by Glenn Rolfe
His old 1976 Dodge street van.
He knew that very moment, he was going to break his promise.
Loretta Caswell’s funeral was quick and only attended by a few of his mother’s remaining Yahtzee friends, his Aunt Ginny, and Llewellyn and Alvin. That was it. The reverend and the small group of attendees made their way out. Being that Alvin was the caretaker of the cemetery, it was he and Llewellyn who placed Loretta’s casket in the ground. Llewellyn could barely recall her kindness, though he knew she had been loving and caring. He looked back fondly on trips to Old Orchard Breach, Funtown USA amusement park, Fort Knox and closer swimming holes like Whippoorwill and Damariscotta Lake. Of course, then the memories of Steven Norton came back and the darkness in Llewellyn’s soul returned.
Llewellyn spat on the casket. Whether she was ever cognizant of Norton’s abuse toward him or not, she was supposed to keep him safe. She had brought the bastard into their home. He had taken him out.
Alvin handed Llewellyn a shovel.
After shedding their formal coats, they rolled up their sleeves and began to bury Loretta Caswell.
Afterward, he wandered the cemetery, his fingers grazing the tombstones as he passed them. So many people feared these places. The land of the dead, a land of bones. There were no souls here, but…there were places where they – the dead – did congregate. Where they could assemble or return.
A smile lifted his features as Llewellyn walked through the trees and straight to the van parked halfway behind the corrugated shed. The sun was high in the sky and summer was in full swing. Downtown Spears Corner would be crawling with activity.
The engine turned over. He put it in Drive and listened to the four-speed engine purr, quiet as a mouse, then started toward the livelier part of the city.
His skin tightened. There was a tingling beneath his flesh, a promise of things to come. An urge, overwhelming and intoxicating, slithered around him. His hands clenched the steering wheel then eased up, before clutching it white-knuckled tight again. His breath quickened. He felt like he could explode in his pants at any second. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he realized he was salivating. God, the anticipation was almost too much. He was out of control. He was ready to give himself over to the one thing that made it all okay.
The ghoul stepped on the gas and moaned in pleasure as he neared the Spears Corner Common.
He would feed his need.
Chapter Twenty
Pat set out to learn who oversaw the upkeep of the cemeteries in town. Since there wasn’t an office at any of the graveyards, he decided the town hall would be his best bet at figuring out who to contact. If he were lucky, maybe they’d have someone there who was in charge of setting it up.
The town hall building was directly beside the Spears Corner police station. Since Spears Corner was not a big town, the buildings were just one story each, though he suspected they had basements. He walked into the front door of the town hall and saw a woman with big hair who looked like she was in one of the eighties flicks he’d just watched with John.
Deborah said the nameplate on the desk. He heard the song from the movie Baby Driver – he wasn’t sure the name of the band – start playing in his head. If only she looked like Baby’s Deborah. Instead, she was a plain-looking sort, nothing particularly pretty or unattractive about her. What did stand out were her bangs. They reached over her forehead like a clawed hand.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, I hope so,” he said. “I was wondering if you might know who, uh, who is in charge of doing the landscaping and mowing for the graveyards in town, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Oh, don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old. It’s just Deborah if you like.” Her smile reached her eyes, and Pat thought it made her look prettier. “And may I ask why you’d like to know about the cemetery caretakers?”
“I’m hoping I can maybe see if you might have any openings for those jobs.”
The corners of her lips fell slightly.
Oh great, now she thinks I’m some wannabe grave robber or sick creep.
“You want to work in the graveyards?” she asked.
“Well, I do landscaping and odd jobs around town, ma—Deborah,” he said catching himself. “I was thinking there might be some money to be made there is all.”
“Huh.” She looked him over. “It’s nice to hear a young man with ambition.” The smile drifted back into place. “It’s not something you see every day. Let me take a look at something.”
She began typing.
John had told him the importance of first impressions. Pat thought he was doing okay. He’d kept his Mohawk tucked under a Red Sox ballcap and wore a plain white t-shirt with his cargo shorts. It wasn’t a suit and tie, but it was as close as he got.
“Well,” she said, “it looks like they’re all contracted to two men. Two with a Mr. Edward Fuller and the rest with a Mr. Alvin Caswell.”
“Thanks for looking,” he said.
“Sure thing.”
He was about to head for the door when he stopped and turned.
“Would you happen to know which of them covers Crescent Cemetery?”
“I can check for you,” she said. After a few seconds, she said, “Alvin Caswell covers that one.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“No, you’ve been awesome, Deborah. I mean, you’ve been great.”
“Good luck – what was your name?”
“Pat. Pat Harrison.”
“Well, Pat. If you want to see about becoming an assistant of some sort, you could always talk that over with Mr. Fuller or Mr. Caswell. You never know, they might be glad to have a helper.”
“That’s a great idea. I think I’ll do that.”
“I wish you and your endeavor well,” she said.
“Thanks.”
* * *
He stepped out the door into the hotter-than-hell blacktop parking lot. He wondered if either of the caretakers would be willing to take him on as an apprentice. He thought of Alvin Caswell. That was a lot of graveyards for one person to handle. Maybe he’d be willing to let Pat help out.
Or maybe he’d start with the other guy, Edward Fuller. You never knew, maybe the guy had better things to do and just kept the job because he was used to it. Maybe he’d be glad to let someone do the small stuff.
* * *
At home, grateful his mom and Ada were out, Pat Googled Fuller’s address and phone number on his cell. While he wanted to call and ask over the phone, John had told him things that were important in life were always better done face-to-face.
He set out on his bike to the address. It was about six miles away on the Hallowell-Litchfield Road. He didn’t mind riding the distance. He passed Bower’s Flea Market and Bower’s Meat Market. He stopped at the latter to grab a bottle of water before pushing on to his destination.
The number 172 was painted in black on the dented white mailbox at the end of the driveway under the name of Fuller. An old, blue Chevy was parked on the clear part of the small lawn. The rest of the yard was a mix of clutter – a rusted Volkswagen Bug sat on cinder blocks next to a stack of pallets. Beside that a row of chipped and cracked clown statues led to a screened-in porch, where a man rocked back and forth.
“Hello?” Pat said.
The rocking chair stopped with a creak.
“Who’s that?” the man barked out gruffly.
It didn’t quite have the effect of a big dog, but it startled and unsettled Pat just the same.
“Hi,” he managed. “Mr. Fuller?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“My name’s Patrick Harrison. I was wondering if I could talk to you about the work you do for the city at the…the cemetery.”
Silence settled in. Pat’s nerves were
on high alert.
“Well, come on over here where I can see who the hell I’m talking to.”
Pat tamped down his nerves as best he could and started toward the porch, stopping just outside the tattered screen door.
“Huh?” the man muttered. He coughed until he hacked up something nasty and spat it out one of the few screenless windows near him. “What in the hell you want to know about the cemeteries for?”
“I…I’m trying to start my own business, a landscaping business, and being that our town has, you know, a bunch of graveyards, I thought there might be at least a couple I could do, sir.”
“How old are you?” Fuller asked.
“Sixteen this fall, sir.”
Fuller leaned back. “How’d ya know to come to me?”
“I went down to the city hall and asked who was in charge of taking care of them.”
“And you come to me first, huh?”
Pat didn’t know what to say, so he nodded.
Fuller grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the stand next to him, shook one free and lit it. He broke into another coughing fit after the first drag, but just gave Pat a yellowed smile.
“You know I only got two, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.” He took another drag and exhaled. “How do I know your business sense can be trusted? You know what goes into taking care of one cemetery?”
“Not really, no, but I’m a fast learner.”
After looking Pat over another minute, Fuller said, “I can tell you’re serious. No one comes knocking on my door. Least not anymore.”
Pat’s stomach knotted with anticipation.
“Tell you the truth,” Fuller said, “I’m getting too old to be out there baking in the sun or freezing my ass off in the cold.” He bent forward, rested his elbows on the bony knees poking from his dark green work pants, and squinted. “You come help me out tomorrow morning. Meet me at Babbs – you know where that one is?”
“Yes, sir,” Pat said.
“Good. Meet me there, and if you’re still interested, we’ll see what we can figure out.”
“Yeah, of course. That’d be great.”
“You look a little funny, but so did I when I was your age. I had hair down to my asshole, and I was out smoking dope and fucking off all day. I sure as hell wasn’t starting any business but trouble. Yeah, you meet me out front of Babbs at eight a.m. sharp. We’ll go from there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now get outta here and leave me be.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Pat walked away, trying not to pump his fist or act too giddy. It wasn’t a straight deal but he had a chance to prove himself.
“Eight a.m.,” Fuller barked. “Don’t be late or you can just stay home.”
“Yes, sir,” he called back as he reached his bike at the mailbox. “Eight a.m., I’ll be there.”
When the old man didn’t reply Pat got on his bike and rode away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, Pat arrived at ten minutes of eight. The sun was up, but it was a day that held the promise of rain. It was warm and muggy, with a slate of dark clouds on the eastern horizon. He was bouncing on his Doc Martens, a Red Bull and a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles in his tank. He was anxious to prove his grit.
Fuller arrived twenty minutes later in his battered Chevy truck.
Pat said nothing about the man’s tardiness.
He watched as Fuller climbed out of the vehicle, taking the lit cigarette out of his mouth long enough to spit a wad of phlegm to the road, before making his way past Pat.
“Well, ya showed up. That’s a good start. Come on,” he said, “follow me.”
* * *
The morning cruised by as Pat listened to the limited words Fuller spoke and did everything asked of him. With the grass mowed, the browner patches of ground watered, and recently placed flowers tended to, Fuller called for their first break.
“You bring anything to eat?” the old man asked as he let down the tailgate of his truck.
Pat hadn’t thought to pack anything. “No, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be here.”
“I figured as much.” He walked to his passenger-side door and pulled out a paper bag and two bottles of water. After placing the bag on the tailgate, he pulled out two wrapped foot-long subs. “Stopped at the market and had the gals make up a couple ham Italians.” He set one on one side of the tailgate, hoisted himself up on the other end and began to open his sandwich. “Well, I know you’re hungry. You did most of the work and I heard your guts rumbling and grumbling like a regular ramblin’ gamblin’ man. Take a seat and eat, or you can go home and stay there.”
Pat couldn’t hold back the smile. He scooted his rump up on the gate and opened the Italian. The smell of onions and green peppers had him salivating before he took a bite.
They ate in silence. When they were both finished and the waters both drained, Fuller’s cell phone rang.
He pulled the ancient black flip phone from the front pocket of his dirty work shirt and fell into a series of ah-yuhs and yeps and a-courses, before hanging up and putting the phone away.
“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants. “I was gonna have us do some tree trimmin’, but it looks like we get to see what you’re really made of. That was the town hall. We got us a hole to dig.”
“Dig?”
“Yessah,” he said. “You ain’t wimpin’ out on me already, are ya?”
“No, sir. It’s just… don’t you have a machine for that?”
Fuller nodded. “Ayuh, I do, I do. Maybe I just want to find out what you got.”
The old man wanted to test him. Hell, if Pat wanted it bad enough, he was about to prove it.
“Well, in that case,” Pat said. “I guess time’s a wastin’.”
Fuller nodded behind his yellow-toothed grin. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
After gathering a pick, two shovels, and then dragging a wheelbarrow from the bed of his truck, they set out to find a spot. According to Fuller, there were no other family members of the recently deceased buried here, so just marking a good plot would suffice. Near the back of the cemetery, Fuller placed down a faceless two-foot by one-foot grave marker and, using a can of white spray paint, marked out the dimensions of the grave.
The storm held off. It was nearly three-thirty in the afternoon by the time they had the hole half done. Fuller reached out a hand and helped Pat out. They set their shovels atop the wheelbarrow.
“You done good, son,” Fuller said.
“Why’d we stop?”
“Hell, my back’s killin’ me. You showed me plenty.”
“But shouldn’t we finish it?”
“I’ll get the backhoe for that.”
“I was thinking while you were busting your ass in that hole. You show me what you can do, maintaining and keeping up with this one for a few weeks, and maybe I can take you on in an official capacity. Be some pay in it for ya, too. You good with that?”
“Yeah, yes, sir.”
A soft wind had kicked up. Pat felt a couple raindrops hit his face.
“Looks like we finished up just in time. We’re gonna need to hurry to get the tarp over this one and set up the yellow safety tape. Come on. We get that done and you’re free to go.”
* * *
Pat declined Fuller’s offer of a ride home. It only rained hard for about ten minutes. After sweating his balls off in that hole, the rain felt glorious. He was nearly home when he spotted the green van. It was heading in his direction down Jackson Street. Pat didn’t feel like dealing with this strange asshole’s shit today, so he cut across a lawn with a faded Trump sign and pedaled his way to Gilbert Lane.
He turned his head to be sure he wasn’t being pursued and saw the van idling before the Trumpe
r’s lawn. It sat down the grassy alley, watching him for twenty seconds before squealing away.
This is getting way too fucked up.
Pat hurried home, checking over his shoulder every few seconds.
When he got to his yard, he parked his bike out in back of his trailer and hurried through the mudroom door. His heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought he might have to sit down. He’d never had an anxiety attack and hoped this wasn’t his introduction to them.
He considered calling John and asking if he’d seen the van recently, but Ada spotted him and shouted out “Paddy’s home” before he had a chance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
John’s mouth watered as soon as he stepped through the door, stricken by the intoxicating aroma of Sarah’s habanero and garlic chicken wings. After his most interesting session with Dr. Soctomah and sweating from his most grueling run yet, he was hungry enough to eat a dead body.
Dripping from head to toe, he peeked his head into the kitchen and saw Sarah placing the delicious hot wings onto a large plate.
She saw him and smiled. “Hold on,” she said. She went to the fridge and pulled out two Voodoo Ranger IPAs and set them next to the steaming plate on the island. “Join me for dinner?”
“I should probably shower first,” he said.
“Come eat,” she said, reaching for a wing. “You can shower after.”
The food was nice, but the smile meant they’d passed their latest hurdle. Successful marriages are all about meeting your problems head-on and working through them together.
He stepped over to the kitchen sink, stuck his head under the faucet and guzzled water from the tap. He wiped his lips and used a kitchen towel to pat the sweat from his face, neck, and chest before taking up the stool across from her.
One bite in and he was moaning. “Dear, you have perfected the art of the hot wing.”