by McNay, Dan
The old lady showed her the plots and Daydee stuck her pencil into the ground where she decided the corner of the grave was supposed to be. Excusing herself, she returned to the office. She didn’t want to spend the slow walk back talking to them. This was nothing her own family ever did. She had only been in a cemetery once as a child when her grandparents died together. This really seemed a very odd business for her mother to get into. Her mother hadn’t cared about the dead.
Now she was planted out there with them. The guy and his aunt got into their car and left. It was very quiet out here with no one around. And when you thought about all the dead people surrounding you in the ground, it got a little spooky. All these people, pickled and put in caskets and the caskets put in vaults. Did they all still look like they had at the funeral home? Out here, everyone was sure when the judgement day came, Jesus would come and wake them up. You were expected to put your best foot forward. Daydee shook her head.
She found Jack’s number in the Rolodex and called. His wife answered. Daydee started to hang up and then stopped herself. This wasn’t a john’s wife. She explained who she was to the woman and asked to get called back. Daydee imagined her as a cute little blonde, Barbie to go with Ken. Ken with a bite out of his earlobe.
If there were vaults, they would be in the shed, wouldn’t they? She didn’t recall seeing anything, but she walked down to look again. It had to be something big enough to hold a casket. There was nothing there that could be a vault. She turned to go back and spotted a man standing in some high weeds way down the slope, way beyond the end of the cemetery grounds. He could have been a mile away. There was nothing out here to block the view except for the occasional tree. He seemed to be watching her. She waved and he disappeared. There was a grove of trees down there. This land reminded her to be lonely.
The phone was ringing when she got back. It was Jack. She told him the news and he agreed to come the next evening and open the grave. He asked her to stake it out so he wouldn’t mess up. As soon as she figured that out herself, she told herself.
“I need a burial vault. Are they in storage somewhere?”
“There aren’t any. Your mother got Winston to drive to Terre Haute for the last one. She bought them from the marker company. I can place it once you got it, but I won’t be able to go get it. I’m working a construction site with the backhoe for the next several days.”
“Ok…”
“The number should be there somewhere. Maybe you could sweet talk Winston into going. Remind me to tell you about your mother trying to make her own vaults.”
“Funny,” she said. “See you.”
She found the card for the company in Terre Haute and called and ordered one. Then she taped the card into the Rolodex. She could probably get them to load it into her truck, getting it out here would be the problem. She really didn’t want to call Winston. Something just wasn’t right there.
She needed to stake the grave. She ransacked the office looking for a map of the cemetery. Nothing anywhere. The files were a mess. A few had notes written on napkins from the restaurant where she had breakfast yesterday. Going over the records again, she drew herself a map of where the relatives were and noted their plot numbers. The new guy was supposed to be next to them, so she assumed the plots were numbered in order. But in which direction was the question. She spent another half hour enlarging her map and going out to check how things matched up. She finally reached a conclusion about where the damn plot was to be and in which direction it was positioned.
She imagined Jesus waking up the wrong dead person because the maps were wrong. Maybe that was why her mother ran this place, the devil made her do it. She found stakes and a mallet in the shed and went out to lay it out. The work was hot and when she returned she was sweaty and her hands dirty and she had torn her hose. She removed them in the office, realizing there was no privacy to be had here without putting curtains in. But no one was about.
She had to get back to meet with the accountant that afternoon, so the drive to Terre Haute was out for today. She’d need a check to carry with her, to pay for it. She could wrangle something out of Mat, but she wasn’t sure she wanted too. He had paid her for special stuff in New Orleans. These guys never forget.
She had forgotten him until yesterday. There were just too many of them with too many special things they liked. His only edge was that he had taken her to a football game when she was fifteen and then reintroduced himself to her outside an antique shop on Royal Street. If he was showing up at 2:00, she certainly didn’t want him to see her mess – even though she certainly was feeling like one right now. She needed lamps. She had the address, in her purse, to the house where her great-grandmother and great-aunt had lived. And supposed keys. Maybe there were things there she could take. It would be cheaper than buying replacements. She locked up the office and found her way to the house. Directions from a grandma and her grandson out for a walk got her there.
* * *
The house was in a neighborhood of large yards without a fence anywhere. There were no sidewalks or streetlights. Hers was the one with the overgrown yard. The house was odd. It was really two houses stuck together. One half was a low farmhouse with a wide porch and the other half was a two story older Victorian thing with gables. The wooden sidings were two different widths. The roof was half faded green shingle, half brown. There was a huge old black oak tree in the front yard. It was taller than the house. It looked like a gnarled old man about a thousand years old. She finished her hot dog lunch she had picked up on the way and went to the front door. None of the keys worked. There was not too much to see from the dirty windows. It was dark inside. She went around back and tried the other doors she found. There was a window that looked like it might open. Everything else had been painted shut. It slid up easily. She found a garbage can to lay on its side for a boost up. Short tight skirts were not made for burglaries or break-ins, but she managed. The floor inside was just bare wood and dirty. She was afraid she might discover some squatter, so she took her shoes off to tiptoe quietly. The downstairs was empty. No furniture or anything. There were a couple of dirty glasses and a plate on the counter by the sink. There was a door that probably lead to the garage, but it had a big padlock on a special latch. She had no padlock keys on her ring. The living room was bare except for a blanket on the floor in a corner. And in front of it on a newspaper, a little heroin set-up with candle and spoon. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Everything was so dusty, it night have been here untouched for years. The newspaper had a headline in Spanish. Where would you get a Spanish newspaper in Paris? The upstairs was just as empty. The bathroom was filthy. She came back down.
“Hello, in there,” a man called from the open window.
She froze.
“This is the sheriff, if you don’t answer, I get to start shooting at you.”
“I’m Deidre McIntire,” she called. “I’m the owner.”
He stuck his head in the window. The guy was thick, thick arms, big ham hands on the window sill. Big round head with hardly any hair left. A bald bear, a rather big bald bear.
“There you are,” he said. “Kind of an odd way to get in your mother’s house, isn’t it?”
“None of the keys worked.”
“You find anything interesting in there?”
“Nothing at all. I’ll come out.”
“You could just unlock the front door from inside and walk out.”
“Then I couldn’t lock it up again if I did get out that way. I’ll come back through the window, if you will help.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Playing a little Marilyn Monroe with cops had always worked. She didn’t really know if she was giving a good imitation or not, but whatever came across had prevented her from getting roughed up. At eighteen, the cops in New Orleans were more than ready to manhandle her. She slipped on her shoes and put out her hand as daintily as she could muster. Halfway out the window he was more than happy to grab her waist. She was afraid he was just g
oing to fly her down, but he waited. A gentleman. She held his hand a little longer, to brush her skirt and pretend to regain her balance. This guy would make anyone feel tiny. The big belly was off-putting.
“I sure do appreciate the help. I’ll get a locksmith to come and redo the locks.”
She saw his teenage boy reaction. At least he wasn’t touching himself.
“How long are you going to be with us?” he said.
“As long as it takes, I guess,” she purred.
She liked doing Marilyn, as long as they got it. The young cops now didn’t know the movies. She offered her hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Sheriff Rob Turner, ma’am.”
“Sheriff Rob, it’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Oh, I should close the window.”
“Allow me, ma’am.”
“Thank you so much. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“I’d enjoy that, ma’am.”
She went to her truck and waved at him as she left. She hoped she wouldn’t see him again, but was pretty sure he would call her to ask her out. That would be a new experience. The belly would be hard to look at.
John had a small one a few years ago, but had lost it when he had to give up sugar and carbs. It went with middle age for most men. She wondered what he looked like now, after six months in prison. Some guys improve somehow. Some dissolve. She hoped he hadn’t shaved off his graying curly hair. Or got tattoos. He was hard to figure. Smart, but a real drunk. He paid her to keep him company, there was very little sex. They had fun. He read books and could recite things. He’d get silly soused and stand in his kitchen and direct Brahms on the record player. He called them Matt Dillon and Miss Lilly. She would try to correct him, to Miss Kitty, but he wouldn’t listen and repeat ‘Miss Lilly Langtry!’ He had black fingers that were as gentle as a baby’s touch. He was a printer; the stains were permanent after twenty years. She would have to write him a letter.
She had to get back and organize the apartment.
* * *
She ended up just gathering up everything and piling it on her mother’s bed and closing the bedroom door. She made a rum and coke to relax herself for what she knew was coming. The pile of papers remained on the kitchen table. She’d get around to them. The television was stupid. A couple of channels from Terre Haute and one real fuzzy one from Indianapolis. How to cook something, the farm report and another murder in Indianapolis. It was a relief to turn it off when Mat knocked.
His tie was gone, but the top button of his shirt was still buttoned. They sat on the couch and he laid out the papers on the coffee table. He eyed her drink and she offered him one, but he took just a can of soda, saying he had other appointments that afternoon.
He laid it all out for her. Her mother had created a corporation that held all the assets. He showed her the farm revenue, and the apartment building figures as well as the cemetery’s. And the tax filings for the last five years. The spreadsheet he brought showed the $10,000 deficit for each year. He wasn’t condescending. He didn’t seem to think her questions were stupid. And she didn’t feel like she had to butter him up or flirt with him. They were finished, it seemed.
“I really appreciate your help,” she told him.
He pulled a checkbook out of his briefcase and handed it to her.
“I talked to the bank and they have added your name to the cemetery account. I let Edward know so he could inform the probate court. We need to keep the cemetery operating for the community. You just have to go to the bank to finish the paperwork.”
“You can just call the bank and get them to do things?”
“Everyone knows me.”
“So, what do I owe you?” She waved the checkbook. “You accept tips?”
“Well, I have something to ask you,” he said.
“You liked girly things? I kind of remember.”
“Yeah.”
“Mat, you aren’t a bad-looking person, dressed up or not. I might even go for you if things were different.” It was never about the money with the johns. “But you are married here, this isn’t a fling in a faraway place. I came up here to change my lifestyle. Change my career, you know.”
He started to cry.
“Mat. Come on,” she said softly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t heard you were coming home.”
She brought him a tissue box from the kitchen.
“How about that drink?” she asked. He nodded.
She went back to fix it.
“I could come do your books here. You wouldn’t have to touch me.”
With these guys there was always a woman somewhere that had given them approval when they were little. It was all about the approval.
“This would cover you for this consultation?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Wipe your eyes, honey. I’ll be right back.”
This was easy. She knew the routine. She went in the bedroom and checked the bottom drawer of her mother’s bureau. Her mother had always kept lingerie for special occasions. Winston would have needed a little extra, at eighty. It was there. She sniffed to make sure it didn’t smell weird. That would freak him out. She brought the outfit out to the coffee table.
“You have to take all your clothes off.”
He complied. He draped his trousers and shirt carefully on the back of the couch. The tidy whities came off last. Why any grown man would wear them was beyond her, but a lot of them did. The erection was there.
“Turn around,” she told him.
She helped him into the bra and panties and the baby doll nightie they came with. There was even a flimsy cover-up that didn’t really. She took his hand and led him into the bathroom and told him to sit on the toilet. Painting him up with big eyes, foundation and blush and lipstick, it came back to her now. They had gone out walking in the French Quarter. He could actually pass as a girl if dressed and made up right. That’s what he remembered. They had been lightly stoned too. Cinderella at the ball.
“This will never do,” she told him. She made him stand and face himself in the mirror. She took his penis in hand from behind him. He went off like a boy into the sink. Less fuss, less muss. She cleaned him off and arranged him back into his panties. He was getting hard again. She pinched him.
“Ow.”
“I’m the boss. You come back out and sit and talk to me like a girl and we’ll have another drink. And you have to cross your legs like a girl too.”
He came with her and sipped his drink.
“I remember now what we did in the Quarter,” she said. “It was fun.”
“It was.”
“You have done it again,” she said.
“There’s places in Terre Haute and Indianapolis, and conferences, but I’d get all gussied up and then end up sitting in my hotel room all night, afraid to go out the door.”
“You could have found somebody to help.”
“I suppose.”
“The wife?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a box,” he said. “I’m in a box.”
“It’s a small town. I’m afraid if I help you out again, people will decide we’re having an affair and then it would get real messy.”
“I know.”
“Is there something I don’t understand about my mother’s stuff? Winston seems hell bent on helping me, but it smells like he has some kind of plot going on with the lawyer and Jack. I need to drive over to Terre Haute for a burial vault, but Winston is the last one I want to ask for help from. Was she involved with them doing something illegal?”
“Probably. They have been close since high school. They sit together if they show up at the diner at the same time. Your mother and the sheriff might have joined any of the three of them. I go over there for lunch. It’s a good place to drum up business.”
“Shit. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough what they were up to.”
“I could help you tomorrow.”
“In d
rag?”
“I could meet you out on the highway.”
“You have passable clothes? Something that doesn’t look like a drag queen bought it?”
“I think so.”
“I figured I could get the company guys to load it for me. It’s getting it off over here at the cemetery. You think the two of us can do it? Jack won’t be out there. He’s working at some construction job in town.”
“I can help you.”
“This will have to be the only time.” She knew it probably wasn’t going to be. But he was passable, if he didn’t open his mouth.
“There’s a bridge about two miles east of town,” he said. “Right after is a road house that’s been closed for years. I can meet you behind the building.”
They agreed to meet at eight in the morning. He took his clothes into the bathroom to get cleaned up and go on to his next appointment. She hoped he would just go home. He smelled of rum and baby powder when he left.
When would she learn, she wondered.
Chapter four
She awoke in the morning with a start, certain she had overslept. She hadn’t. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Going back to the couch didn’t work, so she made coffee. Denying herself the cigarette she wanted, she showered and spent the next dark morning hour sorting through her mother’s clothes. All she decided to keep was the old lady shoes and a couple of flannel shirts. There was a dress that she thought Mat might like – they liked to dress like their mothers – and put that aside as well. She wore one of the shirts and was going to bring the other one along so they could be the Bobbsey Twins today. God only knew what he would show up wearing. Then she realized she might want the scarves her mother had. She dumped everything else in the center of the bedspread and then tied the corners to make a big bundle. It was heavy, but she managed to drag it out of the apartment to her truck, and get it up into the back. When she started inside again, she saw it.
Someone had painted ‘Whore’ in big red letters across the door of her apartment. About a foot high. She ran to see if the paint was still wet. It was dry. They must have done it early last night. She touched the W and felt the tears welling up. Why? God damn them! She wiped her eyes quickly. Fuck them! Who would have done this? The frigging lawyer? Winston? It could even be a couple of redneck teenagers that had seen her around town. One of the tenants here that she hadn’t even met? No one knew who she was except Mat and he wasn’t a crazy person. It had to be a sicko who had just thought of the worst word they could come up with. This was scary. She had known johns with that look in their eyes. You could see they wanted to hurt you.