The First Church (25 page)

“Of course,” Brian said.  He stood beside Jim as she hurried away to catch up with the
Reverend.

After a moment, Brian asked Jim, “How is he?”

“Who?” Jim asked, looking up, his eyes swollen and bright red.

“The new Reverend,” Brian said, nodding towards the man and Jim’s mother.

Jim shrugged.  “He’s no Rev.”

“Understood,” Brian said.  “So, what’s next for you?”

“School,” Jim said.  “Hang out with Lisa and my friends.  Maybe get a job.  Maybe not.  Depends on how much mom is going to need me.”

“Well,” Brian said.  “I think she’ll need you a lot.  Don’t go looking for a job yet.”

Jim nodded and then he looked at Brian.  “What about you?
What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?” Brian asked.

“I mean, are you still going to do the whole ghost thing?” Jim asked.

“Of course,” Brian said with a grin.  “It’s what I do.”

“Really?” Jim said, surprised.

“Really,” Brian said.  “In fact, when school’s out for the summer, give me a call.  We can work on some stuff up here, together.”

“Yeah?” Jim asked.

“Yeah,” Brian said.  “You’re tough as nails, kid.”

“Maybe,” Jim said, glancing at his grandfather’s casket, “but I’m not as tough as my grandpa.”

Brian couldn’t argue with him.  Luke Allen had been a hell of a man.

Brian looked at the clouds, then at the rows of the dead.  Among the stones and well cared for graves
, he saw ghosts of old soldiers,
sailors and Marines.  Men and women
who had watched another comrade laid to rest.

With a final glance at Luke’s grave, Brian put his hands into his pockets and walked towards his car, ready for the long ride home.

*  *  *

Bonus Scene Chapter 1: January 5th, 1968

George’s face hurt with the cold.

A dull ache radiating from his left orbital socket.

The one the war-lover had broken.

Absently, George, with his tongue, probed at the spot where two of his back teeth had been knocked out.  The same punch which had broken the socket had knocked out the teeth.

The war-lover had had big hands.

Hard fists.

Steel-toed boots.

But the war-lover was dead, and his wife as well.

Which meant the hideous trophies the war-lover had kept were unguarded.  George could get them and put them away.  He could make sure no one ever used the items for the glorification of mass murder again.

The sun finished its early descent behind the ranks of pine trees which lined the war-lover’s back yard, and George moved.

His body was stiff.  For
hours,
he had sat still in the cold.  Patience was necessary.  George needed to make sure no one stopped by to check on the house.  Thankfully Luke Allen, the insufferable athlete, had joined the Marines and was off in Vietnam.

With any luck, Allen would die as well.

George couldn’t stand any of them.

All of the athletes.  All of the war-lovers.  All of those who believed in America, ‘right or wrong.’

George snorted derisively and stepped out of the tree line.  He glanced to the left and to the right, saw the shades drawn in the houses on either side of the war-lover’s home, and he quickly moved forward.

He was dressed in white,
and he carried a small pry bar which he knew would let him open the back door.  Each step was cautious and silent.

George’s father, who had passed on already, had taught George to hunt and to take only what he needed from the land.

And George was hunting; he sought the remnants of war.

In a matter of moments, he was at the back door,
and he had the pry bar out.  With hardly any noise, he slipped the slim metal in, popped the latch and was in the house.

He put the tool away and stood still in the kitchen.  Soon his eyes adjusted to the dim light which filtered in through the windows.

The kitchen was as he remembered it, the hall still across from the rear entrance.

George walked carefully around the table and chairs, then made his way to the war-lover’s hideous room.

The door was locked, and once more he used the bar to gain entrance.

The accouterments
and ‘trophies’ of war populated the shelves. 

George wrinkled his nose at the imagined scent of death. He shivered at the idea of the pain inflicted by the gathered items, and he felt sick to his stomach as he looked upon the skulls.

The skulls, barren of flesh and the spark which had made them men.  Those were the items which had tripped him up the first time, years before.  He had heard rumors of the grisly trophies through his father’s rabid complaints to George’s mother.

George took a deep breath, pulled an old, army duffel bag out from under his coat, and emptied the shelves.

It took him less than ten minutes; the
half a dozen skulls were the last items in.  He shook his head as he wrapped each one in a hand towel and tucked it away, safely.  Soon he clipped the bag closed, slipped the strap over his shoulder and made his way out of the house.

He closed the back door behind him, stepped in his own prints and made for the woods once more.  Later, a storm would move
in,
and snow would fall.  George could smell it in the air.

His tracks would be covered, and none would be the wiser for days, if not forever.

The war-lover had spoken to only a few people about his trophies.

And George doubted any of them would ask what happened to such wretched items.

George hummed to himself and headed home.

Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Hiding them away

George’s mother was passed out in his father’s easy chair.

An empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table.  The television displayed the vertical bars of various colors.

She snored slightly, shifted in the chair, and let out some flatulence.

George paused, pulled the quilt off the couch and covered her up with it.

He didn’t think she would ever recover from his father’s death.

George left the television on and went into the basement.  The entrance to the secret room was behind the oil tank.  He pressed himself close to the granite foundation, slipped around the tank and slid the pocket-door back into the wall.  With a final
push, George was in the long room his father had built, a bunker in case of an atomic warfare. He flicked on the light.

Metal shelves
lined the walls.  His father’s plan had been to stock them with non-perishable items, but cancer had cut all of his father’s ideas and goals short.

George had found a better use for them.

Wooden boxes filled several of the shelving units.  Each held war trophies, George had stolen.  Some came from museums.  Others, from historical societies and libraries.  Only a few originated from people’s personal collections.

Those were the most dangerous to gather.

A painful lesson George had learned at the hands of the war-lover.

Part of George wanted to destroy the items, yet the act of destruction would, he felt, only pay homage to war itself.

And George wouldn’t do such a thing.

Not ever.

The air in the room was warm, if somewhat stifled, and George shed his coat, hat and gloves.  He dropped them on the bunk where he occasionally slept in, and put the duffel bag down beside them.

As he looked at the bag, a wave of exhaustion spilled over him.

The letdown after the success of a venture.

George yawned and realized he needed sleep.  He could empty the duffel bag in the morning.  He glanced at the
bunk, and then shook his head.

Mother will worry
, he thought.

George stifled another yawn, left the room and turned off the light as he went.

In the morning, he would savor his victory.

He whistled to himself and made his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

His mother still snored in front of the silent television, ignorant of what her son had brought into the house.

Bonus Scene Chapter 3: A Morning Pick-Me-Up

Joan woke up with the quilt on her, and a dull headache.

George is home
, she thought, pushing herself up and out of the chair.  She grimaced as the room tilted inappropriately.  With a
grunt, she kicked the cover away from her legs and staggered into the kitchen.

She got a pot of coffee going and a fresh bottle of cooking sherry out of the pantry.  From the drying
rack, she took her mug, added a healthy dose of the liquor to it and waited dully for the percolator to finish.

Jesus Christ
, she thought, blinking at the sun streaming through the side door. 
Why the hell does it have to be so damned bright out?

A glance over at the table showed her George had already eaten breakfast.

All of yesterday’s mail was organized, the table’s Formica wiped down, and the newspaper neatly folded and placed in front of her chair.

She smiled at her son’s small acts of kindness, and then she fought back tears.

George reminded her of his father.

After a few minutes, the coffee was ready,
and she carried her mug to the table.  A little splashed out and splattered her already stained house slippers, but she didn’t care.

She wanted to read the news and to see what was happening in the world.

Although she didn’t think there’d be too much.

A quick glance at the front page of the
Portsmouth Herald
made her pause.

John Boyd and his wife were dead.

Serves him right,
Joan nodded. 
Serves them both right.  He didn’t need to beat George the way he did.  Didn’t need to do it all, actually.

She skimmed the rest of the paper, more focused on her coffee than on any news.  The sherry took some of the
edges off her headache, and she smiled.

George would be at the hospital.  Such a sensitive boy who had to work as a janitor.  She knew he should have been a musician or an artist, but those didn’t
pay, and George took care of her.

He’s a good boy
, she told herself. 
A little free with other people’s belongings.  But, a good boy
.

Joan got to her feet, went to the coffeepot and added a little more, and a lot more sherry, to her mug.  She looked at the bottle, lifted it and took a long drink. 

The liquor was a balm as it settled in her stomach.

Better
, she sighed. 
Much better.

Joan carried her drink into the front room, saw the television was off and turned it on.  She fiddled with the antenna until she got NBC’s
Today
, and returned to the safety and comfort of the easy chair.

She tried not to think of her husband and focused instead on the program.  Vietnam was the main
point, and she only listened with
half an ear.  Luckily for
her,
she didn’t have to worry about George being drafted.  He was a registered member of the Industrial Workers of the
World,
and no one would trust a Communist with a gun. 

Not in America at least,
she told herself.

The basement door rattled.

I thought he was at work.  What’s he doing downstairs?
she thought.

The noise stopped.

“George?” she called over her shoulder.

He didn’t answer.

Must be the wind,
she thought, shaking her head.  She finished her coffee and returned her attention to the television.  A moment later, a commercial for the new Cadillac came
on,
and she forced herself out of the chair.  There were a couple bottles of Wild Irish Rose wine beneath the
sink, and she wanted to get one of them open.

The basement door shook in its frame.

Joan stiffened.

“George?” she asked.

A glance out the window showed motionless trees.

There was no wind.

“George, are you hurt?” she said.  A horrific vision of George injured leaped into her
mind, and she hurried to the basement door, which exploded as she neared it.