Page 50 of Double Bucked

Writer Donald Barthelme once said the semicolon was as “ugly as a tick on a dog’s belly.”

Disgusting. Bloodsucking. Leech.

I will never, ever use a semicolon. As long as I live.

I’m cursing the written language, Aldus Manutius, and Herman Melville as I check my watch. Again.

“Harding is late.” Even I can hear the terse anger between my teeth.

Claire side-eyes me. She folds her arms over her chest. “What’s Daddy going to do? Get up and walk out of the coffin? I think he’ll wait for us.”

She’s wearing a conservative black dress with a keyhole neckline and quarter-length sleeves. A slender, dark purse hangs over her shoulder. Kitten heels adorn her feet.

I’ve put on a black turtleneck underneath a blazer and crisp slacks. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the fabric around my neck feels like a noose, and it takes everything in me not to pull at it.

I dip my hand into my pocket and press a button on my phone, activating the white noise. The hushing sound in my ears acts like a blanket, smothering the punch of my heart.

The gates open, and for a second, I’m relieved. But just as quickly, my hope is dashed.

It’s not Harding.

Ransom’s ugly, weathered red pickup truck bounces down the gravel toward us.

I watch Claire. She runs her fingers over her hair, touching the two tiny braids pinned to the crown of her head.

The truck comes to a stop in front of us. Ransom hops out. He hangs off the open door. He’s wearing a black button-up, dark pants, and a black bandana around his neck. His “funeral bandana,” I assume.

He cleans up well. How annoying.

“Morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” Claire replies.

Tension echoes in the space between them, but they’re both being very polite about it.

A fucking semicolon.

“Just wanted to check in. See if y’all needed anything.”

“We’re fine,” I answer.

His gaze moves between us. “Y’all need a ride?”

“No,” I say at the same time Claire says, “Yes.”

But just then, the rusted hinges of the front gate squeak.

I’m not a praying man, but I’m tempted to thank God.

Our black limo slowly meanders toward us.

“That’s us,” I say. I close my hand around Claire’s bicep.

Mine.

Ransom tilts his hat. Everything he does is like staples underneath my fingernails. “See y’all there, then.”

“See you,” Claire says. Wistfully.