Send Down the Rain(27)

“You see that tractor trailer jackknifed on the rocks?”

“Yep.”

“Driver was the husband of the owner. Woman named Allie. Beautiful woman, too.”

I waited while he sipped and swallowed.

“Bad marriage led to bad restaurant. Couldn’t service the debt. Bank foreclosed.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“Waiting tables in Apalachicola.”

That stung me a bit.

I screwed the cap back on my gas tank and returned the nozzle to its slip. Without my prompting, he continued. “He weren’t never here nohow.”

I had a feeling my new friend enjoyed being the town spokesperson. Evidently retirement was not what he’d imagined.

“He only made money when that truck was rolling, so he stayed gone months at a time.” He pulled a foot-long cigar from the saddlebag of his bike, cut both ends, and displayed considerable talent and practice lighting it. He offered it to me. “Smoke?”

A single shake of my head. “Never acquired the taste.”

He admired his cigar. “Havana. Buddy smuggles them in for me.” He drew on it and continued with his story. “But . . .” An exhale. “It’s a shame.”

“Shame?” I said, shaking my head.

“That woman had the same thing Colonel Sanders had.”

I laughed. “Special recipe?”

“Her fried shrimp would make you slap your momma.”

“That good, huh?”

A long inhale followed by a slow exhale. “No lie.”

I climbed into the truck and rolled down the window. I knew the answer, but I wanted to see his reaction. I squinted one eye. “And the hush puppies?”

He straddled an enormous Harley and pulled his sunglasses over his eyes. He shook his head. “You had to go there, didn’t you?” He rested his hands on the gas tank and stared down the road, saying nothing.

I waved and rolled north. Eating a doughnut.


I SAT NEXT TO the bed, sipping my coffee. The note I’d left was clutched in her hand. She stirred around eleven o’clock and looked at me. My face registered as did the motel room and the dog at her feet. I sat at the end of the bed, feet propped. An index card and pencil in my hand.

She whispered, “Hey.”

I warmed her cup in the microwave and handed it to her. “Hey.”

She sat there several minutes, sipping and staring at me.

I offered, “I got to town yesterday, saw you wandering the beach. You passed out—” I pointed. “Out there.”

She glanced toward the water, then south. “Thank you.”

I touched her foot. “Allie, I’m real sorry.”

She nodded and a tear broke loose. She glanced at the clock. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

She wiped her face. “I need to go to the funeral home, make the arr—”

She couldn’t finish. I patted her foot. “I’ll drive you.”

She was staring through the window, out across the water. “I have to pick out a coffin, but . . . I don’t have any idea what I’m going to put in it.”

I said nothing.

Another tear trickled down her face. She was shaking her head. “My last words to him were so hateful. So—”

I tried to stop her. “Hey. Don’t—”

She blew her nose. “I told him I hated him and he could go to hell. And then I hung up.” Her eyes searched mine. “Those were my last words to him.”

Rosco scooted up next to her hip and laid his head on her thigh.

I let her talk.

“Ours wasn’t a good marriage, never was, but . . . he’d been driving for four days straight. Tried to make it home. His body gave out—” She sat there, hands trembling, shaking her head.

“Easy. One thing at a time.” I stood and pointed at her clothes. “Rosco and I will wait outside.” I laid the index card with her likeness on the bedside table. “My truck is parked downstairs.”


WE DROVE TO THE funeral home, where we were met by a guy I’d known in grammar school and hadn’t seen in at least forty years. Austin Walsh had inherited his family’s funeral business and made a good life for himself and his family. He saw Allie step out of my truck and met us at the door. He was round at the middle, bald on top, and soft-spoken, with a demeanor that suggested he was really good at his job. He led us in, expressed how sorry he was, and we small-talked for a few minutes. Then he led us to the display room. Ten coffins of varying wood type and finish lined the room.

Allie walked between the rows, letting her fingers touch the wood and the satin padding. After fifteen minutes, she was no closer to a decision. She turned to me. “What do you think?”

Unfortunately, I had some experience with coffins. I pointed to a solid oak, no-frills option with stainless handles. As for price range, it was middle of the road.

Austin nodded. “Good choice,” he said quietly. “One of my personal favorites.”

She stood over it, staring down. “This would be great.”

Austin said, “Allie, um . . . given the nature of what happened, there aren’t really a lot of arrangements to be made. We can be ready whenever you like.”

She understood what he meant. “Would tomorrow be too soon?”