Oscar scratched his head uncomfortably. Then he looked at the hardwood floors. Then he looked at the peaceful, soothing paintings of flora on his mother’s office’s walls. Then he looked up at his mother again wishing he was in Brazil drinking tall, exotic, alcoholic liquors with flowers in them. “Mayor Waterford is here,” he said as a drastically flawed substitute.
Time seemed to freeze in an infinitesimal fall of space. Ophelia didn’t move, she didn’t even seem to breathe, and Oscar couldn’t hear anything but a black roar that enveloped his entire head. He thought she was shrieking, but after another timeless moment he knew it was only the tumescent battering of hopeless expectation inside his head.
Instead, Ophelia smiled. Oscar took a step back and checked for the trap that was about to be sprung on him. Then he shuddered heavily like an animal that has just sighted the bloodied butcher with the large dripping axe and already knows what all the screaming was about. She leaned forward on to her desk, planting her elbows on the hard surface and resting her chin within the cradle of her hands. Then she said determinedly, “We shouldn’t keep him waiting then, should we?”
Oscar adjusted his work apron. He went down to the first floor to get the mayor. “Mayor,” Oscar said calmly, thinking of destruction and chaos. Is the basement far away from the fallout that’s about to happen? Yes, I think so. Just as soon as I get him upstairs, I’m going to lunch. I don’t care if it’s 2:30 in the afternoon and Bayou Billy’s waiting to have his blood drained. I’m out of here. I need a shot of Tanqueray and a toke of Super Gold Thai. He knew about his mother and he’d heard about Pascal Waterford, too. Neither was known for placid demeanors. Mayor Waterford fought fiercely for what he believed in. The fact that he had claimed Bayou Billy’s body first was a clear indication of the battle to come and that didn’t even take into account that the mayor didn’t yet know a battle was brewing. However, Oscar had seen the power of attorney and the mayor was going to lose big. “Miss Rector will see you,” he said, motioning toward the stairs.
“Great,” Pascal said amicably. He pointed toward the picture of the premier line of caskets. “What’s the top of the line in this go for?”
Oscar had been trained. He wasn’t supposed to tell people, especially people with recently deceased ones in their lives, any of the prices. Ophelia would discuss their funerary options and ease them into the best arrangements that a family could afford. But the mayor wasn’t going to buy anything. Not from Rector Mortuary. Probably after this day, he would direct business away from them by the droves. He would hang out front with a protest sign. He would sue them, too. Oscar shrugged and answered, “Top of the line goes for about $30,000. It really depends on the options.”
“Options,” the mayor repeated thoughtfully. “You mean like stick shift or automatic or leather or cloth?”
Oscar grinned. Perhaps he’d stay on the first floor to get a listen on what was going to happen. It might be more interesting than Ophelia’s usual bloodletting. The mayor wasn’t a docile little sheep hanging out with Bo Peep.
Ophelia’s door had been left open and Oscar ushered the mayor in, directing him to the comfortable chair closest to his mother’s desk. Rector Mortuary employees called the chair, ‘The sucker’s seat,’ because of the sheer increase in cash amount that people were willing to spend on their beloved deceased family members after they had spoken with Ophelia Rector.
His mother was smiling and Mayor Waterford smiled as well.
Poor bastard, Oscar thought pityingly.
“Ophelia,” the mayor said. “It’s been a year or two, hasn’t it? It’s good to see you.”
Ophelia rose up from her seat and graciously shook the mayor’s proffered hand. “And you as well, Pascal,” she said. “Why don’t we sit? Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Pascal said.
“Oscar, two coffees for us. The mayor takes his black. You know how I like mine,” Ophelia instructed.
Oscar went out into the secretary’s office and got out the china service for two. He hesitated but went ahead and used the expensive service though the mayor most certainly wasn’t going to buy anything once he found out what Ophelia was doing. Oscar could hear Ophelia saying something about the humidity and her hair. The mayor was chuckling genially in response. Oscar brought the coffee in before they were finished with niceties. Then, he scuttled out before the world fell apart.
Something intractable drew him to stop at the secretary’s desk. He couldn’t be seen from Ophelia’s open door but he could listen very well.
Ophelia served the coffee, adding sugar and cream to her own and complaining good-naturedly about the extra weight on her hips.
The mayor charmingly denied that she looked overweight. Then he got right to the point, “I’m terribly sorry about the manner in which Mr. McCall’s body was left at your facilities.”
Oscar didn’t need to see the frosty look on his mother’s face as she said, “That was rather unusual.”
The mayor didn’t offer specific explanations or excuses for what had happened. Oscar filled in the blanks himself. Pascal Waterford was a notorious drunk. Bayou Billy had been delivered to Rector Mortuary while the mayor was el blotto, tee’d to the tits, wankered, and shit-faced. It was what everyone was saying and Ophelia didn’t like for the dead to be mistreated.
“So I’d like to discuss the financial arrangements,” the mayor said, going for the high road and attempting to use complete avoidance as a tool.
“Of course,” Ophelia replied. “Concerning what?”
Oh, the first blow. Mayor Dubya don’t know what’s hitting him.
“Concerning Mr. McCall’s embalming,” the mayor said.
“That’s been taken care of, courtesy of Rector Mortuary,” Ophelia stated plainly.
Another death blow. Go, Ma.
Big, long pause. Then the mayor said, “That’s very generous of your organization.”
“It’s the least we could do for a man of Mr. McCall’s distinction,” Ophelia said.
She’s winding up for another pitch. She could hit it clear out of the ballpark if she connects. She could also hit the mayor squarely in his balls. Oh, this is going to hurt.
“Great. Fantastic. When can we pick up Mr. McCall’s remains?” The mayor was as dense as concrete.
“Pick up Mr. McCall’s earthly remnants? I’m not sure if I understand,” Ophelia said sweetly.
“The funeral is on Friday,” the mayor said. “Going to be a big day in Sawdust City.”
Here it comes. Give it to him, Ma. Go ahead. Fire the big bazooka.
“You mean, it’s going to be a big day in Albie.”
Oooo, silence from the big mayor. He’s digesting the news. He’s figuring out the angle. Slow burn starting to happen. Steam building up. Explosion impending.
“We’re burying Mr. McCall in Resurrection Cemetery in Sawdust City, right next to his wife. Right down the row from his children.” The mayor’s voice was sub-zero. He was starting to get the picture. Ophelia wasn’t going to out and out tell the mayor; instead she was going to make him suffer through the oblique angles.
“Mr. McCall will be interred in Albie Cemetery on Friday,” Ophelia said pleasantly. “There will be an honorary parade through Albie on Friday, ending with his mortal residue being laid to rest in the memorial park.”
Salvos fired. Good shot, Ma. Preemptory. Shoot him down before he even gets his guns up.
“The hell you say,” the mayor stated bluntly. “Bayou Billy is ours and we’re going to bury him in Sawdust City. He promised that-” his voice trailed off uncertainly.
Oscar heard papers rustling. Then Ophelia said, “Do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a power of attorney,” he said cynically.
“Exactly. Do you know who Tamara Danley is?”
The mayor didn’t reply. Apparently he didn’t want to sound like a jackass because he obviously didn’t know Tamara Danley from Jesus Christ Superstar.
Ophelia went
ahead and answered anyway. “Tamara Danley is Mr. McCall’s closest living kin, his only living granddaughter. She has given me the power of attorney over Mr. McCall’s estate and disposition.”
Oh, man. The mayor’s down. Call the paramedics. It’s all over.
Papers rattled. Fingers thumped irritatedly on the desk. “This is notarized by yourself,” the mayor said.
Is the mayor down? Maybe not.
“Yes,” Ophelia said.
“Wouldn’t you say that was a conflict of interest?” the mayor asked.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Ophelia replied, firmly, and undeniably.
Is that a note of defensiveness in Ma’s voice? Could be.
“Son of a bitch,” the mayor said viciously.
Good cursing. Sounds sincere. I give it a solid five on the fuck-you-o-meter.
“So what about the money we paid for the hospital bills?” the mayor said.
“A nice honorarium for Bayou Billy,” Ophelia said coldly. “We’ll make sure your name is noted on the memorial along with the others who will pay for the construction of the monument.”
More silence.
“You mean you won’t pay us back,” the mayor said and it wasn’t a question. “You couldn’t have planned that we would claim Billy’s body, or that we would leave his corpse on your front doorstep, so this is all serendipity?”
“Serendipity,” Ophelia said cheerfully. “Blessed, convenient fate.”
“You dog-ass sniffing whore,” the mayor said.
That’s a definite eight on the FU-o-meter. But it isn’t going to get you any votes, Mayor.
“Tut-tut,” Ophelia said. “Insults aren’t going to get you anywhere.”
“Yeah, your mama,” the mayor said. “They sure as hell make me feel better.”
Oh, man. I expected better from you, Mayor. That was lame. Really laaammme.
Ophelia snickered and Oscar just about jumped in his pants. She was moving toward the door. “You can keep that,” she said. “I made you a copy for your records, so you can explain your actions to your constituents.”
Oh nice blow. Should be hearing the death rattle from the mayor any sec now.
Papers rattled. More silence followed. Oscar fully expected the mayor to leap for Ophelia’s throat. However, there was an abrupt movement of sound and Oscar fled for the stairs. The last thing he heard was Mayor Waterford saying sincerely, “I hope your tits rot and fall off, you shanky-assed, brother-groping, jock-strap slurping assclown.”
Ten minutes later Ophelia used the intercom to call Oscar. “Listen, Oscar,” she said.
Oscar punched the button from the relative safety of the basement. “Mama?”
“Give Mr. McCall the Lenin treatment, will you?”
“Okay,” Oscar said slowly. The Lenin treatment was based on what had been done to Vladimir Lenin, the Soviet Head of State in the early twentieth century. So revered was the man that his body was specially treated with glycerin, alcohol, water, potassium acetate, and quinine chloride. Still on permanent display in the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow, the body’s clothes are changed every three years and the features look very preserved. It was an expensive treatment and arduous to perform, but well worth the results. It was obvious that she wanted Bayou Billy to last until the apocalypse.
What the hell is Ma up to now?
Chapter Twelve
From a transcript of an interview dated August 14th, 1997 with Mrs. Graciella Tourney. It is noted that the interview was for background material for a magazine article on Bayou Billy AKA William Douglas McCall.
The interviewer was Stillman Floyd, a biographer interested in William Douglas McCall, and who consequently published a tome on Mr. McCall’s life through a university press in limited edition.
Mr. Floyd’s notes indicate that Mrs. Tourney was eighty-six years old at the time and was living in the small town of Turnipgreen, Oklahoma. Mrs. Tourney has since passed away due to liver cancer and Mr. Floyd’s papers were donated to the University of Arizona’s library and historical archive:
Floyd: Mrs. Tourney, I’m very pleased that you could take the time to speak with me.
Tourney: You’ll have to speak up, dear. I’m completely deaf in that ear.
Floyd: It’s my understanding that you once knew William Douglas McCall.
Tourney: Yes, dear. I once knew the fellow. A long time ago. His sister used to baby-sit my younger sister and I. It was when my father was a minister in a little town called Hollytree. Hollytree, Louisiana. My father was a Methodist minister such a long time ago, and we moved several times over the next decade. Bigger better churches whose parishioners were willing to tithe more. Hollytree was the place we stayed the longest. Along the line the Great Depression happened and Papa lost all his savings in a bank. He stuck a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Floyd: I’m very sorry.
Tourney: Don’t be, dear. He was a rotten father. And a worse minister. It was a wretched life living in a glass house. Mama was better off without him. The next year, she married a rancher from Wewoka, Oklahoma. Even though all the children were well grown, Mama took us with them, and we spent the Depression eating steak and eggs every morning. Even lived through the dust bowl and God, I recollect Black Sunday like it was yesterday. That was the day the biggest, blackest dust storm came rolling across the plains that one ever saw. Horses, cows, and beasts of all sorts fled for their lives or died choking. We fit more animals in the ranch houses and the barn than could be counted and thanks to that, we only had to clean manure off the floors instead of starving to death.
Floyd: What an interesting life you’ve had.
Tourney: Oh, it’s not over, dear. I aim to ride in a hot air balloon next week. My great-granddaughter will be accompanying me. Life’s not boring yet. I hope to hit the century mark and I’m thinking about parachuting, but so far no company will dare take me. Silly cowards. I would sign a waiver, of course.
Floyd: About Mr. McCall.
Tourney: Billy. You mean Billy. It’s what we called him. It’s what the papers called him later. I read about him in the thirties. Heard about him on the radio. I didn’t put it together that I had personally known the infamous Bayou Billy until the fifties when he was finally caught. They had a photo of him in the newspapers and damned if he didn’t look the spit of his daddy. It couldn’t be none other but him. I hear he’s still alive.
Floyd: Yes, ma’am. He lives in Louisiana. Well, sometimes he lives in Texas. He can’t seem to make up his mind which town he’d rather live in.
Tourney: He was a contrary boy, as well. Some years older than I was, and bless his heart if he didn’t start his wicked ways early. Stole from the tribute plate on the holy day. I saw him myself, pluck a quarter off the platter as it was passed from row to row. (Chuckles.) I didn’t do a thing, of course. Billy winked at me and since he had such an angelic face, who could have said boo to a badger? I certainly didn’t. I was amused.
Floyd: Billy went to church?
Tourney: Oh, heavens yes. His mama would have beaten him black and blue if he wanted to skip Sunday services.
Floyd: Billy won’t talk about his parents much.
Tourney: His father vanished early on. Some do. Men marry up with a lady and find they didn’t have a taste for real married life. Too much crying and squealing from babies and not enough time to drink and carouse. I don’t recall much talk about James McCall. Only that one day he was with the family and the next gone like a butterfly. I may be mistaken but I don’t think anyone saw Brother McCall again.
Floyd: And his mother?
Tourney: Doretta McCall. A seamstress. She used to clean houses as well. She had a pack of children to feed and she did what she could to keep clothes on their backs. My mama always said that Miz McCall had a sugar daddy, I suppose you know what I mean by that, but women gossip about anything and nothing at all. Miz McCall was a right beautiful woman, even with all the work she did.
Floyd: And you know how Billy came to
be known as Bayou Billy?
Tourney: Of course. Louisiana’s full of bayous. Those were black desolate places where a boy goes when he doesn’t want folks bothering him or teasing him about his mama’s questionable employment or a long-missing daddy. His sister, her name was Ruth, was fifteen when she sat for us. My older brother was already employed by a logging company at the tender age of fourteen and couldn’t watch us. Well, Ruth would tell us stories about Billy. Billy used to steal from local merchants. If he had a hankering for candy, then thieving was just about the only way he was going to get some. Well, more often than not he would get caught. (Another chuckle.) And lord, how he would run. That boy had legs longer than a deer’s. He could run always as fast. The merchants would go to Billy’s mama and she would make him cut his own switch from a willow tree to whip him with. He got so that he would go hide in the bayous until the worst of his mama’s mad was over. It happened so often that folks around Hollytree got to calling him Bayou Billy.
Floyd: He wasn’t born in the bayou?
Tourney: Of course not. Billy was born in Hollytree, two doors down from the church in his parents’ house. In that day, a woman didn’t go to a hospital. Home was just fine, unless a doctor was needed. But Billy grew up in Hollytree until he was about seventeen, and then he drifted out. Just like his daddy. It’s sad really. I almost didn’t realize who Bayou Billy was. But the photo was very plain. Billy turned out to be a lot like his father. I’ve often wondered if he knows that.
Floyd: I don’t think he does.
The Present
Monday, July 17th –
Albie, Louisiana
Pascal Waterford beat his head on the exterior front driver’s door of his Ford Expedition until he saw what he thought was stars. Could be stars. Could be crescent moons. Could be little cloverleaves. Could be meatcake. Oh, fried doodoo on toast, do I need a drink or what?
Life and Death of Bayou Billy Page 14