Johnny Gruesome

by Gregory Lamberson

  His son showed little interest in the family business. Willard acted as the handyman and groundskeeper and showed equal disdain for the living and the dead. He spent most of his free time smoking marijuana alone in a shed deep in the woods behind the Lawson Funeral Home. What a disappointment.

  Humming along with Barbra, Harold massaged Johnny’s joints, working the rigor mortis out of them. Some people might have found this common procedure disturbing, but not Harold, who suspected most Red Hill residents found his profession a morbid necessity.

  The ancient Egyptians invented the art of embalming: originally, they had buried their dead in the desert and the sand had kept them dry, preserving their bodies. But when they started constructing sarcophaguses and pyramids, moisture decomposed the bodies. The creative solution had been embalming and mummification. Modern embalming techniques concentrated on shortterm preservation.

  Harold worked massage cream into Johnny’s face and hands to make the skin soft and pliable. Don Beelock, the assistant medical examiner, had done a fine job reassembling the body after the autopsy, but had been careless with the face, which he had only partially stretched over the skull before suturing it. This was typical of Beelock’s work, which resulted in Grissom’s face resembling a cheap dime-store mask. Setting his one hand on Johnny’s scalp and the other on the boy’s left cheek, he slid the entire face up.

  Jesus Christ!

  Harold inserted two oval-shaped plastic eye caps beneath Johnny’s eyelids; the grippers kept the lids closed. He stuffed cotton down Johnny’s throat to absorb purging fluids, then reached for his least favorite tool: the injection gun. In the old days, morticians had sutured their patients’ mouths shut with a needle and catgut. Times had changed. He pulled Johnny’s lower lip down and pressed the tip of the gun against the lower gums. He squeezed the trigger—Ka-CHUNG!

  —shooting a thick wire deep into the pink flesh. He repeated the procedure with Johnny’s upper gums, then twisted the two obtruding wires together, locking Johnny’s mouth shut. He discovered stubble on Johnny’s chin, so he applied shaving cream and used a straight-edge razor for a close shave. As the razor scraped Johnny’s neck, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of the bruise on his patient’s throat. Wiping away the remaining shaving cream, he held a class photo of Johnny next to his face. The boy had long hair in the photo, but Harold felt obligated to make him look cleancut. His hair had grown even longer and more unruly in the time since his death, so Harold snipped off a full inch all over Johnny’s head. He gave the boy a neat, layered look, and his chest swelled with pride when he admired his handiwork. Who would mind? Johnny’s brow seemed furrowed with displeasure, but Harold was able to massage his forehead into a relaxed state again.

  After verifying that none of his officers had called in sick, Matt drove to Charlie Grissom’s house. His Pathfinder slid on the ice several times, and he pumped the brakes, righting the vehicle’s trajectory. Pulling into the driveway, he switched off the ignition and gazed at the dilapidated house’s brown and yellow siding, which needed replacing. A rusted basketball hoop without a net clung to the garage out back, and a rotting picnic table sat frozen on the side lawn. Tucking a file folder under one arm, he got out of the vehicle, popped the hatch, and removed a cardboard box. The side door to the house opened and Charlie peeked out, squinting in the gray light.

  “Matt? I almost didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”

  “I’ve got Johnny’s possessions, Charlie.”

  “You’d best come in this way. Those porch steps are dangerous with all that ice.”

  Matt nodded and half-slid across the ice to the side door. Inside, he closed the door behind him with one heel and followed Charlie up three steps covered with peeling linoleum. He set the box down on the cluttered kitchen table. The cool sunlight shining through the window over the sink highlighted dirty dishes in murky water. Dark splotches of spaghetti sauce had caramelized on the surface of the outdated stove.

  Charlie opened the box and rummaged through Johnny’s clothing and a plastic bag containing his wallet, loose change, and breath mints. “Guess I’ll take this stuff upstairs to his room. My sister, Alicia, is coming in from Tampa next weekend. She can’t make the funeral, but she promised to pack up all of Johnny’s stuff and take it to Goodwill. I’m putting this dump on the market and getting the hell out of town. Maybe I’ll move to Florida like everyone else, get away from all this damned snow.”

  “That sounds like a plan. How are you doing?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. A parent should never have to bury his child.”

  Matt removed the folder from under his arm. “I have the results of Johnny’s autopsy. Preliminary toxicology shows his bloodalcohol content was .13, way over the legal limit, and he tested positive for marijuana.”

  Charlie’s eyes teared. “Stupid kid. I guess I didn’t set much of an example for him.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. All kids do stupid things. It could have happened to anyone in this town.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  Offering a sympathetic smile, Matt clasped Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. My wife sends her regrets. You give us a shout if you need anything, okay? I mean that.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  As he left, Matt thought he heard Charlie sobbing.

  With his preparations completed, Harold performed the arterial embalming, which he regarded as the manual-labor portion of his job. Using a scalpel, he made an incision in Johnny’s neck. No blood appeared, because it had all settled in the bottom of the body. He inserted forceps and raised the carotid and its corresponding vein above the skin surface. Then he made an incision in the artery and inserted an injection needle into it. A clear tube connected the needle to a hose leading from the large metal vat of the embalming machine. He inserted a drain tube into the corresponding vein, then activated the embalming machine’s pump, which rattled and hummed. Pink fluid—formaldehyde mixed with water—shot through the hose and entered Johnny’s carotid.

  Faced with increasing costs, Harold used a higher water-to-formaldehyde ratio than regulations dictated; it was the only way he could turn a profit. And in a case like this, when the bereaved could only afford the most minimal of arrangements, he used even more water. It was nothing personal, just business, simple economics. Charlie Grissom had ordered the most inexpensive casket that Harold offered, a particle board number spray painted with a single coat of fiber glass. It amazed Harold how basic cosmetic touches could enhance even the most rudimentary craftsmanship. This boy would look just fine for his viewing, probably even better than he had while he was still alive. But after that, when he was sealed in his casket … Well, no client had ever complained. Perhaps if Charlie had worked for a living, or had spent less money on alcohol, he would have been able to afford better services for his son now.

  The fluid spread through Johnny’s arteries and veins, visible through his translucent, dead blue flesh. Harold watched the flesh take on a more natural hue. He looks better already, even if it is only temporary. He opened the drain tube and blood flowed out in a steady stream that ran into the gutters surrounding the table, then down a drain hole near Johnny’s feet. When the flow slowed, he closed the tube, waited for pressure to build in the body, and opened it again. The added pressure forced clots and blood out of the vascular system. Eight pints of fluid later, he switched off the machine and removed the needle and tube. He blotted the incisions with cotton, treated them with embalming powder, and sutured them. Then he sponged the body all over again.

  A door closed upstairs and footsteps pounded the stairs. Harold only knew one person who descended those stairs with so little grace. A moment later Willard appeared in the doorway, over six feet tall and slack jawed, carrying a dry-cleaning bag over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Pop. I got the suit.”

  Grissom’s father, Charles, said his son required something appropriate for the funeral. “Take
it upstairs before it picks up any of these odors.”

  Willard turned to leave.

  “What’s the weather like?”

  “Roads are bad. The sun came out and some of the ice melted, so there’s water on top of the ice.”

  Harold returned to his work as Willard’s heavy footsteps faded. Harold put on a Madonna CD and performed the cavity embalming. This required him to insert a trocar—a long hollow tube with a pointed end, attached to a tube that ran to a suction machine over the slop sink—two inches above Johnny’s umbilicus. He guided the trocar into the chest, then into the abdomen and pelvis, removing liquids, gasses, and semisolids that might cause putrefaction and decay. Once he’d finished this, he disconnected the trocar from the suction machine and used it to inject a preservative cavity fluid into Johnny’s internal organs. Finally, he removed the trocar, inserted a button into the puncture, and sutured it. By the time he had finished, Madonna had stopped vogue-ing.

  He rolled the body to one side and packed the anus with cotton to prevent seepage. Then he washed the body and rinsed and disinfected his instruments. The corpse had to sit overnight to allow the embalming fluids to take full effect. Then he could dress it, apply special makeup to Johnny’s face—the artistic portion of his job—and have Willard help him move the body into the casket. Standing in the doorway leading to the stairs, he removed his respirator, surveyed the room, and flicked off the lights.

  “Good night, Mr. Grissom.”

  He closed the door, enshrouding Johnny’s corpse in darkness.

  Just don’t call me John Boy.

  Eric sat at his computer, attempting to research a paper for his history class. The furnace kicked in, and heat rose from the floor vent. His eyes shifted from the monitor to the curtain on the left. Reaching over, he pulled the curtain back and stared at the handprint on the glass. It caused him to remember the image of Johnny kneeling in the snow outside the Death Mobile, his hand pressed against the window. Before he could dwell on it, the phone rang and his mother called his name.

  “Coming,” he said loud enough for her to hear.

  Who would be calling him?

  Gary. He didn’t want to take the call, but he had no choice. Rising from his desk, he left his room. In the hall, he heard water dripping in the bathroom sink. He took his time descending the stairs. In the kitchen, his mother stood holding the phone over her bosom, a faint smile on her lips and an excited gleam in her eyes. Eric had never seen that expression on her face before.

  “It’s a girl,” she said in a whisper.

  Karen, Eric thought as he took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Rhonda.”

  “Oh, hi.” His heartbeat quickened as his mother went through the motions of preparing dinner behind him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He knew she meant after his fainting spell, and the back of his neck grew hot. “Better, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry about Johnny. I know how tight you two were.”

  “Thanks.” Eric pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back tears. “I can’t really discuss it right now.”

  A pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He took a deep, quivering breath. “That’s okay. I’m glad you called.”

  “I’ll see you in class on Monday, unless school is canceled because of this storm.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up the phone and attempted to escape.

  “Who was that?” Pat said.

  “Rhonda Young.”

  Pat cocked her head. “I think I know her mother.”

  “You know everyone’s mother.” He ducked out of the kitchen before she could ask a follow-up question. A week earlier, he would have felt elated if Rhonda had called him; now he just felt dead inside.

  Chapter 14

  Pat at pulled into the long driveway of the Lawson Funeral Home, on Central Avenue. Eric gazed out the passenger window at the pale green Colonial house, which stood at an angle on a slight hill, its shoveled walkway dividing the snow-blanketed front yard. He saw Willard Lawson, the tall young man whose family ran the place, carry a snow shovel into the wide garage behind the house. Sparse snowflakes descended from the gray sky.

  “Are you okay?”

  Eric nodded. “I’ll see you later.” He got out, and as his mother drove away, he moved up the walkway, his father’s charcoal gray coat protecting him from the forceful wind. Closing his right hand around the curved brass handle on the front door, he stepped inside.

  The interior lobby had been decorated in soft reds and browns, giving him the impression of velvet even though he saw none. A stairway with a dark wood banister curved away from the pedestal where Lawrence Lawson, the funeral director, stood. Lawrence had dyed his hair black and combed it over the top of his balding head. He reminded Eric of John Carradine, a gaunt actor who had appeared in over one hundred old horror movies. Eric unbuttoned his coat and hung it on a wooden hanger in a closet with double sliding doors.

  Lawrence gestured to a leather-bound book. “Would you care to sign the memorial book?” He offered a black pen to Eric, who accepted it and signed the book.

  Much to Eric’s surprise, dozens of signatures preceded his. He set the pen down and Lawrence handed him a miniature envelope. Eric opened it: a memorial card, with Johnny’s name and dates of birth and death printed on the front, and the Twenty-Third Psalm inside.

  A combination of scents greeted him as he entered the parlor: flowers, perfume, and room deodorant. He gaped at the three dozen people before him, most of them high school students who had never given a rat’s ass about Johnny.

  Hypocrites, he thought. Some people would do anything to skip class for an afternoon. A few heads turned in his direction, but he ignored them. Canned organ music descended from ceiling speakers and double doors opened into the Slumber Room, identified by a gold plaque on the wall. Through the crowd, he glimpsed empty fold-out metal chairs facing a horizontal black shape. He averted his gaze from the coffin.

  Mr. Milton and Mrs. Crane stood speaking before the parlor’s ornate fireplace. Two boys from Johnny’s auto mechanics class, Ron Miller and Tony Salemi, chatted in the middle of the room. Eric paced before the floral arrangements along one wall. Which one had his parents sent? He didn’t care.

  “Eric—?”

  Turning, Eric felt his skin prickle at the sight of Father Webb. With his short hair, square jaw, and broad shoulders, the priest resembled a cop or a soldier. Eric had felt intimidated by the man the few times he had attended Saint Luke’s with Johnny. It had never occurred to him Father Webb would conduct Johnny’s memorial service. He thought of Johnny rolling down his car window and spitting out it every morning as they passed the church. “Um, hi, Father Webb.”

  “Are your parents here?”

  “No. They couldn’t make it.” The sound of the man’s deep voice made him uncomfortable.

  “It seems very few parents are in attendance.”

  Eric said nothing. What does he want?

  “You’re a Baptist, aren’t you?”

  No, I’m an atheist, Eric thought. “We’re Methodists.”

  “That’s right. How’s Reverend Belmer these days? I haven’t seen him since winter started. You know how the snow isolates us.”

  “I haven’t seen him, either.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed a centimeter. “I see. Well, I’m sorry about Johnny.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s always sad when someone dies so young, especially if that person has gone astray.”

  Eric felt trapped. He didn’t want a sermon, especially from Father Webb, so he kept quiet.

  “Oh, well. I imagine the vandalism of the church will finally stop.”

  Eric resisted the urge to swallow. “What do you mean?”

  Father Webb scanned the faces of the mourners. “I think you know what I mean. Obscene graffiti scrawled on the church walls. Broken windows. Filthy voi
ce mails. It’s been going on for years, ever since your friend abandoned Christ.”

  Eric felt his voice tighten with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Father Webb’s eyes burrowed into him. “Whenever I hear that damned car’s engine late at night, I know to expect trouble the next morning. And I’m never wrong.”

  Eric was speechless. He had been with Johnny once when Johnny had scrawled graffiti on the church doors in a drunken rage, so he did not entirely discount Father Webb’s accusation. Seeing Charlie enter the parlor, he relaxed. Charlie’s suit jacket bulged around his waist, and he had applied a small Band-Aid near his chin. He bypassed Ron and Tony with a courteous nod, his forehead slick with perspiration.

  “There’s Johnny’s father,” Eric said, turning his back on the priest. He met Charlie in the middle of the parlor before Father Webb could interrogate him further.

  Charlie’s voice sounded strained. “Thanks for coming, Eric.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Charlie appraised the room. “Quite a turnout. I never realized Johnny was so popular.”

  Eric grasped for words. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t say anything. A funeral is no place for honesty. Hey, thank your folks for the flowers, will you? That was real nice of them.”

  “Sure.” He wished at least one of his parents had attended.

  Charlie loosened his tie. “Christ, I need a drink.”

  Noticing the older man’s shaking hands, Eric clasped Charlie’s shoulder. “Take it easy. You can go home in a little while.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Home to what? An empty house? I don’t have anyone left, Eric. I was a rotten husband and a lousy father, and now I’m alone. I got what I deserved.”