(I)
“. . . and so whoever
believeth in me shall never die.’ ” The loud voice reached across
the field. Father Darren stood tall, broad-shouldered, with brown
hair sweeping past his shoulders—an imposing figure. His gentle
expression and blazing eyes seemed to maximize the effect of the
words he was saying.
Patricia struggled
not to shield her eyes. All dressed in black like that, the
congregation appeared as stark shadows in blazing sun. The moment
felt odd, the thrumming of the cicadas adulterating the silences
between the service intercessions.
And it was stiflingly
hot.
Judy stood next to
her, holding her hand and sobbing very quietly. Patricia’s eyes
darted around as the minister read on. There were a number of
townspeople gathered around, but she didn’t remember their names.
Chief Sutter and his deputy—Trey, she thought his name was—stood
off to the side, and then she spotted old Mr. Halm, who ran the
local convenience store. Angling off in another direction stood a
dozen or so Squatters, all dressed in austere black clothes. The
oldest face there she recognized at once—Everd Stanherd. This elder
of the clan looked deceptive, black, black hair belying the lined
face. The short hair was so dark it could’ve been a badly chosen
wig. Next to him stood his wife, Marthe, graceful, swanlike in some
aura of backwoods stature; Patricia remembered her too, still slim
and attractive in her sixties, black hair lustrous around the set
face. Both of them wore odd pendants about their necks, pouchlike
things, which Patricia couldn’t identify until she thought back.
The Squatters are so superstitious, she
remembered. All those trinkets and charms they
wear. A number of the other Squatters in attendance wore
similar items, either pendants or bracelets, and to confuse her
more, several others wore crosses.
But something was
bothering her—not her sudden recollection of the Squatters’
superstitious totems but . . . something else. Something seemed to
nag at her. . . .
A moment later she
sensed more than saw a presence behind her.
More of Father
Darren’s words resounded around them: “ ‘So we fix our eyes not on
what is seen but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but
what is unseen is eternal.’”
Patricia had a hard
time paying attention. She’d never been particularly religious; to
her funerals as well as weddings were just fancy words in a
ceremonial show. It was the figure behind her that distracted
her.
She finally stole a
glance to her rear, then, and saw Ernie standing solemn-faced,
hands clasped in front. Seeing him in a suit seemed jarring, but
with him dressed as he was, and with his long hair pulled back,
Patricia had to admit that he looked . . .
Really good . . .
She smiled briefly,
then turned back around. Yeah, he looks really
good, all right. . . . The delayed reaction smacked her
consciousness like a slap, an edgy sense of shame. There I go again—my God. I’m standing here at the funeral
of my sister’s husband and I’m checking out the handyman’s
bod. That bizarre sexual flux she’d noticed since she
arrived had never felt more apparent. Then she yelled at herself.
Jesus, Patricia! What is wrong with you?
You’re lusting after other men at a friggin’ funeral
while your loving and very faithful husband is
sitting back at your home paying the bills!
She chewed her lower
lip, hoping the tingling in her nipples would pass. . .
.
“‘We brought nothing
into this world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing out,’”
Father Darren continued, this time quoting the Book of Job. “‘The
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the
Lord.’”
The minister’s hands
were outspread before them all, his sedate smile exuberant. He held
up the urn. “Blessed Lord, we sing praise and thanks to your name!
And we beg you to commend the eternal soul of our brother Dwayne
unto the kingdom of Heaven—all unworthy servants that we are.” Then
Father Darren broke from his portable podium and approached Judy.
He handed her the urn full of her husband’s ashes.
Ricky and Junior
Caudill were twin brothers, Junior being so named due to the fact
that he emerged from his mother’s womb six minutes after Ricky. The
Caudill name carried some infamy throughout southern Virginia,
which perhaps lent credence to some recent scientific research that
suggested antisocial, psychosexual, and overall criminal activity
were indeed genetically inherent. Both were stocky, fat-faced,
sizably bellied, and both had short, dung-colored hair always
sticking up as though they’d just climbed out of bed. Ordinarily
their everyday apparel consisted of jeans, boots, and dingy
T-shirts, but today they’d dressed up in dark suits each a bit too
small, yet suits just the same. Even disrespectful fellows such as
these needed at least to look
respectful on select occasions.
Ricky spit a loogie
between his shoes, but he did so very quietly. See? Even a
shiftless sociopath knew some facsimile of ceremony. “Gettin’
boring,” he muttered.
Junior watched as a
tearful Judy Parker took the urn from Father Darren. He elbowed his
brother with a chuckle. “Bet’ cha that urn weighs less than most,
huh?”
Ricky didn’t get the
joke for a moment, but then he pondered the remark further. “Yeah.
Shit, I wonder . . . I wonder how much the ashes of a head weigh?”
Deep thinking for
this pair. Ricky scratched his ass as Judy Parker began to toss
plumes of ash into the open air.
“You think he wants
us to do like he was talkin’ the other day?” Junior
asked.
“Hope so. Been a
pretty borin’summer. Somethin’ to jazz it up’d be just
fine.”
Junior picked his
ear. “Oh, yeah, that’d jazz it up, all right.”
Ricky’s eyes scanned
the crowd. “Lotta Squatters here. Shit, ain’t that a laugh. Dwayne
hated the Squatters.”
“Yeah, but they
practically worship Judy. Only reason they got work is ‘cos of
her.”
“You really think it
was Squatters who kilt Dwayne? That’s the story.”
Junior’s chubby face
pulled into a smirk of doubt. “Naw. One a’ the construction crew’s
what I heard. Dwayne was fuckin’ the dude’s girlfriend, so the dude
showed him what trouble really was.”
Now Ricky was
squinting. “Check out the trim standin’ in front of Ernie. I swear
I seen her before.”
Junior squinted too.
“Never seen her before, and I’d remember a rack like that. Fuck.
She got a pair a’ milk wagons or what?”
“Oh, now I remember!”
Ricky cited with some whispered enthusiasm. “That’s Judy’s sister.
She moved to the city a long time ago,
married some rich, fat fella. Don’t’cha remember? Patricia’s her
name. She was the biggest talk a’ Agan’s Point ’bout twenty-five
years ago.”
Junior crudely
calculated in his head. “Twenty-five years ago? Shit, I’se pretty
sure I was doin’ my last stint in juvie hall.” .
“Yeah, yeah, I
remember tellin’ ya ‘bout it when I
come to visit ya.” Ricky’s face turned up in a big pumpkin grin.
“She’s the chick who got raped out at Bowen’s Field. Weren’t but
fifteen or sixteen. She was skinny-dippin’ by herself one night at
the pond and someone hauled her out and put the blocks to her right
there in the dirt. Staked her to the fuckin’ ground, too, while he
was doin’ her.”
Junior popped a brow.
“Shit, brother, don’t’cha be talkin’ like that. You’re gettin’ my
willy jumpin’.” Then he shot his brother a suspicious glance. “Bet
it was you who raped her and you just ain’t tellin’.”
“Naw, boy, if I’d
ever carved me a piece of box that
fine, you’d be the first I’d tell.” Ricky rubbed his hands
together, still staring at the attractive redhead. “I’d be
proud to have a cutie like that
screamin’ under me. . . .”
The highly
intellectualized discussion faded now, as Judy was finished
dispersing her husband’s ashes.
Father Darren, ever
smiling, spread his hands to them all and said, “‘I know that my
Redeemer liveth, and that he shalt stand at the latter day upon the
earth.’ Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord!”
The congregation’s
reply strayed across the field: “Amen.”
“It’s about time,”
Junior said. “I’m tired a’ standin’ around.”
Ricky’s eyes roamed
the crowd as a line formed, townsfolk waiting to convey their
condolences to Judy. “Where is he?”
“Here they come.
Shit. Sutter’s coming too.”
Sutter and Trey
approached the two brothers, neither looking happy. “What’ choo
boys doin’ here?” Chief Sutter demanded.
The brothers
shrugged. “Just payin’ our last respects to Dwayne,” Junior told
him.
“You boys didn’t give
a shit about Dwayne,” Trey said, standing right up to
them.
Ricky frowned. “We
knew Dwayne, all right. Didn’t always get along, but now that he’s
dead . . . like my brother said, it’s only right fer us to pay some
respect.”
“Bullshit,” the chief
said. “You’re about the two biggest lowlifes in all of Agan’s
Point—”
“You ain’t got no
right to say that!” Junior said back.
‟—and neither of ya
got any respect for no one. I told you two last time after Harriet
Farmer got all that jewelry stole out of her house—I don’t wanna
even see either of you nowheres around
me. You see me walkin’ down the street, you turn around and walk
the other way.”
Ricky glared back.
“We didn’t have nothin’ to with that
break-in, Chief,” he lied, “and it ain’t proper for you to hassle
us just ‘cos you don’t like us.”
“You guys busted into
that old lady’s house and ya know it,” Trey told them, jabbing a
finger hard against Ricky’s chest. “Oh, you don’t like me pokin’
ya? Do something about it.”
Ricky’s eyes lowered,
and under his breath he said, “This is bullshit.”
Next, Chief Sutter
bellied right up into his face. “And I know it was you two peepin’
on the Chester girls and their babysitter. Truck just like yours
was seen leavin’ the street. What a pair a’ scumbags.”
Now Junior tried to
get right back in Sutter’s face. “We didn’t peep on nobody,” he
lied just as well as his brother. In fact, they’d been doing the
same since adolescence. Junior’s voice increased in volume. “And
that’s downright shitty a’ you to say we’d do somethin’ like that.
The Chester girls ain’t even in high school yet.”
“That’s what I mean,”
the chief countered, and then he jabbed a hard finger. “And you
better keep your lyin’ voice down, ‘cos if you disturb this service
with your bullshit, I’m kickin’ both your asses.”
Junior’s face began
to twitch, as it often did when he was riled. But was he stupid
enough to assault the chief of police?
Junior opened his
hand, prepared to give Sutter a good, hard shove.
Trey jumped in front
of him, pushing him back. Even Ricky, the slightly wiser one,
grabbed his brother by the arm to stave off the blow.
‟Forget it, Junior,”
he ordered. “Don’t give ’em an excuse to bust us.”
Trey kept pushing
Junior away from the chief. “Grow a brain for a change and listen
to your brother, you asswipe.” He leveled his gaze on both of them.
“Get your deadbeat asses out of here while you still can. We will
not allow a scene here. You fuck this
up for Judy, me ’n’ the chief are gonna fuck you boys up but good.”
Junior’s eyes were
red with rage. He shook off his brother’s hand, then turned and
stalked off. Ricky followed him.
When they were back
at the road where everyone had parked, Ricky slapped Junior’s
shoulder. “Shit, man! I thought you were really gonna shove
Sutter!”
“Damn well had a mind
to. I’d love to roust that fat fuck.”
“So’d Trey slip ya
the contact?”
Junior reached into
the back pocket of his slacks. “Fucker should be a pickpocket.
Slippery, ya know? I didn’t even feel it.” He slipped out a small
piece of paper.
The paper read:
The Hilds. Tonight. Glove
compartment.
“Hmm,” Junior
said.
They both lumbered to
their pickup truck, a dented hulk. Ricky excitedly flung open the
door, then popped down the door to the glove box.
“The man came
through!”
Junior eyed the
contents of the envelope. “Yeah, and he ain’t foolin’
around.”
A thousand dollars in
cash filled the envelope.