The Dead Don't Dance by Charles Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

next steamer. When the ship gets to the place where his children drowned, the captain brings him up to the bow.
    â€œHere. This is where.” He leaves Spafford to stand alone on the bow.
    I want to know if he broke down. Fell to his knees. How strong was the urge to Peter Pan off the bow? Had it not been for his wife waiting on the other shore, would he have jumped? I think I would have. That dark water would have reached up and swallowed me whole—frozen man. But not Spafford. He stands up, wipes the tears, scans the water, and returns to his cabin, where he writes a poem.
    What kind of a guy writes a poem at the place where his four kids went down? What kind of a guy writes anything when his children die? Well, the poem got off the boat in Spafford’s pocket in Europe, somebody tied some notes to it, and there it was, coming out Amos’s mouth.
    The doctors say Maggie “probably” won’t be alive long. Tell me yes or no, but don’t tell me probably. Yet had it not been for probably, and the picture in my mind of Maggs lying there, limp and bleeding, I’d have lowered my son down on top of me and let Amos sing for both of us.
    He finished his song, his face a mixture of sweat and tears, and I laid my son in the hole. Amos grabbed a shovel.
    â€œHold it,” I said.
    I walked back to the truck, picked Huckleberry off the front seat, and tucked him under my arm. I brushed him off, straightened the red bow tie around his neck, and then knelt next to the hole and laid the bear on top of the casket.
    The cement made a grinding sound as we slid the casket into place. I let the first shovelful spill slowly. Gently. Quietly.
    The riverbank sloped to the water. The river was quiet and dark. Minutes passed. Amos wiped his face, put on his glasses, and walked to the truck. Sweat and cold trickled down my back in the ninety-eight-degree heat.
    I looked at my hands. My eyes followed the intersections of wrinkle and callus and the veins that traveled out of my palm, over my wrist and up my forearm where, for the first time, I saw flecks of blood caked around the hair follicles. It was dark, had dried hard, and had blended with the sun freckles. Maggie’s blood. I picked up a handful of dirt and gripped it tight, squeezing the edges out of my palm like an hourglass. It was damp, coarse, and smelled of earth.
    I needed to tell Maggie about the funeral.
    The tops of the cornstalks gently brushed my arms and legs, almost like mourners, as I walked back to the house. On the way, I rubbed the dirt from my son’s grave into my arm, grinding it like a cleanser, until my forearm was raw and clean. The old blood gone and new blood come.

chapter five
    T HE DIGGER AMPHITHEATRE, BUILT ABOUT SIX YEARS ago, is one of South Carolina’s best-kept secrets. It’s ten miles from my house and a long way from nowhere. It rises up like a bugle out of pine trees and hardwoods, covering about three acres, most of which is parking lot. Whoever built it was far more interested in quality acoustics than quantity seating. During the construction, throughout the public hoopla surrounding the opening, and ever since, the donor has remained anonymous.
    The amphitheatre is used about three times a year; the rest of the time it just sits there. It’s hosted Garth Brooks, George Strait, Randy Travis. Vince Gill, James Taylor. Mostly country and bluegrass folks. The unplugged types. But we’ve had other names. Even George Winston. Bruce Springsteen came through once. Brought only his guitar. Maggie and I got to that one.
    There are all kinds of myths about who built it. Some bigwig in Charleston with more money than sense. A divorcee from New York who was angry at her husband. An eccentric from California whose family homesteaded this area. Who built it depends on whom you talk to. One night a few years back, I learned the truth.
    I was driving home at about two in the morning, and I swore I heard bagpipes. I