Chapter 2
Dane Amleth The sky didn't weep with the bereaved gathered at the graveside. It was, as far as Dane could tell, the opposite of what movies always showed. Somberly dressed people, huddled beneath the black-cloud shape of umbrellas as pearlescent rain drops descended, music--violins and orchestras mostly--dirging the fictional dead. It was enough to make a person crazy, when the reality of a graveyard turned out to be little more than overgrown grass, weather-beaten stones, and kids laughing as they played disrespectfully over the graves. Parents whisper-shouting at them only made it worse. They had moved the corpse--he couldn't really think of it as his father anymore, since whatever had been his father had slipped out of the bullet holes and into the silence--from the mortuary's chapel and brought it here to the cemetery on Elsinore Ranch. The man conducting the graveside services was an LDS bishop and friend to the non-LDS Amleth family, a guy named Bert Rall. He was rotund and pleasant, with a quick smile and understanding eyes. He did his best to offer condolences, but it was clear that his spiritual balms for grief didn't seem to salve much of what a group of non-believers felt. "There is hope," he said, then almost checked himself. The urge to pray was clear enough on his cleanshaven face that Dane could almost see it. So he looked away. In that polished black box, hidden beneath a bouquet of dead flowers--and, boy, did that seem symbolic in the most sophomoric of ways--was what had once been his father. They hadn't seen eye-to-eye on everything, of course. The largest road bump--really, more of a road wall--had been Dane's majoring in philosophy. "What's the point?" Papa Dane had said in their last argument--it was too kind to call it a conversation. "You can't make money with thinking a bunch of crap." "You can't make money with thinking, maybe," Dane had retorted to Dane. His father had purpled at that. It was subtle, and perhaps Dane Jr.'s character to low-blow his father like that, but they'd gone the rounds enough times on this topic that the younger Dane was ready for it to stop. Throwing out anything related to intellectual pursuits always made Papa Dane bristle like a fretful porcupine, despite the fact that he had eagerly helped pay for Dane's university degree. Dane Sr. still begrudged the fact that, when time had come for higher education, his own father had prioritized Clawson instead of Dane. The end had come about differently than Grandpa could have expected; under the natural business intuition and a couple of years of good luck, Dane Sr. had turned Elsinore Ranch into a thriving business, rivaling only Northern Way Ranch over in Delldale as far as local influence and affluence were concerned. Clawson, meanwhile, had gone up to Logan for school, graduated with an MBA, and had failed from enterprise to enterprise. In this regard, the currents of Grandpa Amleth's intentions had gone awry--which had given Papa Dane his unique feelings about Dane's future. Wind whispered its way down from the nearby mountains, squeezing through the canyon that led up toward the tree line. Dane looked up at them, their mottled browns and yellows now fading to gray as November ripened. The air bit shrewdly, even though the sky was teeth-achingly blue. Dane balled his fists inside his jacket--it was a dress coat that his mother had picked out for the day, coping with her husband's death via the ordering of endless packages of clothes, knickknacks, and food from online and Fender's, the local grocery store--and tried again to listen to the well-intentioned bishop. "God…well, I believe, anyway, that God cares enough about us to return us to our bodies. A resurrection is guaranteed for all mankind--that's what I believe. And I totally understand if you feel differently. So I think we should reflect on our time with Dane and appreciate what we've been given." Dane Jr. hated hearing about Dane Sr., if only because it jolted him to hear his name. He wasn't being spoken of in the past tense; it was his father, after all, that was being eulogized here. As if they hadn't said enough of the man back in the warmth of the chapel. He shook his head. He didn't really hate his father. He knew that. But he couldn't help blame Dane Sr. for leaving. Sure, Dane was old enough to be living on his own, and though his aspirations fluctuated a bit (a professorship? Something in academia, probably. Maybe he'd find his way out East and join a think tank or a politician's staff if that didn't pan out), he never thought that he'd have to do something with the Ranch. And that was where his frustration was coming from, his less-than-generous remembrances of the man who fathered him being tinged by the feeling of responsibility to remain here in Buttcrackville, Utah, dealing with the stimulating intrigues of cattle feed and water rights. No, he hadn't hated his dad while the man was alive, their differences and arguments notwithstanding. He hated his dad for dying. Bishop Rall finished, having moved to the more formalized portion of the service. Dane, as the only child, stepped forward and laid his boutonniere on the casket before turning and walking away, toward his car. It was a beat-up pickup, white and rusted, that had more miles on it than should be possible. It would get him from here to the local LDS chapel, which the Rall's had offered as a place for a luncheon. His mother had protested (perhaps too much, he thought, given that everyone was simply trying to figure out a way to help show their condolences) that they could host it at the Lodge--their name for the main house on Elsinore Ranch--but eventually, she'd been overruled and now the gathered group of mourners all dispersed toward the cars. Dane traveled in a fugue; he had no memory of getting his car to the pyramidal-fronted LDS chapel, its bare steeple bravely stabbing into the cloudless sky. Built in the seventies, it was a tacky yellow brick building, with leaves-shed trees, a spacious parking lot, and a ring of cramped classrooms around the center nave of the building. Dane had been to the chapel plenty of times before--during his junior year, he had flirted with learning more about Mormonism, even going so far as to visit for about a month or so. He had given up on it when he got to what the Mormons called "fast Sunday", as he didn't much relish the idea of skipping a couple of meals every month. Self-inflicted starvation didn't really make him feel more spiritual. He had also visited this same building a number of times during the summer between graduation and heading out to college. Many of his high school buddies were LDS, so they had left for their missions (often to great fanfare, which in Mormon circles involved gathering to sip non-caffeinated sodas and munch on finger-foods) by giving talks from the pulpit of this very building. Of all the quirks of Mormonism that Dane had observed over his life in Noah, it was the basketball courts, though. He wasn't sure why this was a thing, but he'd heard from good authority that most LDS chapels--at least, in the States--were equipped with hardwood floors and an-almost-full-court basketball set up. He knew it had nothing to do with Jesus. It was a way of encouraging exercise, he guessed. It also doubled as a place where people could gather, eat, and not stain the carpets--which was something that a family-focused religion really needed to pay attention to. It was here, close to the midcourt line, that he ended up draping the black dress coat onto the spot where he wanted to eat. Round plastic tables had been set out, with metal folding chairs flowering off of them like uncomfortable petals. The orange halo of the basketball hoop overlooked a stretch of narrow tables that were laden with a lunch buffet. Salad, some chili, and a yellow-orange casserole (that he heard, as he added his own meal to his plate, were called "funeral potatoes") made for the backbone of the post-graveside meal. Baked meats and rolls, as well as raspberry-loaded red Jell-O were also available. Taking his Dixie cup of lemonade (the only other option was tap water) in one hand and his paper plate of food in the other, Dane slalomed past well-wishers, condolence givers, and friends-of-the-family to return to his seat. He was the only one at the table. The meal was forgettable, but part of that came from his own preoccupation. Philosophy had been his passion for as long as he could remember, with only football having any other grip on his attention. Sitting in a classroom or reading a philosophical treatise in an armchair was all well and good; being confronted with the vast nihilistic reality of death--of a father's death--was something else entirely. He'd always preferred the pessimism of postmodernity, and Sartre's existentialism had worked well as a theoretical framework for much of Dane's time as an undergrad. Hitchens and Dawkins had made up more modern mortar for him. Denying God's existence or goodness had been a breeze when it had only been a matter of discussion and debate inside the comfortable warmth of theory. The praxis was proving harder. Wondering if his father's death would mean he was no more, or if there was something that came after death puzzled him greatly, and he could feel a dark cloud of depression pulling heavily on his mind when the general murmur of the crowd faded. With a jolt he realized that something was happening. Looking up from the discarded olives flicked out of his salad, he saw his uncle standing…next to his mother. A pang of embarrassment flashed through him. He hadn't even thought to sit next to her. Having been away from the family for the past few years had given him an aloofness to familial behaviors. He should have come home earlier, honestly, than in time for the funeral. He should have been home the day of hearing of the accident. But it had taken some time for him to get prepared, to ensure that things were taken care of. He'd only arrived last night, and late, too. Now he'd accidentally shirked his filial obligation. If his dad were watching--could his dad be watching?--he surely would have been frustrated at Dane's poor behavior as a son. "Friends," said Clawson, his silver hair--prematurely silver, as Clawson was younger than Papa Dane, yet had only the faintest hints of his once prominent black locks--shimmering in the stark fluorescent lights as he looked out over the small crowd, "and family, I want to thank you, on behalf of the Amleth family and all the people at Elsinore Ranch, for your kindness. My brother…no one can replace him. He was a man of integrity, strength, and vision. He was also a man of excellent taste. And so, though I know this is unorthodox to say the least…" Clawson dropped to one knee and said, his voice ringing clearly through the stunned silence of the basketball court, "Jennifer Amleth, will you marry me?" Though it was hard to see from his seat, the gesture was unmistakable: Clawson had cracked open a thin-hinged velvet box. Dane's mother gasped, one hand clutched to her chest, the other covering the shocked O of her mouth. Her eyes, still puffy with the tears she'd been sobbing during the funeral, filled again with water and dripped down her lined face. Dane felt as though the ground had dropped from beneath him. In fact, he had to stamp down in his Salvatore Ferragamo Oxford shoes to ensure that the floor hadn't disappeared. What in the hell was Clawson doing? Proposing to Dane's mother…at a funeral? How stupidly callous could he possibly be? A roiling rage of disgust and anger at his uncle flashed through him. Dane had never really paid a lot of attention to his father's younger brother. Uncle Clawson's interactions with the family drifted from scarcely-engaged to forgot-he-existed, though his presence at Elsinore Ranch became more pronounced after Dane had left for university. Still, it wasn't like Clawson was important in the Amleth household. Family, yes, but not close family. "Clawson," said Jenny, her voice choked with emotion--and, if Dane had to guess, disgust to the point of vomiting--and one hand supporting herself on the table. "I…I don't know what to say." "Say yes," said Clawson, who surely knew that everyone was watching the proposal with bated breath. More than one person had a cellphone out, eager to catch the reaction and send it to countless people via Facebook. "Keep our family together. Keep Elsinore Ranch strong. Let me help you." Dane watched, his mouth dry. She'd say no. He knew she would. Who in their right mind would do otherwise? He saw, in the doorway that led to the outer classrooms, Sheriff Paul Madsen, Gwen's dad, staring at the exchange, a satisfied smile on his face. Next to him stood Lenny, his son. Gwen, he noticed in a detached, Trivial-Pursuit-level Oh, that's interesting way, was not around. Dane's eyes flicked over the rest of the crowd, but he couldn't recognize anyone else. He returned his gaze to his mother and her brother-in-law. "She'll say no," he whispered to no one. "She'll say…" "Yes," she said, though it was faint and almost instantly covered by a burst of applause from the sheriff and his son, which quickly coursed through the rest of the gathering. Whatever else she was about to say, Dane never heard. The clapping turned into hoots and hollers as Dane's uncle kissed Dane's mother on the mouth. Cheers of congratulations echoed off the hardwood floor and bounced in Dane's mind. Fading with disbelief, he thought for a brief moment of shouting at them his own marital advice, congratulating them on the frugality of letting the funeral potatoes double as a wedding dish, but held his tongue. What he couldn't do, however, was remain in the room: Without bothering to clear his place, Dane stood up and walked out of the basketball court. |