A Brilliant Death

by Yocum, Robin

  “Who was the guy she was with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who did you hear it was?”

  “I never heard a name.”

  He leaned across the table at me. “Say, ‘Swear to God.’”

  “I swear to God, Trav. I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it’s the same person who’s been putting flowers on her grave?”

  I shrugged. “You think someone has a guilty conscience?”

  “If we find out who’s been visiting the grave, maybe we’ll know.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Make sure there’s no poison ivy down there,” I said, standing on the bank overlooking the makeshift bunker, scanning the rim of our fortification with my flashlight.

  I heard Travis drop his sleeping bag and a small ice chest of supplies on the dirt floor of the bunker. Although faint moonlight filtered across the hillside, the bunker was shrouded by the low-hanging limbs of an enormous willow tree. I couldn’t see his face through the shadows, but I knew he was rolling his eyes and giving me a look of exasperation. You know certain things about your friends. “I told you, Mitchell, there’s no poison ivy here. I’ve already checked it out. Man, sometimes you are such a wimp.”

  I started down over the embankment. “I’m not a wimp, I just happen to be terrified of poison ivy. I would rather have a broken leg than poison ivy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not logical and it’s not a choice; it’s just the way it is.”

  I had suffered through a couple of cases of poison ivy in which it had blanketed me thoroughly. Just recalling those awful bouts made me start clawing at imaginary outbreaks on my arms and legs, a fact that had made my mother especially curious as to why I wanted to go camping with Travis. In reality, of course, I didn’t. I told her that it was a chance to celebrate the end of the school year, and Travis had his heart set on it. It was a harmless venture, and she seemed to buy it. If I had told her the real reason, that Travis had conned me into setting up a stake-out operation to catch the mystery man who continued to visit his mother’s memorial, she would have locked me in my room. If I’d had half a brain, I’d have done it myself.

  But I hadn’t and therefore found myself crouching in a bunker that Travis had devised behind the brush and locust trees that divided the northeastern corner of New Alexandria Cemetery from the west pasture of McConnell’s dairy farm. Travis had dug out what resembled a shallow grave, which was somewhat appropriate, and piled sticks and twigs at its front, giving it the look of a large beaver dam while providing us with a clear view of the memorial garden for Amanda Baron. “Why didn’t we just go up on the hill and hunker down behind one of the bigger tombstones?” I asked.

  “You know nothing about military strategy,” he said.

  “Sorry for questioning you, General.”

  It was ten o’clock, and a sliver of gray moon was perched over the West Virginia hills. It was cool for early June, and the night was silent except for the ache of the crickets and the soft wash of the nearby stream as it wandered over the shallows on its way to the pond in McConnell’s meadow. Mist was forming over the moving water, creeping out between the trees that rimmed the cemetery, slowly consuming the tombstones on the hillside that led down to the small memorial.

  Travis had temporarily lost interest in pursuing the homicide angle. Once the weather turned nice, he returned to his previous obsession—finding out who had been putting flowers on his mother’s memorial. That spring, Travis had won the two-mile run at the Big Valley Athletic Conference track and field championships. I speculated that this feat was due largely to the number of times that winter and spring that he had made the five-mile run to the cemetery and back. If I couldn’t secure a car for the trip, he would get up early and run under the guise of needing additional training. Big Frank thought he was crazy and said so on several occasions.

  Travis decided that a stakeout was the only way to catch the mystery man. Thus, on the first Thursday of my summer vacation following my sophomore year, I was hunkered in the bunker, cattle snoozing across the stream, the mist rolling in, poison ivy preparing to attack from all sides, anticipating the arrival of the mystery man.

  “Here,” Travis said, opening the cooler he had brought along. It was packed with twelve-ounce bottles of RC Cola, peanut M&M’s, and pretzels. All my favorites.

  “Nicely done,” I said. “You even remembered a bottle opener.”

  He smiled. “Well, I figure it’s the least I can do. You deserve some kind of reward for all the hell I’ve put you through.”

  “You mean, like causing me to piss myself in your attic?”

  “Yeah, that and all the other crap, like you hauling my ass all over the place.” Travis actually choked up for a minute, struggling to find the right words. “I just really appreciate you being such a buddy, that’s all.”

  I was touched, and a little choked up myself. “Not a problem, Trav.” I gave his shoulders a squeeze. “I’m glad to do it. Hell, you’d do it for me.”

  We sat in silence, sipping our RCs, enjoying the quiet of the night. Despite the tribulations involved in playing the role of Watson to Travis’s Sherlock Holmes, our sophomore year had been a good one. It marked the second consecutive year that Travis had earned straight As, which was creating a particularly amusing situation. Travis Baron was not one to normally concern himself with grades or honors. In fact, his grades through elementary and junior high were only marginal, not because he wasn’t brilliant, but because he handed in only about half of his assignments. He couldn’t be bothered. Education was not a priority in the Baron household.

  His commitment to education began at the end of our eighth grade year, when Margaret Simcox, who since the first grade was considered the brains of our class, made the tactical error of predicting within earshot of Travis that she would ultimately be the class valedictorian and win the Ohio Valley Steel Scholarship, an annual five-thousand-dollar award granted to the Brilliant High School valedictorian. Having heard this bold prediction, Travis decided that winning the scholarship was a goal he wanted for himself. Travis, of course, told Margaret of his intentions, and she laughed in his face. “Not in a million, billion, trillion, zillion years,” she sneered.

  “Watch me,” he countered.

  Margaret considered his challenge a joke, and said so to anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, Travis loaded his schedule. Our freshman year, he took algebra, Spanish, biology, English, American history, elements of government, health, and physical education. This was the most difficult schedule a freshman could take. In the first grading period, he got eight As, and promptly caught Margaret in the gym as she was getting ready for cheerleading practice. He held the report card in front of her face and said, “Laugh now, funny girl.”

  By the end of our sophomore year, the visual of Travis Baron in her academic rearview mirror was clearly getting to Margaret. She was still getting all As, but she was beginning to crack under the pressure. Before the geometry final exam, she broke out in giant hives. Making all this worse was that Travis said if he won the scholarship he was going to use it to attend welding school in Pittsburgh. Two students locked in mortal combat for a scholarship—one wanted to study pre-med at Columbia, the other wanted to be an ironworker.

  The conflict didn’t begin with Margaret’s eighth grade pronouncement. That was simply the latest battle in a war that had been raging since the second grade. Margaret hated Travis. Despised him. Loathed him. Travis, meanwhile, was amused that Margaret spent so much time and energy hating him. To Travis, Margaret was not an enemy but simply a target for his humor. He only tormented her because it was so much damn fun. Never once did she disappoint him by failing to come to a boiling rage, little white bubbles of scalded saliva churning at the corners of her mouth, her face turning crimson and her teeth grinding like the wheels of a giant locomotive coming to a halt. The war had its genesis at our second-grade Christmas party. Margaret, under the
direction of her mother, had everyone in the class bring in fifty cents to buy a Christmas present for our teacher, the lovely Miss Carter, upon whom Travis had an enormous crush. On the day of the party, Margaret placed a neatly wrapped package beneath the glistening silver branches of our aluminum tree. When it was time to give Miss Carter the gift, Margaret thought it was her right, seeing how she had collected the money and her mother had bought and wrapped the gift. Travis, however, thought it should be his job, since he was seated closest to the gift and, more important, because no one was more in love with Miss Carter than he. As Margaret reached for the package, Travis snatched it from the table and started toward Miss Carter’s desk. Margaret squealed and lunged for Travis. An ever-so-brief tug-of-war ensued. The gift was some kind of glass vase, or something else very fragile. We never knew for sure because it got busted into a pile of shards that its own mother couldn’t have identified. Margaret raked her fingernails across his face. Travis responded by ripping the silver leash off her poodle skirt. They went for each other’s eyes and fell into a screaming heap, rolling around on the floor, kicking and punching one another. Miss Carter had to pry them apart, but not before they rolled into Snookie McGruder’s desk and a glass of orangeade fell into Margaret’s hair, which her mother had fixed so nicely with red and green bows. Miss Carter was crying; Margaret was crying; Travis went back to his chair on the verge of tears, fearing that because of that goddamn Margaret he would never again be the love of Miss Carter’s life.

  The hatred festered from that point. Now, Travis had perfect grades halfway through high school, and Margaret was starting to crack. Her young life would be ruined if her nemesis were to be awarded the Ohio Valley Steel Scholarship, which was all so delicious to Travis.

  About midnight, maybe a little after, I draped my sleeping bag over my shoulders and slouched back in the bunker. The fog had filled the hillside and lapped at the granite benches surrounding Amanda Baron’s marker, and in the coolness of the night, I drifted off. I don’t know how long I had been asleep, but I was awakened when Travis cupped his hand over my mouth, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

  A jolt of adrenaline surged out of my chest, and thousands of icy pinpricks raced through my arms and legs. I shed the sleeping bag and peeked through the brush. In the darkness beyond the closest hill, I could hear the steady footfalls in gravel creating a methodic, eerie scuffling in the mist. My spine tingled with fear and excitement, but mostly fear. We watched in silence until from the blackness appeared an even darker figure striding toward the monument.

  He was tall, with a broad chest and shoulders producing a silhouette that looked ominous in the night. A bouquet of flowers extended from his right hand, hanging softly at his knees. We remained silent, peering as he emerged from the mist, cutting an angle from the gravel path toward the memorial. For several minutes he stood at the side of the garden, behind the granite benches, and appeared to pray. Then, he walked slowly toward the memorial bearing the name of Amanda Baron and knelt, placing the flowers at the base of the stone.

  Travis looked at me; I shrugged and shook my head, silently answering his look. It was too dark; I didn’t recognize the figure. We watched for a moment longer, stealth sentries hoping for a clue. When the man stood and started back up the knoll, Travis feared that an opportunity was about to elude his grasp. He stepped out of the bunker and, still under the cover of the willow limbs, said, “Hey, mister, I want to talk to you.”

  Travis’s mother would have been thirty-nine-years-old. So, for the sake of argument, let’s say that the mystery man was thirty-nine, also, which is well past the age when ghosts and goblins should be a concern. Still, I expect that when the silence of a dark, apparently empty cemetery is broken by the words, “Hey, mister, I want to talk to you,” it would be enough to put the adrenal glands of the bravest amongst us into overdrive. The mystery man jumped and started sprinting back up the gravel road. Travis took off after him. I ran up the hillside along the edge of the cemetery, behind the last row of tombstones and under the darkened canopy of elms and maples. I stumbled twice on roots extending out of the ground. Despite the darkness, I could see the mystery man struggling to get up the hill, gravel sliding under his feet as he ran parallel to me, about a hundred feet to my left. Every few steps he turned and looked back for Travis; he didn’t sense my presence to his right. I continued to sprint to the top of the hill before turning to my left and starting down the southern face of the cemetery. As I made the turn, the jagged edge of a tombstone slashed my calf; I leaped several limestone headstones. Even in my heightened state of excitement, I realized that sprinting diagonally through a garden of granite and limestone obelisks on a near-moonless night was not the smartest thing to do, but my adrenaline was surging, too. Darting to the right of the arch designating the final resting place of former school superintendent Joseph Grodin, I found a path between plots that led straight downhill to the gravel road. I beat the mystery man to the peak of the hill by three full steps.

  He was breathing hard and had turned to look for Travis, who was nowhere in sight, when I stepped onto the gravel and from behind his back snagged a thick bicep. “Hey, mister, relax. All we want is . . .”

  In a single motion he jumped, jerked his arm free of my grip, and slashed his elbow across my mouth. I rocked back two steps before I lost my balance and sprawled on my back in the gravel. Blood squirted from my ruptured lip, and the taste of warm copper filled my mouth. His shoe landed next to my ear as he passed me; I reached but grabbed nothing but air. “You sonofabitch,” I yelled, on my feet in an instant. The race was on. The gravel road was one of two that dissected the southern face of the hill. The first was about one-third of the way up the hill; the second, on which I had just been dropped, was two-thirds of the way up. The mystery man was sprinting downhill between the two gravel roads, which was the steepest part of the hillside. I was surprised at how fast he was moving, but fear can be a great motivator. He was heading at an angle toward the caretaker’s house. I cut across a corner of the cemetery to the asphalt road that ran from Route 151 to the ridge, bisecting the old and new sections. The mystery man was ahead of me and moving quite gracefully through the minefield of granite impediments. Beyond the lower gravel road, the ground began to level out. I jumped off the asphalt road, danced between several headstones, and found another corridor between plots. I was going to catch him; I had the angle and was blocked from his view. He had broken clear of the headstones and was in the grassy area between the first row of headstones and the parking lot when he finally saw me, but it was too late. In my head I could hear the squeaky voice of our defensive coordinator, Rudy Palmer, screaming, “Head up, drive your shoulder into him, wrap him up, Jesus Christ, Malone, you hit like my grandmother.” It was a textbook tackle. My head slid in front of his chest and I drove my shoulder into his ribs. It was my best shot, but he was thick and solid and it was like hitting a moving headstone. I grunted and the air rushed from my lungs, but he went down. He sprawled on his chest, me on my side, and as he scrambled to get away I grabbed his right ankle and pulled his calf to my face. He started dragging me across the grass, stepping with his left and dragging his right, and fell again. I couldn’t get a breath of air. It felt like daggers were stabbing at my lungs, but I wasn’t letting go of that leg—at least not until his left heel smashed into my balls. I released one hand to cover the jewels, and he jerked his right leg free. I made a last, desperate lunge as he stood, grabbing his heel and cleanly stripping his shoe from his foot. I rolled over on the shoe like a linebacker covering a fumble. Even in my temporary delirium, seized with pain from lungs and testicles, I sensed its value.

  The mystery man apparently saw no such value in the shoe. I heard him run through the gravel and a moment later, from somewhere beyond the caretaker’s house, a car door slammed and tires squealed. He drove without headlights until he crested the hill two hundred yards down the road.

  It was ten minutes before I
fully caught my breath, at which point I threw up twice—cleansing my system of the RC Cola, a package of peanut M&M’s, and several pretzel rods—and started walking back toward the bunker, cradling the shoe like a prized trophy. Blood continued to ooze from the inside of my mouth where the mystery man’s elbow had hit me. My lower lip drooped; it was already twice its normal size and swelling at about the same pace as my testicles. When I got back to our encampment, there was no sign of Travis.

  “Trav?”

  “Over here,” he called from somewhere in the darkness and the mist. I walked, slowly and bowlegged, in the general direction of the voice. During the early stages of his pursuit, Travis had been rudely introduced to Mildred (1893–1961) and Edmond (1888–1950) Figler when he ran headlong into the extended left wing of the guardian angel that stood atop their tombstone. It had lanced a fishhook-shaped gash at his hairline and a razor blade–thin cut just above his right brow. The collision had knocked him loopy, and when he came to he was prone across the Figlers’ graves. By the time I found him, Travis was sitting on the edge of the tombstone, his hand cupped over the cuts, which was doing little to staunch the bleeding. The right side of his face was covered in blood and his right eye was already swollen nearly shut. “Christ Almighty, Travis, you’re going to bleed to death.”

  He looked up and squinted with his good eye. “Oh, Mildred, Ed, this is my friend Mitchell that I was telling you so much about. Say hello to the Figlers, Mitch.”

  “We’ve got to get that looked at.”

  Travis laughed. “I’m sure Big Frank would be happy to get a call from the emergency room at three a.m. ‘What the hell were you doin’ in the cemetery?’ Oh, not much, just trying to catch the guy who’s been leaving flowers at the memorial to your ex-wife. You know, the memorial you never even told me existed. Now, that would go over big, wouldn’t it?”

  I dropped the shoe, peeled off my T-shirt and handed it to him. “Press this up against it. Maybe it’ll stop the bleeding.”