He remembered his father’s funeral. The casket holding his father’s body down front, at the foot of the pulpit. The young preacher, his hair shining with hair tonic, his eyes flashing joy or maybe sadness, his voice shrill and tinny, still more boy than man. Remembered the music that came up from those who were in attendance. Yes, we will gather at the river … Remembered his mother’s face, pale, yet lifted, showing the kind of bravery expected of her. Remembered Travis sitting next to her, a string of tears rolling out of his blinking eyes.

The beautiful, beautiful river …

He turned quickly and left the church and walked rapidly away from it, not looking back to see if he had closed the door.

In his mind, he could hear the preacher whispering near his ear, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” And he could feel the single drop of baptismal water that had dripped from his hair to run down his face like the warm blood of Jesus.

TWENTY-TWO

Eleanor let her body lean back against the tub, and the water, carrying a film of soap, covered her, rising up over her shoulders, tickling at her chin. The water was hot, as hot as her skin could bear it, and the steam from it licked across her face.

It was not often she gave in to such luxury. Her husband had considered a filled tub a waste of water and a drain on the water heater, and believed that any person wanting to soak idly while the water cooled had too much time on his or her hands. A tub was for scrubbing off dirt, not for pleasure, had been her husband’s view of bathing.

But her husband was not there to disapprove. And the old woman was not there to be nosy about why she was so long in the bathroom. She was alone, tired, and on her drive from the Reynolds home, she had imagined the pleasure of a soaking bath in a filled tub, had become almost obsessed with the thought of it.

Now, in the water, her back and shoulders slick against the hard enamel of the tub, her muscles began to relax. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth slightly, sucked in the steam air—warm in her mouth, in her lungs.

She thought of Ada Reynolds, still numbed by news that did not seem possible to her—would never seem possible, probably. She had barely moved from her chair the entire day, had not released the photograph of Matthew from her grip. It was as though she had finally faced a problem she could not handle and had surrendered, which was like a dying in itself. It was Howard who had faced the crowds of people gathered to offer sympathy and food and work, telling them in a low voice that he was grateful—that both of them were grateful. Saying he always knew he lived in the best place on earth and the people, showing their kindness, proved it. It was Howard who met his son at the door when Milton arrived soon after the noon hour, Howard who gave him the news of Matthew, Howard who had offered the same words Whitlow Mayfield had whispered to the men at the lake: “He’s with his mama.”