Those Cassabaw Days. Cindy Miles
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Island Cemetery Cassabaw Station August 2000
WHAT WAS IT about death and rain, anyway? Emily Quinn’s grandma had said it was the angels’ tears falling from Heaven, and they were sad that Mama and Daddy had to leave us behind to join them. She’d also said God was full of euphoria to have two new angels beside Him to do His work. What was euphoria, anyway? And why didn’t God do some of His own work? There were plenty enough angels in Heaven. Emily and her little sister, Reagan, needed Mama and Daddy more than God did. But it didn’t matter to Him. He had them now, and was keeping them. Forever. No take backs.
Emily stood just outside of the cover of her grandpa’s umbrella, staring at the cemetery workers as they turned a metal crank, lowering her father into the grave. She wondered who’d dressed him in that stupid dark gray suit. He looked stuffy and pinched and uncomfortable with that tie yanked up close to his throat. Daddy hated suits. He liked shorts and T-shirts and his favorite old brown leather flip-flops. They’d also brushed his unruly sun-bleached curls to the side. He never, ever wore his hair like that, and it looked dumb. Even now she wanted to fling that lid open and ruffle his hair so it was messy and Daddy. No one had listened to her, though.
Her eyes slid over to her mom’s casket. She didn’t want to think of her mama lying in that stupid shiny container, wearing that new gray dress Grandma had bought for her; it was ugly. Her mom always wore bright, sunny colors. Not drab gray. And, she had too much blush on her cheeks. Too much eye shadow. She would have hated that. Mama was naturally pretty and didn’t need even a stitch of makeup. Tears burned the back of Emily’s throat, and she pressed closer to Reagan, who was two years younger, at ten.
The drone of the preacher’s final words, meant for comfort, Grandma had said, sounded more like a hive of bees, mad and buzzing in Emily’s ears. It made the stitches under the bandage circling her head throb, and the gash burn. Anger boiled inside her at the thought. Why did I survive while Mama and Daddy didn’t? Why did they leave me behind?
Suddenly, a sob escaped Reagan and she hurried over to stand between their grandma and grandpa. She began to cry pretty hard. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to set free the tears pushing at her eyelids. Slowly, she lifted her face, breathed and opened her eyes.
The rain fell from a blanket of dreary gray clouds in fat, heavy plops that sank straight through her hair to her scalp. Dull thuds pinged off the umbrellas as the rain fell a little faster, and chorused through the crowd of mourners gathered at the graveside.
The cemetery workers began turning the crank again, clink clink clink, lowering her mama into the ground beside her daddy. Her eyes followed that shiny container, and Emily felt cold and alone, and her body began to shake. She hated that suit. She hated that dress. And she hated those caskets. She couldn’t stop the tremors no matter how hard she tried.
She wanted to run. Run as fast and as far away as she could and just keep going and going. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, and it hurt. It hurt to breathe, it...just hurt so bad inside—
A hand—warm, a little bigger than hers and stronger, too—slipped into hers and squeezed with a firm gentleness that caught her off guard. Emily didn’t even need to look to see who had eased through the crowd to stand beside her, and her body sagged against his skinny but surprisingly strong frame. Matt Malone’s hand squeezed hers a little tighter, as if trying to take the pain away, and Emily felt his warmth seep straight through his long-sleeved white dress shirt, deep into her skin.
Even though he was a boy, Matt had been her best friend since, well, forever, and his presence eased the hurt a little. Emily breathed, her head resting against Matt’s shoulder, and soon her body stopped shaking so much.
She knew it’d start up again, the shaking. And the tears would not stay inside her eyes for too much longer, either. She was leaving Cassabaw Station. Leaving her best friend. Leaving her dead mama and daddy in the ground in those shiny caskets.
Leaving home.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we return Kate and Alex Quinn to Your servitude, oh Lord,” the preacher droned on. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, amen.”
Thunder rumbled far in the distance, almost as if God was answering the preacher’s offering. Sniffles rose through the air as mourners sobbed out loud, and Emily blocked them all out, turning her head to look at Matt. He was already staring at her, and she gazed right back into his strange green eyes. Eyes that always held mischief and devilment now looked glassy and sad. Long black lashes fanned out against his wet, bronzed skin. His dark hair sat plastered to his head from the rain, but a long hank flipped out from his cowlick and hung across his forehead. His black tie was crooked and soaked. She fixed her gaze on his eyebrow, the one with the scar slashing through it. The emptiness returned, and a big, swelled-up tear rolled down her cheek.
“I wish you weren’t going,” Matt said, his voice low, steady. He still had her hand in his. “I don’t want you to go. It ain’t fair.”
“I know,” Emily answered. Her voice cracked as the pent-up sobs grabbed her over. “I don’t want to leave.”
Matt leaned closer to her ear, and for once, he smelled clean, like soap. Not salty from the river water. “Jep says it’s horseshit that you and Rea have to move away to Maryland,” he whispered. “Says you should just stay and live with us, on Morgan’s Creek.” He pulled back and stared. “That this is your home.”
Jep was Matt’s grandpa, and Emily felt the very same way. She’d pleaded for her and Reagan not to leave Cassabaw, but Grandma and Grandpa said they had to take care of them, and their home was in Maryland. Right next door to the President of the United States, they’d said. Emily had begged to stay with Daddy’s aunt Cora; that she and Reagan didn’t care one bit about living close to the president, but Grandpa said no, because Aunt Cora was too busy and had the café to run.
It hadn’t taken their grandpa long to pack up all the things from the river house and load them into the U-Haul. They were leaving straight from the funeral, heading to their home in Bethesda. Nine hours away, Grandpa had said.
A sob caught in Emily’s throat as the tears kept rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll come back one day,” she whispered, “right here to Cassabaw, and I won’t ever leave again. We have to fly in our flying machine. Right?” Jep had taught them an old song, “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine,” and they’d sung it together since they were little. It was their song now, and they’d sworn they’d fly in one, someday.
Matt dropped their entwined hands, reached up and gently wiped Emily’s tears away with the rough pads of his fingers. “Yeah, that’s right. So don’t go flyin’ away in one with anyone else, okay? Promise?” he asked, and jerked a pinkie toward her. “Promise, Em. Promise you’ll come back. For good. And never leave again.”
She nodded, and hooked her own pinkie around his. “I promise.”
Matt’s emerald gaze regarded her for a long time before he gave a single nod. “Deal.” He dropped his hand and it disappeared into the pocket of his black dress pants. When he withdrew it, his closed fist hovered in the air. “I got something for you. Hold out your hand.”
Emily held hers out. Matt lowered his fist and opened it. Something small and cool grazed her skin. It was an angel-wing shell. At least, that’s what she and Matt had always called them. Although in the ocean the shells were closed, like little clams, with a little creature inside. Once the shells washed onto the beach, they opened up like a pair of angel wings. Emily looked at Matt.
A slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he reached down with his bony fingers and broke the two wings apart.
“What’d