As an Old Memory

by Vic Kerry

  “Jane Says” played after they finished. Jessica smiled as she stretched her lips out. Josh giggled. He couldn’t help it. It was like she’d bewitched him. He had wanted nothing more than to kiss her since they’d met.

  “I need to get home,” Josh said. “I’m pretty sure that Dad didn’t intend for me to be gone for long.”

  She looked around. “Yeah, the sun has gone down. I hope that you don’t get a worse punishment.”

  “I’ll have to hurry home. I’ll tell my folks you needed to run some errands. Dad knows that you have to rely on the kindness of strangers.” He backed up and started toward the park exit.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told us that Marcus gave you a ride to library. When we went to your house earlier today, there was no car. I’ve never seen one there any time.”

  “You went to my house earlier? Did you go inside?”

  “No, that would be rude. No one answered the door.”

  Jessica nodded. The glowing green of the radio display caught in the highlights in her hair. “Of course the car wasn’t there, my folks were at work.”

  She turned up the radio and settled into her seat before he could say anything else. Josh could tell he had made her angry. He concentrated on driving. Something about all of her questions about who he wished would die still bothered him. He rolled down the windows and let the cool evening air blow in. Her hair flurried up before she caught it and pulled into a ponytail, producing a hair band from her pocket to hold it in place. She smiled at him. The dusty aroma of autumn wafted in.

  They rode in silence, listening to the collection of alternative tracks the radio played. Josh basked a little in the glow of achieving a goal he had longed for. He wished he could read her mind.

  Alan congregated with all the teachers from Pinehurst High at Corey’s wake. They stood on the right side of the funeral home’s chapel midway down the room. A couple of Gary Springs Middle School teachers stood with them as well. Students and their parents packed the place. A lot of townspeople sat in the pews as well. It seemed that the death of a young person always brought out a crowd.

  He’d spoken very briefly with Corey’s mother. She thanked him for taking her son to the emergency room the evening he died. The reek of booze came off her skin. It would have carried on her breath if she hadn’t covered it with very strong peppermint. Probably one of the chalky aspirin-looking mints that came in the tin. He hated being there.

  Thomas laughed with Steven, one of his football buddies. They relived some awesome plays from the game against Fayette County. One of them had jumped off a blocker’s back. Josh admitted it was pretty awesome, but they should more respect at a wake.

  He stood with Thomas and a group of the football players. Harvey was with them. The reek of Cool Water came off of him like stink off a dead skunk. There were undertones of skunk weed as well. His eyes looked glassier than normal. A permanent smirk rested on his lips. It had started when he saw Jessica holding Josh’s hands for all to see, but he had said nothing. The pot had mellowed him out, which was good. There was no telling what he would have said to Corey’s mother. Instead, she and Harvey shared a looked that said they partook of a shared communion, THC.

  “This is horrible,” Steven finally said. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I know,” Jessica replied. “I’d seen him at the end of the day on Thursday. I woke up on Friday, and he was gone.”

  “It makes you think,” Thomas said.

  “Yeah, about why he has a closed casket,” Harvey said, starting to get louder. “Let us see the carnage.”

  Josh was able to quiet his friend before the whole phrase was blurted out. Several of the adults glowered at them. He took Harvey by the arm and started leading him toward the exit.

  “Maybe you need some air,” he said.

  “No, I’m fine,” Harvey said.

  Josh put pressure on his friend’s arm. “I am positive you need some air.”

  They walked past the stream of sympathizers waiting their turn to speak to the grieving mother. At the door, Josh looked up to see Marcus Smithson, Bill Foreman, and Jamie Morris standing in the receiving line. They were all dressed in their black jeans with holes at the knees and various heavy metal T-shirts. All the shirts feature grinning skulls. Marcus wore the same one he had been wearing when he and Josh had gotten into their fight—Guns N’ Roses’ “Appetite for Destruction.” They all stared at each other like cagy gunfighters in some old Clint Eastwood movie, but said nothing. Once in the lobby, Josh shook his head at their ridiculousness.

  He hated being there.

  The coffee Sim swallowed tasted scorched. It had come from the orange-topped pot, which meant decaf. He reckoned he needed to lay off the leaded stuff. Sleep hadn’t been coming too well for him lately. Last night he had dreamt about the massacre, but instead of it being the original bunch, it had been those kids breaking into the old gym and Johnny’s grandson. The nigger running back on the football team who had been with the others hanged from one of the rafters in the old gym like one of the streamers. They were even baby blue and gray.

  Johnny sat across from him drinking a bad cup of coffee as well. They both smoked cigarettes. The snack room was the only place in the funeral home where smoking was allowed. They hadn’t said much to each other since Sim had arrived, after the family-only visitation ended. They didn’t have to.

  The death of a young person made everyone feel bad, and Sim understood that the old hated it even worse because they had lived life and seeing one cut short seemed unfair. He and Johnny knew their fair share of death. A few days ago, they had sat in the same room at the same table drinking the same too-bitter coffee. That time, it was for a friend.

  “I’m sorry about your grandson,” Jack Tomlinson said to Johnny, shaking his hand. “Do they know what happened?”

  Johnny shook his head. “The police are stumped. They found the car that did it, but it was stolen and in such bad shape that they don’t think the driver could have survived.”

  “That’s horrible. If you need anything, give me a call,” Jack said and walked off.

  “That’s probably the fifteenth person who has told me to call if I needed anything,” Johnny said. “What am I going to ask for—another tuna casserole?”

  “Have y’all gotten a lot of those?” Sim asked.

  “One is too many. Why folks think everyone who has lost a loved one wants some sort of casserole is beyond me.”

  “I remember when Momma died. It was the time of the year when the gardens had started to come in. We got at least five squash casseroles from people who planted too many of them.” He took a drag off of his cigarette. “I still won’t eat the things. I’m sorry again about your grandson. I hope they catch the guy who did it.”

  Johnny leaned into him. “You know they won’t. Wasn’t no man that did it.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” Sim’s hands begin to tremble. His symptoms worsened under stress. “It had to be, couldn’t have been anything else.”

  “It was that thing that looks through my window. Maybe the one that your boy seen at the school, or whatever it is that you stare at over your shoulder.”

  His head started to move as well. His tongue wanted to move from side to side. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve seen you glance over your shoulder when you catch your reflection in mirrors and shiny objects. You’ve even done it a couple times tonight in here without the mirror. You see something there, don’t you?”

  Sim cut his eyes over his shoulder. “No.” He snuffed his smoke. “Listen, I’ve got to go. If you need something, let me know. I don’t mean a casserole either.”

  “Why you leaving so early?” Johnny asked.

  He showed him his tremulous hands. “My Parkinson’s is acting up a bit tonight. It does that sometimes. I’ll be at the funeral tomorrow though.”

  Johnny shook his head. “We’re not having one. His momma wanted him buried without any more fa
nfare. Corey’s brother and I had to talk to her a long time to get this.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Sim hurried out without waiting for Johnny to say another word. The face actually felt as if it floated over his shoulder like a child’s balloon. The nearness of it made the hairs on his neck stand up. He hated being there.

  Chapter Twenty

  1956

  Three days after the Massacre

  The funeral director’s office smelled faintly of formaldehyde. The acrid smell nauseated Sim. If he had to sit there much longer, looking at the dark-paneled walls, he’d have to open the window. It faced the alleyway between the funeral home and the dry cleaner. The whole neighborhood probably loved the smell the two establishments generated. This was the second time in a week he’d sat in that very office.

  After the murders, the coroner had sent Connie’s body over to this place. He’d come to give the director the information for her family so that they could make appropriate arrangements. After several days and all of the other funerals had been announced, the mortician got back with him. Now he sat waiting, staring at the posters advertising coffins.

  Mr. Weinstein, the funeral director, walked in. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. McAdams,” he said.

  Sim didn’t stand or accept the man’s hand. The last time, the lanky man’s hand had been cold and damp. The mortician might have returned from tending to the dead. Mr. Weinstein even looked like a vampire, if Jews could be that kind of bloodsucker.

  “What did Connie’s parents want for her burial? Are they having her shipped back to Georgia?”

  “No, there is a slight problem,” Weinstein said. “The information you gave us for her family didn’t work out. I’m sorry it took us so long to get back with you, but we’ve been rather busy, as you might understand.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “The address that we sent a telegraph to wasn’t her parents’. A couple named Johnston lived there. They said that Connie’s parents haven’t lived there for three years.”

  “She talked about them all the time. I addressed a Father’s Day card for her back in the summer. That was the address, because I remembered the funny street name.”

  “Connie never told you?”

  “Told me what? Frankly, Mr. Weinstein, I don’t have times for riddles. I’ve missed a lot of work lately. My boss will fire me if I spend much more time off.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase. They’re dead.”

  “Her parents?”

  “Murdered three years ago. According to the Johnstons, who called me on the phone, the killer remains at large.”

  Sim shook his head. It didn’t make any sense. There were recent pictures of her family from her visit in August, and she’d been talking on the phone with her mother several times when he showed up at her house.

  “You’ve got to be wrong,” Sim said

  “I called the town’s police department and local funeral home. I know the director of funeral services there. Both confirmed they were murdered coming home from a picture show one night. The killer was never caught.”

  “Give me a minute,” Sim took a very deep breath of air. His nostrils and lungs filled with the low odor of the embalming chemicals. Another wave of nausea came over him. This time, he didn’t know if it was the news or the chemicals. “What do we do?”

  “Did she have siblings?” Weinstein asked.

  “A brother, but he’s stationed in Germany.”

  “It will take a while to get a hold of him. Why don’t you plan the arrangements? You were her fiancé.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” Sim corrected. “She broke up with me the night before she was killed. That doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for her burial. Given me that coffin.” He pointed to one of the posters that displayed a beautiful golden oak coffin with a light pink silk lining. “Do you sell plots?”

  “Only to Round Hill Cemetery,” Weinstein said. “You’ll have to call First Baptist to purchase a place in Pinehurst Hill Cemetery.”

  “You got their number? I won’t have her put up there where they buried that Abernathy boy. Isn’t that old witch Hazel supposedly buried there too?”

  “It used to be a potter’s field of sorts,” Weinstein answered instead. He pulled a business card from his desk and handed it to Sim. “That’s the church’s number. We have the coffin in stock, and once you secure a plot, we can do the service.”

  “No service. Lay her in the box, and put her in the hole. I’ll get the preacher from the Baptist church to pray over her.”

  “What about her family and friends?”

  “Obviously, she’s not got any family, and her friends are probably tired of going to wakes and whatnot.” He pointed to the coffin poster again. “That coffin.” He pointed to a date on the calendar lying on the director’s desk. “That date. I’ll call you with plot location. You call me when you’ve got a price, and I’ll pay you.”

  Sim didn’t give the old Jew time to tell him to pay up front. He walked out of the office and the building. The sun shone on him, warmer than he’d expected. He got into his car and drove to Connie’s house. Her car sat in the driveway like it had since he’d had it towed from the gym. He parked on the curb, got out, and walked to the house.

  The front door opened into the living room. Everything sat around like it had the day after she passed away when he’d come over to get her folks’ address. Sim had been waiting for them to get back with Mr. Weinstein before he took care of her belongings and house. He hadn’t felt right liquidating her things without her family’s permission, especially after she had broken things off with him. The point was now moot.

  He went to her bedroom, pulled the long middle drawer out of an antique rolltop desk she kept back there, and let the contents tumble onto the patchwork quilt neatly made over her bed. Overstuffed envelopes piled into a small mound. A few stray coins rested around the perimeter of the stuff. Sim sat the drawer on the floor and sat on the corner of the bed. He started rifling through the papers in the envelopes.

  Most of them were receipts. He even found the one for her parents’ funerals. He couldn’t figure out why she’d kept up such a long, drawn-out charade about them being alive. Another envelope contained the Dearborns’ death certificates. Death by homicide was clearly listed as the cause of death. In that same envelope, he found a few newspaper clippings, yellowed from age.

  The first article looked like a front-page story about the murder of her parents. The police at that time suspected they might have picked up a homicidal hitchhiker. All motorists were put on alert to not pick up anyone they didn’t know. Another article was about the hitchhiker theory being ruled out. The final article talked about how the police were giving up on the investigation. This article was dated a few weeks before Connie moved to Pinehurst.

  Sim gathered up the loose coins and put them in his pocket. Any little amount would help get her in the ground. She supposedly had a bank account, but there was no way for him to get access to that. He gathered up the papers and picked up the drawer. Something in a larger manila-style envelope was taped to the bottom. He tore it off.

  The envelope had heft. When it opened, a book fell out. It looked old with a red fabric binding. Sim picked it up and read the flaking gold title, Legends of the Deep South 1864-Present. A thin piece of yellow ribbon marked a place in the book. He flipped to the page. The title of a legend jumped out in large block letters—THE WITCH NAMED HAZEL.

  He dropped the book. It landed open and face-up. The name of the town was underlined with a red grease pencil. In the margins, Connie had written this is the place with the same pencil. A few strange symbols were on the margins on the other side. One looked like the pyramid and eye symbol on a dollar bill. Another was definitely the Star of David.

  After the first surprise, Sim’s curiosity got the best of him. He picked the book back up and flipped to the next page. The red pencil underlined something else, his family name and the name of the Harrin
gtons’ ancestor. He closed the book and shoved it back into the envelope. All of Connie’s other papers went into the drawer, and it went back into the desk. Sim took the book and started out of the room. He looked under the edge of the mattress before he left. By sheer luck, he found another envelope secreted there. It had about $500 in it. Enough money to bury her with a few bucks to spare.

  Clutching the book in one hand and the money in the other, Sim would let the probate judge handle the rest of Connie’s affairs. He suddenly cared what happened with them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The psychiatrist walked into the small visitation room where Alan waited. He looked middle-aged, with graying hair in a high horseshoe shape around a central bald spot. He didn’t wear a lab coat, just a pair of roughed-up blue jeans, a western shirt, and cowboy boots scuffed at the toe.

  “Mr. McAdams, I’m Dr. Vanhouten.” He shook Alan’s hand before settling into a vinyl recliner across the room. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but we had to give a patient an injection. I find that my presence sometimes helps ease the process for the staff. It didn’t.”

  “I could tell.” Alan said. By the sound of the yelling, the staff had been dealing with a large, angry man delusional about something he called the stump of Babylon. “Is my aunt okay?”

  “She’s perfectly safe. We have rarely had patients harmed by other patients.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “You are right; I didn’t call you here on a Sunday to chat about a Haldol PRN.” Dr. Vanhouten rubbed his chin. “Your aunt has been with us for nearly a week. We were making good progress until Friday.”

  “What happened then?” Alan asked.

  “We were getting ready to call you and let you know that she could have visitors when one of our night nurses documented her talking to herself in her room. She was saying things that bothered us.”