Free Rock of Ages by Howard Owen

been dead 11 years and are buried 200 miles away. Might as well come on down, Georgia McCain. (I kept the name, by the way, for my third marriage, because I’d changed it twice already without a hell of a lot of luck. Maybe I ought to get a rabbit’s foot.)
    By early September, Justin had made good on his offer to go down and help get Daddy’s old place in shape to sell, and I’m sure Leeza was glad to have someplace they could at least temporarily call their own.
    I am not sure my appearance, a month later, was the thrill of their young lives. But I’ve been trying to play nice. Really.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    November 5
    What is now Blackwell Road, repaved so recently that the tire tracks of individual cars are still visible, was an unnamed dirt path when Georgia was in high school. Beyond William’s house, it turns to dirt again before continuing on toward the swamp.
    The house, on a small rise, is not much different from the one Georgia is trying to sell—wooden, two storeys with a rusting tin roof, surrounded by the various outbuildings of a working farm.
    Near the main house are at least six other dwellings, all modular, every one occupied by William Blackwell’s relatives, including his three sons and daughter and various grandchildren. Around it, in all directions, is cultivated land resting for the winter.
    Georgia called yesterday, to see about picking up what few items Jenny left her. William himself had answered the phone and told her she could come by any time. They settled on 3 o’clock. As Georgia gets out of the van, her watch reads 2:58.
    A large tan-and-black dog, mostly German shepherd, comes charging toward her, barking and baring its teeth, as if she is either a dangerous intruder or a very large pork chop. She is pinned against the van, afraid to turn around long enough to open the door and get back in.
    This is how Pooh finds her. He walks up to the dog and kicks it in the ribs, sending it yelping away to safety behind the house.
    â€œHe won’t hurt you,” Pooh says. “He’s just a big pussy.” And he grins, the gaps between his teeth, like the rest of him, larger than life.
    Georgia takes a deep breath.
    â€œThank you. Is your father home?”
    â€œHe’s around here somewhere,” Pooh says. “Go on inside.”
    Georgia walks onto the screen porch unescorted and knocks on the door that seems to lead to the kitchen. A minute later, a small woman who appears to be at least 60 opens the door cautiously and stares as Georgia explains what she’s doing there.
    Betty Blackwell, Georgia finds out later, is an Autry from the other side of Cool Spring, two years young than William. Farm life seems to have aged her. The two women sit in the living-dining room for several minutes, the silence broken occasionally by Georgia’s attempts at conversation and Betty Blackwell’s one-word answers, before William walks in.
    â€œSorry,” he says, taking off his Dale Earnhardt hat. “I was looking after one of the horses. We keep ’em for the grandkids to ride, and sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
    He looks sharply at his wife. “I hope ’ol Betty here has been keeping you entertained. She’s quite the talker.”
    His wife blushes and frowns, then gets up silently and goes back to the kitchen, where much banging of pots and pans can be heard.
    William rolls his eyes. Georgia tries to make her smile as noncommittal as possible. She looks out the double windows and sees two preschool-age children playing in the side yard. They seem to be chasing a three-legged cat, circling around and trying to trap it. William tells her that they’re his grandchildren. His sons, Pooh, Ike, and Angier, and the one daughter, Sally, are all between 24 and 29, and among them they have made William Blackwell a grandfather five times over.
    â€œThe oldest one starts first grade next year. They might