An Unsettled Grave

by Bernard Schaffer

  Her bright red hair was like a flame in the darkness sticking out from under the hood of her winter coat. J.D. scrambled to get behind the chimney, trying to put it between himself and her. Hope Pugh stopped on the other side of the chimney, looking down at J.D.’s coat and hat that he’d forgotten in his rush to get up, and folded her arms against her chest. “J.D. Rein, what are you doing out here lurking around in the woods, in the cold, with no coat and hat on?”

  “I was too hot,” he said, feeling the goose flesh riddled across both of his arms.

  “You are soaking wet!” She bent down to pick up his coat and hat and thrust them out at him. “Put these on before you catch pneumonia.”

  He didn’t reach for them. Hope came around the corner to insist again, only to stop, curling her nose in disgust. “Did you pee yourself?”

  “No, I didn’t pee myself. You see my hair and shirt’s all wet, you think I peed all over my shirt?”

  “It smells like somebody peed,” she said, sniffing the air. She raised his coat and pressed it to her nose.

  “Just give me those,” J.D. said, snatching the coat and hat out of her hands. He was shivering, but still not putting them on.

  Hope looked at his dirty arms and muddy clothes and shoes. “Was somebody chasing you?”

  “Nobody was chasing me, you dumb girl,” J.D. said. “Get on home.”

  “You get on home. This is my property.”

  “I can’t, okay?” he said. “Can’t you just go away, please? I won’t touch anything.”

  “Okay, then, wait here a minute.” Hope ran off, going back the way she’d come. Through the trees, J.D. saw a light come on in the back of her house and heard a screen door slam. Moments later, the light went off, and the screen door slammed again. She hurried back, carrying a laundry basket filled with items.

  She dropped the basket at the chimney and said, “Put these on,” reaching inside it for a gray sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. “They’re my dad’s so they’re going to be big on you. Just roll them up.” She handed him a balled-up pair of white socks after that, then pulled out a thick green military blanket. She spread the blanket out in front of the chimney, then reached in her pocket and pulled out a plastic lighter. She bent down to the pile of sticks, about to light them, when she looked over her shoulder and saw that he hadn’t moved. “What are you doing? Get out of those wet clothes,” she said.

  “Am I supposed to just take off my clothes with you right here?” he said.

  “I’m not looking, idiot,” she said, turning back to the branches. She stuck her lighter under them and flicked it, letting the flame scorch one of the ends of rope until it began to smolder.

  J.D. went around back of her, slid into the shadows, and pulled off his T-shirt as fast as he could, trying to get it over the top of his head with as little of it touching him as possible. He found another patch of snow, scooped it up with one hand, and smeared as much of it along his sides and stomach and back as he could endure. It was freezing cold, running down his skin like razor blades. He gasped when he got the sweatshirt on, feeling its immediate warmth.

  He pulled off his pants and socks, standing on them in his bare feet as he hurried into the sweatpants and pulled on the fresh pair of socks. He stood there, arms buried inside the sweatshirt’s long sleeves, still shivering, but no longer in pain from the cold.

  The fire in the chimney took, a ball of flame forming inside its open brick belly. Hope came over to him, pulling the blanket close enough that he could stand on it instead of the bare ground. “Get over by the fire and warm up,” she said.

  He wrapped his arms around himself, standing so close to the fire he could feel it searing his skin, and watched her kick his clothing around in the snow. She stomped on them, squishing them under the snow, then dragged them with her foot into even more snow, making sure they were soaked completely through. She picked up his shirt and pants and socks and shoes and carried them over to the chimney and draped them across its back, hanging them to dry.

  She came up beside him on the blanket and sat down, watching the flames. J.D. lowered himself to sit next to her, feeling the fire’s warmth spread across his cheeks and outstretched hands. Hope reached into the laundry basket for the last thing, a stuffed bear. She pulled it out and tucked it under her arm, then looked at J.D. and held it out toward him. “Do you want it?”

  “No,” he scowled. “Why would I want that?”

  “Are you hungry? My mom made pot roast and we have leftovers.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I don’t like it. That’s why we have so much of it left. Do you like pot roast?”

  J.D. shrugged. “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “What do you mean what is it? You never ate it?”

  “Sure,” J.D. said. “All the time. I just wasn’t sure what you meant. That’s all.”

  Hope frowned at him, then looked back at the flames. “What do you like to eat for dinner?”

  “Sometimes we order pizza. When my dad gets his check.”

  “I wish we ordered pizza,” Hope said, “instead of that dumb pot roast.”

  J.D.’s stomach growled loud enough that they both heard it. They looked at one another, and both of them laughed.

  Hope got to her feet. “I’m going to get some food for us.” She tucked her bear into J.D.’s lap without giving him a chance to resist. “Hold that. Be careful with him.”

  He watched her vanish into the darkness again. It was so warm by the fire his hair was drying. His clothes smelled like burning wood now. Cleansed by heat and smoke. He looked at the distant light of Hope’s house when it came on. When he was sure no one would see, he picked the bear up and squeezed it tight.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was noon before Ollie Rein got his first radio call of the day. He’d had his usual breakfast at Ruby’s—toast and sausage and runny eggs—and managed to not spill any on his uniform. Like every morning, the customers at the counter greeted him by name, and he’d spent an hour drinking coffee, talking to the local truckers and out-of-work union men.

  After he ate, he drove his police car, a 1980 Plymouth Gran Fury, painted bright blue with a gold star on the side, through the town’s main strip, waving at everyone he saw. They knew it was him, because both of Liston’s police cars were tan, and their chief made his officers wear their cowboy hats at all times. The poor bastards even had to wear their cowboy hats in the car. Ollie loved to hit the siren whenever they drove past. It always made them turn their heads to look, and they’d whack the stiff brim of their hats against the car window. The way it made their heads bounce made Ollie laugh.

  The police radio squawked. Ollie picked up the microphone, holding it close to his face. “Well, good morning, Pretty Lady, I thought you forgot about me today. What do you got, something good?”

  The woman’s voice in the speaker purred, “Good morning, handsome. Just a two-car fender bender at the beer store. No injuries.”

  “Copy that,” he said, hanging the microphone back up.

  It squawked again. “We’re getting another call on this, from inside the store. Stand by.”

  He reached forward, pressing the microphone’s button while it was still holstered, “Received.”

  “One of the customers inside the beer store heard the crash and got spooked.”

  Ollie looked at the radio without touching it.

  “Owner says he started yelling and grabbed one of the employees and dragged him into the back room. Now the door’s shut and he won’t come out.”

  Ollie closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. He hit the Plymouth’s overhead lights and spun the car around, kicking up road dirt as the people on the sidewalk leaned back, waving the cloud of dust from in front of their faces. “Sorry,” Ollie called out to them, spinning the heavy wheel to get the car righted, and stepped on the gas.

  The beer store was at the other end of town. He made it there in less than a minute, swung into the lot and jumped out of the ca
r, then walked toward the building. Two people ran toward him from the place where their cars were smashed together. He could see shattered glass from one of their busted-out rear windshields. Hot radiator fluid hissed onto the parking lot stones.

  “This moron came out of nowhere and hit me!” the woman said.

  “Give me a minute,” Ollie said, still walking.

  “She was backing up and didn’t see me in her rearview mirror,” the man protested. “She hit me! Hey!”

  “I said give me a minute!” Ollie snapped, thrusting his finger in the air. He pulled the beer store’s door open and reached down to quiet the heavy brass bells clanging against its glass surface. He stood at the entrance looking around the store. A stack of six-packs had been knocked over near the office door. A few bottles were broken and leaking on the cement floor.

  “Help!” the owner cried, waving his hands in the air. “This crazy bastard’s got my boy in there. Kick the door open and shoot this son of a bitch.” He slammed his fist on the door. “Open up, you psycho looney! I’m going to kill you when I get my hands on you.”

  Ollie grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders and pulled him away. “Shhh. That’s enough. Let me handle this.”

  “My boy!” the owner protested. “That maniac has him!”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Ollie said. “Just go stand over there and let me talk.” He walked the smaller man backward toward the front counter and showed him where to stand. He made his way over to the office and pressed his ear against the door. “Ben?” he said through the door. “It’s Ollie. You okay in there?”

  He could hear the owner’s son inside, pleading to be let go. He could hear another voice saying, “Don’t make a sound. It’s almost over. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Ben?” Ollie said again. “We’re ten-four out here. It was just a car crash. That’s what made the loud noise. It wasn’t a bomb or any kind of explosion. Just two people who don’t know how to drive. Open the door and come out, and I’ll show you.”

  “This fucking maniac can never come in my store again!” the owner shouted from across the room.

  Ollie glared back at him, making a fist. He turned back to the door. “Ben, that kid in there is the owner’s son. He works here. He’s not someone you know. Listen, that kid’s dad is worried about him. You’re scaring people. You need to open this door and come out. It’s me, Ollie. I promise, everything is all right.”

  Nothing except the sound of more pleading inside. Ollie hung his head, racking his brain. There was only one thing left to try. He stepped back, hiking up his gun belt with both hands, and stuck out his chest, shouting, “Now you listen to me you wet sack of raw recruit shit! Soldier, you will get your sorry ass out of that goddamn office before I personally put you on twenty-four-hour bathroom detail after franks and beans Friday! Do you read me, you lily-livered pissant?”

  After a soft mechanical click of the door handle, the door burst open. A young man came sprinting out past Ollie, racing toward his father’s open arms. Ollie ducked his head inside the office, peering beneath the large wooden desk. His older brother was squished beneath it, his knees tucked under his chin, shivering, sweat dripping off his chin and the long, loose strands of hair dangling over his face. Ollie bent down, gentle once more. “You okay now?”

  When Ben didn’t move, Ollie reached forward, slowly, and touched him on the arm. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  As Ben came out from under the desk, he blinked rapidly, like a man coming to out of a trance. Ollie helped him to his feet and led him out of the office, past the owner, who was now shouting, “Who’s paying for all this?” He waved his hands at the broken six-packs. “I want to press charges!”

  “I’ll come back and we’ll sort all this out,” Ollie said, leading his brother toward the front door. “Just give me a little bit.”

  He opened the door, and the people near their cars shouted at him once more, each trying to tell him it was the other’s fault. Ollie put his hand up. “I’m dealing with a medical emergency here. Start writing down each other’s information, and I’ll come back and take some pictures.” He added, “I’ll only be a few minutes,” then opened the passenger-side door to sit Ben down, closed it, and hurried over to the driver’s side.

  When Ollie got in and started driving, Ben closed his eyes. “I still need beer.”

  “Well, you can forget the beer,” Ollie said. “You won’t be going back there anytime soon.”

  “Take me to the liquor store, then.”

  “I’m taking you home,” Ollie said.

  Ben ran his hand through his long, unevenly cut hair, feeling how wet it was between his fingers. He ran his hand along his eyes, rubbing them, and stared out the window. “You’d have made a pretty good drill instructor,” he said.

  “You think so?” Ben said.

  “If you hadn’t been a secretary instead.”

  Ollie rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

  Ben kept staring at the window, watching the outside world sweep past. “It’s all right. Lucky for you, they needed people who knew how to type. I wish I’d known how to type.”

  * * *

  Ollie followed Ben through the front door, steering him by the shoulder, making sure he didn’t stumble. “Get off me,” Ben said, swatting his hand away. “I’m not some goddamn invalid.”

  Ollie surveyed the living room. Trash was everywhere. A line of empty beer and liquor bottles circled the couch, from the back wall to the soiled throw rug under the table. “Have a seat,” Ollie said. “I’ll make you some food.”

  Ben staggered to the couch and sat. “Find me a beer. Check the bottom drawers.”

  “Where’s the kid?”

  A bottle emerged from between the couch cushions in Ben’s hands. Ben tipped the dregs of amber fluid into his mouth, working his lips until he drained the bottle.

  Ollie walked into the kitchen. Dishes were stacked in the sink, covered in sauce that looked glued to their surface, sitting in filthy water. He opened the refrigerator door and saw bare shelves.

  He slammed the door shut so hard the wall rattled. “What the hell is this?” he shouted.

  Ben was slumped over the side of the couch, checking the rest of the bottles. Ollie kicked a whisky bottle out of his hand, sending it spiraling under the couch. Ben’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at his younger brother.

  “Where is all the goddamn food in this house? What are you feeding J.D.?”

  Ben pressed himself up from the couch, glaring. “You mind your own business about my house and my boy.”

  Ollie touched the badge on his shirt. “This is my business. I’m the chief of police around here. One word, I’ll have social services yank him out of this house. You understand me?”

  “Good,” Ben said. “Take him.”

  “You really are a son of a bitch, you know that? And it’s not the war, or your wife dying. You were a son of a bitch before any of that, even when we were kids.”

  Ben sat back down on the couch and searched through the rest of the bottles, one or two weren’t completely empty.

  Ollie went toward the stairs, stopping at the hallway to call out, “J.D.? You up there?” Faint music came from one of the bedrooms. As he walked up the steps, the screen door slammed and he saw Ben heading outside, walking toward the street. Ollie kept going up the steps. “J.D.? It’s your favorite uncle.”

  The music shut off. Ollie heard something drag across the hardwood floor. Something heavy was slid from behind the door and pressed up against the wall. The door opened. J.D. stuck his head out. “You’re my only uncle.”

  Ollie pressed the door open with the tips of his fingers and looked down, seeing the deep groove marks in the floor that led to the heavy wooden clothes dresser. It was cockeyed from not being pushed back into place properly. “Just because I’m your only one doesn’t mean I shouldn’t also be your favorite,” Ollie said. Seeing a stack of books on the dresser, all of them from the
school library, he picked up the first one and looked at the cover. It showed a knight on horseback with his sword drawn. “Le Morte d’Artur?” Ollie said, feeling how thick it was. “They make you read this at your age?”

  “It’s not for school,” J.D. muttered, sitting down on his bed. He was surrounded by comic books, all of them with the covers cut in half. Any paperback books in the room had no covers. That was the way the used book store sold them.

  “Is it any good?” Ollie asked.

  “Not as good as Once and Future King, but pretty good,” J.D. said.

  Ollie scruffed his hair. “You’re such a weird kid. That must be why I like you.” He nudged the dresser back against the wall, getting it into place. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothing,” J.D. said. “Just hanging out. Reading.”

  “Wrong. You’re coming with me. Get dressed.”

  J.D. looked down at his clothes. “I’m already dressed, and I have school tomorrow.”

  The boy’s pants were stained and showed his bony ankles in the space between the hem and his ragged sneakers. Ollie pulled open the first dresser drawer and saw it was empty. He didn’t bother checking the rest. “Come on, kid. We’re getting out of here.”

  * * *

  Ollie picked up the police radio’s microphone and was about to press the button when he looked at J.D., sitting delighted in the front seat, staring at all the buttons that worked the lights and siren and radio. He handed the microphone to the boy and said, “Here, you try.”

  J.D. took the microphone. “What do I say?”

  “Well, first you have to make sure someone is there, so you call in. When they answer, that’s when you know it’s okay to talk.”

  J.D. pressed the button and the microphone beeped. “Hello?” he said hesitatingly. He looked at Ollie. “Like that?”

  “Not quite,” Ollie said. “For one thing, you have to let them know who you are. Say something like, Chief Rein to Dispatch. But here’s the thing. My dispatcher, she’s kind of finicky, so you have to sweet-talk her a little.”