FIRST EDITION
Chorus of Dust © 2012 by Justin Paul Walters
Cover Artwork © 2012 by Daniele Serra
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DELIRIUM BOOKS
P.O. Box 338
North Webster, IN 46555
www.deliriumbooks.com
For my own Grandaddy, Daniel Luther Walters, II. I knew you half as well as I should have, and for that I am truly sorry. You shaped my dad, my hero, into the man he eventually became. If nothing else, you will always hold a special place in my heart for doing so.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Joseph Barder, whose invaluable feedback helped to shape this story into what it is today. I hope to meet you in person one day, buddy! More importantly, thanks to my wife, Jennifer. I know you don’t like scary stories (this one especially), but your support for this obsession of mine called writing is the only thing that keeps me going sometimes. Love always.
THE PRISON
It cannot be seen
but there’s blood on the green.
Only God knows I’m innocent.
Take me, take me home.
—Blind Guardian
It wasn’t so much the fact that Ray was sitting alone with a convicted murderer that bothered him, nor did he care that the man was now turning red with anger. No, what really bothered Ray was that he had been read like a book from the moment he walked into the room.
“I’m wasting my time with you, aren’t I?”
“Adem, please, I didn’t mean...” Ray ran a hand over his bald head. “Listen, I think I may have gotten us off on the wrong foot. Raymond Hardt, but you can call me Ray.” He held his hand out and forced a smile, but the man in front of him only continued to stare. That was fine. He’d handled cases like this before, and in the end, he always got them to talk. It was how he made his living. Instead of backing down, he simply left his hand hanging out in front of him in an awkward gesture that would make anyone uncomfortable, including maximum security prisoners. It worked. Finally, Adem reached up and shook with both hands, a loose chain dangling between them.
Adem, still red but now visibly calmer, released his hand, and Ray leaned back in his seat to study the lanky fellow in the orange jumpsuit sitting across the table. He kept his long, strawberry blonde hair tucked behind his ears and obviously hadn’t shaved for several days. “I’m sorry Adem, truly. Barging into a man’s home and insulting him is no way to kick off a dialogue, so you have every right to be angry.”
Adem snorted. “Home? The day I call this place my home is the day I know I’ve died and gone straight to Hell.”
“Come on, I’ve heard Angola isn’t so bad nowadays. Lots of exercise, your own newspaper…you even have that rodeo every year.” Adem glared at him. “Well, never mind about all that, it’s not why I’m here anyway.”
“Why are you here?”
Ray didn’t answer immediately. He needed to tread lightly. “I want to hear your side of the story.”
“You don’t want to hear my story. You want to write a book and make a mint off of me. That is what you do, isn’t it?”
Ray clenched his teeth. He didn’t come all this way to be lectured. “This was supposed to be my second retirement, you know. I swore last year that I would never write another book. But if you feel like I need to explain myself to you, fine, here it goes. I don’t do it for the money, Adem, and if you had read any of my work you would already know that. I tell the world what they don’t want to hear, I show them the flip side of the coin. It has made me rich, yes, but it has also made me very unpopular in many circles. Still, I kept writing because I believe everyone has a valid reason for doing the things they do. Even murderers.” He emphasized the last word, allowing it to linger in the stale air surrounding them, and waited for Adem’s reaction. What he saw surprised him.
Adem hung his head, and when he looked back up his brown eyes were wet, a single tear streaking down his face. “I’m not a murderer.”
For a brief but brilliant moment, Ray almost believed him.
“Look, you contacted me,” Ray said. “You wouldn’t talk about it at your trial and you haven’t granted a single visitor request since then. Now out of the blue two years later I get an urgent memo sent to my office that you suddenly want to talk about the murder, but only to me. So what gives? Do you want to do this or don’t you?” Ray paused, and when Adem didn’t answer, he went on. “When I walked in here a few minutes ago, the first thing I did was to joke around about you being innocent, like your internment here is all a big misunderstanding. The truth is, I had already convinced myself that you were absolutely guilty, and nothing you could say would change that one simple fact. But you picked up on that before I ever said anything, didn’t you?”
Adem remained quiet. Ray continued, “I think you were right about that, and you were right to be angry. But you were wrong about one thing. You are not wasting your time. Okay, hell, maybe I think you are guilty. So? What I think is irrelevant, because I haven’t heard it from your point of view yet. So let’s hear it Adem. Convince me.” Ray held his hands out, palms up.
Finally, Adem spoke. “You were wrong about one thing as well, Mr. Hardt. I have read your work. It’s the reason I asked for you. I don’t know if I can trust anyone else.”
Ray pulled his pen and a small notebook out of his coat pocket, set it open on the table to the first clean page, and looked up expectantly. At first Adem said nothing, and Ray was sure that the man would change his mind and he would end up leaving empty-handed. But then a change washed over Adem’s face, a dark cloud that seemed to steel his resolve. He spoke.
“When I first saw that envelope, I knew it was going to be bad news.”
THE FUNERAL
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
- Kahlil Gibran
They found him alone, naked, sprawled out in the middle of his own cotton field. The exposure is what killed him, or so they say, but I don’t see how they could know that. How can anybody ever really know how someone died? Sure, you might have a good idea, you can cut them open and analyze every organ, every single cell in their body. But can you ever truly know? I don’t think so. Then again, what the hell do I know?
The First Christian Church of Terrance stood before me, cars filling the parking lot around it. As a boy, it amazed me how the church rose above any other building in the small Louisiana town, like a rocky island jutting up from the sea, or an angry giant standing over me. I expected adulthood to dampen this perspective, but still the giant loomed as large and imposing as the first time I laid eyes on him. Despite myself, I felt my hands shaking. I shoved them into the front pockets of my hoodie and started toward the rear entrance. A Hearst was parked in the front driveway awaiting its cargo. I walked past it and up the steps to the church and opened the oak-wood doors that led to the rear of the sanctuary. It creaked on its hinges, the sound reverberating throughout the enormous room, and several people turned around to look. I recognized some of them from my childhood; high school teachers, business owners from around town, but mostly farmers. Men who knew Grandaddy. I doubt many of them recognized me, but I didn’t care either way.
I was just glad my sister didn’t turn around.
She sat with her husband at the end of the front pew. Sam was impossible to miss, even from the back. Curly locks of bright red hair draped down her neck and back, exactly the way I remembered it the last
time I saw her. To her left, a closed wooden casket sat before the alter where Pastor Sonnier delivered the eulogy. He looked old and weary, each line on his weathered face a monument to the trials of this world.
“Sidwin James Comeaux was a man of many hardships, and yet he loved life in spite of them,” Pastor Sonnier said. “Those of us who knew him are aware of the struggles he dealt with. He lost his son and daughter-in-law many years ago, and soon afterward lost his wife. Like many of you here, he nearly lost his farm after the big flood, and he fought tooth and nail to keep it running long after that. Yet, even as those waters rose, Sid praised his God. Even as he mourned for those he lost, he held his two grandbabies close to him, comforting them with his sweet, soft voice. He took Adem and Samantha in, raising them as his own, and their house filled with his love...”
As he spoke, I felt my throat constrict and my eyes threatened to spill over. When he finished, everyone stood to sing a final hymn, a haunting rendition of Beulah Land. I took a step back and turned around to leave. Before opening the back doors, a compulsion gripped me to stop and look back one more time. To this day I wish I hadn’t. My eyes locked with Sam’s, her gaze boring a hole through my skull. Time seemed to freeze, all those lost years reduced to a single, awful moment while the congregation sang.
“The zephyrs seem to float to me,
Sweet sounds of Heaven’s melody,
As angles with the white-robed throng
Join in the sweet redemption song!”
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. The song ended and I finally forced myself to break away. I left. I walked out of that fucking church as fast as my legs could carry me.
It wasn’t fast enough. Just as I reached my car and opened the door, I heard a familiar voice call out from behind me.
“Adem, wait!” It was Sam. “Please, hang on a second, okay?” I balled my fist and struck the top of my car. I should have known better than to think I could get in and out of there without being noticed.
I turned around. “Hey Sam. Look, I uh…I better get going.”
“That’s it? Ten years since the last time I saw you, and now you’re just going to take off?” I stood there like an asshole. What could I say? “Where have you been, Adem?”
I looked down and swallowed. “Atlanta.”
She bent over and craned her head up so she could look me in the eye. I turned away. Sam started toward me, and I felt every muscle in my body tense up. I couldn’t bear to look at her. She reached out and touched my face, her soft fingers pushing my chin up until our eyes met again. When they did, I saw no anger there.
“For god’s sake Adem, come here,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close to her. Relief flooded through me as I returned her embrace. I’d convinced myself that if I did run into Sam, she’d hate me, and I would let her hate me. I deserved it. Not once did I consider any other scenario. After several seconds, she released me and then held me back at arm’s length to look me up and down.
“You look terrible,” she said with a half smile. “When was the last time you ate anything?”
I tried to smile back but couldn’t hold it. “I’m fine.”
“How did you hear about Grandaddy?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure if word would get to you in time. I looked everywhere for you.”
“I got an envelope in the mail that had his obituary in it. It didn’t have a return address. You didn’t send it?”
Sam tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “If I knew your address, don’t you think I would have contacted you before now?” I opened my mouth, then closed it, realizing that there was nothing to say. Behind her, people were now filing out of the sanctuary. Sam’s husband Winston stood on the church steps watching us, his arms crossed across his broad chest. I lifted a hand up and waved at him, but he didn’t move. Just another bridge blasted to cinders. I felt the same urge I’d had a few minutes earlier in the sanctuary, that noose constricting around my throat, threatening to choke the life out of me if I didn’t leave right that instant.
“Well, it was good to see you Sam, but—”
“No, don’t you even think about leaving again,” Sam said, her voice rising in intensity. She pushed herself closer to me as I backed off, and the car’s roof pressed into my back. “You think you can show up after all this time out of nowhere and then just take off again?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stick around.”
Sam pointed a finger in my face. “I couldn’t care less about your ideas. Look where they’ve gotten us!” I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, but I decided to stand there and take it, no matter how angry she became. I owed her that much. Instead, her face softened again and she took a step back. “I’m sorry. It’s just been tough with you gone. Grandaddy’s been through a lot since you left.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed and repositioned the purse strap on her shoulder. “I can’t talk about it with you right now. Adem, can you at least consider staying for a couple more days? I need your help taking care of the estate. Did you know that you’re still listed as the executor?”
I laughed. “Are you shitting me?” Sam scowled, unhappy with my choice of language.
“You know Grandaddy. Stubborn to the end.” She took a glance back at her husband, then turned back to face me. “Just a few days Adem, that’s all I’m asking for.” My car was right there. I could hop in and take off, I thought, and in five minutes this town would be behind me again. I almost did, but then I looked into Sam’s dark green eyes and I was her big brother again.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay, but only for a couple of days. I’m sure I can look up some old friends to crash with.”
“Why don’t you come stay at the farm? Winston’s going back to take care of little Sid while I wrap up everything with Grandaddy’s will, so I’ll be staying there, too.”
“Little…Sid?”
Sam nodded. “He’s three. You’re an uncle and you didn’t even know it.” I felt the sensation of blood draining out of my face, but somehow stayed on my feet. What else did I miss? Who else missed me? She must have understood what I was feeling and wrapped her arms around me once more. “We’ll work through this, Adem. Ten years is a long time, but it’s not too long to make things right. I’ll see you at home.” She kissed me on the cheek, then turned around and walked back toward her husband.
I took a deep breath and settled down into the car seat. In my rearview mirror, pallbearers carried my Grandaddy’s casket down the steps and carefully slid it into the back of the Hearst. All that remained of him, stuffed into a box so that he could be buried in the dirt like so much garbage. Was that all that was left of the man I loved like a father? Just a pile of waste that required prompt disposal? My head throbbed. What was I doing here? It wasn’t too late. All I had to do was pull out of the parking lot and turn right and I’d be on my way back to Atlanta.
I turned left.
THE FARM
I thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
This brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it’s like I’m someone else.
I thought that maybe I could find myself.
—Miranda Lambert
The song woke me that night. That damned song I’d been hearing for days, but now it was stronger than ever. It certainly hadn’t yanked me out of my sleep before.
I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of my childhood bedroom. Not much had changed since I moved out. All my furniture sat the same as the day I left, movie posters plastering the walls around it. I had to wonder if the sheets had even been changed, but thought better of asking. It was a bed, a place to lay my head for the night, and that was something I’d learned over the last several years to never take for granted.
I waited, hoping the song would go away. It didn’t. How do I describe it? Imagine the choral section of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, except that instead
of accompanying a trained orchestra, the choir sang to the infernal roaring of a jet engine. The sound was beautiful and dreadful. I’d given up trying to understand where it came from, and was even learning to ignore it, but I knew I would never get used to it. Now it was more intense than ever.
Eventually I pulled myself out of bed and put a T-shirt back on from the day before. The room was dark, and the rest of the house just outside of it, but I didn’t need any light. I found my way out into what we called the “great room” as kids. The entire length of the house was one giant room from end to end, with an open living area, dining area, and kitchen. The four bedrooms lined the edges of the great room, two on each side. The main entrance led into the kitchen on one end, and at the other end was a sliding patio door that led out into the back yard and, eventually, the cotton fields. As I walked toward the patio door, the song grew louder, more intense than I’d ever heard.
Not only that, but for the first time I noticed something else. Someone was speaking. The words were low and guttural, impossible to understand. My breathing sped up, and I felt my hands shaking again. I was terrified, yet drawn to it somehow. Without thinking, I reached out and unlocked the patio door, then gripped the handle and slid it open.
The sound intensified, more than I could have possibly imagined. The cacophony assaulted my senses, a pure wall of incredible, terrible music that threatened to shut my mind down permanently. I covered my ears and fell down to my knees. Before my vision blacked out, I swore I could see a giant shadow pass over the fields in the moonlight. A single word broke through the bedlam, a voice that will forever remain etched into my memory.
Chorus of Dust Page 1