Under the cold Stones

by McNay, Dan

  Everyone around would get a good look at it today. She didn’t have time to paint it over, even if she had the right paint. She grabbed her purse and locked up.

  The streets were getting lighter, but there wasn’t a sunrise yet. Nobody out at all. She found the closed and dark Goodwill store and just backed up to the front entrance and pushed her bundle off the back of the truck and then drove away.

  The sun was rising when she pulled in behind the closed road house just past the bridge. Mat was there, hiding in his car. She coaxed him out. He wasn’t in too bad a shape. Tight jeans, with his privates tucked away. The boobs were normal looking and the make-up was ok. He had been practicing for years probably. The top was a little frilly. She handed him the flannel shirt and tied a scarf over his bad wig. They did seem like sisters or something. That was good – more credibility.

  “Unroll the jean cuffs, that went away about 1955,” she told him. He obliged her. “Ready?”

  They climbed into her pickup. It was still really early. She wondered if stopping for breakfast down the road would work. He was trembling a little.

  She told him about the graffiti.

  “Who would do something like that?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “I’ve never said anything about you to anyone, ever.”

  “It’s probably the football guys.”

  Neither of them could think of anything to say.

  “Your mother was a real witch,” Mat said.

  “Thanks,” Daydee glanced at him, smiling. “I was beginning to think I might be the only one who thought that. Winston was madly in love with her.”

  “Years ago, I thought there was something wrong. My old man hated my guts. I thought you were like me.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Daydee said. “I was whipped for everything. Crying, not crying. Messing my diaper. Not doing the dishes good enough. Having periods. At thirteen, I took the yard stick away from her and broke it. Then she started slapping me if she could get to me.”

  She shook her head.

  “I was quick on my feet.” Daydee continued. “And she was sick from the heroin most of the time. I didn’t get hit much after that. But that didn’t stop her from bad mouthing me.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I knew it. My old man beat the shit out of me – to make me a man, he said.”

  “I liked you. How come we didn’t go out again?”

  “You didn’t go home with me the one time we did. It was the big playoff game and we won. Everyone went out to the pasture to celebrate. When I had to go, you wouldn’t come back with me.”

  “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

  “You were out of my league,” he said.

  “You guys,” she said. She looked over at him. “Sorry, I forgot. You’re Marcie today. You like that name?”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t touch your face,” she reminded him. “You want to try stopping for breakfast? I’ll order for you.”

  They stopped after another half hour at a place just off the highway. It was uneventful. No one batted an eye. He came back out to the pickup ecstatic.

  “That was so much fun!”

  They were coming into Terre Haute.

  “You going to settle in Paris?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It must have been fun in New Orleans.”

  “There was always music and drinks to be had. And friends if you wanted them. The sunrises in the French Quarter were always worth staying up for. The city at night was a great whore queen. You had to pay and pay.”

  “Wow, what a thing to say. Is that from a book or something?”

  She ignored him. They found the memorial company in Terre Haute and pulled into the lot. She had handed him an emery board before getting out.

  “This wards off men. Just file your nails while I go pay. And don’t flirt, young lady!”

  She wrote a check and two guys brought the vault out to load into her truck. It was just a fiberglass bathtub with a fancy top. She wondered what the mark-up had been.

  Mat gave one of the guys a little wave as they pulled out.

  Driving back, Daydee had to stop for gas and bought them both a beer. She turned the radio up.

  “Sometimes, I just go off and cry by myself where no one can see me.” Mat said as if he had been practicing it. “You ever get that way?”

  “I haven’t cried in twenty years.”

  They left it there, not saying much the rest of the way.

  She drove on to the cemetery because Mat was going to help her get the vault off the truck. They came to the office and spotted Winston’s car by the shed. He walked out in sight of them. Daydee quickly turned around and drove straight out the gate.

  “Shit! Do you think he saw me?” Mat moaned.

  “He saw the truck. I’ll take you back to your car.”

  “Shit!”

  He slumped down in the seat to hide as much as he could.

  “Don’t worry,” Daydee told him. “I’ll just tell him you were a girlfriend that I had to take to catch the Greyhound. We had forgotten the time. Come by the cemetery later to see if I got the thing out of the truck.”

  “I think he saw me.”

  “Just don’t obsess about it. There’s not much to do about it. It didn’t happen. You weren’t in the truck. My girlfriend was.”

  She let him out behind the closed roadhouse and he ran for his car. Daydee went back to the cemetery. Winston was still there, waiting for her.

  She stopped beside him and talked to him without getting out.

  “Hi. Sorry, I had to get my girlfriend to the bus. We had forgotten the time. What’s up?”

  “Well, I heard about the funeral and figured you might need some help. I talked to Jack and he said you were going to need a vault. Looks like you got one.”

  “Irene lives over there. She helped and rode back with me to catch up.”

  “She looks familiar. She from Paris originally?”

  “I think she might be the accountant’s cousin. I’m not sure. You must have been out here a long time, waiting.”

  “I just got here, really. You had that look on your face like you had seen a ghost. I figured it wasn’t me. The vault was bouncing around in back. You were going to need help unloading it.”

  “It’s a bit late to hang around out here that long,” Daydee said.

  “I have friends out here. I’ve been visiting.”

  “Well, hop in. I’d love some help.”

  They drove over to the grave site. The two of them pulled the vault off the back so one end was on the ground. They were straining. Daydee just pulled the truck forward so it fell off. They could pick up the lid between them and put it on the box. Jack would do the rest getting it into the hole when he dug it. Daydee figured he could just push it in with the backhoe. Winston was worn out. He leaned against the tailgate and slowly caught his breath.

  Daydee jumped up and sat beside him. There was that farmer again, way down the slope, a tiny figure moving through the trees.

  “I’ve met with the accountant. He’s a real nice guy. Very helpful,” she said.

  “He’s good. Your mother liked him. She was hard to please. A little odd sometimes, but reliable.”

  “He’s got a family he said,” Daydee mentioned.

  “A little daughter he dotes on,” Winston said.

  They looked at each other.

  “Deidre, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me to Jack’s service on Sunday.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “As a favor to me?”

  “You know everybody in town. Surely there’s somebody else to take along. Or just go by yourself.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “People might laugh. Or I could get sick or have an accident. I’m afraid God won’t want me there.”

  How was she supposed to respond to that?

  “Maybe you could go talk to a minister.
You can’t tell Jack this?”

  “No!”

  “Winston, I’m probably not the best person to talk to about this. I’m not sure I believe in God.”

  “You’re the only one I can talk to about it.”

  “This is crazy. I don’t think I can help you at all.”

  “I’ve done some horrible things in my life. Things that would put me in prison if anyone knew.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “I’m going straight to hell when I die!”

  She had told Jack in front of Winston that she might go to church. Oh.

  “I haven’t been in a church in twenty-five years,” Winston told her.

  “It’s not my favorite place in the world. If you promise not to have a heart attack, I suppose I could go.”

  “Thank you.”

  He clasped her hands with both of his and patted them.

  “Thanks for the help today,” she said.

  * * *

  Daydee had been watching the other apartments for the few days that she had been there and had never seen anyone come or go. The parking was in the rear of the building and she just hadn’t gotten an opportunity to go back there. Were they all leaving through back entrances? She waited until nine in the morning and went to knock on the doors. The big ring with the pass keys were in her mother’s refrigerator in a coffee can. There hadn’t been any money in the can. That made her smile.

  No one answered at the first door. She waited and then let herself in. The apartment was empty. No furniture, no appliances. Not bothering to knock, she just let herself in the next one. It too was empty. As were all the rest, except the last one. There was a couch and end tables and a bed in that one. Everything was so dusty that it was clear no one lived there. And there were no lamps to take. She walked around to the parking. No cars. What kind of crazy person would have an apartment building and not rent them?

  Taking a look at her mother’s receipt book again, she realized that all the dated entries ended a year ago. She needed help. How could she make the mortgage without rent coming in? She recalled seeing a realtor’s office down by the café. They might be willing to help or would know someone who would. She locked up. The “Whore” on the door needed to go. It didn’t seem as important, now that she knew there was no one around to see it. She’d get paint and made a mental note to herself about the color. She had a gift for that: matching. But there wasn’t a high demand for it in her line of work. Maybe a little town like Paris could use an interior decorator.

  She found the realtor’s office and parked. The office was cheery and bright with plants and nice furniture. There were pictures of houses for sale. The woman behind the only desk looked very professional. She stood when Daydee came in and shook her hand. She was tall, maybe four inches above her, but she was wearing heels. She was slender and wearing one of those women’s business suits with the pencil skirt. The boyish haircut was kind of cute. She had intelligent eyes. And an English accent. Really odd for this place. Her name was Sarah.

  Daydee explained her problem. Sarah was familiar with the building.

  “You’re in probate now?” she asked.

  Daydee nodded.

  “And you’re the executor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound like a southern belle. Where have you been hanging out?”

  “New Orleans. Does everyone in town know my business?”

  “Pretty much. It’s a little town. Edward is my ex-husband. You should let him know what you are doing so he can notify the probate court. They will have to approve any sale if it’s still in probate.”

  “I don’t understand why she had no tenants.”

  “You mother was pretty wacko. The police were over there a bit, even though she was buddy buddy with Sheriff Turner.”

  “I met him. He seems ok.”

  “Really?” Sarah asked. “Let me see about getting you people to move in. Would you be willing to give away a free month’s rent? We could still ask for first and last, that would get you some quick bucks. Just start the clock a month later for them.”

  “Ok,” Daydee said, “I need to sign something?”

  “Nah, I want 5% on the first two months’ rent on each new tenant and you come to me for the sale.”

  “It sounds fair enough.” Daydee wasn’t sure how to make nice with this woman. “Edward is always grumpy and rude?”

  “I don’t talk to him much. We got divorced seven years ago. Our son is grown and gone. I’m doing business here. I like everybody,” she said. “I have to run out to show a house. When can I start sending you tenants?”

  “Monday? I have some cleaning and some painting to do,” Daydee suggested.

  Sarah stood, so Daydee did too. It was odd, looking up at this women. They were about the same age, she guessed. Sarah grinned like a Cheshire cat. It gave her goose bumps. This was a little scary. The other woman grabbed her purse and came around the desk. Daydee turned toward the door and Sarah’s arm was around her waist, escorting her out. Then the arm was gone. Sarah was locking the office. Daydee escaped to her truck. Sarah waved.

  Daydee had never felt like this. Was this what it felt like?

  * * *

  Daydee went to the Goodwill. She needed conservative clothes to run a cemetery and she needed lamps. She had been going for years in New Orleans. It was cheap if you had no money. And even if you did, the things changed from day to day, so it could be a treasure hunt if you found something really remarkable. The thrift stores in New Orleans attracted all sorts of weird people. It was a wonderful place if you didn’t want to feel self-conscious about the things you might be looking for. The drag queens were there all the time. The homeless folks would wander in and sit on the couches for hours. The crazies would wander about talking to bric-a-brac. She found old records she liked. The Kingston Trio. She found blouses that were timeless and odd and could only really be worn by someone like her. She gave up on tight after her twenties. The rich guys had taste, they wanted a suggestion of curve that couldn’t really be hidden but suggested she was trying anyway. Taste. They were older and wanted the feel they got at home, that it was for their eyes only. That had been her gift, understanding men. Women had never been that easy for her. Most were stupid. The girls she knew on the street early on were so many lost lambs. She’d smile and nod, but they were never anyone to trust or like. She would get asked to help with a wedding that came up now and then. A girl would get an offer and she’d take it. That had been the only time she would be in a church. Or if someone died. It was all big Catholic weirdness. Going to church with Winston here was going to be weirdness beyond weirdness. She needed a church dress as well. She had gotten marriage and mistress proposals. She never took them. Then you end up over the hill with nothing. Well, that worked out, didn’t it? Discarded people, discarded clothes, discarded little bric-a-brac that once meant something to someone, that was it, wasn’t it? You pretended that none of this belonged to dead people.

  Or maybe late at night, you did pretend that it had belonged to someone that cherished it and someone that cherished you and it became an imaginary heirloom. Sort of like an imaginary friend. There was a little clay pipe made by an Indian, that might have been really old. She had bought it as a knickknack and later she found out it was something made by the Miami tribe here in Illinois. It became something Uncle Alec could have smoked tobacco in. The housekeeper broke the little owl ears off and she was upset for days. There was an old children’s book The Happy Prince and Other Tales by Oscar Wilde with a boy/girl prince on a pedestal on the cover that could have come from the old family house here when her great-grandmother and Uncle Alec sold everything off.

  You pretended that it didn’t matter that there was no one in the world for you, even as a friend. There were the needy people that wanted you to do something for them, for free or for payment. There were people in the world that wanted to take you home as a prize and put you on a shelf. And there was nothing else. John. And John. He needed another name. The experience of t
hrift stores always made her a little sad at the end of the day, unless it was forgotten with a great find. Like that brooch, that was in with all the costume jewelry that didn’t belong because of the real stones. No one wore brooches anymore, but the diamonds were real diamonds and no one noticed until she got there. It was very odd. She felt like she was going to be arrested as she walked out. Sometimes you did find something.

  She started looking for a dress to wear to Jack’s church and one for funerals. She couldn’t recall which church he ran, but she was assuming it was middle class, middle of the road kind of thing. He looked like that. Everything she owned was too short and too tight. It didn’t seem the right place for Winston to find Jesus. He needed one of those Pentecostal tent things down by the river. Meetings where they dunk you in the water. The revival ladies wouldn’t care about the way she dressed, she’d fit right in. There was a very thin line between the hooker and the born again, between the alcoholic and fire and brimstone. All the dresses she looked at had to be pulled out and checked for size. Nothing was sorted here. Some of her mother’s clothing, which she had dropped off earlier, was already hanging here for sale. She skipped those. She had never liked dressing dumpy and the fact that she had gained a few pounds and was being forced into dumpy by circumstances was making this into a gloomy afternoon. She tried on several and finally decided on a flapper style dress that was pretty plain. Having curves in the right places livened anything up. It did look a little retro, but it was the right kind of blue for her complexion and to her knees and didn’t demonstrate anything up above. There was a navy suit that would fit the bill for funerals. The first one was coming up. She wasn’t sure it was expected of her to be there, so she thought she would just hang out in the office until it was over. Just in case there was something that still needed to be done.