by Fran Rizer
And so it was that the mother of the man that Patsy Corley shot sat beside Patsy’s mama at the funeral in the chapel and rode with her in one of the family cars right by Rizzie’s grill to receive a Gee Three Shrimp Slider and soda.
• • •
Odell and a couple of part-timers drove the family cars back to the Corley home. I rode from the cemetery to Middleton’s in the funeral coach with Otis. He’s positively wild about Mumford and Sons and played their new CD until I said, “Otis, I’ve been thinking about Mr. Patterson and the Field of Flowers.”
Otis turned the volume down and asked, “What about him?”
“That prepayment was over a decade ago. Wouldn’t it be cheaper to refund the money than to supply the casket and everything in the contract?”
A grin spread across Otis’s face. “It would be, and I’ll tell Odell that, but we won’t give him any money until after his wife dies and he’s her legal heir.” He turned Mumford and Sons back up until I spoke again.
“Otis, what’s going to happen to Amber Buchanan?”
Once more, Otis turned the volume down and this time, he answered my question with one of his own. “What do you mean?”
“Sheriff Harmon said he hasn’t located a next-of-kin for her. Will we just keep her in the refrigeration unit indefinitely like Spaghetti in North Carolina and Deaf Bill in Alton, Illinois?” I remembered tales he’d told me about them. They’d both been embalmed and held for decades by mortuaries waiting for relatives to pay for funeral services.
“No, I don’t see us keeping a body over fifty years. There are legal ways to avoid things like that these days.”
“I’m glad. That seems disrespectful to me. When I Googled Deaf Bill, I read that some people believe his ghost haunts the building where that funeral home was.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Callie?”
“Not really. It’s like Odell says, if ghosts haunted the places where they died, you wouldn’t be able to turn around in hospitals and nursing homes. They’d be full of ghosts.”
“So you know about Spaghetti and Deaf Bill. Sometime when you’re not working or reading, Google ‘Unburied bodies.’ I’m not saying it’s common, but not as rare as you might think.”
I shuddered, hating to even think of such disrespect toward decedents.
“Those aren’t the only cases like that,” Otis continued, “and not all of them were years ago. As recently as 2004, an elderly lady named Ada in Texas died and went unburied at least five years because the family didn’t pay for the service in the funeral home chapel nor interment, so the mortuary kept her all dressed up and resting in her casket. They even moved Ada when the funeral home relocated.”
“Would you and Odell do that?”
“No, we wouldn’t do that. Most morticians perform their responsibilities in respectful, honorable ways, but sometimes awful things happen in this business. One incident occurred right here in South Carolina when a funeral home quoted a price to bury a minister who was six feet, five inches tall. After the interment, rumors circulated around town that when his legs hadn’t fit inside the coffin, an employee had cut off his feet to get the man in his casket. The gossip was so bad that the family demanded the preacher be exhumed. Sure enough, his feet and lower legs were in the casket, but they were no longer attached to the man.”
I trembled with disgust. Reverence for decedents and their families is one of the first policies the Middletons taught me.
“So what will we do with Amber Buchanan if no one claims the body?” I swung the conversation back to my original question.
“We can petition the court for permission to cremate or bury an unclaimed body in Potter’s Field.”
The thought of that woman being murdered and lying six feet under in an unmarked grave brought the quick sting of tears to my eyes. I hadn’t known Amber Buchanan before her death, but I felt like I had. Sometimes I thought of her as simply “Amber.” The women at Safe Sister had seemed to care deeply about her. I remembered the unopened presents under their Christmas tree. I wondered if they’d be willing to contribute to some kind of memorial service for her. As quickly as that thought popped into my mind, I rejected it. Those ladies were in no position to do anything about Amber.
Otis didn’t offer me a penny for my thoughts. Perhaps he didn’t figure they were worth that much. He adjusted the sound, and Mumford and Sons filled the hearse—I mean the funeral coach—the rest of the way.
Two people sat in the rocking chairs on the verandah when Otis pulled into Middleton’s Mortuary parking lot. I was surprised to see Frankie and Jane. I asked Otis to let me out before he parked the funeral coach.
“Why are you here?” I called.
“Came to see if you want to go to a turkey trot with us,” Jane answered. She tugged at the orange and red tie-dyed T- shirt she wore beneath a suede fringed jacket. Jane loves to wear her mother’s old clothes, but since her mom was shorter than Jane, sometimes the lengths are a big short. In the summertime, a bare belly button wouldn’t matter these days, but in the cold winter, that shirt was probably freezing her middle.
“You must mean a turkey shoot, but most of those closed right after Christmas.”
“No, we’re going to a turkey trot. It’s all over town that Buster Gwyn’s having a turkey trot. Frankie’s taking me. I’ve never been to one.” Jane brushed her hand across the suede fringe on her mother’s old hippie jacket.
“Jane, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but there’s no way anyone’s going to let you shoot a gun.”
Frankie laughed. “You’re wrong.”
“You plan to let her shoot?”
“No, I mean you’re wrong about where we’re going. It really is a turkey trot, not a turkey shoot.”
“A turkey trot is a footrace. They’re held in November, and the people who started them used to say that they were running to work off the calories eaten at Thanksgiving.”
Frankie turned to Jane. “That’s my sister, the encyclopedia. Daddy should have named her Wikipedia instead of Calamine. She thinks she knows everything.” He looked at me when he continued, “I might look like I fell off a turnip truck, but it wasn’t last night. I know all that, but this is something different.” He only said that bit about the turnip truck because he knows I despise that expression. Otis joined us and pulled two more chairs over to where Jane and Frankie sat.
I seated myself and said, “Then tell us about it.”
“There’s a place in Texas where a turkey trot is different. They line up domesticated turkeys and hold them back with a gate. Then they fire a starting pistol and lift the gate. All these gobblers go trotting down the street.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“I guess they do it for fun in Texas. Buster Gwyn got the idea that we could put numbers on tags around the turkeys’ necks and see which one crosses the finish line first. He has more turkeys than usual left after the holiday season.”
“So?” That was a childish response, about like when kids used to say, “Psych,” but I saw no point in watching turkeys race.
“Jane and I are going to place bets and win some money. Thought you might want to come along.”
“Are you sure that’s not against the law like cock fighting and dog fighting?”
“No more than betting on anything is against the law. People are arrested for fighting dogs and roosters because it’s cruel to the animals. This won’t injure the turkeys at all.” He laughed. “Unless somebody steals one and eats it.”
Everyone knows Buster raises turkeys and is proud that his operation’s a sideline, not industrialized. He claims his turkeys are free-range, which means they aren’t crowded into small spaces and fed chemicals. Daddy buys his turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas from Buster because he likes to cook fresh, not frozen, birds. He also likes that Buster’s birds are brown-feathered, not white like commercial turkeys usually are. I have no idea if the color has any effect on the taste, but my daddy has hi
s own ideas about most things. All of that meant that I didn’t think Buster would even consider an activity that would hurt the turkeys.
“You can go if you want, Callie,” Otis said. “I’ll be here the rest of the day and Odell should be back soon.”
“Why don’t I stay here and you go to this turkey trot?” I suggested.
“Because I’m not a betting man. Go ahead. You might win.”
• • •
I’ve never been to a dogfight or cockfight in my life, and I never want to see animals made to hurt or kill each other, but if I ever get the chance to go to another turkey trot, I will. It was as much fun as watching the pigs race at the fair and wound up being far more exciting.
We left the van at Middleton’s and took my Mustang to Buster Gwyn’s farm. I thought that most of St. Mary’s residents had been at Fatsy Patsy’s funeral—oops! I didn’t mean to call her that anymore. Like I said, I thought everyone was there, but a lot of them must have left the cemetery and headed over to Buster’s because parked cars and trucks covered two fields and some of the people we saw getting out of them were, like me, dressed more suitably for a funeral than a turkey race. We had to walk at least half a mile following arrows from where we parked to the area designated by hand-lettered signs as the “Trotting Track.”
Card tables manned by Buster’s teenaged kids were labeled $5, $1, and 50¢. Lined up beside those were more of his children and their friends with big washtubs of ice filled with sodas and beer.
“I don’t know if we’ll win any money here,” I said, “but Buster Gwyn’s sure to come out ahead.”
We found out how much ahead Buster would be when we discovered there was a charge to get inside the makeshift fence surrounding the track.
Someone had rigged up a sound system, and a voice reverberated telling everyone: “Place your bets at the tables, buy yourself a drink, and pay just five dollars to have a place up close to see the first ever St. Mary’s Turkey Trot.”
A man yelled, “What if I want another beer after I pay to get in?”
The amplified words broke up and crackled this time, but their meaning came across. “We’re gone stamp … hand … pay … like they do at clubs.”
Frankie bought Jane and me a beer and then steered us into the betting lines. He grumbled that he wanted to get a close look at the turkeys before placing a bet. The kid told us there were ten turkeys in the race, so we’d bet by number—anything between one and ten. Frankie put down five dollars on turkey three for every race. I put a couple of two-dollar bets on different numbers for each race. Jane decided to wait and bet later.
We paid our way into the fenced area and one of Buster’s kids stamped our hands like they do at Kenny B’s. The turkeys strutted around, gobbling loudly, in a separate pen at the beginning of the track. Just as the starting pistol fired for the first race and the gate opened in front of the turkeys, Frankie snaked us right up to the fence surrounding the track.
Across the way a pretty blond woman leaned against the fence, looking like she’d fall down without the support. Obviously totally intoxicated, she looked familiar. I recognized her just as she slumped to the ground. The drunk lady was Bill’s old friend Lucy, the one I used to call Loose Lucy, the one his wife Molly had discovered texting him on his cell phone. Lucy’s khaki cargo pants turned a darker color, and I realized she’d wet herself when she passed out. Another reason to feel sorry for her and grateful that I don’t have an alcohol problem. I considered trying to get over to her. The crowd was big and boisterous. I didn’t want to think about her getting stepped on or crushed, but there was no way to cross the track.
Just then, a man bent over her and tried to rouse her. The minute I saw him I glanced away quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed me. I didn’t think he had because when he couldn’t wake her, he stood and turned his attention back to the race, screaming, “Nine! Nine!” which must have been the turkey he’d bet on.
Sometimes I’ve wondered if I should have done what I did next. It got Buster Gwyn in a world of trouble, but I didn’t hesitate then. I called Sheriff Harmon on my cell without considering the consequences. Most of the time, I’m glad I did. That man betting on nine needed to be questioned.
“Wayne,” I screamed into my cell phone, trying to be heard over the yelling of turkey numbers all around me. “Norman Spires is here. I’m looking straight at him right now.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m out at Buster Gwyn’s farm with Jane and Frankie.”
“What’s going on?”
“Buster’s having a turkey trot.”
“Don’t you mean a turkey shoot?”
“Nobody’s shooting anything. Not a turkey nor a target.”
“Has Buster got turkeys fighting?”
“No, they aren’t fighting. They’re racing. Come Highway 17 to the Gwyn farm and then follow the turkey trot signs. I don’t know for sure how many races they’re running, but I’ll try to keep an eye on Spires until you get here.”
“Don’t dare talk to him or try to detain him if he starts to leave. Consider him armed and dangerous.”
At the end of the first race, Jane squealed with excitement when Frankie told her he’d won fifteen dollars. I didn’t win anything. Turkey number nine didn’t win or place, and I sneaked a peek at Norman Spires. Mean and ugly sums up his expression, but he was standing protectively behind Lucy, kind of blocking her from the spectators.
Turkeys aren’t the most domesticated bird. Daddy had never bothered to have any turkeys on his farm since he considered them more trouble than they were worth when he could buy a fresh one, alive or dressed out, from Buster. He didn’t keep geese either, because, according to him, geese can be mean and he wasn’t fond of the meat, preferring chicken or turkey.
I anticipated Wayne or Dean would slip up to Norman Spires and arrest him. My call to the sheriff had summoned law enforcement to Buster’s farm, but I wasn’t any more prepared than anyone else when it happened.
Sirens screamed and Jade County Sheriff’s Department cars surrounded the turkey trot area all at once. People took off running in all directions, but deputies detained them.
“What’s going on?” Jane demanded.
“This place is being raided, deputies all over,” Frankie said. “Drop your beers and, Callie, give me the tickets for your bets.” I handed him my stubs and he threw them on the ground and nudged us to step over, away from the evidence.
“I thought you said this wasn’t illegal,” I complained.
“I told you no animals would be hurt, but you need to put your big girl panties on and grow up. You know as well as I do that gambling’s against the law in Jade County.”
“Then why did you say there are deputies all over?” Jane asked.
“Because betting is against the law, and I’d bet you Buster didn’t get a license to sell alcoholic beverages out here today. Even if he did, there’s no way he’ll get by with letting his kids sell beer and take bets.”
“Will he go to jail?” Jane asked and then laughed. “If the charge is the same no matter what kind of alcohol, he should have been selling Wild Turkey shots in coffee. It’s turning colder.”
“Buster will probably get hauled into town, and anyone who’s caught with a betting stub or beer will get a ticket and have to go to court. I don’t think Wayne will try to book this many people,” Frankie assured her.
Just then I saw a big, burly deputy tackle a man who was running across the field away from the track. I recognized the officer as a former football player on St. Mary High School’s team. Another guy jumped on top of them, and it looked like a Friday night football pile up. They stood and handcuffed the man who’d been on the bottom—Norman Spires.
Other deputies climbed inside the track and chased turkeys. Now, full-grown turkeys can’t fly because of their weight, but those gobblers ran faster from the deputies than they had during the race. The sky opened up and dumped freezing-cold rain on us.
“I heard
that domesticated turkeys have to be taken inside the roosting house when it rains because they’re so stupid that they’ll look up at the rain until they drown from the water rushing down their throats,” Jane said.
“Old wives’ tale,” Frankie answered. “Think about it. Their eyes are on the sides of their heads. To look at rain coming from the sky, they’d have to turn their heads sideways, not directly upward.”
“Are we going to just stand here and watch it rain ourselves?” I asked.
“I think it’s better if we don’t try to walk away. We might wind up like that guy the deputies just tackled and hauled over to the paddy wagon in handcuffs.”
Not bothering to explain that the tackled man hadn’t been arrested just for being there, I stood beside Frankie and Jane while we got drenched.
When an officer finally got around to us, Frankie talked to him. He didn’t actually lie, but we all emptied out our pockets, showing we had no betting stubs, and the deputy told us to get out of there. We were walking back to the Mustang when I saw EMTs carrying a stretcher toward an ambulance. I never liked Loose Lucy, but I was glad she was getting medical attention. What if she wasn’t just passed out?
• • •
The ride back to town was quiet. Jane and Frankie both seemed to be in pouty moods while I was just glad I hadn’t been arrested.
“Where are you going now?” Jane asked when we pulled into Middleton’s parking lot and Frankie parked my car beside his van.
“I thought we’d go back to your place,” Frankie answered.
“Not talking to you,” Jane said with sadness in her voice. “I’m asking Callie.”
“I’m going to stop by the grocery store and then head on home.” All that excitement had worn me out.
“I need some things from the grocery, too.” Jane.
“I’ll take you by the store,” Frankie offered.
“No, you go on home. I’ll ride with Callie. Call me in the morning.” Jane again.