by J. D. Barker
“I think I’d like that. Not Warren, though. How about you read me whatever you read your kids, Carl? What’s their favorite story?”
“Fucking little creep. That delay is weird. Reminds me of when Houston used to talk to the astronauts.”
“Yeah, like a satellite delay on the news.”
“Too fucking weird, all of it.”
“Want to play again?”
“Might as well. Change the tape first. It’s almost out.”
—Charter Observation Team – 309
1
“Hi, Dad.” Using the nail of my finger to get into the deeper crevices, I scraped the moss from the lettering on his gravestone. “Auntie Jo had to work, so I figured I’d start with you.”
I fished Auntie Jo’s cigarette butts from Daddy’s vase and placed three purple asters in their place. Someone planted a bunch of them at the back of our building at the start of summer, and they had taken over a large corner of the small yard. “She’ll probably be by later, though, so be warned, I guess.”
Dunk and I spent the better part of the last eight months combing the cemetery and found not one match to our criteria other than the five names I had gotten from the caretaker at the office. Back in January, I took those five names to Brentwood Library. If you’re a kid, and you want help fast, tell a librarian you’re working on a school project. We only found information on one of the names—Darnell Jacobs—he died on August 8, 1802. Apparently he was an early settler in this area and built one of the first houses on Brownsville Road. He owned a small lumber company. Beyond that, we found nothing. It didn’t matter. I didn’t know what I was looking for, anyway. I guess I thought something would jump out at me.
“I don’t know if I want to go up there,” I said softly. “Part of me does. Part of me really does. I want to see Stella. I know you’d probably make fun of me for that because she’s a girl and Mommy would probably tell me to go because she is a girl, but what if Stella isn’t there? What if only the old woman is there, Ms. Oliver? I don’t ever want to see her again. But if Stella is there today, I have to go. I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you were still here.”
I felt the tears coming on and forced them back. Daddy would probably tell me to march right up the hill and right past Ms. Oliver, and at that moment, I knew that was what I would do, what I should do, as if he had spoken the words aloud.
I spent the next thirty minutes talking to both Mommy and Daddy, and when the alarm on my watch went off at 6 p.m. I stood, scooped up my Walkman and the remaining flowers, and started up the hill.
Stella was on the bench.
2
“More coffee?”
Preacher glanced down at the mug beside him on the counter, then smiled up at Josephine Gargery. “Please.”
She eyed his hands. “What’s with the gloves? Isn’t it a little warm out for winter wear?”
Preacher looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers beneath the black leather. He smiled at her. “Circulation problems. My hands get cold easily.”
“Huh. Maybe you should move to Florida. I hear the sun down there is like magic.”
Gargery had lost weight since the last time he saw her, and she had been thin then. Now, she wore her uniform like a hanger with feet. Her skin was pale, nearly translucent. The mascara and eyeliner only accentuated the depth to which her eyes had sunken with time, the rouge on her checks a pink streak that looked anything but natural. The white of her eyes was no longer the white of her eyes, but a dull yellow that matched the cigarette stains on her teeth. Simply looking at her made Preacher feel ill, yet he retained his smile as he scooped up another bite of country-fried chicken. “You must live here. I see you whenever I come in.”
She filled his mug and returned the carafe back to the warming plate on the counter behind her. Glancing back toward the opening to the kitchen, she called out over her shoulder. “Hey, Elden, this guy says you work me like a dog and I should get at least two paid days off per week!”
The large beast of a man in the kitchen waved a spatula at her through a smoke-filled haze. “He obviously hasn’t caught you sleeping in the storage room or sneaking out for cigarettes every ten minutes when you’re supposed to be on the floor. Last I checked, chatting up the customers was not in the job description, either. Order up—” his meaty hand slapped a bell at the window, and he set a plate of steak and eggs on the sill.
Preacher learned this man was Elden Krendal, owner of this fine eatery for nearly twenty-three years. He had graced this planet for a total of sixty years and weighed in at a horrendous three-hundred and twelve pounds. His blood pressure routinely topped 140 over 110, yet that was the least of his doctor’s concerns—according to his files, that honor fell on Krendal’s cholesterol. His total level rested comfortably around 310, while his triglycerides rang in at 503 at his latest checkup. Of course, Mr. Krendal probably wasn’t aware of any of this, considering his hearing was shot and he refused to wear a hearing aid. Most likely, he just nodded as the doctor rattled off the various things competing to kill him and no doubt recommended immediate correction, possibly even hospitalization. How this man was alive at all was a medical mystery.
Gargery retrieved the plate from the window and set it before an elderly man about a dozen stools away on the opposite end of the counter, then returned. “You don’t look familiar. I know all our regulars.”
“Oh, I’m hardly a regular. I try to make it in here when I pass through town. Some of the best cooking in the city.”
Gargery chuckled. “You must be eating in all the wrong places.”
Preacher tried not to look at her hands, yet his eyes were drawn to the cigarette stains on her fingertips. He had seen her wash her hands at least three times in the past hour. How ingrained does a filth have to be to withstand the rigors of routine scrubbing? He smiled back at her. “That boy I see in here sometimes, is that your son?”
“Jack? Naw, nephew. My sister’s kid.”
“It’s good to see a boy take work seriously at such a young age. Instills good, strong values.”
“It keeps him off the street and out of trouble, is what it does. Around here, there is plenty of trouble to get into.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“He’s not working today?”
She shook her head. “Nope, not today.”
“I grew up on a farm in Illinois, corn mostly, a couple of dairy cows, a few chickens. My parents had me out there working from the time I could walk. I hated them for it back then, all my friends always off playing when I had chores. But as I got older, I realized that childhood caused me to work just a little harder than those around me, a little longer, a little smarter. I thank them for it every chance I get.”
This was a lie, of course. Preacher didn’t know his parents and never had. His folks left him at a fire station in Oklahoma only a few hours after his birth. His loving parents packed him into a cardboard box and covered his naked little body in newspaper, then simply left him on the door stoop like discarded trash. No note, no food, no nothing. This was in the fall, when the temperature routinely dropped down into the fifties at night. By the time anyone found him, he had the makings of a good cold, which later turned into full-on pneumonia and spent the next week recovering in a hospital. From there, he found his way to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage in Lawton, where he would spend the first eight years of his life fighting with other unwanted children for the few scraps of food split among them as potential parents paraded through in search of a good find, not unlike bargain shoppers at a yard sale. Although most babies have little trouble finding a home, the singular gift his parents left him with was a congenital heart defect, and that was more than enough to ensure these baby shoppers walked right on by without giving him so much as a second glance. The nuns at Sisters of Mercy were not shy about reminding him that such a condition typically resulted from uncontrolled diabetes, alcohol or drug abuse, or exposure to industrial chemicals during pregnancy. Apparen
tly, his mother’s dislike of him began months before his birth. No doubt his father was standing close by, with a supply of whatever she took in the months following his conception.
If Preacher were to find his parents, he planned to take them to a location as isolated as the farm in his fictitious childhood home, string them both up, and persuade them to reveal their sordid past. Once he learned what his mother had been on, he would give them a healthy dose until they were no longer of this world. If that didn’t work, he’d leave them both to rot there, right after putting holes in both their hearts much like his own. One big, happy family.
Gargery tilted her head. “You do look a little familiar, but I can’t quite place you.”
“I’ve got one of those faces, not very memorable, I’m afraid.” This was true, and it suited him just fine. Preacher preferred to blend.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing exciting. I transport vehicles. Someone moves across country and needs their car or truck to follow them, I drive it.”
“Aren’t there trucks for that?”
Preacher nodded. “Trains, too, but both options are on the pricy side compared to what I charge. I usually come in about 10 percent cheaper. That’s just enough to keep me employed.”
“That’s interesting. I bet you get to see a lot of the country.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen every inch of this place several times over. A couple places more times than I’d like, a few others not enough. Pittsburgh here tends to be in the middle of many of my routes, so I pass through on occasion.”
“And stop here.”
“And stop here,” Preacher agreed.
Again, this was all a lie. Preacher’s particular line of work wasn’t meant for discussion among friends or waitresses in a diner. If he had to choose a new career, though, transporting vehicles was high on the list. He preferred a nomadic lifestyle—he’d never be able to work in the kind of place where he had regular hours or a boss, some specimen of inferior intellect, telling him what to do and not to do.
The bell at the window dinged. “This is what I mean,” Krendal said in a voice much louder than necessary. “Chatting up the customers while table three needs refills on water. Come on, Jo.” His hearing may be shot, but his eyesight was in working order.
Preacher glanced down at his watch—twelve past six. “I’ll take that check whenever you’re ready. I’m afraid I let the time get away from me.”
Gargery fished his bill from a pocket in the front of her uniform and slipped it over to him. “I guess we’ll see you next time, then. Take care of yourself.”
“You too,” Preacher said, glancing down at the bill—six dollars and twenty-three cents. He pulled a twenty from his wallet and placed it under his empty coffee cup with the check. This was far more than his usual 20 percent tip, but he felt it was justified to give her a little more, give her something for the other thing he was about to take.
3
I stopped at the edge of the last mausoleum and found myself simply watching her, this girl who I could not get out of my thoughts. Although she wore a white ruffled blouse and black skirt, identical to the previous two times I saw her, they couldn’t be the same articles of clothing. She was taller now. I had grown, too, but she had grown a little more, and I imagined if she stood beside me, she would be my height or maybe an inch or two taller. The wind caught her long brown hair, and I watched as she ran one of her hands through the curly locks, tucking it back behind her ear. Her eyes never left the paperback book in her delicate hands. Although it was cooler today than our previous encounters, she wore no gloves. I didn’t have to see the cover of the book to know it was the same copy of Great Expectations she had been reading the first few times we met.
She must have felt my eyes on her. She looked up from the book and toward me. There was the hint of a smile, then it was gone, as if she didn’t want me to see it.
My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans, juggling the flowers between them. I left the safety of my hiding place.
Stella’s eyes narrowed when she saw the flowers. “Are those for me?”
I sat beside her and looked down at the flowers. “For my parents…these are left over. You can have them, if you want.”
“I don’t believe a boy has ever given me leftover flowers before, although I think these are called asters.”
“Yeah, asters.” I handed them to her. I expected her to take them, but she didn’t—her hands remained in her lap, wrapped around her book. Instead, she leaned in and smelled them, closing her eyes as she drew in the scent. “These are chamomile. They make a wonderful tea.”
When she leaned back, leaving the flowers in my outstretched hand, I awkwardly set them down on the bench between us.
Ms. Oliver stood down the road from us, in front of the first of three white SUVs, her hands in the pockets of her long, white coat, her gaze fixed on me. There was a mad gleam to those eyes, a hatred and burning anger strong enough to reach across this distance and twist a nail in the base of my spine.
I shivered.
I counted nine others standing around the SUVs. Five women and four men. All wearing long, white coats identical to the old woman, all watching Stella and me closely. I didn’t have to see the guns to know they were there. “They came last year, without you.”
Stella let out a deep sigh. “I’ve spoken to Ms. Oliver about that. So strong-willed, that one. She knew I forbade it, yet she took it upon herself to come here anyway, to speak to you, the nerve! She will not do such a thing again, I’ve seen to it.”
Ms. Oliver shuffled her feet, as if she heard what Stella said. She was too far away, though.
“Why would they listen to you? You’re just a kid.”
She did smile at this. “I am, aren’t I? This is why I like you, John Edward Jack Thatch. You state the obvious, yet it comes out of your mouth like the most profound of thoughts.”
“She said some nasty things to me. Did she tell you that?”
“She can sometimes be a caring, beautiful woman, and at others I’ve found her behavior toward you downright despicable, and I’ve spoken to her about it. She’s very protective of me, always has been, far more so than the others.”
“Where were you? Last year, I mean.”
It was Stella who looked at the old woman this time. Her fingers flicked unconsciously through the pages of her book. “I was somewhere other than here.”
“Why don’t I see you any other time during the year?”
“Because you see me today.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“I’m visiting you.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I groaned. “You don’t answer any of my questions.”
“Maybe you should stop asking questions.”
“Maybe I should just leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
I let out another defeated breath. “No.”
She turned toward me. The tops of her knees poked out from under her skirt.
My face flushed. I looked away.
This seemed to amuse her. “Why is it you want to see me? Why do you come back year after year, and sometimes in between, in search of me? A girl you met a handful of times? At most, we’ve probably shared a collective hour together, yet I’d be willing to stake you have spent countless other hours lost in thoughts about me, obsessing even. The mere sight of my knee sets your heart fluttering. An innocent knee. What of a foot, or heaven forbid, a bit of my thigh?” She lowered her voice, her words but a whisper. “What if I let you kiss me, Jack? What would that simple act do to you?”
She leaned toward me slowly, she leaned so close I could feel her breath on my cheek.
“Stella.”
This was Ms. Oliver. She said the girl’s name softly, but there was a grit to it, a portent of sorts, a warning. Stella’s eyes narrowed, and she gave the woman a hateful look, then washed it away with a smile before leaning back to her side of the bench, brushing her long hair
back over her shoulder.
My breath had caught in my throat, and I forced it to release, drew in another. I changed the subject. “Why are you leaving money for me?”
Stella laughed, and it was a mix of the sweetest sound I had ever heard and the most maddening. I didn’t care. As long as she let me hear it, I just didn’t care. I also knew it wasn’t the question that made her laugh, but my clumsy attempt to get her to talk about something else, anything else.
“I have no money, Jack. How could I possibly leave money for you? What purpose would that serve?”
“The envelopes all said Pip on them, like in your book. I know they came from you.”
“If you’re so certain, why are you asking the question?”
“I want to hear it from you. I want you to explain why.”
“Sounds like you want many things, Mr. Thatch. What do I get in return for addressing one or more of these wants?”
“If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna stop coming.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Auntie Jo and I do just fine. We don’t need your help. We don’t want it.”
“If you don’t want this money someone is leaving for you, then simply give it away. Give it to someone who does. I don’t imagine a willing recipient would be hard to find. If you don’t wish to take the time out of your busy little life to do that, just burn it. Rid yourself of this gruesome burden of wealth with the flick of a match. I don’t care. None of this nonsense matters in the slightest to me.”
“If you’re not leaving the money, then who?”
Stella shrugged. “I don’t follow the company you keep.”
In the distance, one of the SUVs roared to life. This was followed by a second. I watched as the people in long, white coats climbed into the vehicles, all but Ms. Oliver. She remained still.
“I’m afraid it’s time for me to take leave.”
“Wait!” I didn’t mean for the word to come out as loud as it did, with such a desperate edge to it. I reached over, meaning to grasp her arm, and she pulled away. She slid to the far end of the bench against the metal rail, her face turning a ghostly white. Her eyes darted from me to Oliver, then back again, and she seemed to regret the harshness of her movement. All at once, the stiffness left her, her color returned, and she smiled. There was something behind that smile, though, something I had yet to see, and even at this moment there was only a glimpse of it—fear.