Grounded (8 page)

I had to fib to Mother the next morning at breakfast.

“I don’t have any customers today, so I’m going to the library,” I said.

It was Saturday. Mother was jabbing at the metal jaws of the toaster like they were her mortal enemies. Since she’d discontinued our subscription to
The Digginsville Daily Quill
, Mother had little to do in the morning but drink coffee and be mad at the world.

“This stupid thing has
never
worked right,” she said, pulling out a charred piece of toast and throwing it in the garbage.

Nearly nine months after the crash, Mother was still mad. I guessed she’d always be that way. Saturday
mornings were especially bad because her first appointment wasn’t till eleven o’clock.

I looked at the clock on the stove. It was five minutes before ten. I’d have to run like the wind to get to the crematorium in time to meet Aunt Josie.

“I’m going to the library,” I repeated.

“Heard you the first time,” Mother said. “Come to the beauty parlor when you’re done.”

I left her sitting in the kitchen with a broken toaster. Anybody else in Digginsville would be dialing in to “Swap Line” to try to trade that toaster for something else. But not Mother. She didn’t even turn on the radio anymore.

When I got to the crematorium, Clem was in front of the trailer, watering the geraniums with a garden hose.

“Beautiful day to be alive, isn’t it?” he said, redirecting the water in the opposite direction to avoid getting me wet.

“Yessir,” I said. I was out of breath from running.

“Something tells me you came by foot,” he said, smiling.

“Yessir, I did.”

I stepped into the shadow of the awning-covered doorway. If Mother happened to drive by and see me
talking to Clem Monroe, I’d be the next corpse in town.

“I’m happy to tell you that your walking days are almost over,” Clem said proudly. “A six-passenger deluxe carriage will arrive in Digginsville two weeks from today.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to a kid who walks a mile each way to go fishing?” he asked. “I’ve got a pair of Clydesdales coming, too.”

“I’ve seen pictures of those. They’re the horses with the shaggy legs, right?”

He nodded, still smiling.
Was it possible he was as nice as he seemed?
He sure was keen on this idea of a horse and carriage.

“I could’ve had a carriage delivered this week,” he said, now watering the scraggly grass next to the trailer. “But I insisted on safety belts, which they don’t normally install. It added three hundred dollars to the price, but I don’t care. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

I was only half listening. My mind was too busy drawing a picture of a pair of Clydesdale horses clomping down Highway E on a snowy afternoon. It’d look just like a postcard—or a picture on a
calendar. And in the fall we could use the horse and carriage for hayrack rides. Maybe Aunt Josie and Mr. Clem could use it on their wedding day. They could decorate the carriage with flowers and satin bows.

Something inside the crematorium began humming loudly. A shiver ran down my spine. I must’ve made a face because Mr. Clem smiled.

“Just the air conditioner,” he said.

“Oh,” I replied. “I thought maybe it was the…you know.”

“The cremation chamber?” he asked gently. “It’s okay. I know it’s a sensitive subject.”

I nodded.

“Would you like to know why I got in this line of work?” he asked.

“No sir,” I said quickly. “That’s your personal business.”

As soon as I said it, I remembered that I was supposed to be conducting an investigation. I took a deep breath and tried again.

“I mean,” I said as casually as I could, “unless you feel like telling me.”

“You’re a very respectful young lady,” he answered. “And I
would
like to tell you. I think you’re one of the few people in this town who might understand.”

He turned off the water and stretched out the green hose long to drain it. Then he began to slowly coil the empty hose around his arm. When he spoke again, it was in a deeper, more somber tone.

“My uncle Seneca was a cattle rancher,” Clem said. “He owned eight hundred fenced acres in Montana. I visited him every summer when I was young. He taught me to ride a horse and rope a calf.”

“Bet that was fun,” I said, wondering where this story was heading.

“It was,” Clem recalled. “Until Uncle Seneca got older and grew suspicious of the ranchers who lived around him. He was convinced people were jealous of his success. He accused one neighbor of stealing his cattle. Another time he sued a man for feeding ground glass to his registered bulls.”

“Was he?”

“No,” said Clem, still winding the hose around his arm. “But Uncle Seneca didn’t believe it. So every day he rode his favorite horse around the perimeter of his property, looking for trespassers. One day the horse spooked and threw Uncle Seneca. He landed on the fence.”

“Good gosh, that had to hurt!” I said, trying not to snicker. I wondered if maybe the horse threw
Seneca on purpose. Probably sick of running the old coot around so he could snoop on his neighbors.

Clem looked at me with cold eyes. “Uncle Seneca was decapitated by a barbed-wire fence.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d stopped breathing.

“The sheriff found Uncle Seneca’s severed head on the neighbor’s side of the fence,” Clem stated. “There was some talk of the neighbor suing Uncle Seneca’s estate for trespassing. But in the end, it all blew over.”

“Did they…glue the head back on his body?”

“No,” said Clem. “The funeral home simply dressed Uncle Seneca in his best suit and laid the body out in a coffin with his head where it should’ve been. They wrapped a bandanna around the neck area.”

Clem walked around to the back of the trailer. He carried the coiled hose away from his body, like he was handling a king cobra. I followed him.

“But could you
see
?” I asked. “Could you tell your uncle’s head wasn’t connected to his body?”

“Yes,” Clem replied matter-of-factly. “And that’s an image that has never left me.”

He dropped the hose in the grass. It landed with a heavy, dead sound. Then he took a deep breath. I remembered to breathe, too.

“You can’t unsee something you’ve seen,” Clem said, looking up to the sky like he was searching for something there. “Uncle Seneca’s funeral has haunted me my entire adult life. I didn’t want other people, especially children, to suffer like I have with unwanted images crowding their minds. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah,” I said in a whisper.

I thought of how my brother, sister, and Daddy had looked like dolls dipped in wax at their funeral. I’d never forget that. The image was burned in my mind. The memory of them dead was starting to crowd out the memory of them alive.

“Seeing a loved one’s ashes can be difficult, too,” Clem said with a sad smile. “But there’s a difference. There’s no head or face. It’s the face that haunts you.”

“I know,” I said.

I realized then that’s why I’d never liked dolls. Their dead faces creeped me out. So why did people think giving me dead dolls would make me feel better about my dead family? It didn’t make sense. All the strange things people did and said when other people died: None of it made sense.

“You won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you, will you?” he asked. He was staring me straight in the eye.

“No sir,” I murmured, almost hypnotized by this man and his stories.

“Good girl,” he said. “Then I won’t tell your mother how you like to watch people from your bedroom window in the middle of the night. I’m not sure she’d approve.”

I almost jumped out of my skin. So he
had
seen me that night. He
did
have secrets.

I knew it.

Clem turned and walked to the front of the trailer. I walked around the other side, wondering where the heck Aunt Josie was. Then I spotted her in the distance, making her way toward the crematorium in high heels, her hips swinging with every step.

“Sorry I’m late, dears,” she said when she arrived. She kissed Clem on the cheek and squeezed my hand. “We had a bad morning at the house.”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” Clem said, frowning.

“I made the mistake of telling the boys I was leaving town,” Aunt Josie explained.

“Leaving?”
I asked. “What do you mean
leaving
?”

“Oh, Daralynn,” Aunt Josie said. “I haven’t made it official yet, so mum’s the word. But I’m—or I should say
we’re
—moving to Chicago.”

Clem put his arm around Aunt Josie’s waist. “The
city of fat cats isn’t going to know what to make of this tiger,” he said.

Aunt Josie smiled, but her face looked weary. Makeup had settled in her worry lines. Her eyes were glistening with recent tears.

“You can’t
move
,” I said. “You can’t leave Digginsville.”

“Oh honey, I won’t be gone all the time. Just a couple weeks every month. Right, sweetie pie?”

“That’s right,” Clem said. “We’ll be back here plenty.” He squeezed Aunt Josie’s shoulders with his meaty hands.

“I’ve still gotta find someone to take care of my gentlemen when I’m gone,” Aunt Josie said, almost like she was talking to herself. “This is all coming so soon after Mr. Bryant’s passing. It’s hard on my boys.”

“I just hope they haven’t changed their minds,” Clem said. “Prepaid arrangements can bring peace of mind.”

“Oh no,” Aunt Josie said, using her pinkie finger to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. “They’ve all agreed to buy the plans you offered them. In fact…” She opened her purse and withdrew a bulging envelope. “Here’s everyone’s money, payment in full. I’m buying a plan, too.”

She handed the envelope to Clem.

“I’m just glad I could offer such an economical package,” Clem said, sliding the envelope in his shirt pocket. “Now then, let me retrieve Mr. Bryant’s ashes so you can gently reposition his earthly remains.”

“That’s such a lovely way of putting it, dear,” said Aunt Josie. She smiled and put on her pretty face.

Clem held the trailer door open for Aunt Josie and me. He disappeared into a side room while Aunt Josie and I stayed in the reception area. It was dark, like the funeral home, but much smaller. Banners from Mr. Bryant’s living funeral (
LONG LIVE AUBREY BRYANT!
) still decorated the walls.

I couldn’t believe I was standing there in a crematorium—
a crematorium!
—next to Aunt Josie, who was moving away.
Leaving me!
I knew I should’ve felt mad or sad, but I couldn’t. None of it felt real. I didn’t feel anything except for that floaty feeling I’d had on the day of the funeral. This time I was floating above Aunt Josie and me, watching myself look at Aunt Josie as she sniffled and fixed her makeup.

Minutes later, Clem returned with two small black plastic bags. He handed them to Aunt Josie, who began to whimper.

“There’s nothing more natural than returning a
body to the earth,” Clem said softly. “No chemicals in the body. None in the earth. Just the circle of life in its purest form.”

Aunt Josie nodded while continuing to sob gently.

“A windy day is best,” Clem instructed. “Let the ashes fly and be free.”

Aunt Josie and I left to walk Mr. Aubrey Bryant the six blocks back to our street.

“Do you mind if we take the alley?” I asked. On top of everything else, I was worried about a possible run-in with Mother.

“Fine by me, child,” Aunt Josie said. “I want your mama to see us even less than you do.”

When we returned to Aunt Josie’s house, the four remaining tenants of The Summer Sunset Retirement Home for Distinguished Gentlemen were sitting on the front porch. Wrinkled, silent, and motionless, they looked like lizards.

“If you boys want to help Daralynn and me scatter Mr. Aubrey Bryant’s ashes, please join us in the garden,” Aunt Josie announced. “If you’d rather not, I understand.”

None of the lizard men moved their bodies, but their gazes all dropped downward toward their laps. I didn’t know if they were sad on account of Mr. Bryant’s passing or because Aunt Josie was going to Chicago. Probably both.

“That’s fine, darlings,” Aunt Josie hollered up to the lizard men on the porch. “Just sit there and be comfortable. Daralynn and I’ll take care of this other matter.”

The two of us walked along the side of the house to the backyard. The July heat had already ravaged her petunias. Other blooms were hanging by a thread.

“I’ve never done this before,” Aunt Josie whispered, slowly opening the first bag of ashes. “Maybe we could just sprinkle them around the hydrangeas and purple coneflowers.”

She grabbed a handful of ashes and flung it gently under a flowering bush. They looked like just regular old ashes from the fireplace. I couldn’t fathom for the life of me how that could be Mr. Aubrey Bryant.

“What’s he feel like?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” Aunt Josie replied. She was closing her eyes. “I’m trying not to think about it too much. Honey, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to help,” I lied. I reached in the bag and pulled out a small handful. “It smells like the burnt stuff I scrape off Mother’s Parker House rolls.”

Aunt Josie grabbed another handful. “That’s what we’ll pretend it is—burnt dinner rolls,” she said,
sprinkling a big handful of ashes around a clump of purple coneflowers.

I extracted a second handful from the bag. This time, along with the ashes, I got tiny bone fragments. I stared at what I held in my hand.

“I know, honey,” Aunt Josie said gently. “But isn’t it nice to think Mr. Bryant will be part of this garden? It
does
feel natural, doesn’t it? Clem said to release the ashes to the wind, but I think I’d prefer to keep him right here at home. I’ll never be able to look at a flower from this garden again without thinking Mr. Aubrey Bryant’s in there somewhere.”

Maybe it was disrespectful to think about my own problems at the time, but I couldn’t help it.

“I don’t want you to go to Chicago with Mr. Clem,” I said.

“Oh child,” she replied. She placed the bag of ashes in the grass so she could put her arm around my shoulder. “I know this is hard on you. It’s hard on me, too. But you’ll come visit me in Chicago. We’ll just have to talk your mother into it. I’m sure we can.”

“When pigs fly,” I mumbled. “I never get to go anywhere. She wants me at home or at the beauty parlor twenty-four hours a day.”

“Now don’t you go gettin’ all sulky on me,” Aunt Josie said in her fake bossy voice. “We’ll be back in Digginsville every month. Mr. Clem’s not giving up the crematorium. And I’m not giving up my house or business.”

I nodded silently and grabbed another handful of ashes from the bag. Aunt Josie did the same.

“Did you know,” said Aunt Josie, changing the subject, “the reason Mr. Clem got into the crematin’ business? It was because of his uncle Seneca.”

“Yeah, he told me about him,” I said, conjuring up my new unwanted mental image of a decapitated corpse.

Aunt Josie started giggling. “Can you
imagine
seeing such a thing?” She whooped with laughter. “I would’ve paid fifty dollars to see that!”

“You
would
?” I asked. I didn’t even like thinking about it.

“Oh, I shouldn’t laugh,” she said, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “But the thought of a dead body falling from the bottom of a coffin just tickles me blind.”

“Are you talking about the cattle rancher in Montana?”

“That’s right,” confirmed Aunt Josie. “His name was Seneca. He was Mr. Clem’s uncle. He must’ve been a big old boy to bust out the bottom of a coffin.” Aunt Josie snorted. “But that’s exactly what happened when they were carrying him out of the church.
Blam!
Out he falls! And poor Clem just a young boy, seeing all that. ’Course he can laugh about it now. But that’s the sort of thing that’d scar a child, don’t you imagine? And it certainly explains how he got into the crematin’ business.”

“Huh?” I said. “That’s not what he told me.”

But Aunt Josie was too busy giggling to listen. “You can’t unsee a sight like that,” she rattled on, now flinging the ashes in generous handfuls. “Better not to see it in the first place. Well, I agree with him on that point, though I think I would’ve liked to see the old goat fall out of his coffin. He was the jealous type, Clem says. Do you know Seneca sued every one of his neighbors for making eyes at his wife? The stress of being jealous finally caused an artery to blow up in Uncle Seneca’s brain. He died on the courthouse square.”

“Mr. Clem told me something different. He said—”

But our conversation was interrupted by a cough behind us. Aunt Josie and I turned around. The four
lizard men were standing with the banner they’d carried in the Fourth of July parade.

“Oh sweethearts,” Aunt Josie said, placing both hands over her heart. “That’s just perfect for this occasion. Mr. Aubrey Bryant would be so pleased. Just stand right where you are in parade formation while Daralynn and I finish with the scattering.” Then in a softer voice, she said to me: “Let’s pick up the pace here, Daralynn. It’s a hot day and I don’t want any of my boys keeling over with a heatstroke.”

We worked for a few more minutes, sprinkling handfuls of Mr. Aubrey Bryant around Aunt Josie’s flowers. My hands were covered in the remains of the man who, just a week ago, had lived down the street from me. And now here I was, holding him in my hands. I looked behind me at the lizard men standing with their banner, their eyes still lowered, like flags flying at half-mast.

“You about ready to call it quits?” Aunt Josie asked quietly.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“All rightie then,” Aunt Josie said in voice loud enough for the lizard men to hear. “We’ve got just a bit left. What do y’all think of saving a little of Mr. Aubrey Bryant’s remains in a pretty glass pudding
bowl? We could put him on the mantel. That way, he’d always be with us.”

The men nodded in unison. So we marched as a group with the remaining ashes back to the house.

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” Aunt Josie told me.

But I’d lost my appetite for food. “No thanks. I’m going out to Doc Lake for a little while.”

And that’s what I did.

My head felt like a popcorn kettle exploding with worries as I walked the well-worn path along Highway E toward the lake. So dang much was happening and none of it was good. I needed time to think it all through. All I had were questions and problems without any answers or solutions.

When I got to the lake, I saw Sonny and Joyce McMurtrey fishing on the other side. I waved in their direction, hoping they’d stay where they were. Luckily, they did. I needed time and space to think.

I sat in the grass for a while and stared at the water. Then I picked up a stick and started poking at the scum on the lake. I was trying to think how I’d explain this day in a letter to Daddy, Wayne Junior, and Lilac Rose. But for some reason, my mind circled
back to Bud Mosley and his broken aquarium. I wondered if he ever found anyone to swap for that. Then I wondered how it got cracked in the first place. Maybe his cat, Pickles, was trying to catch a fish in the aquarium and knocked it over.

I was poking at the lake scum for an hour or more. A nest of some kind had blown in the lake and was floating on the water. Without thinking, I maneuvered my stick under the nest and dragged the wet clump over to the side of the lake.

When I did, I saw it wasn’t a nest at all. It was a mat of gray fur. I pulled it out of the water using two sticks like salad tongs. I tried to dry the dripping tangle of fur by shaking it. I was trying to guess what kind of animal it had come from. It was too light for a muskrat. Maybe a possum, I thought.

I moved behind a sticker bush so Sonny and Joyce wouldn’t see me playing with a dead pelt. I kept shaking it with a stick so I could see what the fur looked like dry. That’s when I realized it wasn’t fur. It was a little gray wig the size of
Le Frenchie
.

I was still studying it when I heard a car horn honk. I turned around and saw Mother, pulling into the parking lot near the cookout grills. She was
getting out of the car. She held something small in her hand.

I hid the hairpiece under a sticker bush and walked toward her. Even from a distance I could see what she was holding: my library card.

“Get in the car,” she yelled. “You’re grounded.”