Father of the Deceased Page 4

  The ground was as soft as the dream of the green trail, but the feeling was different, too real. The happy ending he’d reached after the dream was gone and now he was carrying one of his babies to dump her into a hole. Lou looked over to Maurice and saw the color vacating his face from beneath the sun burn. The small casket dipped gently into place over the steel and cloth lowering mechanism.

  Rich Weber thanked everyone and offered a brief, but thoughtful set of condolences before handing off the podium to Mel.

  “You may not know me, but I know you,” Mel said. Maurice sat white-knuckling, attempting to burn a hole in the speaker’s forehead with his eyes. “You see, I’ve been around this kind of thing before, there is nothing worse than when a child dies. The death of a child is tragic, there is no argument, no argument from any side, not one worth listening to. People have different ways of dealing with the loss, but none of it is fun.

  “Some seek out spiritual enlightenment through religion, nature, or internal mental expedition. As you can see, I am a man of God,” Maurice tightened further hearing the word, “but I am aware that everyone has his own, or her own, path. No matter what you believe, there is no reason to think the child has gone somewhere for the worse. What kind of universe would it be if innocent children could not rest in peace?”

  The speech was unsuspectingly soothing. Maurice felt his tension passing, though slowly.

  “Now, I would like to read something very dear to my heart.”

  Edi glanced toward Maurice her expression seemed on the verge of licking its lips.

  Mel unfolded a letter. “The Bible is my guide, but many greats have come since and humanity need not pin itself fully to millennia into the past. This was written by Mark Twain, after the death of one of his daughter’s. You have seen our whole voyage. You have seen us go to sea, a cloud of sail, and the flag at the peak; and you see us now, chartless, adrift-derelicts; battered, water-logged, our sails a ruck of rags, our pride gone. For it is gone. And there is nothing in its place. The vanity of life was all we had, and there is no more vanity left in us. We are even ashamed of that we had; ashamed that we trusted the promises of life and builded high, to come to this. I did know that your daughter was part of us; I did not know that she could go away; I did not now that she could go away, and take our lives with her, yet leave our dull bodies behind. And I did not know what she was. To me she was but treasure in the bank; the amount known, the need to look at it daily, handle it, weigh it, count it, realize it, not necessary; and now that I would do it, it is too late; they tell me it is not there, has vanished away in a night, the bank is broken, my fortune is gone, I am a pauper. How am I to comprehend this? How am I to have it? Why am I robbed, and who is benefited?” He folded the note and looked at the crowd, his eyes wet.

  “That’s just it, isn’t it folks? Nobody wins after the death of someone close, we look for someone to blame and often forget to embrace the good times we had the benefit to share with those we have lost. I would like now to know if anyone wants to share with all of us, for all of our benefit, a memory of Rosalind, a good time, a time that makes the world worthwhile, a time that makes life worthwhile.”

  The crowd involved in the funeral was small and unwilling to add, other than Edi, she waited for others and stood to get the word out about God, but Mel cut her short and Rich carried the thing to a close. The music began.

  Ruby threw a flower down on the casket, and once reaching the bottom, after seeing the body at the wake, the death had finally set in. She was balling and shaking. Rhoda followed her daughter in an almost identical show of grief. Maurice stood, his legs shook, he’d never been so nervous in his life and it didn’t make sense that he felt that way, but he did. He tossed a flower and watched it float on air, just as Rosalind had in his dream. He glanced over his shoulder toward his wife and daughter, they wailed. The shaking increased and his legs gave out and he knelt before the hole, the sudden void. In a flash, every emotion amalgamated. It was as if his body was falling, spiralling into an abyss, and then it finally happened, the outburst. Tears shot from his eyes, his body rocked uncontrollably.

  He wanted to stop, it wasn’t right. He wasn’t that guy.

  But he was that guy.

  Rhoda and Ruby joined him on the ground, shaking and crying.

  —

  Neil was ready with his telephoto lens, had a decent angle, too.

  10

  The Genners arrived home to find an array of food sitting on their front steps. Mostly casseroles, but many desserts in there as well. Ruby’s eyes lit, excited by the puff pastry and rhubarb pie nestled together next to the handrail base. A note atop those specific items explained that they’d come from the neighbor two doors down.

  Lou followed the family back and helped them load everything into the house. “Once again, Moe, I’m sorry for your loss, you too, Rhoda.” Lou watched Rhoda enter the kitchen, awkward from any angle.

  “Yeah, we know, Lou,” Rhoda said.

  “Do you need me to do anything?” Lou asked, desperate to excuse himself and return to his own children.

  “Go home, we’ll be fine,” Maurice said firm but easy.

  “Take some of this food, it will spoil long before we eat it,” Rhoda said.

  “No, no, that food’s for you.”

  “Bull, take some, take most of it. Take it into the station. Those cowboys on gangs can probably eat junk food five meals a day and never gain a pound,” Maurice said.

  “He’s not going to take the pie is he?” Ruby followed the voices into the kitchen; cream filling covering the corners of her mouth.

  “Did you eat one of those creamy things?” Rhoda asked.

  “No, I swear.”

  “That cream filling is amazing it jumped onto your face and you didn’t eat any. I’ll have to watch out for those things,” Maurice said.

  “Go wash your face and get into bed,” Rhoda said. “Lou, take everything but the pie, maybe leave some of that black bean soup. If it is the stuff Grace Henning cooks up, it’s mine.”

  “You got it, boss,” Lou said. “You want me to call you tomorrow? I could keep you up on what’s happening at the station or whatever, ‘til you come back.”

  “I think the captain was right. I need a break. So I plan to spend the next two weeks with my family, no work. Going to hang out, watch TV all day and sleep all night. Maybe drink four or five thousand beers. I’ll call you if I get bored, but don’t count on it,” Maurice said.

  —

  The Genner family had the house to themselves, finally. By the time Rhoda and Maurice went to check on their daughter, she was asleep. Light from the hallway cast a shadow over the sleeping body in one of the two beds, the other bed sat wrinkled and messy. Rhoda had slept in Rosalind’s bed a few afternoons and the night Maurice spent in the backyard.

  Tears began to well once again, but Rhoda fought them. Their bedroom stank of sweat and sadness. Edi had done much of the housework during her visits, but never breached the master bedroom’s door. Both dropped their clothing into to piles on the floor, and looked at one another’s bodies, anxious. The time since they’d made love grew into a wall between them.

  “That preacher was actually pretty good,” Maurice said.

  “Yes, he was, it went well, as well as it could I guess.” Rhoda began a light whimper.

  Maurice wrapped his arms around her and they fell to the bed. “We’ll learn to survive this.”

  “Let’s not talk about it. I just want to lie hear,” and make love, “and sleep. Hold me until I fall asleep. No words. Please.”

  She slept quickly and Maurice freed himself from the uncomfortable hug. He focused his mind elsewhere. So badly he wanted to dream again. Dream of Rosalind’s beauty and of her peace, that trail and the weightlessness of his daughter’s body. He didn’t put much stock into the dream, dreams were dreams, but it changed his outlook so drastically that he couldn’t ignore the power of his mind.

  An hour passed, Maurice thin
king, Rhoda snoring lightly. His eyes fluttered gently and visions of Rosalind began to flash. It played like old family movies, the kind wealthy families in the seventies made on eight-millimeter cameras. The frames were loose and grainy, the film contained occasional blank spots. He watched the girls’ fifth birthday over again. The girls ran and smiled and laughed, it was perfect until the picture faded and only Rosalind remained, standing over a sea of white. She approached slowly, the earth moved and she ran against the natural treadmill of perpetual rotation.

  “Daddy!” she screeched.

  “I’m here.”

  “Someone is here. Someone wants to hurt me.”

  “It will be okay. You can rest now.”

  “Daddy,” her voice deepened and ached, “someone is here, he is coming I can hear him, you can’t let him get me.”

  “Honey, calm down, you’re gone, nothing can hurt you. You’re just a dream in my head.”

  “Wrong,” a harsh faceless voice from beyond Rosalind said. It boomed and demanded attention, like a fisted set of piano keys.

  Her body evaporated as it had earlier, but instead of a gentle pink, a thick, venomous, grey-black cloud burst into the sky. Maurice shook himself from sleep, his body felt frozen, even beneath the heavy comforter, the summer air hanging in stuffy room.

  “Rosalind,” he whispered to the night.

  11

  Neil Crane had just finished going through some candid shots of the mourning family, hours passed and he remained in his car across from the cemetery. His legs pricked with pins and needles. The sweet smell of sugar filled was all around him. It wasn’t yet time to leave. He had that feeling. It held him in place.

  A quiet clang roused eyes from the camera’s viewing screen. He switched lenses and clicked into night vision mode. He scanned the cemetery and found nothing. The key rested neatly in the ignition waiting for a revolution, teasing. Neil saw himself a good reporter—diligent if nothing else. He scanned the cemetery again. A man walked quickly across the lawn, stepping on ten, twenty, maybe even thirty resting places before he stopped in the general area of Rosalind Genner’s freshly planted body.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he asked the little image on his LCD screen.

  He continued to zoom in on the figure, catching a few shadowy shots of the man’s face in green night vision.

  —

  Ivan Radmanovic worked in near-silence. Digging up graves was nothing new and he’d become adapt and more so, but he would be stupid to think there was no risk. No matter how apt and cunning, there was always danger. Crickets served as a warning system. If they stopped chirping it could mean many things, but most importantly, that he was not alone.

  The crickets chirped, setting a twenty-foot warning system parameter around his position, and he continued to dig. The sky above was dull grey, the moon nothing but a sliver. Ivan was at home. With this tongue, and maybe another good one in the near future, he could move on to something else, maybe relocate to Jamaica or Cuba, live in a shack on the beach.

  Even grave robbers dream.

  Dreaming kept him cautious. The knowledge that if he kept up the same type of crime week after week, year after year, he would eventually see bars from the interior of a cell. The law of averages, baby.

  Fresh graves were nice and they were fast.

  Clink.

  Steel hit against the cement lid. Now this could go one of a few ways, but most times it wasn’t much of anything. Now and then though, the cement casing around the casket would be sealed fast and he’d get into loud business. This early after burial, he’d probably have zero trouble.

  The shovel tip slipped in and leveraged the lid. He bent at the knees and shoved it up against the dirt pile. Presto, there was the casket. So tiny, so much less dirt. He swung open the top door. The girl inside looked normal, nothing weird or creepy about her.

  In his back pocket, he carried a cloth knife case. The mortician had sealed the girl’s lips with glue…nobody wants to hear the opinions of the dead anyway. He slid his knife through the glue, slicing into the lip. Lace and soft crinoline covered the chest of the girl’s little white dress. He wrenched carelessly; pulling her upward, her head sliding backward and her mouth flopped open.

  Body limp and leaning in his hands, he stopped to listen. The crickets were lively.

  A lamp, attached by an elastic band, strapped tightly to his head sat in wait. He flicked it on. Bright white, almost blue. The glow blasted onto the girl’s limp body. Fluids bubbled and gurgled in her throat and stomach as if her innards worked well into the afterlife. Fingers beneath tight blue gloves tugged on the tongue. It wouldn’t budge. He needed most if not the entire tongue to get his five-figure payday and resorted to pliers and a long, thin paring knife. The fraenulum sliced neatly, loosening the dead flesh grasp. Ivan tugged and decided he needed more space to work. It was like cutting into raw chicken. He wiggled and sliced until both cheeks couldn’t block his hold. The jaw snapped wide and finally he saw the base. It seemed to be halfway down her throat, just waiting for a plucking. Ivan yanked down on the jaw, holding onto the head and worked his knife into the tight space. The little slices allowed for further leeway of the tongue until it finally snapped out.

  Ziploc was the only brand he trusted. With the tongue inside, he squeezed, pushing the air out as if to avoid freezer burn, and then slid the two runners together. Prize went into his pocket.

  Reflex solidified his stance and he listened for the crickets, they still sang. He dropped the girl into her padded forever home. Curiosity had him. He ripped her dress from her body. She was a freak and he needed to see.

  The skin reflected light back into his eyes and he examined the scar from where her sister had been cut away.

  —

  Tammy Watson and her pals wanted to pay their respects. According to rap music, the only proper way to do so was to pour liquor onto the burial site. Tammy babysat the twins a few times a month for the last year, mostly on weekends. It was time to pour out a little liquor.

  “I feel bad for the parents,” Stu Grahame said, a bottle of Colt 45 in his right hand.

  “Shh.” Tammy carried a mixed jug of vodka and cranberry juice.

  “I know what you mean. A little kid dying, that’s grodey. I wouldn’t be surprised if the parents don’t off themselves. People do shit like that,” Scott Wood whispered, smoking a cigarette and sipping on gin and orange juice.

  “Shut up. Show some respect for the dead, they’re trying to rest,” Tammy said.

  Stu and Scott nodded, usually they’d fire back, but the cemetery creeped them out and the darkness let their imaginations loose.

  “How much farther is it?” Stu asked.

  “Like twelve more rows, shut up,” Tammy said.

  “Better watch for zombies and shit,” Scott said. “This place is freaky at night.”

  “Shut up, goddammit,” Tammy said.

  Nobody said another word until they got to where they were going.

  Poor Rosalind Genner.

  —

  The scar on the dead girl’s body had long healed. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as he’d hoped, just a light pink line, she was much smaller when the doctor separated the two halves. Too small for anything interesting.

  The crickets were silent and Ivan cursed himself for not getting in and getting out. There were voices in the distance, they snapped quiet, but their steps still rustled along the grass. Ivan was out of time to cover the hole. Oddly, he wasn’t worried, resolved that it finally happened. Someone had caught him in the act.

  He shook the idea.

  Dirt poured into the hole as he scrambled to get out. With his headlamp killed, he focused his vision on three people approaching, light glinted for the distant street. They were not police. They had bottles in hands.

  Under the cover of darkness, he slunk down behind a large memorial. Duke Player it read, in an Old English font. He’d seen many of these stones in his time in cemeteries and always wonder
ed why someone would waste the money.

  Three figures walked past him, each of them carrying something. His shoulder, cold against the granite, rotated on a pivot along with his right foot and he glanced around the stone.

  “They didn’t cover it up yet?” a girl said in disgust.

  “No, look,” one boy said pointing to the shovel and the broom lying next to the mound of dirt, “they did, but someone dug it up. That’s messed.”

  “Right messed,” another boy said and then took a mouthful from his bottle.

  “Let’s get out of here…call the cops,” the girl said.

  “We can’t. The cops’ll think it was us. What are we doing out here? They’ll pin it on us ‘cause cops are lazy fucks. Digging up a grave is the kind of thing that’ll follow you, like a kiddy porn charge or a hate crime. We should fill the hole back in and just leave. Never tell a soul,” the first boy said.

  Ivan smiled.

  “Some sicko dug this up. We have to tell the police. What if he stole the body? What if he, you know…” the girl said trailing, but returning the ferocity, “fucked her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We can’t have this on us,” the first boy said, there was a whine in his throat.

  “I’m not keeping this quiet, you guys are pussies,” the girl said looking at the dirty little casket.

  Footfalls tore into the distance, grinding gravel once back on the path.

  “Pussies!” the girl shouted.

  Ivan watched the two chickenshit kids run by his hiding spot.

  To walk in true silence was an ability he’d acquired with years of practice. It was almost too easy, the knife slipped into the girl’s throat where she stood looming over the coffin, with a quick stroke, slicing a perfect little line running horizontally along her flesh. Blood spurted through her fingers as she raised her hands to the wound. Ivan gave a little shove and put her into the hole with the casket. Falling sideways, her back slammed against the box and he gazed up at the man standing above her—a silhouette against the dark night’s sky.

  —

  Two boys burned it over the cemetery gates. Neil snapped shots of the boy’s faces as the rounded the corner. He turned his attention back to the area of earlier action. Where there had been two, there was only one. The individual was busy with his mysterious chore for no more than a couple minutes.