By now, the dirt no longer clattered upon the lid of the coffin; it fell with a soft whump upon the previously accumulated clay. They stood in silence until the grave was filled, and then Cat bent, mindful of her pregnant belly, and placed a sparse bouquet at the base of his headstone. She had only had the means to afford the name, no dates and no epitaph, in simple, unadorned lettering: RODERICK SAMUELSON.
“Goodbye, Ricky,” mumbled Ravi. “May we meet again in a more pleasant place than this.”
He helped Cat to her feet, and, after one long backward glance, they walked together from the graveyard.
“I just wish,” Cat began, “I just wish he had lived to see his son.”
Ravi’s eyes dropped briefly to the bulge beneath the fabric of her black dress. “How do you know it’s a boy?” he wondered.
“I just know.”
They exited the cemetery gates and Ravi gestured to an old, beat-up automobile parked at the edge of the long-unused road. “Wanna ride?”
Cat, who hadn’t so much as seen a working car in years, quickly accepted the offer. “How did you get it?”
“I stole it.”
Ravi hopped in on the driver’s side and Cat climbed into the passenger seat. It took several attempts to start the vehicle, and once they were moving, Ravi drove extremely slowly slowly so that the bumps and potholes would not be too jarring. Amazingly, the windshield wipers still worked, which was fortunate as the rain had escalated to a full scale downpour.
Ravi MacKerlich was half-Indian, half-Scottish, and quite handsome. His hair was black and his skin was dark, but he had inherited his father's sky-blue eyes. Cat noticed that his jaw-length black hair was atypically unkempt and there was dirt under his fingernails. This was not like him. More worrisome was the pistol in a holster on his belt.