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The dirt was still fresh on her grave. But
where were the flowers he placed there yesterday? The
wind kicked up and ruffled Jerry’s untamed hair.
The branches on the Weeping Willows swayed in the breeze like a thousand bony arms
reaching out to comfort Jerry. The stone eyes
of the angel, which sat perched atop Lilly’s tombstone, stared at him in sorrow. (How
much he missed his little girl.)
The doctors had
told him they wouldn’t know, for several weeks, what caused the heart attack. They had determined she died in her sleep. At least she didn’t suffer, he thought. He wondered how many sixteen-year-olds died from a
massive heart attack each year. Lilly was
definitely in a minority.
His wife had
reminded him, every day since the funeral, that it was his idea to leave her home alone
over the weekend. Jerry had argued that she
was the one that gave Lilly permission to go on a weekend rock-climbing outing with the
school. That’s why Lilly wasn’t in
Boston, with them, at her grandmother’s house.
Lilly’s
friend, Jenny, had found her dead Saturday morning when she came to pick Lilly up for the
trip. She was sitting on the couch with her
face twisted in agony. By all investigative
accounts, Lilly was obviously in good spirits before she died. She had packed for her impending trip. A full backpack of clothes and cds, portable
stereo, and Ouija board sat by her side.
That was a week
ago. Jerry hadn’t talked to anyone since
the funeral three days before. (Except for
several bottles of Jack Daniels and three cases of Bud.)
Jerry noticed a
man walking through the cemetery with some gardening tools. He looked tiny amongst the field of crosses and
slabs of granite. Jerry whistled to get his
attention. The man placed a hand to his
forehead to block the sun and surveyed the graveyard.
Jerry signaled to him with an exaggerated arm wave. He changed his previous direction and went to
Jerry’s aid.
“How can I
help you sir?” He yelled as he
approached Jerry.
The wind carried
his stale alcohol scented breath to Jerry’s nose.
It made Jerry crave another drink. He
slid a small silver flask from his coat and took a pull.
The man arrived at Jerry’s side as he slipped the flask back into his
pocket.
“I put some
flowers on my daughter’s grave yesterday and was curious where they went,” Jerry
said, trying not to sound like a complete ass.
“Yesterday
huh?” The caretaker asked. “Could a been taken up by this vicious
wind.”
Jerry took a
deep breath to gain his composure and taste the alcohol still present on his breath.
“Well,
thank you for your time,” Jerry said.
The scrawny man
leaned on his hoe and stared at Jerry deeply. A
feeling of unease crawled over Jerry like worms from the grave.
“Lost your
daughter, you say?”
“Yes, a
week ago.” Jerry squinted and looked at
the sun to hide the fact he was on the verge of tears.
“You care
for a drink?” The man offered.
Jerry
didn’t hesitate, “That would be much appreciated.”
The man spun
around in place and limped off towards a rickety old shed on the other side of the
graveyard. Jerry followed him at a safe
distance. There was something about the man
that didn’t sit right with Jerry. It
wasn’t his awkward limp or his hunchback. There
was something deeper. His eyes. They were set deep within the layers of darkened
wrinkles around his sockets. They hid
something. They were cold and vacant of life,
but they were full of ancient knowledge. His
skeletal stature showed that the man had been consumed by a long, hard life. And if Jerry had to guess the man’s
age, he’d have to say one hundred twenty. (But
drinkers can’t be choosers, so he followed.)
They reached the
shack, and the old man kicked the door several times as though he was signaling someone
inside. Strange fluttering noises poured out
from the interior, followed by what sounded like a door slamming.
“Door needs
replacing,” the man told Jerry.
He put a bony
shoulder into it and jarred it open.
The two men entered, and Jerry was
overtaken by the smell of soured trash and fresh soil.
The caretaker shut the door behind them cutting off what little clean air
that thinned the sickening stench within. The
old man gave a chain, dangling from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, a tug and
showered the shanty with light. Jerry was
shocked to see the shed wasn’t only for tool storage but apparently doubled as the
strange man’s house. Amidst the garden
tools, there was a cot with bedding, a small refrigerator, and a card table with two
chairs made from tree stumps. The opposite
wall held a shelf with numerous bottles of liquor. The
man walked over to a deep sink that obviously was used to wash garden tools, judging by
the grass stains it held, as well as the man’s dishes.
He pulled two glasses from the bottom, rinsed them, and grabbed an unopened
bottle of whiskey off the shelf. All the
bottles were of the same unlabeled make. The
bottles glowed red with their contents. They
appeared to contain the same strange liquid they filled Lava Lamps with. He shuffled over to the table and sat on one his
makeshift chairs.
“Have a
sit,” he motioned to the other log.
Jerry walked to
the stump and pulled it from under the table. The
flowers he had decorated his daughter’s grave with, rested in the chair.
“These are
the flowers from my daughter’s grave,” Jerry informed his host.
The man took the
vase and studied it like he was reading the label on a food package.
“Those were
probably put here by some of my boys,” the man said as he set the vase aside. “If they find things in the yard they’ll
leave them in here for me to take care of.”
He twisted the
cap off the whiskey and a hissing sound leaked from the bottle. It was as if the bottle was telling everyone
within earshot to be quiet and get ready for a good time.
He filled their glasses and slid one to Jerry. Jerry took his drink with a nod of appreciation. The glass flowed over with steam and was warm to
the touch. The first sip tingled as it passed
over Jerry’s tongue. When it hit his
throat, it burned like fire. Jerry sent a
spray of whiskey flying from his mouth. He
felt like a fire-eater in the circus.
The man erupted
in laughter.
“So potent
you’d swear it was made in hell,” the man said through snorts and phlegm filled
coughs.
Jerry wiped the
excess whiskey from his chin. The man stood
from his chair and hobbled to a box of rags sitting under the sink. He rummaged through it and tossed Jerry the
remnants of a blood stained dress. Jerry held
the garment in his hands and trembled with rage.
“This was
the dress my daughter was buried in,” Jerry said.
“What did you do to my daughter you son-of-a-bitch?”
“It
wasn’t me, sir,” the man voiced with sincerity.
“It’s the boys. They’re
the ones who do those unspeakable things. I’m
just a broken-down old man who digs up the bodies.”
“Digs up
the bodies?”
Jerry came off
his chair like a boxer in the opening round. The
man clutched his bottle of whiskey and cowered away from Jerry.
“I just
wanted to have a drink with a normal man and not some wretched beast,” the man
whimpered.
“What in
the holy hell are you talking about?” Jerry
asked, confused by the man’s cryptic statement.
Without warning,
the man struck Jerry in the head with a bottle of alcohol.
Jerry hit the floor, down but not out.
Jerry attempted to get to his feet; his legs wobbled and gave way. He hit the floor a second time with a violent
thud. Hot trickles of blood and whiskey
clouded Jerry’s eyes. It wasn’t
enough to blind him from seeing the hideous ghouls that vaulted from the trap door next to
his aching head. They hovered over him in
anticipation of a fresh meal. Scraps of his
daughter’s dress clung from their foul fang filled mouths. Their eyes burned bright red with the flames of
hell. Their acrid stench made Jerry choke in
disgust. They closed in on Jerry and began
picking meat from his disabled body with long yellowed claws.
“Help
me!” Jerry shouted.
“I
can’t,” the man replied. “We
have an arrangement. I give them flesh, and
they give me the burning fires of hell in a bottle. It’s
not much, but it keeps a man alive.”
©2000 Jason Lavertue |