Grounded (6 page)

I was surprised to see he didn’t look like the devil.

Clem was quite handsome with his shiny black hair parted in the middle and a black mustache that curled up on the ends, like the jack of spades. His sparkling green eyes twinkled in the late morning sun. And when he opened his mouth to smile, you could see he had the whitest teeth in the whole county. Daddy would’ve said Clem stood out like an orchid in a dandelion patch.

I set my fishing gear down in the grass so I could shake the hand that was reaching over the wooden fence in search of mine.

“Clem Monroe,” he said, smiling.

“I’m Daralynn Oakland,” I said. “Some people call me Dolly.”

I knew I should apologize for yelling at him from my bedroom window, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. Maybe he hadn’t heard me.

“My pleasure to meet you,” he said grandly. “But why didn’t anyone tell me there’s a fishing spot in this charming hamlet?”

“Are you a fisherman?” Uncle Waldo asked. He was checking the oil in Mrs. Coldwell’s old lawn mower.

“You better believe it,” Clem answered. “Canada. Minnesota. Key West, Florida. Now
there’s
some good fishing.”

Uncle Waldo laughed. “Clem won’t find anything like that around here, will he, Daralynn?”

“No sir,” I answered. “But if you like catfish, we’ve got plenty of them in Doc Lake.”

“Doc Lake?”
Clem asked. “I’m intrigued.”

“Don’t be,” said Uncle Waldo. “‘Doc’ is short for Department of Conservation. The lake was dug out by state conservationists years ago. They keep it stocked with largemouth bass and channel catfish. A few bluegill, I suppose.”

“Where is this lake?” Clem asked. “And how big is it?”

“Fifteen acres,” I answered. I’d done a report on it in second grade. “Doc Lake’s not far from here. Just a mile or so out Highway E.”

“And you’re
walking
there?” Clem said. He looked either impressed or distressed. I wasn’t sure which.

“I can’t very well ride my bike with all my fishing stuff,” I explained. “If you’re in a big hurry, there’s a shortcut through the woods. But you’ll get eaten alive by chiggers and ticks.”

I hoped like heck he wasn’t going to offer me a ride. Mother would turn a triple backflip if she found out I’d accepted a ride from Mr. Clem. She would flip if she knew I was even talking to him.

“Is there no public transportation in Digginsville?” Clem asked.

“We’re a little small for a subway system,” Uncle Waldo said with a smile. “Or even a bus.”

“Right,” said Clem. “And city buses would detract from the rustic charm of the town. Mmmm.”

I watched Clem stroke his mustache with his thumb and index finger. Then, suddenly, he clapped his hands loudly.

“I’ve got it!” he announced. “What this town needs is a horse and carriage.”

“A
what
?” said Uncle Waldo.

“A horse and carriage,” Clem repeated. “So people wouldn’t have to walk everywhere.”

Uncle Waldo laughed.

“I’m serious,” Clem said. “It breaks my heart to see a sweet little girl walking a mile each way in this heat.” He turned to look at me. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to hop on a horse-drawn carriage and
ride
to the lake?”

“Sure!” I said.

And then I felt a spasm of guilt in my stomach when I remembered this was the man I’d decided to start investigating. Maybe he was as nice as he seemed. He certainly was a creative thinker.

“New York City has horse-drawn carriages,” Clem elaborated in a professorial tone. “New Orleans, too. But they’re strictly for tourists. Here, it could serve as a legitimate form of transportation.” He took a breath and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “In a town this size, the simplest route would do. Even I could design it. The carriage would stop at eight or ten places around town. The hotel. The diner. The donut shop.
Post office. Grocery store. Doc Lake. And it’d be free for passengers.”

“Who’s going to pay for these pony rides of yours?” Uncle Waldo asked, still tinkering with the mower.

“The state has money just sitting around for
exactly
this sort of thing,” Clem insisted. “Same with the feds. I’m sure business owners in town would kick in some money. It’d be a service for their customers, especially the older folks who can’t get around as easily.”

I could imagine what Mother would say if Mr. Clem asked her to help pay for a horse and carriage.

“Do you think your mother would mind if I mowed your backyard?” Uncle Waldo asked as if reading my mind.

“Only if she found out,” I replied.

Cutting the grass had always been Wayne Junior’s job. Ever since spring, Mother had tried to hire high school boys to help with yard work. But as they never mowed to her satisfaction, she’d taken over cutting the front yard with a rusty old push mower from the garage. She couldn’t get the gas mower started, so she didn’t bother with the backyard, which had become a jungly mess.

Uncle Waldo pulled the choke and started Mrs. Coldwell’s old lawn mower with a roar. I picked up my fishing gear with one hand and waved to Mr. Clem and Uncle Waldo with the other. Then I ran down the alley, straight to Aunt Josie’s house.

Aunt Josie was in her backyard, pinching suckers off tomato plants. I couldn’t help thinking of Wayne Junior, and how much he loved tomato and peanut butter sandwiches.

“Daralynn!” Aunt Josie hollered musically. “Come talk to me. Tell me who was at church and what they were wearing.”

I told her as best as I could remember. Truth was, I’d spent most of the service thinking about how Clem had stolen our idea for living funerals, and wondering if Aunt Josie was involved.

“Are you helping Mr. Clem sell living funerals over at the crematorium?” I asked, getting right to the
heart of the matter, like Perry Mason did on TV when questioning a witness.

“I am,” confirmed Aunt Josie. “And would you believe we’ve got one booked already? Mr. Aubrey Bryant’s throwing his living funeral next Friday afternoon, after the Fourth of July parade. One o’clock at Uncle Clem’s crematorium. But come over at twelve thirty so you can—”

“
Uncle
Clem?” I interrupted.

“Well, child, he’s
practically
your uncle,” Aunt Josie said with a theatrical wave of her hand. “We’re getting married just as soon as he gets the crematorium up and running.”

I noticed that the polish on Aunt Josie’s nails was chipped. This was new for her.

“Oh, I know I’m behind on my manicures,” she admitted when she saw me staring at her hands. “I just haven’t had time for that lately, what with marketing the crematorium and taking care of Clem and all my other gentlemen. But I will, honey, once I get my ring.”

“Is Mr. Clem living here with you now?” I asked.

“Heavens, no,” Aunt Josie said. “That wouldn’t be proper. He’s staying over at the hotel. He just comes
down here for meals. Someone’s got to take care of that man before he works himself to death.”

We both laughed.

“He
better
not die on me,” Aunt Josie said. “Not before he pays me back the money I loaned him. I don’t know how the cremating machine works. And I don’t
want
to know.” She leaned in closer and continued in a hushed voice: “I’ve had nightmares about getting locked in the crematorium and being burned alive.”

“What’s it look like?” I asked.

“The cremating machine?” Aunt Josie said, returning to her tomatoes. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve not seen it. Clem has to keep it locked up tighter than a drum. Regulations and all that.”

I started pulling weeds at the other end of the tomato bed. “Did you know Mr. Clem’s talking about getting a horse and carriage for Digginsville?” I asked.

Aunt Josie laughed. “I’m not surprised. Not one bit. I’ve never met a man who had so many brilliant ideas. He’s a genius. And he’s the handsomest man this town has ever seen. Besides your father, that is.”

I thought my daddy was ten times more handsome,
but I didn’t mention it. Instead, I asked, “Do you love Mr. Clem?”

“I do,” Aunt Josie said without hesitation. “I know it all seems sorta sudden, but when it’s right, you know it.”

“How?” I asked.

That really made Aunt Josie laugh. She had a big, husky laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. Then she turned surprisingly serious. “It’s not something you can explain in words,” she said slowly. “It’s just something you know. Emotions can catch you by surprise. They can sneak up on you. That’s the best way to fall in love.”

Lately I’d been wanting to ask Mother about her courting days with Daddy. (Those Rialto movie tickets were burning a hole in my pocket.) But like a lot of things, I sensed she wouldn’t like talking about romance and such things now.

“Is that how Daddy and Mother fell in love?” I asked Aunt Josie. “Did their emotions sneak up on them?”

“You better believe it,” she said. “I remember when your father met Hattie. He called me the morning after their first date.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said he’d met the girl he intended to marry. He said Hattie was the smartest, prettiest, sweetest girl in town.”

“Mother—
sweet
?”

“She
was
sweet,” Aunt Josie said. “Even to me.”

“You’d never know that now,” I grumped.

“Daralynn, think about it. Can you imagine losing your husband
and
two children? ’Course you can’t because you don’t have a husband or children. Me neither. But it’s been hard on your mama. It’s hardened her heart, like it would anyone’s. That’s why I don’t take the things she says to me personally.”

“You don’t?” I asked.

“Heavens, no,” Aunt Josie said, swatting away the notion like it was a mosquito. “It’s not about me. It’s about
her
. You think I can’t hear her
tirading
against me when I play my music in the evenings? But I play it loud so she can hear it, too. The woman needs some music in her life. She needs love.”

“She can be hateful at times,” I said, yanking a thistle from the tomato bed.

“I know she can,” Aunt Josie agreed. “But that’s what keeps her going. Being mad is what keeps her
from being sad. If she weren’t mad, your mama might just lie down and die of sadness. I don’t think she’s even had a good cry yet, has she? Lord, I don’t think I’ve
ever
seen Hattie cry.”

“She doesn’t cry,” I reported. “Or laugh.”

Of course, I hadn’t been doing much of those things, either. But I didn’t mention that part.

“The person in this town who needs a living funeral is your mother,” Aunt Josie stated. “But she’s the last person on earth who’d ever have one. Emotions embarrass her. And she hates people paying her any kind of attention. Look at poor Waldo. He would marry Hattie in a heartbeat.”

“She doesn’t like bald men,” I said apologetically.

“That’s an excuse,” Aunt Josie said. “Your mother’s afraid to love. And after what she’s been through, I don’t blame her.”

“You think she’s going to be like this forever?” I asked.

“’Fraid so,” Aunt Josie said, shaking her head. “Unless she finds someone she feels like taking care of.”

“That person better have good hair,” I said.

Aunt Josie cackled. Then she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. “This is what
keeps me grounded,” she said, rocking me from side to side.

“Grounded?”
I said. My voice was muffled because I was smushed up against Aunt Josie’s ample bosom. “Grounding’s what Mother used to do to punish me.”

“Not that kind of grounded,” Aunt Josie said. She unwrapped her arms and pointed to the big apple tree in the corner of her backyard. “Grounded like a tree. What keeps that tree standing up straight?”

“The roots?” I said. “The sun? Dirt? I don’t know.”

“All of it,” she said, taking my hand and holding it. “And most of it we can’t even see. But look at the way the earth just hugs that tree. That’s what your mama needs.”

“A tree—or a hug by the earth?”

“No, child. Somebody to take care of. That’s what makes us sweet and keeps us grounded.”

In the distance, I heard the church bell ring twelve times.

“I gotta get a move on,” Aunt Josie said. “Clem gets hungry as a lion at noon.”

She strutted toward the back door in her high
heels and turned around to holler: “Being in love can be a pain in the rump at times, Daralynn. But it’s awful fun. You gotta try it sometime!”

I waved. Then I picked up my fishing gear and set off for Doc Lake.

It took me fifteen minutes or more to walk there. I was just strolling along, taking my time and thinking about my investigation.

When I got to Doc Lake, I found a nice shady spot where I baited my hook and cast off. I hadn’t been fishing for ten minutes when I heard a car pull up in the gravel parking lot next to the lake. It was Mr. Clem, driving a yellow Cadillac convertible.

“So this is the famous Doc Lake,” he yelled in my direction as he got out of the car.

I suddenly felt embarrassed for my town and our sorry excuse for a lake.

“It’s not much to look at,” I hollered back. Then I turned my head and spit out the piece of grass I’d
been chewing. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete hick.

“On the contrary,” said Clem, smiling widely. “I’d say it’s the perfect fishing spot.”

He was walking toward me, stepping carefully to avoid getting his dress shoes dirty. He held his hands in his pockets. I could hear coins jingling as he got closer.

“Hope you don’t mind me joining you,” he said. “I couldn’t resist driving out here after my noon-day meal.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “You want to, um, borrow my fishing pole?”

He laughed. “You’re generous to offer. Maybe another time. I really just wanted to see what the drive out here was like. Dare I tell you how easily I can imagine a horse-drawn carriage on Highway E, bringing you and a handful of friends out here to fish?”

“Or swim!” I added enthusiastically. I was getting in the spirit of this horse-and-buggy idea.

Clem’s eyes flashed. “Swim? Is there a lifeguard here? I don’t see a lifeguard stand.”

“There isn’t one,” I admitted. “We’re really not supposed to swim here. See?” I pointed with my pole to the wooden sign attached to a buoy in the lake. The faded letters said:

ABSOLUTELY
NO
SWIMMING ALLOWED NO EXCEPTIONS!

“Oh,” he said, squinting at the sign. “I’m assuming that’s strictly enforced.”

For some reason I couldn’t remember what the word
enforced
meant. My brain got tangled up when I was nervous. And here I was talking to a cremator!

“Most kids don’t swim here on account of it being so muddy,” I said. “But sometimes on really hot days, you can’t help yourself.”

Clem shook his head and sighed sadly. “More children die every year in swimming accidents than you can imagine. A lot of them at places just like this. If you’d seen what I’ve seen in my business, you’d think twice about swimming in a lake.”

My heart started thumping fast, like it did the night before when I saw him from my bedroom window. “Tell me,” I said. “About the stuff you’ve seen.”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” he said, looking at the sky.

“No, really,” I insisted. “I can handle it. Practically my whole family died last fall. It wasn’t a swimming accident, but…it doesn’t matter. They’re dead. I can take it. Just tell me, please.”

Slowly and with what I interpreted as grave reluctance, he began a formal recitation.

“Necks broken after diving into shallow water. I had several of those in Illinois.”

“Go on,” I said softly.

“A girl trapped under a canoe. Her friends thought she was hiding from them when, in fact, she was drowning. They were teenagers, drinking beer and roughhousing.”

“More,” I whispered.

“A young boy swinging from a rope into a lake accidentally strangled himself.” He stopped. “I shouldn’t be telling you these things.”

“It’s fine,” I said. And I meant it. This was exactly the stuff I needed for my investigation. Plus, I’ll admit that it was strangely comforting to meet someone who knew more about death than I did. To me it was still a waxy mystery.

“I hope I haven’t upset you,” he said.

“Nah,” I said, acting cool as a cucumber. “Besides, I don’t really even
like
swimming here, anyway. My brother did, but I don’t. The fish bite.”

Mr. Clem smiled. “You’re a good girl. Just be careful, okay?” Then he walked back to his car and drove away.

I continued fishing for the rest of the afternoon. I was nowhere closer to saving Mother’s business than I’d been before I’d started my investigation. In fact, it was just the opposite: I was more confused than ever about Mr. Clem.

But then I remembered what Daddy used to say about thinking. He claimed the brain works best when you stop thinking and start fishing.

And just then I got a bite.

I reeled it in slowly. It was a beautiful channel catfish with iridescent gills that sparkled in the sunlight like jewels. Probably a five-pounder, I thought. Big enough to eat, but I didn’t like to kill fish. Neither did Daddy. We’d always operated on a catch-and-release policy.

I gently removed the hook. As I did, I saw that the fish had something small and white in its mouth. It fell out on the grass as I tossed the fish back in the lake.

It was a tooth. A human tooth. I threw it in the tackle box and walked home.

That night after dinner (Salisbury steak TV dinners and burnt Parker House rolls—again), I took my
Pertinent Facts & Important Information
book out to the front porch and began to write another letter.

I wrote for more than an hour that night, mostly about Clem and the things he told me. I ended the letter like this: