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Lee

It's odd to know you'll never see someone again, especially someone who'd had enough life and vigor for a handful of people, who you never thought would go out in such a gruesome way.

I'd known Devrol Hull since I was eight. Uncle Arthur had been friends with him since they were kids. The fact that Uncle couldn't be here at the horse's funeral himself was almost as painful to him as his physical injuries.

"We now commit his body to the ground," says the minister, an elderly ram with tightly curled horns. Dad and I are sitting four rows back, but I still catch the robed man as he turns to the casket and bows his head to Devrol's remains in respect. They'd been friends, too. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life."

It's cold. There's a chill in the air, a dampness that means rain is on the way. Or snow. The change in season has my broken arm acting up, too, throbbing just long enough for me to remember its still broken before easing off. Many, including myself, are wrapped in suit-jackets or sweaters. Dad is sitting on my right, his muzzle still, cheek muscles flexed as if he's biting down or grinding his teeth. His breath fogs out from his nostrils and vanishes. There's a horse to my left, a young palomino mare, with a white rose held close to her chest: Tess, one of Devrol's nieces. We'd met before at some family get together Devrol invited me and my uncle to. She holds herself high in her chair, eyes following the glossy, black casket as it begins to sink beneath the earth. Once it's out of sight, another mare wails at the front and cries into the wide shoulder of a dark brown stallion who wraps his arms around her: Marge, Devrol's wife, and their son, Rich. Her black veil slips from her head onto the ground, and a young colt sitting behind them (maybe six or seven) picks it up and tries to hand it back to her. She doesn't take it, doesn't know he's there, so he just sits back down and holds the veil in his lap. His father, another big stallion I don't recognize, pats his head and they look forward to the minister, to a ring of blue iris wreaths against a backdrop of tombstones and grey sky.

Three people, a man and two women, stand in unison and go up front to stand placidly next to Devrol's grave. The man's a wolf, the women a vixen and a lioness. They close their eyes and begin to hum, the harmony of Amazing Grace washing over the grieving, and then they begin to sing. Those who have their voices sing along. My dad's silence is broken next to me. To my left, Tess stays quiet, but tears well up in her eyes as the song goes on. The preacher beckons to Marge, and Rich helps her to stand. Together they shuffle to the grave and toss handfuls of dirt in, and then they depart down the center of the aisle. Those behind Marge then follow suit, and soon my father and I do the same. I scoop up some dirt and stand at the edge of the hole. I peer down into it and smell the spice of bare earth, a rustiness that sticks in my nose. Dad nudges me and I grip the dirt in my paw. Some spills out onto my dress shoes. I close my eyes and toss the rest in.

Goodbye, Dev.

Tess comes up behind us, and she gently tosses her rose into the grave. It glides down to rest in the middle of the casket, a speck of white amidst darkness.

I turn to follow my father. He'd walked a ways ahead and was standing at the front row of chairs in our section, which was halfway empty. People toward the back were just now standing up to come forward. Dad motions for me to hurry it up. The folks in the adjacent section from us watch as we walk down the middle of the chairs toward the church in the distance, and it makes me pick up my pace.

"Hey," dad says, nudging me and pointing to the left, his ears raised.

I slow, look over, and spot officer Crowley in line to pay his respects as we had. He's not in uniform, but dressed in black like the rest of us, his paws in the pockets of a long overcoat as he makes his way to the grave. He's handsome; I'll admit it. The black and white of his fur goes well with what he has on. Makes him look like a detective from some old noir film. As dad and I pass, he looks over and sees me. He smiles sadly and nods, his vermillion eyes closing briefly. I nod back, Dad does too, and then we depart toward the church.

Crowley had been at the wake yesterday, which I thought was odd. I find it odd that he's here too, but he had been one of the first responders to the accident. Plus, from my experience with him, he seemed like a nice guy. The kind of guy who'd honor someone killed, regardless of whether he knew them well or not. He'd checked in on uncle Arthur many times, too, happy to hear that he was going to be alright. Honestly, I liked when Crowley would show up. I felt like I could confide in him. We hadn't really gotten that deep into anything because my dad tended to be around, but it was still nice to get things off of my chest, like with Harvey. And like Harvey, I admired Crowley, too.

The sanctuary is a good distance away, maybe half a mile. It lies on the outskirts of Emerald Bluff, much like Uncle's farm, so there's a lot of space. It's also one of the oldest churches in town, and a hundred or so other graves plot the landscape between us and the mess hall where the reception is being held. There's a small, paved path that runs through the graveyard so people can walk without stepping on any plots. Our dress shoes clop against the weather-stained asphalt as we go. Mine pinch, like always. I hated wearing them. I stick my paws in my pockets and glance at the names on the gravestones as we pass. Lots of Martins and Heaths, a few Lutz, and there's even a Kendrick or two, which is Red's last name. Red and his parents moved to Emerald Bluff from Georgia, though, so the people buried here couldn't be related to them. Closely related at least. Can't see any Hawthornes. I'd never met either set of my grandparents, I just knew they were dead. I didn't even know where they were laid to rest. I glance at my dad and figure I should ask. Plus, the silence, as normal as it is between the two of us, is too much right now.

"Hey, dad," I say.

"Hmm?" he says, ears swiveling toward my voice as he looks sideways at me, hands also in his pockets.

"Where are my grandparents buried?"

The question doesn't catch him off guard. Maybe he'd been thinking about them, too. Funerals do that, I guess, make you reminisce about those you've lost.

"Why?" he asks.

We pass a knee-high stone so worn that the name on it is unreadable. It's pale white, pocked and covered in moss. There are others like it nearby too, some in a much sorrier state. Forgotten, it would seem. Too old to remember.

I shrug and look at him. "Just curious."

His eyebrows raise. "My folks are a few counties over in Hartsville." He points to the west with his right hand, then quickly pockets it again and half-smiles at me. "At the church I used to go to as a kid." He looks ahead, but his eyes rove around like he's glancing at the past.

"What about mom's?"

He grunts, tail twitching. His black lips tug down. "They're in Alabama. A plot at their hometown."

"Where's that?"

He smirks. "Coffeeville."

"What?" I snort. "No way."

"No lie," he says. "Coffeeville, Alabama."

We laugh a little, quieting down as we pass some other people.

My parent's don't communicate with me well. Mom especially. Dad has lightened up since Uncle's accident, and it's a nice change, but there are still a lot of things we haven't really talked about. Like our family's past. I knew nothing about my grandparents besides their names (Frank and Rose on my dad's side; Teddy and Carol on my mom's), the fact that they were dead, and that dad's parents looked happy in their old age. There's a picture of them in the hallway before you get to my room. It's been there since I was born, and in all my eighteen years they've smiled as I've passed, fur dappled white, their love evident as they held my young father and uncle close. I sometimes wonder if they would've loved me. I bet I would have loved them.

There's a photo of Mom's parents, too. Just one. It's in her and dad's bedroom, on their dresser. I've only seen it when I've gone in there for some reason, and that's only happened a handful of times. I can't really register what they looked like since I only ever glanced at the picture. I think they'd been smiling.

A light rain begins to fall as we get the steps of the church. Dad starts up to the doors, but I stand and look up and let the mist tickle across my face. It's refreshing, and I feel light as the clouds swirl overhead. I close my eyes, but weak sunlight still filters through my lids. A breeze pulls the smell of earth and dry hay to my nose. I look, and there's a pasture across the road from the church, the grasses dried golden and cut short. A lone tractor with a sunroof sits lifeless off to the side, close to a big stretch of trees. It looks nothing like Uncle's, not nearly as big, but my guts twist at the sight of it and at what it's hulking cousin had done to Uncle and to Devrol.

"Lee," Dad beckons.

He's holding the church door open. I look from him to the harvested field, and I think of something.

"What's Uncle going to do about his wheat crop?" I ask.

Dad scowls, but then he looks across the road, too. He looks back to me, a concerned look on his face. He knows Uncle's wheat fields are his primary source of income, and now they can't be harvested. If the crop dies, Uncle's going to be in even more trouble, especially with his new collection of hospital bills.

"Not now, son," Dad says. "We'll talk about it after we're done here."

I take a breath. This isn't the place. "Okay."

"Come on."

He lets the door shut once I'm inside, and together we walk through the empty sanctuary. It smells like a mixture of stale perfume and spearmint chewing gum. The plush, white carpeting quietens our footsteps, and I can see the lighter streaks crisscrossing from where it had recently been vacuumed. Some light still casts color from the stained glass windows onto the floor, the pews, walls. Vibrant reds, greens, blues, and purples wavering on the floor like wisps. I trace my left paw across the ends of the pews as we walk, like I used to do as a kid at my parent's church, the slick wood pleasant to touch. The pulpit sits on a raised platform up front, an offering table in front of it with two candles at each end and a big, golden cross deadcenter. Another cross hangs on the back wall behind the pulpit. Dad makes a right and pauses at an old piano. He taps out a few notes and smiles up at me. I smile at him. He spreads himself over the keys and starts to play something, his eyes closing as he savors the sound, tail wagging a bit. I recognise the song.

"Drops of Jupiter?" I ask, leaning carefully on a bannister beside the piano.

He nods and smiles. "Yeah." He winks. "Don't tell your mother."

"Never," I say, smiling.

He reaches the chorus of the song and winces when he taps an out of tune key, then another. I laugh. He taps them feverishly and shakes his head, then he steps away from the piano.

"Remind me to tell minister Bevil that I can tune this old girl," he says. "It needs it."

"Okay," I say. "And that was nice. You should play stuff like that more often."

He just shrugs and grins. "Maybe. I used to."

He heads toward a closed door to the back, and I follow along. "Why'd you stop?"

His tail stills and he opens the door. He looks back at me, and there's sadness in his eyes. "Things happened."

His sorrow hurts me. I get the urge to hug him, and he pauses as if he wants me to, but then he goes through the door. I follow, noticing how his shoulders slump a bit more.

We descend some stairs in the back, and head down a hall into the mess hall. There are about ten tables set up around the room, most with a few occupants already. One, in a back corner near another table covered in finger foods, is empty. Dad angles toward it, and I follow along and sit. More people arrive, and after another fifteen minutes I can't see through the sea of black suits and dresses. The grief from outside seems to have lessened. People are laughing. Maybe it's because of the food, maybe it's because they've put a distance between themselves and the grave across the way.

Not everyone is brighter, though. Tess stands in a corner by herself, staring at the floor, still looking on the verge of tears. The colt who'd picked up Marge's veil glides up to her and says something, smiling. She smiles back at him, and he points to a table nearby and takes her hand. They go and sit with the boy's father and some other folks, and I feel relief for Tess not being alone now when she needs support. I think of Uncle back at the hospital by himself, and I ache to be by his side so he doesn't wake up without anyone there for him. Other than the nurses, I mean.

Over the mumbling throughout the room I hear someone clear their throat, and I recognize the minister's voice as he gets everyone's attention. He thanks everyone for supporting Marge and her family, and then he asks everyone to bow their heads for a prayer before letting us loose for food and conversation. The prayer is quick and to the point, and then everyone is shuffling about to form a line for the food table. It wraps around the entire room.

"Want anything?" dad asks, standing and smoothing out his jacket. He's regained some composure, standing taller, ears and eyes more lively. "I'll grab it for you."

I eye the line and shake my head. I'm not that hungry, and even if I was I wouldn't want to wait thirty minutes for some cocktail wieners and tiny pimento sandwiches.

"Okay, be back eventually," he says, wading into the throng.

I scoot up to the table and get as comfortable as I can, leaning on my one good arm and just watching people. Soon the room gets hot from all of the bodies packed inside, and I have to peel off my jacket and drape it over the back of my chair. Some of Devrol's family pass by with the line and I talk briefly with them, give my condolences. Tess shuffles past and we smile at one another. The colt, following closely behind Tess, waves gingerly at me and I wave back. Rich and Marge then come by, and the old mare spots me and beckons for a hug. She has her veil again, but it's tucked under her arm. I hold the frail woman as tightly as I dare, and she hiccups a few times before stepping back, handing Rich the veil, and then holding me by the shoulders.

"Devrol always talked about you," she said, smiling. Her pale eyes began to glisten. "You and Arthur made him so happy. He died doing what he loved with people he loved."

I don't know what to say. "He was a great man," I finally get out, because it was relatively true. "There will never be anyone like him again."

"No," she says, "There won't be." She sighs. "I'll be around to see Arthur soon, the poor thing. I know he's hurting too."

I nod. "He is."

He was crying when dad and I left this morning, but I don't tell Marge this.

Marge smiles and hugs me again, patting my back this time.

"I'm so, so sorry you had to see him that way," she whispers. "So broken."

A sob breaks from her and I hold her tighter than before. Devrol's bloody, crushed form flashes into my mind and I shake my head to clear it. I get the chills, and I know Marge felt my body tremor.

"It's okay," she says. She pulls back and looks me in the eye. "I just hope you're not scarred..."

"I'm okay," I say, even though I'm not. I've had nightmares.

Her ears tilt back a little, brown eyes sharp as she reads me.

"That wasn't something anyone should see," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," I say. "I'm sorry, too. That it happened. That he was with us when it did."

"It was an accident," she says, her grip tightening on me. "I'm just glad that Arthur is going to be alright."

My stomach feels hollow, and I frown. I feel guilty. She sees this and smiles, patting my face. "It wasn't you or your uncle's fault."

She hugs me again before she pulls away and Rich walks her further along the line. The big stallion nods at me as he passes, a sad grin on his face. I nod back and take my seat again, feeling heavy.

It's been nearly a week since the accident. For four of those days me and dad sat beside Uncle's hospital bed and wondered if he'd ever wake up. The damage he'd taken should've killed him. The doctors even told us that, given his age, if he hadn't been so hardy and strong he wouldn't have made it, that there would've been no way for his body to endure the trauma. He'd suffered internal bruising and bleeding, two broken femurs, a cracked pelvis, and some broken vertebrae. Over the course of two days he was knit back together. The doctor's would roll him out, my dad and I would go eat or shower or what have you, and when he was out of surgery the hospital would call and we'd go back again. We'd sit and watch as Uncle would stir in his sleep; as he'd twitch his paws or roll his lidded eyes. The breathing tube came out. Life crept slowly back into him, but it crept back nonetheless. On day five his brown eyes finally opened, the edges moist and sticky, red veins webbing across the whiteness of his sclera. I'd jumped from my seat, unable to say a word. My throat cinched closed with joy. He'd stared at the wall for a bit. I'd finally worked up the courage to say his name and he'd looked around in a daze, seeing me but not seeing me, looking through me. Pain medication did that to you.

He's not as out of it now as he had been, but he sleeps nearly all of the time because of the medicine. We're still not sure when he'll be able to come home, but Dad's cleaned out the guest bedroom in our house for him since he can't be by himself. I'll be taking care of the farm, for the most part, while he's away. Maybe harvesting the wheat, too. It has to be done.

"Hey, Lee."

I look up to see Crowley with a plate of finger foods and a styrofoam cup of something. He'd taken off his overcoat, but I didn't see it anywhere. His eyes flick to an empty chair at the table, and I motion for him to sit.

"Thanks," he says, placing his food and drink down then sitting. He scoots his chair up in quick little jerks, biting on his lower lip, and I laugh a little.

He grins at me, ears flicking at the many sounds around us. "Doing alright then?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He sighs and looks around. "Your dad in line?"

"Yeah. He'll be a while."

"No doubt." He delicately picks up a dry looking cookie with nuts in it then takes a bite. I look more closely at his plate, and it's nothing but cookies. A stack of them. Homemade, too. He catches me staring and slides the plate toward me. "Take some. They're all good. I swear."

I shrug and pluck a chocolate chip from the stack. "Didn't want anything with substance?"

Crowley chuckles. "Cookies make me feel better. Make me happy." He finishes off his...pecan sandy, I think? Then he takes another, motioning about the room with it. "Apparently they make everyone here feel better, too, because cookies outnumber the other foods here nine to one."

"I guess 'comfort food' is fitting now more than ever," I say.

He nods as I take a bite of my cookie and savor the taste. Lots of chocolate. Super sweet. Just what I need.

"Thanks," I say.

He grins, his eyes scrunching up. "No problem. How's Arthur?"

I give a half-smile. "Better. Upset he couldn't be here."

"I bet. He talks about Devrol a lot when I visit. I could tell his death is hard on him."

I nod. That goes without saying.

Crowley takes a bite of cookie. "He'll pull through, though," he says, spraying crumbs. He frowns at himself, swallows, then wipes the crumbs off of his shirt. "He's a strong man."

"He is," I say.

"He has a lot to say about you, too." I look up and he's smiling softly. "You mean a lot to him. He doesn't know what he'd do without you."

My throat tightens, and I feel my eyes well up. Not from sadness, but from pride and love. I wipe them, embarrassed. My emotions run high with only a few things--namely Uncle, Sasha, Red, and Kelly--but Uncle especially. He's my rock, and I don't know what I'd do without him either.

Crowley's watching me with kind eyes when I look back at him, a lopsided grin on his face. He slides the cookie plate back to me, and I take another, laughing at myself.

"You have a lot of people who love you, Lee," he says. "Don't forget that."

That seems odd of him to say. Nice, but odd. "I won't?"

"Sorry," he says, ears fluttering, noting my confusion. "Just an observation." He stares at the table top. "Arthur worries about you. What you're going through. I've been there, and I know it's hard."

More confused now. Is he talking about...

I lean closer to him. "When you say he worries, what, uh, exactly do you mean?"

His eye grow wide. He leans close to me, too. "Being gay?" he whispers.

My mouth drops. I almost shout, but I contain my surprise and terror. "My uncle knows!?"

Crowley cocks a brow, still whispering. "Wait, you didn't know he knows?"

I can't speak. I just shake my head. Then it dawns on me, and I really do feel like shouting. "You're gay, too?"

The wolf/husky nods, a smile creeping along his muzzle until it's a full-fledged, toothy grin. "Yeah? You didn't know?"

"Didn't know what?"

My fur stands on end as my father pulls up a chair and sits, placing two plates onto the table. One has a fork and meatballs on it, and the other (much like Crowley's) is stacked high with cookies. He looks expectantly between the two of us as he scoots his chair up to the table.

Crowley, still grinning at me, shakes his head. He then turns to my father. "That I, uh, sing! We have a band back at my station in Athens. Just us cops. A cop...band."

"Oh," my dad says. "Lee and I both do, too! He plays guitar, as well, and I play piano."

"I heard Lee with the Tempered Revelers on Halloween," Crowley shoots. "I didn't know you play too, though, Matthew."

Dad grumbles something at the mention of The Haunt, but then he nods. "Yeah, since I was a pup."

"Very cool," Crowley says.

"It's good to see you, by the way," Dad says. He sticks a meatball and plops it into his mouth, rolling it to his cheek when he speaks. "You're very active in the community for a cop who isn't even from here."

Crowley smiles. "I try to be as active as I can, regardless of where I am. That way life's not as boring, and you meet a lot of great people and new friends."

"True," Dad says, nodding. "Must be tiring, though."

"Well," Crowley says with a shrug, "I didn't pick this job for the leisure time. I love to help people, and by putting myself out there I'm making sure that if anyone I meet needs me they can find me." He looks at me briefly, then back at my dad. "Anyone."

Dad smiles. "You're a good man. For being here, too."

Crowley shakes his head. "Just paying my respects like everyone else."

Crowley and my dad sit and chat for a while, while I sit and ponder over Uncle knowing that I was gay, and pondering over the fact that Crowley was gay, too! Why hadn't Uncle told me? Why tell Crowley before telling me? It was a relief, don't get me wrong, but one I hadn't been expecting at all. And finding out at a funeral, of all places, didn't help either.

When people start to leave, the pastor approaches my Dad. Apparently they'd discussed tuning the piano while standing in line for food, and Dad agreed to do it when the funeral officially ended. He always had tuning tools in the trunk of his car, because he serviced the piano at his church, too.

"It'll take an hour and a half," he says to me, "Hopefully." He wipes his paws together to rid them of crumbs from his cookies.

"That thing's gone without a good tuning for a while now," the pastor says, tugging on one of his impressive horns, an embarrassed look on his face.

"Oh," dad says. He shoots me a look. "Maybe I should run you home first?"

"I can take him," Crowley chimes in, raising a paw as if in a classroom. He then looks at me for assurance. "You'll be wanting to see your uncle too, right?"

I simply nod.

"Good. I was aiming to drop by for a visit anyway." He nods at my dad, ears relaxed. "We'll go together."

Dad shrugs. "Alright, if it's okay with you."

"No worries," Crowley says. "We've got more, uh, music stuff to discuss."

"Thank you," Dad says. He pats my left shoulder in passing, smiling. "Tell Arthur I'll be by later, alright?"

"I will," I say. "Take your time."

"Okay, he chuckles. "I love you, son," he says, turning to follow the pastor away.

My throat tightens. "I love you, too."

He vanishes up the hallway we'd entered the mess hall with. I turn to Crowley, and the detective is smiling again. I hear his tail wagging and brushing against the legs of his chair.

"Told you," he says. "You're loved."

We leave the church, and although it's still cold and rainy outside, I feel warm.