“Friends in Low Places”
(Short story published in Wired Hearts E-zine in July 2003)
(2,835 Words)
Charlie stared at the shriveled custard pie and rigid lasagna that rested on the fresh grave near his feet. Another newbie, he thought, and shook his head. The grass lay thick and unkempt around him—at least three weeks’ worth of unmowed neighborhood. Why on earth can’t the city hire a guy who wants to work around here? He wondered.
He raked a muddy glove through the graying
swatch of hair that fell into his eyes in a greasy clump, picked up the
leftover mouthfuls, and deposited them into the nearest garbage can. As he did so, a damp chill sifted through
him; he shivered and waited for something else, someone else, some other
sign. There was none. He walked on.
Morning sunshine beamed down on the dewy grass, bouncing sparkles of light into his cloudy, blue eyes. As the familiar dampness oozed through his sneakers, he shuddered. Better make sure I have athlete’s foot salve soon, he thought. But then, that’s probably the least of my worries right now. A lilac breeze filled the air and rippled through the new-fledged leaves on the oak tree near the tool shed. He stared at its massive trunk and envied its strength and longevity. A sudden coughing fit overpowered him; he struggled to endure it. A crimson pall shrouded his pudgy face, and he grabbed the soft spot between his ribs.
“We got it all, don’t worry,” Dr. Gryzek had told him last month. He held onto that hope, but the pain still gripped him, like metal in a vise. He’d been off work for thirty days, coming to terms with his brush with mortality. But, life went on, his strength began returning, and he chomped at the bit to feel useful again. Besides, Social Security barely paid the monthly bills and a few boxed meals to sustain him.
While strolling toward his wheelbarrow, he stooped and plucked faded, plastic wreaths out of their muddy sockets in the damp earth. Ten down, five hundred more to go, he thought, wincing and arching. He adjusted the mountain of memories and pushed it ahead several more rows. As he did so, the ringing in his ears startled him; it always did.
Charlie, where were you yesterday? I missed you. That voice…It sighed through his mind in a whiny lament. Of course. He backed up a few paces and paused next to a massive, concrete stone. Its face rose at least four feet above the ground, a silver-gray rectangle that glistened in the June sunshine. A blob of bird dung that curved up like a smile slithered down its front. Charlie frowned and pulled out his handkerchief. Dampening it with the wet grass, he wiped the offending smirk from its face.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Mabel. Damn birds.”
He glanced at the dedication on the headstone:
Mabel Livingston
Beloved wife, mother, and friend
We will not forget her
Born February 16, 1825
Died March 5, 1917
He
didn’t come visit me like you said he would, Charlie. I’ve been pinned under this lake for nigh
onto a hundred years, now. It’s dark and
lonely here. No one comes to see me
anymore. You promised.
“Your Adolf moved on to the resting place years ago. I’m sorry if you can’t see him; maybe you should try accepting it; maybe you can move on, too.”
He put me here, Charlie…oh, God, no—take the rope off my hands—Adolf!
Shuddering, Charlie raised his hands to his ears and walked away.
His mind wandered back, without
warning, to that night in
His eyes clouded over in confusion, then widened, as panic overtook him. “Where’s Reggie? You gotta let me see him,” Charlie demanded. “I was drivin’ him back to his chopper. He was one day short. I promised to get him out of here.”
The doctor had studied a blood spot on the floor with eyes that searched for the right answer but had none. At last, he leveled Charlie with a look that didn’t need any explanation. His eyes were hard but sincere. “He’s gone, Charlie. He didn’t make it to surgery. I’m sorry.”
Charlie remembered the bitterness
that tore at his heart and the pain that wracked his tortured mind at the loss
of his number one hooch buddy. As
restless dreams faded into nightmares, that first voice knocked on the door of
his sanity. Hey, Chuck, you broke all the merchandise. Reggie?
It couldn’t be. Blew it all to hell, in fact. Not
one miserable bottle of horse piss left.
Where’s that chopper you promised me, Chuck? I’m sittin’ in this hot, fucking truck,
waitin’ on your sorry ass…
Charlie
awoke in a sweat, banging his head on the iron bed rail. Wide-eyed, he panned the clinical rows of
beds for some sign of another lucid human being. There was none. All lay snoring around him.
A week later, the Army shipped Charlie back to The World. Reggie flew along for the ride, and never left Charlie’s side again. It wasn’t a constant occurrence, like demonic possession, but rather, intermittent transmissions during unexpected or inopportune moments of his life. During a night of unsatisfying sex with a woman, Reggie offered advice. She needs more foreplay, man. Give her what she wants. While water blasting an ore carrier at the shipyard where he worked for thirty years, Reggie popped into his mind one day. You missed a spot, Chuck. The hose had gone flying; the edge of a stream of water had bitten into his finger, tearing the index digit off his glove and part of his finger with it. Somehow, he regained control, but only after thanking Reggie for the oversight.
Now, as he approached the unimposing, flat marker, anchored by an American flag, his pulse quickened and he brushed at the moisture pooling in his eyes. Reaching down to collect the simple wreath of red roses, he studied the engraving on the headstone, again:
George Reginald Gigstead
Born June 5, 1948
Died December 15, 1970
Loving son
“You always listen to me, Reggie,” he said, wiping perspiration from his brow. “What’s it like where you are now, man? I’m gettin’ scared. I ain’t feelin’ so hot, anymore.” An errant breeze whispered through the flag; it furled and fluttered at his feet, but Reggie stayed silent. “I guess you don’t feel like talkin’, huh? “ An indignant woodpecker tapped out its presence, somewhere in the sheltering stand of pines to his right.
After an uncomfortable silence, Charlie continued to walk through the neighborhood of granite and sod. A newborn squalled as he padded over its resting place. Amy Brighton, September 8, 2000, welcomed him into her premature life. He lifted the bouquet of Teeters carnations from her headstone and paused to hum a lullaby.
As the noonday sun reached its commanding position in the sky, he stopped near one of the outdoor taps. He retrieved the sprinkling can from the faucet, filled it with water, and strolled over to a grave marked by an ebony, marble headstone. Tipping the can over, he saturated the lush patch of ground. “Here’s your water, Buster,” he said. “How’s business in Postal Hell today?”
A breath of hot wind blew through
his body; he laughed and waited. Why don’t you just come down here and find
out?
“No thanks—the only thing I hate worse than reading letters is writin’ ‘em. That’ll teach you for signing your life away before reading the fine print.”
Any
sign of Quentin yet?
“No, Buster, can’t say I’ve seen any weirdoes with pointed fangs, lately. Come to think of it, I ain’t been hangin’ around any parking ramps lately, either.”
Hey, I needed a dri--I mean, I needed the money and
Quentin said I could walk the place for a hundred bills. How the hell was
I supposed to know he meant forever?
Charlie shook his head and walked away.
He had lunch in the tool shed while
tuning up the John Deere riding mower.
Later, he hobbled over to the east side of the cemetery and continued
pulling wreaths from the ground. How can such a cherished loved one be
reduced to a faded pile of plastic and metal after he dies? Charlie
mused. The “survivors” may bow their heads, shed a few tears, and then walk
away. They know if you’ve been here, my
friend. They know and they care when you
don’t return until next year.
As
the late afternoon sun dipped below a cottony layer of clouds, Charlie found
himself standing near the same fresh mound of earth that had so intrigued him
at the start of his day. The wheelbarrow
crunched and complained, while he removed the last of the Memorial Day
offerings in the vicinity. Finished at
last, he stopped and waited. Still nothing. The
mound of clay that housed the new coffin wafted the familiar, earthy odor to
his nostrils. Lost in reflection,
Charlie didn’t hear the light footsteps that padded the ground behind him.
“Why did you take away the food?” the voice asked. “You had no right—they were his favorites.”
“Janine, why don’t you just…” Charlie turned, his face pale at the thought of a real voice echoing through his neighborhood. A voice that everyone else thinks is real, to be more exact. His watery eyes widened, at the sight of the willowy woman before him. Oh, shit, that’s not Janine. Her feathery brows furrowed over large, hazel eyes that demanded an answer. Prim mouth tightening into a pencil line of disapproval, she folded her arms and waited.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am…’ He held a gloved hand out to her, then drew it back, the sight of the mud on his glove producing a flush through his tired face.
“His name was Sam. He was my husband.”
“My name’s Charlie. Listen, I’m sorry if I…”
“Save it—save the explanations. It doesn’t matter, now. We were having a party and you spoiled it.” She gazed down at the bare mound of earth, her long, sunny hair unraveling in the breeze. When she looked up at him again, he could see the sadness trailing down her cheeks.
“I’m the caretaker here,” he offered, digging a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “I wondered who lived here now.” He nodded toward the fresh plot.
Quit talking about me like I’m not here; she told you who I am. The voice seared through his tired brain, like the shrill ring of a phone in the dead of night. He started and almost answered, then caught himself in time, his mouth hanging open. She didn’t seem to notice. Overwhelmed by grief, she lowered her head and sobbed, a sprig of lily of the valley escaping from her left hand. Its sweet aroma drifted between them, a thread of understanding between two people who cared.
“There, there, my dear—I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, leading her over to a nearby bench next to the pines and extending his handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes with it, she tried to compose herself. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but…”
“We were supposed to celebrate our third anniversary last week. Sam invited a bunch of friends over for it. I cooked lasagna and custard pie, and then he left with his friend, Todd, on the bike. He wanted to try out this Yamaha Two-Stroke Twin to see if he wanted to buy it. Next thing I know, a cop was at my door, asking me to go identify the body.” She broke down again, rivers of tears coursing down her flawless face.
He fought the urge to draw her close in a comforting hug. As the dampness soaked into his T-shirt, heaviness enveloped him. His face paled and drops of perspiration dotted his lip. A pang of sorrow spread through his heart.
She jumped up from the bench, her face darkening in a scowl. Marching over to the grave, she stared at its anonymous presence for a moment, then stomped a size eight canvas sneaker into its center, leaving a muddy imprint behind. “I loved you, damnit! Why did you have to leave me? It’s not fair—it’s just not fair…” As her voice trailed off, the sprawling branches of the pine swayed in a chilly breeze. The color drained out of her face. She ran to the garbage can and threw up.
It wasn’t my time to go—tell her that. Tell Macy I still love her. What’s your name? Charlie? I’m still new at this. Tell her I want her to be happy. Sam’s husky voice infiltrated Charlie’s feverish mind. Charlie fought the urge to clear his throat.
He paused again, unsure of what to say. Seconds passed. The silence between them grew more awkward as the clouds overhead thickened. “I think he knows how you feel, Macy. I think he loves you more than you realize…more than he could ever say.”
“How could you know that? You don’t know us… And how did you know my name?”
Charlie’s stomach dropped, just like it often did between floors in an elevator. “It’s just a feeling I have; you wouldn’t understand. Some things I just know about the souls who live here. They seem to trust me, I mean…” He turned away from her, afraid he had said too much.
She cocked her head at him and raised her arms in a quick, accepting motion, then dropped them back to her side with a flap. “I don’t know how or why, but I believe you. You made me feel a little better. Maybe we can talk again some time.”
“I think I’d like that,” he said.
High in the reaches of the spruce tree above, a woodpecker tapped another message. Something dropped from its branches and made a gentle plop on top of Sam’s grave.
Macy touched Charlie’s shoulder; he turned back to her and glimpsed a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Look,” she said, the awe in her voice commanding. “An egg—and it didn’t even break.”
He picked up the tiny, white shell and held it to the sky. No light passed through it. “There must be a baby bird inside.”
The heaviness let go of his body in a rush; then Reggie’s razor voice cut in. Go with it, Charlie. It don’t mean nothin’. As he cradled the egg, a tender smile caressed his face.
Her visits with Sam brightened the rest of his summer. As fall burned brilliant hues of crimson and chestnut through the neighborhood, and winter shrouded the headstones with a blanket of white, life and afterlife mingled and separated. Time melted away, but Macy continued her vigils to visit Sam. Soon, lavender crocuses blossomed between the aging puddles of slush, their brief lives signaling the onset of spring in Woodlawn cemetery.
She picked her way through the frost one day and supported the precious bundle that hung from her front pack. As she bent over Sam’s grave, it stirred and squeaked. She set the fresh piece of custard pie down next to the shiny, rose granite marker. “Hi, hon. I didn’t have time to bake lasagna today—little Samantha needs a lot of attention right now. But I brought you some more pie. We miss you, Sam.” She sat on the bench next to the pine tree and studied the new headstone on his grave:
Sam Bartholomew Jones
Born April 3, 1975
Died May 25, 2001
Loving husband and father
“I can’t stay long today, Sam—it’s too cold for Samantha, but I’ll come back again when it’s warmer.”
On her way back to the car, she stopped at a simple, military headstone that hugged the dormant ground. Her eyes welled with tears as she remembered their last visit. She walked back to the bundle of crocuses and plucked one. Returning to the grave, she laid it in front of the marker:
Charles
Anthony Pickham
Born January 4, 1947
Died
September 20, 2002
He remembered
A harsh, spring wind nudged her to the car.