Fatherhood by Thomas H. Cook Read Free Book Online

life.”
    Billie’s eyes fluttered open for a moment then closed. My father got up and listened to his heart. He glanced at Mr. Withers then at me. “Eddie, maybe you’d better get on to bed now,” he said softly.
    I stood up. “Good night, Mr. Withers.”
    â€œThank you for your hep, boy,” Mr. Withers said. He moved to tip his hat, realized it was squeezed tight in his hand and simply nodded. “I ’preciate it.”
    In the room next door I could hear my father and Mr. Withers talking quietly, but it was hard to make out exactly what they were discussing. At times I could hear words individually spoken—a yes here, a no there, Billie’s name. Food and drink were offered and refused. I expected my father to leave after a while, but he never did. When the first morning light filtered through my window, I could still hear the slow, heavy tone of his voice. It sounded like a distant horn struggling through the fog.
    Sometime during the night, Billie Withers died. I saw Mr. Withers out my window when I woke up. He was leaning against a tree, one leg gently pawing at the ground. He was facing away from me, but I could tell by the slump of his shoulders, by the way that his head hung forward, that the worst had happened.
    â€œThe boy died,” my father said when I walked into the kitchen.
    â€œI thought so,” I said. “I saw Mr. Withers out in the yard.”
    â€œHe needs some time to be alone. We’ll be taking the body home this morning.”
    â€œUs?”
    â€œYes. Mr. Withers was on foot. He walked down here last night.”
    â€œAll the way from up the mountain?”
    My father broke an egg into the fry pan. “Only way he had.”
    After breakfast Mr. Withers gathered Billie in his arms, and we drove them up the mountain road to home. Except for giving a few directions, Mr. Withers did not say much. He sat in the back seat, sometimes staring out the window, sometimes watching Billie’s face as if he were hoping for some sudden sign of life, a tremble in the lips or a pulse beneath the eyes.
    For the whole noisy, jostling trip, he cradled Billie in his arms, supporting the back of his head like you would a newborn infant’s.
    The scene in the back of our Model A has always been to me the real Pietá , stark and beautiful as brown, wind-severed corn, unsoftened by blue light, unadorned, unsanctified, unknown.
    Billie Withers was buried two days later in an unvarnished wooden coffin. You could hear the muffled sound of his body bumping against the sides as the men lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him to the cemetery behind the Mountain View Church of Christ.
    It was a cold, overcast day. A small breeze fluttered the pages of the hymnals the people used to sing a farewell hymn. Their voices did not soar like the town choir I was used to. They sang in a flat, featureless monotone like ghosts rooted to earth, bound to it by invisible wires. The old people hugged themselves, holding their coats close about them, and the children watched the bleak ritual of Billie’s burial with patient, respectful eyes.
    A final prayer was said, and then the small congregation filed silently out of the cemetery. A few of the older ones lifted their collars against the wind.
    Only Mr. Withers remained. He stepped over to my father and shook his hand. “You didn’t have to come,” he said. “Thank you.”
    â€œI’m sorry I couldn’t help him.”
    Mr. Withers wiped a film of moisture and grit from his eyes. “Maybe it was meant to be.”
    â€œSomeday it’ll be different,” my father said firmly. “We’ll find the answers to these things.”
    Mr. Withers nodded, allowing my father’s distant faith to pass without argument. “Well, thank you for what you done,” he said.
    He walked a few feet away, picked up a large, flat stone and sunk it into the ground at the head of