Are You Sitting Down? (30 page)

First hour came and went.
Danyele was in
the
second hour lab.
He
seemed uninterested
by her empty desk, probably a
s
suming that she was just absent for the day.
I knew I’d have to act fast by the end of the day.
When Danyele didn’t return home after school, her parents would call all of her friends first.
Upon discovering her friends didn’t see her at school all day, they w
ould
contact the police.

After school, I kept to my usual schedule as well to avoid looking suspicious to anyone.
I stopped in at Greer’s Grocery to pick up supper for Helen and me, and then went home.
After eating, I told Helen
I had to go back to work which is som
e
thing I did at least two or three nights a week anyway.
There was always something to do to pass the night away.
The par
k
ing lot was empty and the front doors locked.
I was in the clear for what I needed to do.

It was six weeks before summer vacation
.
T
he school was heated by an old radiator system which wouldn’t need to be turned on until late November.
Heat was generated by a huge
gas
boiler
that looked like a giant furnace or stove you’d expect to see in some old steel mill.
It was massive and black with soot and grease.
In the dark, the red and yellow of the fire i
n
side made it glow like a monster.
With a wrench, I turned on the gas.
A match lit the gut of the thing with an intense whooshing sound, and the smell of heat filled the air for a mi
n
ute or two like on the first day of winter.
The dial on the outside, measuring the degree of heat, quickly rose to 870 d
e
grees.

I found a pair of work gloves and opened the two iron doors on the side, which was already as hot as an oven.
Flames licked at the edges of the open space.
I adjusted the gas to pull the fire back inside while I retrieved the trash can from the utility closet.
My stomach churned to find it empty if Danyele had escaped
, but the bags of
trash
on top under the weight of the microscope were undisturbed.
I pulled them
out
to look down i
n
side.
Danyele was still there, pa
le
with eyes open.
She looked frozen.
Blood had painted most of her face and matted her hair.
The slut didn’t look so likable now.

I tossed the smaller bags of trash into the belly of the heat.
A singe of the plastic expelled air from one of the bags like a popped balloon.
The rubbish spilled out across the broad grill and ignited, eventually dripping into the bottom as black liquid matter and ash.
The vapors from the
extreme
warmth inside clouded my eyes.
I tipped the trash can off its wheels and over onto its side.
Pulling at the plastic still wrapped over the sides, I was able to maneuver her out of the can without having to touch her.
The strength of the bag amazed me as I
pulled at it to
wrap it
tight
around her
.
It never broke once, not even when I pulled up to lift her body off the ground.

With my arms now underneath her, the feel of collected blood in the bottom of the bag felt like a full bladder of water or an IV drip.
It squelched in my grasp and I was afraid it would break.
If blood spilled on my clothes, I would have to burn them to
o
.
T
here was a mechanic’s jump suit in my uti
l
ity closet which I could wear home if it came to that.
Pinched b
e
tween her lifeless body and my arms,
luckily
the bag never
broke
.

I supported the weight of her upper body in the palm of my hand, pushing her head first into the boiler.
Once her shoulders touched the
retort
, it was easier to grab her by the legs and push her completely in.
I folded her legs under so I could close the doors.
The trash bag had already started to cling to her like shrink wrap on a gift basket.
A sporadic hissing sound came from her blood dripping on the grill like water on a camp fire.

Had it been winter yet, the boiler room would have been nice and toasty in only a matter of a few minutes after I turned up the gas.
The smell of cauterized flesh and
burning
hair did not invade my nostrils because I stepped out to clean the res
t
rooms to pass some time.
T
hree
hours later, I touched one of the radiator units in the hallway.
It was just turning luke warm.
I returned to the boiler room and stood next to the furnace listening to its crackle.
It did not sound like the rapid burning of anything inside, only the steady flicker of flame slowly provi
d
ing heat to the building.
I turned down the gas and opened the doors to look inside.

The retort glowed and the grill was empty.
Danyele Child was now a pile of cremains, bone fragments, and one badly charred shoe in the bottom of the boiler.
I dimmed the flames to only a
glint
and doused the base with a bit of gasoline I kept in a squirt bottle, soaking the pile of ash and the shoe.
I shut the door again before turning the flame back up.
An e
x
plosive flash lit the inside of the boiler as the gas ignited.
I let it burn for another two hours before shutting the boiler down.

The police did come the next day.
They took the co
n
tents of Danyele’s locker and held a meeting with the teachers, then had a meeting with just the teachers who had Danyele in class.
Professor White looked nervous, but he didn’t look guilty.
With no breaks in the case, and the headlines in the p
a
per moving on to some
dead girl who
had
overdosed in Martin’s brother’s apartment
, Danyele faded and became a yearbook dedication.
A rumor s
urfaced
d that her locker was haunted.

Before the end of summer break, the boiler always had to be cleaned and checked.
I removed the few remains from the bottom and put them in a bag with the microscope, which until now I had kept hidden.
I wrapped the bag in duct tape and thought about burying it.
Instead, I threw it off the
Nicks
Bridge
late one night.
The scope made a perfect anchor to sink the bag to the bottom of the muddy
Forked
Deer
River
.

If he’d known, I think Professor White would have thanked me.
I had saved his job, his marriage, and his family.
He didn’t owe me anything for it though.
I’d do it again and again for any relative of Travis White.
For some reason, taking a life to spare one didn’t bother me.
A need for my service did not present itself again all summer long.
School was back in session this fall and Danyele Child was like a forgotten graduate.
The urge to kill again had been growing inside me.
I thought about pra
c
ticing on a boy from the park, appeasing my need to play God.
But I waited.

Helen had nothing else to live for.
She’d said so herself many times since Justin left.
So, I pondered what to do about that.
It would be too risky to try to get all of her into the boiler room, at the same time at least.
But if I took a bag or two of trash to burn each week or once a month, what’s the harm in that?
There is a crawl space beneath the trains in the basement, but I couldn’t keep her there for too long.
I don’t want her in this house with her ghostly spirit nagging me like she does in this world.
In death, she’d probably still make me pick up after her.

Death was too easy of an answer, but we all reach a point in life where it’s the only answer, the final one.
I didn’t see any problem with it coming a little quicker for Helen.
School was out again for Christmas, and the boiler would still be on for at least two more months.
So, I had some time to think about it.
I still needed to come up with a diversion, a story to tell the p
o
lice and the last of her living relatives.
I’d be the first suspect; the husband always is.
Maybe I could turn myself in and just go to prison.
Three meals a day, no bills to worry about,
and
no job to go to
doesn’t sound too bad
.
At my age and with the life I have lived, what else is worth being on the outside for?
Or
I could stage a suicide.
Everyone knew she was depressed.
The array of medication she ate everyday could be an easy accide
n
tal death by overdose.

On the television, Scrooge was stumbling through a grave yard to escape the Reaper.
He
fall
s over a grave and the Reaper stands over him.
The name on the tombstone of the grave pr
e
sents itself with a flash of light.
It is Scrooge’s grave, but I seen Helen’s name there in my mind.
I see my face b
e
neath the black cloak standing over her like Death at her side.

I smile.
A burp escapes me and rattles my stomach.
The
taste
of Greer’s chicken gizzards lingers on my tongue, mingled with the savory thought of freedom from the burdens that could be lifted from this life.

Travis

The sky looked cold and
pale
that day.
Frost covered the grass outside, twinkling like confetti after a party.
The sun was rising lazily in the sky, painting
it
with beams of orange which no one seemed to care about.
Pumpkins had grown faces and ghouls had collected candy at neighbors’ doors
a few nights ago
.
The cool breeze of autumn and the rain of crisp leaves had lasted only for about two weeks.
Winter was falling upon us fast.

Potted plants still adorned my neighbors
’
balconies like pets forgotten in the cold.
Some drooped and sagged from the weight of the frost that had crept up on them in the night.
Justin and I
would have
had coffee on the balcony
on a
morning
like this.
It was
a tradition I had continued now without him, but the icy chill in the air chased me back inside only after a minute or two.

It had been a long hot summer which seemed like time was standing still
for me
.
Justin had only been gone for a few months.
Sitting in my car that morning, waiting for it to warm up and defrost the windows, was a frigid slap in the face that time would keep moving forward no matter how bad I wish it could go in reverse.

I cursed myself for
trekking
back home for the weekend without a coat.
I thought this would be a week of chilly mor
n
ings cured by hot coffee or an extra blanket on the bed the night before.
I wasn’t ready to give up
my short sleeve shirt
closet space to sweaters, jackets, and long sleeve sweatshirts still packed away from last year.
I couldn’t believe I was ru
n
ning my car heater in November.
Yellow and red leaves danced behind the car as I pulled out of our apartment’s drive and headed toward the highway to home.
I still say
our
when refe
r
ring to the things that Justin and I shared.
It d
id
n’t sound so lonely.

I was going home because Stuart’s Monuments was supposed to set Justin’s headstone
later that
day.
Hopefully, this was the last burdening reminder that still lingered and felt u
n
done. I never considered Justin’s death a burden, but all the tasks that followed it were just that.
Justin had no will, but it’s amazing what legalities and bills we are tied to which try to keep a hold on us in this world, even after we are gone.
He only had two credit cards, which were easy to contact.
One of our cards had both of our names on it.
I left his on it just so it would appear on the bill each month.
I would eventually have it removed, but I liked seeing it there for now.

Our lease and utilities were in my name, but I had to call the finance company concerning his car.
Manny and Helen didn’t want it and could not afford it.
A part of me wanted to keep it, but I didn’t need two cars.
Two months passed before it was finally repossessed.
There had been notices of late pa
y
ments in the mail.
I called each time and had to tell them Justin had passed on and they could pick up the car.
I had to call Helen to get her to fax a copy of his death certificate to some office, but I doubt she ever did.
I wasn’t home when they took the car, but our apartment’s leasing office stuffed a notice in my mailbox which had been left when they picked it up.
DECEASED was the reason across the bottom of the card.

Manny had called just days after Justin’s funeral to tell me Helen refused to go with him to Stuart’s Monuments to pick out a marker for her son.
She thought they couldn’t afford it and should just wait a year.
Manny did not want to tell her about the money I’d given him, so he called me instead.
I’m glad he did.
I almost expected him to waste the money on
something else
.

“I can’t do it, Travis.
I’m no good at these things,” he said on the phone.

“Thanks for asking me to help.”

“You kn
ew
him better than Helen or me.
You should pick it out.
He’d want you to.”

“I’ll come this weekend.”

“I can give you back the money,” he said.

“No, just keep it.
Why don’t you come with me?”

“You really want me there?”

“Sure.
Go by Stuart’s and see if we need an appoin
t
ment.
If we do, meet me there around
noon
on Saturday.”

Manny didn’t show, but he’d written a check to me and left it with the clerk for when I arrived.
I walked around the nameless graveyard, an outdoor showroom of markers and headstones to choose from.
I was content now that this task had been left entirely up to me without
Manny and Helen
lingering in the background and waiting to override my choice.

I chose a black marble
flat marker with a granite inlay where his name and the date would be engraved.
Although Helen would have insisted there be a piano pictured on the marker, I chose a simple staff of music notes across the bottom rather than an instrument.
Justin’s parents made him take piano lessons, and although he loved the piano, he rarely played after moving to
Memphis
to be with me.
I
was
afraid he’d given u
p who he was just to be with me, but I don’t think he liked who he was before.
He assured me I had no effect on his piano pla
y
ing, or lack
there
of.
His passion for it, or his parent’s
fervency for him to play
,
got left behind in Ruby Dregs
.

“Instead of the music notes, we can add a cross or a rose for free,” the clerk told me when I’d gone inside to confirm the order.

“Is that some kind of a sale or special?”
I asked.

I wasn’t interested, just curious.

“No.
The
y are just easier to engrave,” the clerk said.

I appreciated her honesty.

“I’ll stay with the music notes,” I said.

“Suit
yourself, but this check Mr. Black left isn’t enough to cover the black marble,” she said, waving the check in front of me daintily between two fingers as if it were dirty.

“Mr. Black isn’t paying for it, and besides, that check is made out to me.”

I snatched the check from her fingers and tucked it into my wallet.

“Do you need to set up a payment plan then?”

“Do you take cash?”
I asked with a stern tone, beco
m
ing annoyed with the clerk’s preconceived
notions
that I couldn’t pay for the marker.

“We do.”

I paid for it in full and got a courtesy call
weeks later
telling me
the stone
was ready and
when it
would be delivered to the
cemetery.
I had not told any of my family I was driving up that weekend.
Although I did pack an overnight bag, I had not made up my mind if I would stay or not.
I wanted to go to the cemetery alone and see the marker for the first time by m
y
self.
I prayed they’d spelled his name correctly and got the dates right.

And, it had never happened before, but I liked the idea of driving home to take care of business and not feel obligated to pay a visit to Mom, or to one of my brothers or sisters.
The best way to avoid it was to not tell them I was coming, despite ha
v
ing talked to Mom the evening before I left.
It was like I was having an illicit affair, but instead of driving to a neighboring strange city to see someone privately, I was going
back home where everyone knew who I was.
I was a spy; fearful I might pass Sebastian on the highway or
even
worse
, run into someone
.
But I took the chance anyway and told no one I would be there.

This would be the first time I visited Justin’s grave since the day after his funeral.
I did not know how I would feel se
e
ing his grave with
his
name now in its permanent place.
I wanted to see it by myself, but afterwards, I might want to jump back in my car and just drive the two hours back to the apartment, not needing condole
n
ce
s
from anyone.
I was still grieving, but I did not want anyone standing there beside me while I sobbed, if I cried at all.
I didn’t want it to be like his funeral all over again. This time needed to be different because I’d have him all to myself.

Like old times.

A
narrow rectangular
shotgun house was across the street from the cemetery.
The yard was dead and overgrown, and the faded paint on the house was peeling
.
A spray
-
painted cardboard sign on the front lawn advertised ROSES FOR SALE.
I expected to see a street peddler, but no one was
ou
t
side and I didn’t see any roses.
A faded neon sign in the window
blinked
FLOR
I
ST.
Flowers had not crossed my mind until I reached the street where the cemetery was.
I parked in the gravel dr
i
veway and walked up the front steps.
Clay pots with crispy dead wilted things look
ing
like they once were plants adorned the front porch.
Maybe the florist had gone out of business.