could run again.” He looks at my mother, who is smiling. “Drove Elaine half crazy with the howling.”

Mom laughs. A real laugh, surprised out of her. “He did. God, he did. That coyote would start up at two in the morning, and Jim would go out there and sit with it until it quieted down. Said it was lonely. He drove me half crazy.”

“But you loved him anyway,” someone calls.

Mom huffs a laugh. “I did.”

Several people laugh, myself included.

“Jim released it up by Broken Cedar Creek,” the man continues. “Watched it run off into the trees and stood there for ten minutes after, just making sure it was gone for good.” He pauses and swallows. “That was Jim. He cared about things that couldn’t thank him. Always did.”

The next speaker is already smiling before he reaches the microphone.

“Now, nobody ever accused Jim of being graceful.” A few people chuckle knowingly.

“He decided one spring he’d save himself a few dollars fixing the windmill out in Miller’s pasture.” The man grins. “Halfway up the tower he drops his wrench. Climbs all the way back down. Climbs all the way back up. Drops it again.” Laughter spreads through the crowd. “Third trip up, he tied every tool he owned to his belt with baling twine.”

The speaker shakes his head. “Finished the repair looking like the world’s least successful Christmas tree.” Even Colt smiles at that, just a little. “And when we all laughed at him…” the man continues, “…he laughed harder than the rest of us.”

The crowd laughs again, warmer this time. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d heard that kind of laughter around Mom.

The last speaker is an older rancher whose hands look almost as weathered as the fence posts lining the property. “I remember when Colt was about fifteen.”

My eyes find Colt automatically. He hasn’t moved.

“Jim was teaching him to back up the stock trailer.” The rancher smiles. “Now, backing a trailer isn’t something you learn in five minutes.” Several people nod. “Took that boy the better part of an afternoon. Every time Colt jackknifed it, he’d climb out looking like he’d failed.” The rancher looks toward the back of the crowd. “And every single time Jim said the same thing.” He pauses. “‘Try again.’” The yard is silent. “No yelling. No telling him he was useless. Just…try again.” He shrugs. “By sunset, that trailer was straight as a string.” His voice softens. “That’s the thing about Jim. He didn’t just teach people how to ranch. He taught them how to believe they could.”

I swallow hard. Mom’s fingers find mine, squeezing gently. I shift lightly so that I can watch Colt. He lowers his eyes, rubbing his thumb once across the brim of his hat before setting it on his head. No one says anything for several long seconds.