Death Theory

by John Mimms

  Pac finished his breakfast, got a quick shower, and then dressed. He grabbed his keys off the counter before performing his ceremonial inspection of the vacant half of the duplex. He got pissed every time he saw the rip in the carpet, but he was not going to let it bother him today, no sir; he felt too good. Not even the redneck convoy of four wheelers passing on the road, kicking up a smoky cloud of dust, could detract from his mood. Pac got in his car, fired it up, and turned on the radio. “Cherry Pie” by Warrant came blaring over the speakers.

  His thoughts immediately shifted to Debbie.

  Once the song was over, a toothy grin spread across his face.

  “My next order of business, I’ll ask Debbie out,” he promised to the empty car as he turned onto the highway and headed into town.

  DEBBIE WOKE UP SUNDAY morning exhausted from a pitiful three hours of sleep. She would go to her grandmother’s, but she would wait until noon when she got out of church. Debbie didn’t feel like going anywhere yet, she was tired, had a dog to take care of, and another load of sheets to wash. Grammy could wait a few hours, but no more. She had to talk to her today.

  WHEN ELVIS AWOKE ON Sunday morning, a thick cloud of depression hung over him. It was so dense, the morning sun streaming through his window couldn’t penetrate it. He had become accustomed to mornings like this since Vicky died. However, this morning was different. The loss of his beloved wife was not first and foremost in his mind. A school bus struck and killed a four-year-old boy Friday. His remains were left for Elvis to prepare for his open casket showing and burial, a task he had worked on until almost midnight.

  Another child in his workplace; they took their toll. Elvis had a soul as large and stout as a boulder, but his heart was tender. Each child brought before him chipped away a little more of his soul.

  He recited the poem by Richard Hooker again in his head. The words did not bring the same relief as they once had years ago - back before he lost his Vicky. The words now stung like pouring alcohol on an open wound.

  “Such crap,” Elvis mumbled.

  However, this time it was much more than the loss of another child. Elvis felt incredible guilt. He got the call to come in shortly before the parents authorized the doctors to remove life support at the hospital. The poor boy was beyond all hope. Elvis arrived at the funeral home right before the hearse delivered the body.

  As he rolled out of his car, he happened to glance in the backseat. Sitting in plain sight were his investigation equipment – a Kestrel meter, EMF detector, and his digital voice recorder. On impulse, he scooped them up and stuffed them in the pockets of his wind breaker. After the body was unloaded and placed in the embalming room, the driver left and went home. Elvis was by himself in the building.

  He hung his wind breaker on the coat rack in the corner of the room and carefully removed the equipment from the pockets. The boy was inside a black body bag on the embalming table. Elvis heard the air ducts rattle to life, so he quickly went to the thermostat and shut it off. He then placed his Kestrel weather tracker on the equipment table next to the body. After turning on the EMF meter, he positioned it by the Kestrel. Finally, he clicked on the digital recorder and set it beside the body on the embalming table. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and then began to monitor his equipment. His heart pounded with excitement and fear. A few moments later, his heart began to race when his EMF meter began to echo off the tile walls.

  Beep-beepbeep-beep-beepbeep-beep beep.

  He wondered what could be causing it. There was no electrical equipment plugged in nearby.

  As the meter continued to echo in the small room, Elvis blurted out a question.

  “Are you here with me?”

  There was no response. The meter continued its incessant chirping.

  “What is your name?”

  The meter continued to sound.

  “Are you angry?”

  For the briefest of seconds, the cadence changed to a high-pitched shriek. It continued for a few more seconds and then fell silent.

  “No, talk to me!” Elvis pleaded, lumbering to the table and unzipping the body bag.

  As the overhead light revealed the grayish white face of a small, blonde-haired boy, Elvis suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  “What the hell am I doing?” he asked.

  He barely made it to the embalming sink before he vomited his dinner. In his almost thirty years of dealing with gruesome situations, this was the first time he had ever gotten sick.

  He wiped his mouth and slowly walked back to the table. He gazed into the poor boy’s lifeless face.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, a tear rolling off his cheek and splashing on the digital recorder. He snatched the device up as if it was something vile and hurled it across the room. His aim wasn’t very good. Instead of smashing against the tile, it hit his jacket on the coat rack, catching in the fabric for a moment before harmlessly tumbling to the ground.

  He did his job, but not without shedding many more tears. Things that never bothered him before threatened to make him ill all over again, such as the boy’s bloody and crushed chest. Tire treads stood out in a macabre bruise reminding him of how the poor child had died. By midnight, Elvis had the boy prepped for display. He gathered his jacket and equipment before driving home. After several beers, he passed out on top of the sheets with his clothes still on.

  The memory of the previous evening was still swimming in his head in vivid detail. Elvis rolled over in bed and did the only thing he could to bring him any solace. Something he had done several times in the past year. He talked to his wife; he talked to Vicky.

  Elvis stretched across the bed and retrieved a large silver framed portrait from the bedside table. He laid the portrait down on the pillow beside him and rolled on his side. He gazed at it with loving eyes. Vicky stared back at him with an eternal smile. The love and kindness she exuded didn’t fill the void in his heart, but at least made him forget about it for a few minutes. He rubbed his index finger over the smooth, cool glass of the frame. His finger traced the golden locks of hair framing her beautiful face. He then gently ran his finger across her chin. Vicky always loved when her ‘Aaron bear’ would stroke her chin before kissing her.

  “Hello sweetheart, how are you today?” he said before kissing the glass over her loving smile.

  Elvis nodded as if he had received a reply.

  “Yes, I know I do dear. I’m not doing well today.”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes as if responding to another reply.

  “It’s hard...so hard, I just miss you so much,” he said as tears welled in his eyes, “I should have done more.”

  He nodded and said, “I know you don’t blame me, but I do. If we could have gone to a few more doctors, gotten a few more treatments, maybe you would be here with me now.”

  Elvis shrugged and wiped his eyes.

  “I love you too, and I know you wanted me to keep the house, but that is all it is now ... an empty house. It’s no longer a home,” Elvis told the portrait as tears splashed on the glass.

  He stopped and smiled, wiping the tears from the frame with his sleeve, “You always know just what to say sweetheart. I love you.”

  Elvis’s face lit up as he said, “I have a theory I’m working on, sweetheart. I know it won’t bring you back, but at least maybe it can give me comfort. Living without you has been so hard. Maybe, just maybe, I can get proof you did move on. I can rest easy in the knowledge I will definitely join you one day.”

  His head and shoulders drooped.

  “Yes, I know I shouldn’t have,” he said, feeling as if he might be sick again. “I don’t know why I did that last night. I-I just miss you.”

  He then nodded his head rigorously.

  “Yes, I know I can find answers there, but I haven’t been to church in a while,” Elvis admitted. He then perked up a little as he said, “Think of how important this could be to the church if I can prove it!”

  He nodded in agreement at
another unheard statement.

  “Yes, I promise you I will.”

  He glanced at the clock.

  “It’s already nine o’clock, it’s too late to go today.”

  Vicky’s brilliant smile apparently disagreed with this assessment.

  “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll go to the late service.”

  He kissed the portrait of Vicky once again.

  “I’ll go dear,” he said.

  He sat the frame on the table and rolled out of bed before heading for the shower.

  The portrait of his loving wife was not an 8 x 10 Ouija board for Elvis; it was something far more powerful. It was a small piece of Vicky. It served as a reminder. Even though death claims us all, love is the one thing that will always escape its icy grasp. As his fog of despair lifted, he began to sing in the shower. It was not to the standards of Elvis Aaron Presley, but his happy warbling suited Aaron Presley just fine.

  DEBBIE ARRIVED AT HER grandmother’s house a little after noon. She found Grammy Lee changing from her Sunday’s best into her ‘yardin’ clothes’, as she puts it. She planned to make quick work of the fall leaves accumulating in her yard and prized flowerbeds. She would then spend the rest of the evening finishing her weekly allotment of Netflix, a birthday gift subscription from Debbie. She couldn’t get enough of the old classics - especially the ones starring Cary Grant or Clark Gable. Yes sir, old movies and a pitcher of apple cider made for a fine afternoon.

  “Hi, Grammy,” Debbie said as she met her coming out the front door wearing a large straw hat.

  “Well, shut your mouth wide open!” Grammy Lee exclaimed, dropping her work gloves before wrapping her arms around Debbie’s neck, “Debbie dear, I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays!”

  It was not hard to figure out where Debbie got her witty Southern charm.

  “How’ve you been Grammy?” Debbie asked.

  “Oh, just fit as a fiddle! My doctor changed my medication and...well, you remember how constipated I was?”

  Debbie grimaced, recalling her numerous special trips for Ex-Lax and prune juice earlier in the year.

  “Well I’m as regular as the sunset!” Grammy Lee beamed.

  “Great Grammy; did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Nope, I was fixin’ to scoop up some leaves, wanna help?”

  “Be happy to,” Debbie said.

  They walked to the small garden shed behind Grammy Lee’s two story red brick house. Debbie’s heart sank when she saw how in need of a paint job the eaves and porch were. Large flecks of white paint had fallen away to reveal gray patina wood underneath showing the early signs of mold. Debbie couldn’t paint it, heights terrified her. She made a mental note to figure something out because Grammy Lee was on a fixed income.

  They each grabbed a rake from the shed and began to pick leaves from around the azalea bushes surrounding the house. After a few minutes of surgical raking, they had almost cleared one side of the house.

  “Grammy, I have a problem I would like to talk to you about,” Debbie said, picking leaves from her rake.

  Grammy Lee dropped her rake as if it was on fire. Her eyes widened, almost stretching the wrinkles out of her cheeks.

  “Dear Lord, you’re not expectin’, are you?”

  The tension dissipated as if someone let air out of a balloon in a squeaky, farting noise. Debbie giggled despite the rigorous panic on Grammy Lee’s face.

  “No, of course not!” she snorted.

  Grammy’s relieved expression and relaxed posture were almost comical.

  “Thank the Lord,” she said, clutching at her heart. “Don’t scare me, child!”

  “I didn’t mean to Grammy, I just wanted to talk to you about the nightmare’s I’ve been having.”

  “Nightmares?” she asked, knitting her brow, “what kind of nightmares?”

  Debbie leaned her rake against the side of the house and told Grammy Lee about her dream. There was no modesty between them. Debbie told her everything, including the bed-wetting. When Debbie finished, Grammy Lee was as white as a sheet; her eyes were haunted orbs. She teetered from side to side as if she might faint.

  Debbie grasped Grammy Lee around the shoulders, preventing her from toppling backwards.

  “Grammy! Are you okay?” Debbie shrieked.

  “Take me in the house, please,” Grammy Lee whispered.

  Debbie supported Grammy Lee’s weight with her right arm, guiding her around the house and then up the front steps. Grammy almost tripped on the first step. Debbie clutched her tight, thankful her grandmother was a petite woman. She managed to get her through the front door and onto a large camel back sofa in the living room.

  Grammy Lee leaned back, taking long deep breaths. Her face was still as white as the ivory lace on her sofa.

  “Do I need to call for help?” Debbie cried, fumbling her cell phone out of her pocket.

  Grammy Lee sat up and buried her head in her hands. “No,” she said. “I need you to leave right now.”

  Chapter 18

  CONFUSION AND DEJECTION washed across Debbie’s heart like an Arctic wave. The damning coldness of her Grammy’s words hurt her more than her nightmare ever could. Her grandmother must be sick.

  “Grammy let me take you to the doctor,” she began, but Grammy cut her off with a vigorous shake of her head.

  “No, I just need you to go and never mention that dream again; ... forget about it and move on.”

  Debbie paused and then asked the most inappropriate question she could.

  “Does it have something to do with my mother?”

  Grammy was a healthy and energetic senior citizen. When she lifted her face out of her hands, she bore the countenance of someone twenty years older.

  “I told you to leave it alone!” she snapped.

  “Grammy, I...” Debbie began, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Go!” Grammy said, covering her face with her hands and sobbing.

  Debbie stared for a few moments. She then turned and slowly walked to the front door.

  “Please call me if you need me,” Debbie said in a quiet, trembling voice.

  Grammy Lee did not twitch a muscle as Debbie closed the door behind her.

  Debbie walked in a daze across the yard to her car. She had never felt more alone and afraid then she did at this moment. Grammy Lee had always been there for her. She could always count on it. Now this certainty was gone.

  She sat down hard in the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her. Debbie cried and wailed until she had no more strength or tears to support her hopelessness. She removed a tissue from her purse, dried her eyes, blew her nose, and then with trembling hands, drove home.

  Her spirits lifted a little when she opened her e-mail and saw a message from Jeff. She was disappointed when she discovered the e-mail was to everyone in the group. Jeff announced he had consulted with one of the IT folks from his work and they had developed a website for the group.

  “I’m sure it was on his free time and away from Old-Skunk-Head,” Debbie thought to herself. This mental image, like a deranged Davy Crocket, caused Debbie to giggle. Giggling made her feel better for a few moments. Guilt soon elbowed her improved mood aside when she thought about her Grammy Lee. Debbie worried about her.

  The e-mail asked everyone to check out the website and give feedback. “I know it’s crude and basic,” Jeff said in the message, “but give me your ideas of how we can make it better.”

  Debbie opened her web browser and entered the address.

  Jeff didn’t exaggerate; it was plain. A simple one-page website popped up on Debbie’s screen. It had a black background and red borders. The only thing listed on the page was the following in bold white font:

  ‘Show Me State Paranormal and Anomalous Science Team’

  SMS Past

  (417)555-2967

  Smspast/science@atb.web

  Mission Statement: Show Me State Paranormal and Anomalous Science Team is a science-based research group de
dicated to furthering our measured understanding of anomalous and unexplained phenomena via the utilization of state-of-the-art equipment, methodologies, and techniques. We are one of the fastest-growing and most respected organizations of its kind.

  SMS PAST works with other serious, science-based organizations and entities, including major universities and educational foundations, to further the progress of knowledge in this elusive field of study. Our members receive extensive training in the use, operation and understanding of equipment and methodology, and our training curriculum is second to none.

  If you would like to request an investigation please call or e-mail Jeff Granger, Sr. Researcher.

  “Well, it sounds great,” Debbie said aloud, “but Jeff sure took some liberties. There’s more poop in there than an outhouse.”

  She wasn’t sure if digital recorders and basic EMF meters are considered state of the art. Of course, she knew Jeff couldn’t very well say, “Hey, we’ll bring our Wal-Mart equipment and find what’s spookin’ ya!”

  She supposed a little poetic license was okay. It was also kind of endearing. Debbie was thinking of how much she would like to see Jeff right this moment, when her phone rang.

  She jumped to her feet with her heart hammering as if it wanted to pop out and answer the call itself. She fished it out of her back pocket and, without checking the caller ID, she answered with one swift click.

  “Hello,” she said breathlessly. Debbie was both disappointed and relieved when she discovered who was on the other end of the call.

  “Suga’, are you okay?” Grammy Lee asked.

  “Are you okay?” Debbie asked. “I am worried sick about you!”

  “Yes, yes I’m sorry I ran you off like that; you just took me by surprise.”

  “I only wanted to get some insight to my nightmares; I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I know you didn’t, Suga’. The best advice I can give you is to push the nightmare aside, forget about it. It’s a part of your life long in the past and needs to stay there.”