Ghouljaw and Other Stories (20 page)

Even in his awareness of the dream, Ray still has to summon the courage to say, “You had a very small heart when you were alive.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Roger says, “You could have killed that girl, you know that? And who in the hell gave you permission to drive my car?”

It only now occurs to Ray that he might be able to stop the car. He stomps down to where the brake pedal should be, but his foot pushes into something moist, like water-saturated peat. He presses frantically, uselessly. The headlights and dashboard gauges flicker and fade. Cold, meaty fingers close around Ray’s throat, fetid breath inches in on his cheek. But when the voice comes it’s not Roger Swanson, but Heather. “You know Daddy will never let you see me again.”

Ray shudders awake, the soft hue of dawn powdering his bedroom with gray light. Ray drops his legs over the side of the bed and runs fingers through his long, sleep-matted hair.

Ray and Heather’s car wreck had been a serious accident. But in the sequence of things, the car wreck was really the second accident—going to the hospital exposed the first.

They’d been dating for over a year when they found out she was pregnant. Unplanned, of course. For a couple of seniors in high school, they had kept it a secret in order to formulate a solution of how to tell their parents. Neither believed it would be well received.

They went for a drive. It had been a Friday, late in the night by that point. What was supposed to be a date had turned into a debate about how to break the news to their mothers and fathers. They were cruising country roads when Ray brought up the possibility of adoption or abortion. Heather dismissed this immediately, appalled that Ray would even contemplate such things.

He was trying to explain that he wasn’t suggesting they do either, but they should at least discuss it. Voices were raised, ultimatums were issued. Ray was looking over at Heather when her eyes went wide. Ray ploughed into a deer, the car spinning into a tree before flipping sideways into a ditch.

Sometime the next morning, Ray woke in the hospital. His mother was in a chair next to the bed. He could hear his father’s strident voice down the hall. Hours earlier in the ER, after blood work was pulled, it was determined that neither had been drinking. However, it had been discovered that the seventeen-year-old passenger was several months pregnant, and that the fetus had been lost.

Ray sat up in the hospital bed and winced, drawing his hand up to his head, feeling some sort of gauzy wrapping there. He demanded to see Heather. With his mother trying to stop him, Ray staggered out of the room and into the first triage stall he could find, throwing back the curtain to discover a haggard man reclining in the bed, his rheumy eyes appearing amused by Ray’s uncoordinated entrance. A tangle of liquid-filled tubes hung from machines and IVs, all leading down to his frail, liver-spotted forearms. Ray fell against the side of the wall, staring at the old man as if for some sort of answer. The frail man lifted one of his tube-needled arms, extending a crooked finger directly at Ray. A smile appeared, exposing long nicotine-tinted teeth. Heather was gone.

An hour after shaking away the residue of his dream, Ray is sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, leafing through a stack of newspapers. One is the local paper, the others were from closer to Indianapolis. Closer to Heather. Most of the jobs are in the city publications.

Ray returns to the local paper, a headline catching his eye: EVENSONG CEMETERY VANDALIZED.

He is almost finished reading the thin column when he hears his mom’s bedroom door open. A few seconds later she shuffles into the kitchen, and they mumble good-morning greetings to each other.

His mother pours a cup of coffee. “Anything interesting?”

Frowning at the newspaper, Ray says, “Not really. Someone vandalized the cemetery, knocked over some headstones and stuff.”

His mom had just taken a sip from her mug. “Really?” Her tone suggests revulsion. “Some people just have no . . . conscience.” Silence. “And, you know, that’s not the first time that’s happened.” She moves around toward Ray’s side of the table and peers out the window at the crisp, blue-orange morning. “I hope they left your father’s spot alone.”

Ray says nothing; but, out of simple decency, has a flicker of agreement. His mom clears her throat and seems to shake the news away. “So, any
good
news in the paper?”

Without glancing up Ray says, “A job. Maybe. I need some cash.” He gives a sheepish grin. “Help with rent money and groceries.”

His mom sighs a laugh. “Oh, Ray. You can stay for as long as you like—you know that.”

“Tell you what,” Ray says. “I’ll stop by Crenshaw’s, deliver that check to Wendell, and then go fishing for a job.”

Steam curls from Alice’s coffee mug. “You know,” she says, tousling Ray’s unkempt hair, “you could use a haircut before you go out and conquer a new career.”

Ray smirks, conceding his rough-around-the-edges appearance. “I know, I know.”

After taking a sip, his mother lowers the mug. “Harlan Vaught certainly could use your business,” she says, and adds, “Best haircut in town.”

Ray returns to the classifieds. After a second or two he says, “Sure, more like the
only
haircut in town.”

On his way to Crenshaw’s Market, Ray decides to run by the cemetery, curious about the condition of his father’s plot.

As opposed to the dozen or so toppled headstones in the cemetery, Roger Swanson’s marble maker remains undisturbed. The ground covering his grave, on the other hand, is a mess.

Crossing a grassy area just off a gravel path, Ray spots a groundskeeper. Ray approaches, offhandedly noting that they’re roughly the same age. The groundskeeper says, “Good mornin’,” a grin cracking under the bill of his ball cap.

Ray gives a curt nod. “Morning.”

“Come out to check on somebody?”

Ray hesitates. “Sort of.”

The guy’s sunglasses reflect the sun as he bobs his head. “Yeah. Already had some people drop by this morning. Who you looking for?”

“My da—” Ray licks his lips. “Swanson. Roger Swanson.”

The groundskeeper jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Just got done with that one. Vandals didn’t mess with the headstone, but they sure did trample the hell out of the dirt.”

Ray paces a few yards to get a closer look. Sure enough, the mound of dirt had been gouged and scattered, but the polished marker remains untouched. Ray’s eyes move to the dates of his father’s life-span. The groundskeeper sidles up next to Ray. “You his son?” Ray squints, and after a moment nods. “Don’t worry, man. I set down some more seed on his spot.” Ray had already noticed the fresh, wheat-colored specks of grass seed.

“Thanks for that.”

“No problem. Hell, your dad was an easy fix. He’s one of the lucky ones.” He gestures toward the haphazard destruction. He spits to his side and wipes at a small trail of saliva hanging from his lower lip. “Some assholes have no respect for the dead.”

The pickled pigs’ feet are kept in brine. But Ray knows, from his formative years working at Crenshaw’s Market, that the proper terms for these butcher-friendly solutions are sodium nitrites, nitrates, and sulfur dioxides. Preservatives, in other words—the formaldehydes of the food industry.

The pigs’ feet are displayed on top of the curved glass above the rows of steaks and other cuts of meat. Nothing’s changed. It’s always been this way.

Ray waits at the meat counter for a few seconds before a stout old man with youthful eyes emerges, parting a hanging curtain of clear plastic strips.

“Can I help you?” the old man says. He’s wearing a paper butcher’s hat and a red, chest-to-knee apron. Ray smiles, and recognition spreads on the man’s face. “Well, I’ll be damned! Raymond, how the hell are you?”

“Not bad.” Ray extends his arm over the glass counter and Wendell Harper applies a hearty handshake. “I was hoping I’d catch you here.”

“You kidding me?” Wendell says, feigning indignation. “They never let me out of this place.” His wrinkled features twist with a mischievous grin. “You look good, Ray. What can I do for you?”

“Well”—from his pocket Ray produces the personal check from his father—“my mom found this in my dad’s things . . .”

Wendell adjusts his paper cap as he interrupts. “Listen, Ray, it was an awful thing that happened to your dad . . .”

Ray cuts in, shaking his head: “No need, Wendell. Me and mom are doing fine. In fact, it looks like my dad had some unfinished business with you.” He hands over the check.

Glasses attached to a chain are hanging around Wendell’s neck; he lifts the spectacles, resting them on his nose. He scrutinizes the check. “Where’d you say you found this?”

“Mom found it in a pile of paperwork.”

Wendell’s gaze lingers on Ray for several long seconds before he flicks his eyes back to the check. “And your mom sent you here?”

Ray shrugs. “I just told her I’d take care of it. Check in on my old pal.”

It takes a moment, but Wendell finally responds with a weak grin. “Tell you what, Ray. Give me a minute. I’ll take a peek in dry storage, see what we have in safekeeping. Stick around for a few minutes, okay?”

“No problem.”

Wendell blinks, opens his mouth as if to say something else, but instead turns and disappears through the strips of plastic that serve as a curtained threshold.

Ray slips his hands in his pockets and paces along the front of the glass counter, idly appraising the selection of meat, casually scanning the aisle of the old-fashioned market, where cashiers still manually ring up purchases and bagboys walk people to their cars.

Ray bristles. At the far end of the aisle he sees Herbert and Hazel Steinhauer.

Herbert is crouched down, inspecting something on a shelf. The man’s mouth is moving, but whether he’s talking to his wife or himself, Ray can’t discern. Hazel, her garish makeup still appearing hastily applied, is standing next to her husband, her willowy frame rigid, one hand clutching her purse, the other arm hanging at her side. Her bulging, unblinking eyes are trained directly on Ray.

Even from this distance the sick woman’s condition appears to have deteriorated since he saw her at the barber shop a few days earlier. A dingy, short-sleeved dress hangs loose over her bony body. And now Ray notices something else: the inner portions of her forearms are noticeably jaundiced now, as if she’s been smeared with—
What the hell is that stuff they smear on you before surgery?
Clinically distant as it is, the word crawls into Ray’s mind:
Betadine
. Ray spots a cluster of livid bruises, the sort of marks people receive from intravenous injections. Perhaps the result of some recent hospital visit.

Ray swallows and lifts his hand to wave. The corners of Hazel’s lipstick-smudged mouth tug up in the pantomime of a smile. Her eyes are avid, unnerving, the effect bringing artificial life to her gaunt face.

A voice from behind Ray—“Daydreaming?”

Ray flinches and turns around. Wendell. He smiles at the butcher. “Yeah. Just sort of spacing out I guess.”

The old man hefts a brown bag, slender-shaped, tied with a piece of twine. “I think I found what you were looking for.”

“What is it?”

“Wine,” Wendell says, peering over the top of his bifocals. “And nothing cheap either. This stuff’s imported.” With a thick finger, the butcher points at a note on the bag. “Looks like your dad was sending it as a gift—says it’s supposed to go to old Vaught down the street.”

Vaught
. The barber. “Really?”

Wendell nods.

“I’m going there anyway.” Ray smiles and gestures at his hair. “Why don’t you let me deliver it?”

Wendell eyes Ray for just a moment and then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” The butcher hands the brown bag over the counter.

Ray is about to say goodbye but stops short. “Do you need any help around here?”

Wendell adjusts his paper cap and scratches an eyebrow with his knuckle. “You mean like a job?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, “maybe for just a little while. Something to help me get out of the house, maybe get my own place.”

Wendell passes a hand over his face and crosses his arms. He’s quiet as he seems to consider this. “I can’t pay you much.”

Ray grins, “Anything’s better than nothing. Besides,” he says, thinking of his bygone days here in the market, “I could do most of this stuff walking in my sleep.”

Wendell smirks. The two share one last laugh. “Why don’t you stop by later this week and we’ll talk.” They exchange handshakes.

As he’s leaving, Ray sees Herbert and Hazel in a checkout line. Herbert is chatting with the cashier, but Hazel is still watching Ray, her bulging eyes following him. Slowly, drowsily, she lifts an arm, her slender fingers gently scraping at the air. Her oddly stilted mechanics make Ray think of strings on a marionette. Ray returns the wave.

Hazel Steinhauer smiles.

The barber pole is spinning slowly, hypnotically, in front of the barber shop.

On the sidewalk beneath the shadowed underbelly of the awning, Ray hesitates before clasping the door handle and entering Vaught’s Barber Shop. A tiny bell rings overhead. No customers.

Ray glances around. Nothing’s changed. The long mirror making the place look twice its size, walls still covered with antique memorabilia: wooden signs—
Colonel Ichabod’s Conk Tonsorial Artistry for Fashionable Gentlemen
—a vintage metal placard advertising “Cupping and Leeching”—
Hot Bath 5¢
. There’s an old chalkboard listing an array of services:
Haircuts, Flat Tops, Wet Cuts, Shampoo, Beard Trim, Tonic, Razor Shaves
. Ray is conflicted between a comforting sense of nostalgia, and a creeping unease with the shop’s stagnation. A radio is playing softly in the rear, some staticky big band tune. There’s a hallway back there and a door that’s been painted over, presumably leading to a basement or storage closet.