Cicada

by Eric, Laing, J.

  The gravedigger had already formed an opinion as to the segregation of his charges, and after the ubiquitous roots of the surrounding trees made his occupation a true labor, he despised the situation all the more. Unlike the original cemetery, this ground had not been tilled and freed of rock and root, and so it was inhospitable to its newly-intended purpose. Dennis’s toil reminded him of another time and place when he’d been tasked to lay the dead to rest.

  He was in appearance as simple a man as the myriad people above him in station would have him be. He was quiet, courteous, and took to his duties with no complaints. The survivors of the dead gathered around his labors and he was washed away into the background even before the tears began. Once the mourners were done at the graveside and had filed away to share the rest of their grieving elsewhere, Dennis Hart would materialize once more to diligently see that the work of putting the dead to rest was done “proper like.”

  What nary a soul in Melby knew of Dennis Hart was that he was a highly-decorated Navy veteran of the Second World War. He had served as a gunner’s mate, second class, onboard a Northampton class light cruiser, the USS Houston. “The galloping ghost of the Java coast,” she had been called, out of both fear and respect. But then, on the night of February 28th, 1942, she became true to her namesake as she succumbed to the sea under the relentless fire of an overwhelming Japanese fleet. She took nearly three quarters of her complement with her as she rolled over into the ink, with the remaining crew of three hundred and sixty-eight men suffering to be captured just as soon as they struggled ashore at Bantam Bay.

  For the next three and a half years, Dennis Hart and his comrades beat back death as best they could, whiling away the war as prisoners, starved, beaten, and worked each day until exhaustion. By the time their ordeal was over, seventy-seven more seamen had lost their final battle and it had been Dennis Hart who’d broken his hands and back against the earth to see that at least fifty-six of them rested in the peace they deserved.

  It wasn’t a day befitting a funeral that morning in Melby; it was brimming over with life at every turn. The cicadas poured their droning over all, but even they couldn’t drown out the birds—mostly crows gathered in a glade of maples—and the squirrels and a stray dog as well that barked because apparently it’d nothing better to do. The limb rats teased the lost blue tick and its jowls slavered at the thought of having one of them between its grotesquely protruding ribs. Nearby, a blue jay quarreled with a mockingbird amongst the low lying brush as if there might not be enough grubs and grasshoppers to share between them, while seemingly everywhere else the bees bounded to and fro, delirious with the panoply of fresh flowers adorning each and every marker.

  Just as had been the case over the past three years, yesterday’s was an absurdly enormous floral delivery that arrived every other week from an unknown benefactor with only the instructions that it be distributed throughout the tombstones equally. The wild honey bees couldn’t resist the flowers although the sad irony was that the buds were thick with death and all but nectar-dry. The little pollen that remained with them, after being cut, wrapped and delivered, was for the most part uselessly spread between the wilting blooms by the stubborn bees. All wasn’t in vain, however, as a very small portion did manage to find its way to the wildflowers beyond the cemetery’s border.

  Dennis had no more than satisfied himself with Raymond Stout’s grave when the sound of the first of a long line of vehicles, trucks mostly, was heard to arrive. While the rumble of engines and the slamming of doors continued to grow in waves, the wails of despairing women and unsettled children rose steadily more and more as a constant above all else. Finally, in an effort to soothe those so troubled, a chorus began to sing a gentle hymn.

  From the scrub, the mockingbird and his blue jay antagonist ceased their quarrel and each found a bough from which to observe the curious proceedings. The blue tick hound was reticent and tucked both his head and tail, disappearing off into the wood where the squirrels gave pursuit to torment him some more. All the while, the bees continued their futile quest for nectar, and the cicadas thrummed oblivious to the passing of man.

  Just before the procession of pallbearers led the mourners with their shouldered burden, Dennis Hart slipped away as he always did, guiding his squeaky wheelbarrow off through the hip-deep weeds, taking the long way back to his tool shed. As he went he was only slightly surprised to spy a sight he saw more often than most would suspect during such events.

  Off behind a bend of trees, hidden from the funeral attendees, a man crouched, thinking himself undiscovered. Dennis left his wheelbarrow there in the deep weeds and continued more cautiously, still moving in the direction he’d intended but going in an effort to remain unnoticed by the interloper all the same. Dennis didn’t do so out of any sense of intrigue or mischief, but respect. On more occasions than he could record on one hand, Dennis had been privy to the mistress, or sometimes it had been the estranged drunkard father, tucked away behind a tree or marble monument, as they attended where polite society decreed that they should not.

  Once he was clear of the man’s line of sight, however, Dennis couldn’t help but pause and spy on the interloper this time. For, unlike those other occasions, Dennis couldn’t fathom what possible relation there could be that tied the deceased Raymond Stout to this clandestine attendee. The cicadas began their cacophony in earnest, such that the preacher who spoke to those gathered couldn’t be discerned by Dennis from his distant vantage point. Nor could John Sayre, who sulked in the shadows not too far away, catch the content of the funeral service, either.

  The murder of crows suddenly took to the wing as if startled by an unseen force, but not before one of them paused to deftly snatch the exhausted cicada from where it was caught halfway out of its nearly-molted shell. With the unlucky insect still squirming in its open beak, the bird fell in behind his fast-departing brethren.

  ...

  Buckshot pedaled madly, which was nothing new since he almost always pumped his legs beneath whitened knuckles as if a hoary host of Lucifer’s minions were fast on his tail. Actually, it wasn’t what was behind him, but what waited ahead, that fueled his fevered race on this occasion. In his dungaree’s front pocket, the dollar bill, wadded about his small savings of coins, kept time with his heart, bouncing off his chest as the frenetic motion of his pedaling rocked him back and forth and side to side. The dirt road before him was hazy with the distortions of the mid-morning heat, while behind him a drift of dust kicked up and hung briefly, a dirty contrail left in his wake.

  After a ways, the dirt evolved into a narrow lane of blacktop, but still Buckshot kept up his heart-pounding pace. The road was quiet. In his last three miles he was only passed by one vehicle, a blue Ford pick-up that whisked past him going in the other direction. Buckshot nodded to the ghostly figure obscured by a grime-caked windshield when it lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting as they passed one another. He had no idea who it was, nor did he care.

  Considering his exertion, Buckshot would’ve been soaked in sweat regardless, but with the heat being what it was, by the time he glided into town the boy looked as though he’d dunked his head in a bucket. Several folks called out “Hello” and “Hey there, Buckshot!” to the youngest of the Sayre family, but he did little to acknowledge them as he made his way down the sidewalk to Melby’s brand-new, and first-ever, pet store.

  It was on Worth Street—the fourth of the five streets that bisected Main Street within the city limits proper—and it was painted a bright green amongst the browns and dun whites of all the other businesses that Buckshot couldn’t have cared less about at the moment. Melby’s House of Exotic Pets, was the name that graced the shingle over the front door, although that was a bit of an exaggeration, since the most exotic creatures to be found within only ran the gamut of parakeets to tropical fish. But, for sleepy little Melby, the proprietors, Frank and Stella Humble, figured those were exotic enough. And they were right.

  When B
uckshot had originally learned of Melby’s first pet store he’d been smitten with the idea of getting a budgie. Even before his first visit, however, that wish had given way to the thought of possessing a turtle. But when Casey had pointed out that turtles could be had from just about any body of water from there to Ternsville, Buckshot conceded the point and bent his imagination to having something that most certainly could not be found in the wilds surrounding Melby. That was when he learned of the goldfish. Although he’d yet to see a living and water-breathing one for himself, Buckshot was assured that they were the most remarkable fish in the world. It was his best friend Casey who’d shared this incredible news with him, of course. Casey, living closer to town, and having seen the interior of the magical store “hundreds and hundreds a times,” was the school’s self-appointed pet store expert.

  “See, they feed ‘em real gold. That’s how they get that color. They got some with black spots. They get that way from eating coal. So they ain’t hundred percent,” Casey had expounded over baloney sandwiches a few weeks earlier.

  Buckshot had finally come to see for himself.

  If envy was a sin as dire as the Minister Jason Lee Scott would have Buckshot believe, then the boy was in deep trouble. As he stood slack-jawed, gazing upon the multitude of fish languidly moving about in row after row of tanks lining the walls of the house of exotic pets, Buckshot wished he were as small, that he might dive in and join them in escaping the heat.

  “Those are Calico Orandas,” Mrs. Humble said, as she crept up behind the daydreaming boy. “A beautiful fish, don’t you agree?”

  “Huh?” Buckshot startled to his senses.

  “Are you looking for a new pet, Buckshot?”

  Behind them a pandemonium of parakeets, finches, and love birds squawked, tittered, chirped, and rasped as they demanded attention from Buckshot, Stella Humble, and one another. A few even frustrated themselves with their reflections found in little mirrors hung about their cages. Those doppelgangers did nothing but mock them with mirrored movements in return, of course.

  Far in the back of the room, behind several shelves of merchandise which concealed their view but not their odor, caged puppies, cats and kittens added to the menagerie’s racket. The adolescent and mature dogs, some two dozen of them, were kept in kennels out back. Stella and her husband didn’t bother with the breeds that most folks around those parts were interested in. There were no hounds that could be used in hunting, not even bird dogs. No, the house of exotic pets harbored terriers, greyhounds, German shepherds, and schnauzers mostly, with an odd poodle or two thrown in when one struck Stella’s fancy.

  Since they weren’t hunting dogs, the stock didn’t move very often, and, as a result, they had become more like pets than merchandise. In fact, on the few occasions that a sale had been made, the ridiculous woman couldn’t help but get weepy-eyed as money and dog changed hands.

  To further complicate such transactions, Stella had already named all of her kennel dogs, not considering that most folks didn’t care to buy adult dogs, and those few who did would have preferred to name their new dog themselves. And, as if it weren’t enough that Stella had already named the animals, it was the inane names that she gave them that put off many of the very rare, would-be buyers.

  There was Cucumber and Pickles, and Sugarcane and Mittens for the greyhounds, while the three current German shepherds were Bulldozer, Hammy Boy, and Mr. Warbles. In what she thought was clever—because he was so small in stature—she’d named one of the terriers Colossus and then ran with the idea, calling the other diminutive dogs Goliath, Hercules, Samson, Jumbo, and Jugger, which was meant to be short for juggernaut. Probably the worst of all though, was her solitary pug, a dim dog that never came when called, since the poor creature could have never fathomed that its name was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. After that, Stella’s husband had given up on trying to impress upon her that dogs responded best to short, one to two syllable names.

  “If you’re interested in a goldfish, we’re having a special this week. Bowl, gravel, one bottle of food and one fancy goldfish of your choice all for three dollars,” she said, concocting the deal off the top of her head.

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she confirmed through pursed lips.

  From out back, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Jumbo barked ceaselessly as those two were wont to do.

  Buckshot let his hand creep up to the wad of coins and the single one dollar bill burning in his dungaree pocket.

  “How long that special gonna be for? Just the week?” he asked.

  “Well...no. For the rest of the month, I do believe,” she answered cautiously, testing whether or not that would be ample time for the boy to acquire the money.

  Buckshot didn’t pedal home as madly as he’d come. The disappointment of his fish-less predicament transformed his legs into leaden spaghetti, and, as a matter of fact, it was all he could do to keep his bike upright, so slow was his going. He wobbled back and forth with each lazy push against the pedals. At least twice he was honked at for so carelessly meandering along the shoulder of the road. As he went, his mind remained preoccupied with calculating just how many more days of his weekly allowance it would take to make up the difference he lacked between his three dollar goal and the one dollar and thirty-cents he currently possessed. The school year was over and so he couldn’t save his milk money anymore. The weekly allowance he’d been promised for helping around the farm full time was his only means of income. But that had yet to start coming in. A dollar a week meant his goal was at least two weeks away. Two lousy weeks. An eternity.

  Chapter Nine

  She’d not found sleep until the wee hours, and, as a result, when Frances eventually did manage her way out of bed earlier that day it was much later than usual. By that time both Buckshot and John had slipped away. Buckshot was gone off to be disappointed that his secret goldfish was still beyond his financial grasp and John had disappeared to spy on the funeral of Raymond Stout for reasons that even he had trouble comprehending.

  Frances fretted over her son’s whereabouts and fumed as to her husband’s. She wandered into the kitchen with the intention of fixing herself a late breakfast, but after her distraction sent a coffee mug tumbling off the shelf and onto the floor, shattering into a blossom of ceramic shards, she collapsed down into a chair and became lost in thought. Around her feet the field of white ceramic slivers went ignored.

  She and John had first met so long ago that she couldn’t recall doing so. It just seemed that he’d always been in her life, beginning as an obnoxious little boy pulling braids and leaving earthworms in lunch pails for girls such as her to discover. Although her earliest recollections were sketchy, with the passage of years the ephemeral memories of John coalesced in her mind and her memories of him became more pronounced. There had been the night when she was nine or ten, when he’d come to a church social with the chicken pox. The boy’s hands had been sheathed by his mother in an old pair of socks to deter his scratching, Frances still recalled. The other children had teased him, of course. A week later, Frances, as well as several of John’s previous tormentors, had also become speckled with his infection.

  Of the other early memories Frances was most aware of the death of John’s brother, of course. Not surprisingly, that was the event that brought the girl’s future husband to her full attention. He was no longer the little boy who too often sat behind her, distracting her studies with his immaturity. Instead, he was the solemn young man who grieved a tragedy of romantic proportions. Or so Frances had once imagined. John had been transformed into a heroic figure in his brother’s passing. Pitted small and alone against the cruelness of the indifferent world; that was how as a girl she’d often romanticized him, a cord of her brown locks pressed between her lips. A simple and childish enough outlook, of course, but then again, that’s all she was at the time.

  As if he meant to be true to Frances’s newfound imaginings, John Sayre did change after his brother died. He shed his
childhood and childish ways in one unfortunate afternoon and never spent another day looking for where he’d left such behind. After the death of Walter, John’s mother no longer had to complain about clothes on the bathroom floor, or to finish his plate. No ridiculous radio shows squawked about masked crime-fighters or swashbucklers from the crackling family radio. One morning his comic books were in a box on the back porch. When asked, John said he was taking them to school to give to some younger boy. If the sports broadcast ran late, not once did he plead to stay up to hear the game’s conclusion. Even when his mother and father suggested he could, he shrugged the offer off and made for bed. And never again did his father have to threaten to be sure that John rose before the sun to see to his chores. He worked at his chores—and even things his father didn’t expect of him, when he saw they needed done—and he buried his nose in his studies. He didn’t carouse and sneak off to drink beers and try cigarettes as the others his age. And girls apparently were of no concern.

  “It’s more like both of them died,” one young cousin remarked sardonically—and a bit too loudly—over that year’s Thanksgiving dinner at the Sayre’s. For his pithy insight, that garrulous boy received a sound thrashing at the end of his father’s belt strap once he and his family had returned home. Later that night, between the covers of their bed, that cousin’s mother and father had agreed with their boy’s observation.

  But John was far from perfect. Besides his disinterest in the fairer sex—something that eventually would greatly trouble his parents—he at once became sullen and moody, given to long days of silence. He labored through what remained of his youth with an intensity that left three other classmates with black eyes or chipped teeth for their rude slights. After that, the other boys minded John’s boundaries. Had it not been for the fact that his studies improved greatly—he became a straight A student almost overnight—John might have been expelled for his volatile temperament. Also to his benefit, he brought his barely-bottled tempest onto the playing field. Throughout high school John was to be his many coaches’ favorite. He was captain of both his football and baseball team, and during his reign his teams were for the most part victorious, with much of the credit due to the young man who suffered little foolishness either on the field or off. It was a demeanor that made all the girls, especially Frances, swoon, but it was a passage of youth enviable only from the outside, only in appearance.