"They're launching fireworks now, Max. Why would they explode fireworks?"
"I didn't think they had any rockets left from the last time I tried putting Roscoe in the ground. Where do they keep the things?" Max shook his head. "It's the end of the world to most of them. They won't want to hold anything back."
A series of red and blue flowers exploded over downtown. "Where did they get such fireworks? They're as bright and loud as any I've ever seen."
"Who knows where they find all the rockets, but they've been saving to launch them on the day when Roscoe reopened the glass factory. The rockets have to be as old and as touchy as the people lighting them by now. It'll be a miracle if someone doesn't lose a hand. Is Toni's Lounge still burning?"
"The flames are dancing across the roof. Why doesn't anyone try to contain the fire?"
"The town sold the only firetruck it ever had, and none of the fire hydrants work."
"Why not?"
"Believe it or not, Lauren, water isn't free."
Lauren turned from the window and glared at Max. "So there's no water to fight any of those flames because you told them, through our dead Grandfather, to stop paying the bills? You're all fools."
"Careful. Those residents still give what they can to Grandpa Roscoe."
"You steal from them."
"No, I'm no thief," Max shook his head. "I've never asked them to give a dime. I've never begged from any of them. All those people shuffling in the streets, screaming at one another, give according to their own will. They all want Grandpa Roscoe to stand out of that bed so badly that they'll happily watch this town burn if that's what it took to get Roscoe's factory back in business."
"But it's impossible, Max. That business will never open again. Roscoe's dead."
Max smiled. "People believe in the impossible all the time. Only the impossible deserves much any kind of faith. Look, there's not any kind of medicine that's going to dull the pain felt by this dying town. Let those residents medicate themselves however they still can. Let them believe in ghosts, and in the resurrection of buried bones. It's like it was the first time I buried Grandpa. It'll only get worse the longer we keep Roscoe in the ground. They'll start hanging people tomorrow. They probably already have a list of names of the neighbors they believe betrayed Owensville and its glass factory. It won't matter whether or not there wasn't a thing anyone could do to prevent that factory from closing. You won't be able to tell them, no matter how many times you shout, that the only reason Grandpa closed that factory was because he was very rich when he started to feel tired. Grandpa always knew how this town worshipped him. Don't believe for a second that Roscoe didn't always shape that worship however he needed to build his fortune. We might know better, but the people of this town aren't going to listen to anything we have to say. They'll build the gallows regardless, and they'll still hang anyone who they suspect wasn't a member of that church of Roscoe. I warned you, Lauren, that I'd seen all of this before."
Lauren flinched as another firework boomed in the young, dark sky. How much longer before the residents began aiming those rockets at one another? A salvo of gunshots cracked. Men and women shouted. Surely, someone would call the police in Smithton, or did Owensville so mistrust outsiders that they would rather watch their burning town descend into chaos than ask for the help of strangers to restore order? Why hadn't she called for help? Did she still feel guilty for putting Roscoe's bones beneath the ground? Why did burying Grandpa still feel like some kind of crime? Why did she feel somehow responsible for the mayhem outside that window? An engine roared down the street, and Lauren watched a truck slam into an empty building. How much longer would Owensville stand? It was as if Roscoe's bones raged beneath the ground.
"Will nothing else save these people from themselves, Max?"
"They have to see Roscoe."
"It's such a horrible lie."
"They know. The blankets might hide what's left of Roscoe's body. We might cover his skull with that awful wig. But they know, Lauren. They know Grandpa's nothing but bones anymore, but they just can't let him go."
"Then, Max, let's make sure that those bones are back in the daylight come morning."
Lauren was thankful that Max didn't smile. Not the slightest expression of satisfaction appeared on her cousin's face. He only placed a hand upon her shoulder and joined her at the window to watch the flames dance atop Toni's lounge beneath a sky of blossoming rockets.
* * * * *
Chapter 8 - Results
Mr. Kurt Spencer, superintendent of the county schools, willed himself not to cry, though he felt the moisture gathering in the corners of his eye as he watched the results returning from the referendum to fund the construction of a new school. He had spent twenty-two years seated behind that district's desk, shuffling resources, performing miracles. He had worked whatever magic he might to keep students in the classroom, to find whatever ways he could to help wheelchair-bound students access the chemistry lab built on the inaccessible, second floor. He had dedicated himself to lift test scores, no matter how the politicians berated his educators, no matter how the only school topic that seemed to interest his district were the odds of the basketball team experiencing a winning season. For twenty-two years, Mr. Spencer had shielded students from the lead paint remaining in the locker room beneath the gymnasium, and he had done all he could to keep the asbestos isolated above the library's ceiling panels. He had worked to remove the corroded merry-go-rounds and the dangerous monkey-bars from the playground until the elementary students had little else to do at recess but hit one another with the sticks they gathered in the empty schoolyard. During his time behind that desk, water had always gathered on the first-floor halls whenever a hard rain penetrated the roof. For twenty-two years, Mr. Spencer failed to sleep soundly during the night for nightmares of fire spreading through the classrooms thanks to outdated and inferior wiring. Structural engineers still sent him letters expressing concerns about the school building's shifting foundation. He couldn't afford the gasoline for half of the bus fleet, and Mr. Spencer feared the other half wouldn't pass inspection.
Still, another referendum failed. Mr. Spencer's district was no closer of realizing a new school building. There was strong support for the referendum in Smithton. Other small communities were divided. But Owensville was the town that forever doomed any chances of supplying students with a building their education required. Owensville never showed an ounce of empathy for that referendum's cause. Not one resident voted in favor of a new school. Not one grandmother or grandfather seemed to care if Mr. Spencer's cafeteria lacked the resources to supply children with healthy lunches. Mr. Spencer thought he might live to see that new school if the vote was confined to Smithton, but the superintendent knew he would never see ground broken for construction as long as Owensville continued to unanimously vote against any project.
Mr. Spencer rubbed his eyes and took a breath. Perhaps it was time for him to retire. Why did he devote such energy to a project with no chance to succeed? How could an entire community seem so cruel to him?
But for the moment, he needed to stand again from that desk, no matter how his heart hurt, to give another speech thanking all the teachers and parent volunteers for their efforts. He had to make one more losing speech without crying.
* * * * *
Chapter 9 - Content
Lauren felt a cough linger in her lungs during those first days after she accepted her cousin's invitation and moved her residence into the basement at the bottom of Roscoe Turner's home. Yet that cough passed after several months, as Lauren's blood adjusted to the cool damp that gathered in her new quarters. The living space proved to be a cozy place so long as Lauren didn't forget to sweep the cobwebs out of the corners. Max respected her privacy, and they even gathered some of the bricks from that collapsed wall at the back of the home to use in the construction of a privacy wall to separate Lauren's territory from Max's space. Lauren quickly decorated her surroundings with antiques scavenged f
rom the floors above, and just as Max claimed she might, she found she could turn her new, basement home into a very comfortable place bedecked with braided carpets, kerosene lamps and loveseats.
Lauren and Max hid in the basement for most of the day, careful so as not to be spotted by any trespassing eyes from Owensville still lingering around their grandfather's property, those unannounced guests hoping that Roscoe would lift from his third-story bed to resurrect the town's industry. The residents visited frequently in the following mornings, crowding that picnic table with veggie platters and nacho dip and shouting questions at the back of Roscoe Turner's head. Helping Max decide how best to advise those guests made Lauren proud, and she came to cherish setting their written answers beneath that heavy rock kept on top of the picnic table.
Many might have scoffed to learn that she chose to live in her grandfather's basement, but Lauren felt safe. She never went hungry. She and Max sometimes needed to contend with water on the floor when heavy thunderstorms penetrated the cellar doors with rain, but Lauren otherwise remained dry. A basement was a very cool place in the summer, and she never went without heat in the winter. Sometimes, Lauren wished she could spend more time in the sun to do something about her very pale complexion. Yet whatever discomforts the basement supplied felt very minor. Certainly, the basement presented no inconvenience that made her question the wisdom of returning to Grandpa Roscoe's home.
Late in the afternoons, after Max decided that they were safe from any of those trespassing eyes of Owensville, they would climb the basement stairs and pour coffee and tea from the fine china remaining in the kitchen. They would read the wonderful books held in their grandfather's den. They unfolded the board games still kept in the closets, and Max taught Lauren the art of moving bishops and rooks across the squares painted on their grandfather's chessboard. Sometimes, they listened to the old radio that glowed in the parlor. Sometimes, Lauren filled the porcelain bath of that second story master bedroom and soaked in luxurious bubbles and steam, unafraid to soak though there remained no rear wall to block a view of her pleasure.
The years could not be completely ignored. The elements that passed unhindered into that home thanks to the absence of a wall did take a toll on Roscoe's treasures, but Lauren learned how to squint until her nostalgia ignored the blights of water stains and grime.
But there was one door neither she nor Max entered - the door located on that third floor where they rarely tread. Neither opened the door to their grandfather's chamber. Perhaps they were too frightened of ghosts, or perhaps they feared they lacked the constitutions to look upon how time reshaped the dead.
Lauren and Max never entered Roscoe Turner's private chamber after they worked together to return him from the grave. Neither could bear to see how their grandfather's bones blanched in the sunlight.
* * * * *
About the Writer
Brian S. Wheeler resides in rural, Southern Illinois with his wife Erin and his young daughter Kate in a home shared with three German shepherds and a small cat named Izzy. Brian has worn many hats to earn a living. He has worked as a high school English teacher and community college composition instructor. For many years, Brian worked as a marketing manager and a graphic designer for a very successful auction company. Brian has also freelanced as a designer and consultant, and he has just completed vocational training in the welding trade. Writing is Brian's favorite activity, and he works to one day realize his dream of earning a living by crafting stories of fantasy and science fiction.
The rural Midwest inspires much of Brian's work, and he hopes any connections readers might make between his fiction and the places and people he has had the pleasure to know are positive. When not writing, Brian does his best to keep organized, to get a little exercise, or to try to train good German Shepherd dogs. He remains an avid reader. More information regarding Brian S. Wheeler, his novels, and his short stories can be found by visiting his website at https://www.flatlandfiction.com.
Visit Brian S. Wheeler Online
Find Brian S. Wheeler's newest short stories and novels online by visiting his website at www.flatlandfiction.com. Brian always welcomes feedback and thoughts sent to his email at [email protected].
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