by A. Sparrow
“I had off this week.”
“Vacation, huh?”
“Nah.”
“What the fuck?” said the guy with the baseball bat. “You know this guy?”
“Yeah. James here is an old buddy of mine. So what’s up, man? What the fuck you doing here this late? You sleeping here?”
“Um, yeah. Kinda.”
“Oh, that ain’t cool,” said the guy with the bat. “Morrie said he’d keep the bums out.”
“I bet it’s that fucking day manager,” said Jared. “He’s got a soft heart, like me.”
“Soft in the head.”
“Go fuck yourself,” said Jared. He tossed the stub of his lit cigarette at the guy with the bat. “So … James. What up? Your mom kick you out of the house?”
“What the fuck is it with all the small talk?” said the guy in the hoodie. “Get this asshole out of here so we can finish up.”
“Shut up, Marek. I’m talking to my friend.”
“There is no house,” I said. “We got foreclosed. And my mom … um … she passed about a week ago.”
Jared shook his head. “First your dad, now your mom. That’s some hard luck, man. Need a smoke?” He held out a pack of Camels.
“Um … thanks … but no thanks.”
“Listen. You can’t stay here man. Bad shit goes down in these places. Way too easy to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, like almost happened here. Can you imagine if I wasn’t here to vouch for you?”
“I ain’t gonna be staying here much longer,” I said. “As soon as estate crap gets sorted out, I’m leaving … I’m going out of state.”
“Yeah? Where you headed?”
“Um. Ohio, probably. My uncle lives there.”
“Ohio, huh?” Some inscrutable calculation went on behind Jared’s eyes. He looked at his friends. “Giulio got any peeps up there?”
“Dunno.” The guy with the bat shrugged. “Probably.”
He turned back to me. “So how you getting yourself out there?”
“Hopefully, with my dad’s pickup. If I can shake it loose from the creditors. It might have to go up for auction. Mom willed it to me, but … there are bills to pay.”
“Yeah, well. Good luck with that. Bankers got their hooks into everything these days.”
A cell phone buzzed. The guy in the hoodie checked his screen. “Enough with the chit-chat. Giulio’s ten minutes out.”
“Okay … um … listen James. You gotta make yourself scarce. Alright? You never saw us. Never tell anyone you saw anyone here after hours. Understand?”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’m just gonna rinse off a bit with that hose over there and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Jared stuck his hand on my shoulder and steered me around. “No can do. You gotta scram. We got company coming.”
“But—”
He shoved me back the other way. “I’m serious Bud. You can’t come here at night no more. Come back in the daytime. Okay?”
***
I only pretended to leave, circling around the back of the facility to the storage bay. I crawled in, pulled the screens in after me, and slid down the overhead door.
I was stuck back in my personal tomb without the shower that would have made it bearable. I made do with wiping myself down with a grimy towel. Morning couldn’t come soon enough, and it didn’t.
I propped the door open with a pebble to let a little bit of fresh air seep in. I squirmed on the mattress, trying to get comfortable.
I went into one of those half-trances where dreams mix with reality, but it was not an actual visitation. I was thinking about Karla, going over and over in my head every detail about her face, her voice, the layout of her little abode. I got excited when I mistook a few stray itches for roots. I took every loud thump for Reapers.
I heard a truck pull up outside the fence. A storage locker slid open. Something trundled down the alley. Heavy objects thumped into a trunk. Doors slammed. The gate rattled shut. Cars pulled away. I was left with my pounding heart, my snuffling breath and the roar of the highway.
I tucked a moving blanket under my arm and left the locker before dark. I slipped back through the fence and walked the two miles to the graveyard where Dad was buried. There, I washed up at one the spigots for folks to water flowers.
I was dead tired, but the idea of sleeping over corpses creeped me out. But there was this old magnolia tree with roots so thick and gnarled, there was no way anyone could be buried beneath it. I spread out the blanket and found my escape in the form of sleep, blessed sleep.
***
It was light out when I opened my eyes. Beyond the low-hanging branches, palmettos and cypress bent in a stiff and steady breeze. I crawled out from under the tree. My mind was blank. I couldn’t remember dreaming.
The mosquitoes had gotten me pretty good. My ankles were covered in hot and itchy welts.
The sprinklers were starting up on the far side of the cemetery. I knew the routine well. I used to come out here a lot to think. Over the next half hour they would advance in a slow motion wave across the entire graveyard. The grounds crew wouldn’t be in for another hour or so.
I stumbled down to Dad’s grave, a slight mound covered in a patchwork of turf. A simple marker, flush to the ground, bore his name. There was no headstone. Weeds had already overgrown it and there were clumps of mud that looked like the scrapings from someone’s boot. I cleared it off so Dad’s name was legible again. Some day I’d get him a real headstone.
I didn’t want to break the bad news to him, but Mom wouldn’t be joining him here. She had asked to have her ashes scattered someplace green. I hadn’t decided yet where that would be, but it wouldn’t be here. She had this thing against cemeteries; said she wasn’t going to spend all of eternity in some bone yard.
When my head cleared, I remembered I had an appointment with the probate lawyer. I touched my face. A little scraggly, but not too bad. I had last shaved the morning before, but my facial hair had always been kind of sparse. Though, I suppose I could grow a wicked soul patch if I wanted.
I tucked my shirt and brushed the burrs off my pants, deciding that I looked good enough for a lawyer’s office, particularly a weasel like Jeffrey Ohrenberger.
I loped down the center of the main avenue of the cemetery, heading for the gated entrance. Sprinklers advanced row after row behind me.
***
Jeff Ohrenberger looked nice enough. He had a sunny face and a kind, sympathetic manner. Wasn’t his fault I hated lawyers. The foreclosure fiasco had only made it worse.
“Jeff can see you now,” said his assistant, opening the door to his cool and spare corner office. His broad mahogany desk had a single folder on it with a pen laid across, so different from the towering stacks of bills and lesson plans that had always loomed over Mom’s desk.
He stood by his chair, a cautious smile imprinted on his lips, a crown of rusty fuzz surrounding the dome of a high forehead. He presented his hand and I gave it a quick shake. His palms were slick and soft, like a surgeon’s.
He settled into his chair and waved me into one across from his desk. “So how’ve you been doing? You hanging in there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You’re looking a little rumpled. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” I glared at him, anxious to get to the nitty-gritty. “So what’s the deal? Can I have my dad’s truck or not?”
He clasped his hands together. “Well, what can I tell you? Things are finally getting sorted out.” He whistled through his teeth. “But we had a few unanticipated expenses arise. Your Mom, she had quite a few credit cards. Some we didn’t know about. Accounts she never closed, never transferred the balances.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means it’s going to take a little bit longer to sort out the estate.”
“What about the truck?”
“It’s got a lien on it. I’m afraid it’s going to have to stay impou
nded for the time being.”
“No way. I … I’m going to need it.”
“I don’t see how that’s going to be possible, James. I think it’s going to have to go up for auction. Even that might not be enough to satisfy the creditors. They may want to access the stuff you have in storage.”
“They can have that shit,” I said. “All of it. I just want the truck.”
“I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen, James. I’m sorry.”
But I had Ohio on my brain and would not be denied. I got up and stormed off.
“Hang on, we still need to talk about the estate taxes.”
“You deal with it,” I said. “You’re the lawyer.” I walked out his door and kept on walking, twiddling that spare key round and round in my pocket. It was only five blocks to the county lot.
Chapter 15: County Lot
Dad’s truck sat alone in the very back of the lot, its dark blue finish gone hazy with sun damage and grime. My heart fluttered at the mere sight of it.
Getting it out was going to be a feat. The entrance was gated and locked. The exit was blocked by a chain and manned by a guy in a check-out station, and that was the only way out of the fenced compound.
I stood around and watched as a little red Toyota pulled up to the exit booth. The driver handed over some yellow form that the guard looked over and stamped before climbing out of his booth and undoing the chain that blocked the way.
Twirling the key in my hand, I went up the front walk and entered the building. The place looked was kind of sleepy. A wall of glassed-in counters separated the customer service area from a sea of desks, most of them empty. Either half the folks who used to work here got laid off in the government cutbacks or they were out to lunch.
A lady with blonde curls and a pastel pants suit strolled through the room. “Be with you in a sec, hon.”
So I just stood there and twiddled my key. Posters advertising auctions were pinned to a bulletin board. I went down the listing, relieved to see no dark blue, 2003 Ford F150s.
The lady sauntered over.
“Alrighty. So how can I help you?”
“Yeah … um … my dad’s truck is being released from probate. I’m here to pick it up.”
“Name and license?”
“Um … Moody. His name’s Roy. But it was actually under my mom’s name … Darlene. The license plate is YNG4VR”
“And you are…?”
“Me? I’m James. Their son.”
She moused around and typed something on her keyboard. She squinted at the screen.
“Is it a Ford truck? Model year 2003? Dark blue pearl metallic?”
“Yup. That’s it!”
She gave her head a quick shake, her eyes turned down, a frown set like concrete. “Says here it’s impounded and going up for auction on the 17th.”
“Well, that’s a mistake. I’m here to pick it up.”
“You got a DTTP? Can’t let you have it without that.”
“What’s that?”
“A Decedent Transfer of Tangible Property—the county’s new consolidated form. Replaces the old affidavits.”
“Uh. How do I get one?”
“You should have already been given one if it’s been released from probate. The court clerk should have issued one after the ruling. I assume your case has been heard?”
“Uh … yeah … I … uh … told the lawyer.”
She sighed. “I meant heard by the judge, as in a hearing. I’m authorized to issue them here, but first I’d need an order from the court.”
I shuffled my feet and looked towards the door. “Yeah. Well, thanks anyway.”
She smiled sympathetically. “Probate takes time. It really helps to have a good will. You’re never too young to have one, I always say. Life is precarious.”
I walked away, but couldn’t bring myself to leave the complex just yet, not with Dad’s truck just sitting there in the lot. I cut though the shrubberies and made my way into the back lot. It was packed with every kind of vehicle imaginable—Chevys and Audis, Smart cars and Porsches—just sitting out there, frying in the sun.
But I only had eyes for Dad’s truck. I admired the way it stood out amongst the masses of vehicles, kind of the way Dad did walking through a crowd.
I slipped the key out, thinking I’d sneak back there and go sit in the cab a while, pay my respects the Shrine of Roy. I was walking by the dumpster when I spotted some snatches of yellow paper the same shade as the form the guy at the exit booth seemed to be collecting.
The stuff was shredded as fine as Easter hay and stuffed into clear plastic bags. I poked around the dumpster, pulling out more bags of shreddings along with basic office waste like Starbucks cups and Krispy Kreme cartons. I wondered why they didn’t recycle all this paper.
I saw some sheets in the bottom of one bag that had somehow escaped the shredder. Maybe the machine had jammed and someone had just them in the bag intact. I ripped the bag open and pulled out a handful of papers. It was a mishmash of stuff: inventory and to-do lists but there were some forms as well, some torn, some whole.
I rifled through them until I found a multi-part form with green and pink and yellow sheets beneath the top white sheet. Only the date was filled out and the first letter of a first name—T—and that was all. The bold type at the top read: Decedent Transfer of Tangible Property.
***
I dashed to the truck. It must have been a hundred and fifty degrees inside the cab. I rummaged for a pen in the glove compartment amidst glommed together Tic-Tacs, chewing tobacco and unpaid parking tickets.
I found a Bic under the seat. The ‘T’ was easy enough to turn into a ‘J’ and then it was a matter of filling out the rest of the form in neat block letters, making up the stuff I couldn’t answer.
The signature was the hard part. My name went right above the authorization so I had to make them look like they originated from different hands. I practiced on a scrap envelope until I came up with a scrawl that was both alien and indecipherable. The first name could have been Charles as much as Claudia, and the last name was just a squiggle with a dot. It almost looked Arabic.
I found another pen, blue ink to contrast with the black, and put the final touches on my forgery. No chance this was going to work, but I had to take a shot.
I leaned my head back, took a deep breath and started the truck. Heart stuttering, I backed out of the space and threaded my way through the other orphaned vehicles that were strewn almost randomly across the lot. There was something sad and creepy about knowing these were all the cars of dead people.
I pulled up to the exit. A heavy chain dangled in front of my bumper. My window was already rolled down. The guy in the check-out booth looked bored or sleepy. His eyes were all puffy and red. He chomped on an unlit cigar. He took the form in one hand and inked his date stamp with the other. He lifted the stamp from the pad, narrowed his eyes some more and frowned.
“Who signed this?” he said, peering up at me, his stamp hovering.
“I dunno.” I shrugged. “That lady … inside?”
“Christine? This don’t look like Chris’s signature.” He looked up and blinked, studying me and the truck. “Hang on.” He picked up a phone, put down the stamp and drummed his fingers on a notepad.
I started to freak a little bit. This had been a dumbass thing to pull.
“Huh. She’s not picking up.” He looked down at the form again, tracing his finger over it. “So … uh … who’s this … James Moody?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh? Then someone filled out the wrong section here. Unless that truck you’re driving is a house.”
I smiled and shrugged. “Oopsie.”
The guy narrowed his eyes. “Say, how’d you get that key? That should never have been released.”
“It’s my key. It’s my truck.”
“Listen kid, turn off that vehicle and step out. I want that key.”
“No way. This is mine.”
&n
bsp; “Turn it off, son. We got issues to work out.”
All I saw was a droopy chain between me and the open road. I inched forward, pressing the bumper against the links.
“Oh no you don’t. Don’t you get any ideas.” He reached for his door.
“You got the form. I got the truck. Sounds like a fair trade to me.”
I gave the gas pedal a nudge. The chain stretched tight. A link cracked and the ends went whipping off to either side. I roared out of the lot and down Constellation Avenue.
***
I drove scared, making random turns, zigging and zagging along the back streets, expecting to see a cop car around every corner. What I had just done didn’t feel like a crime. This wasn’t a stolen vehicle, it was my inheritance. Sure, I had snapped a chain getting out of the lot, but that wasn’t exactly a felony. They had needed a new one anyway.
I should have headed north immediately, but I couldn’t leave town without making a few stops. First, I went by the funeral home. It was risky, but I couldn’t leave mom’s ashes just sitting in some stuffy closet.
My timing was good. They had just gotten Mom back from the crematorium. She was still warm and waiting in a brass urn way smaller than what I expected. That couldn’t have been all that was left of her.
So I took her back to the old house. Screw the cemetery. This house was where Mom would want to be. She had been so proud of the place after we moved from Ohio. This was where her heart resided, if not her soul.
Plywood nailed over broken windows. Damn kids. The foreclosure notices were faded and peeling. It killed me to see the grass so tall and the bushes unkempt. I wish I had time to tidy up, but I had to keep moving.
So I scattered her ashes around the yard, tossing a little extra around her precious roses. All that calcium and potash and phosphorus, I’m sure those plants appreciated it. Mom would become part of them now.
I tucked the urn under the eaves, with the lid off so it would catch the rain. Maybe it would make a place for something to live, even if it was only mosquitoes.
It was so hard to leave. This was my house, and here I was—a stranger. I wanted to go inside and kick back on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. I wanted to watch football with Dad. I wanted Mom to make me waffles.
My nose got so stuffed up, I couldn’t breathe. Tears warped my vision. I got back in the truck and drove to the Handi-Stor—my last stop.