I decide to pump out some words. It’s not easygoing, my mind runs through all the bullshit I’ve been through in the last few days, but somehow I write a chapter in the werewolf book I’ve been working on, loosely inspired by what Doaks and Everson told me about the Leering Research Facility. The clock magically moves at the speed of light. Before I know it, two hours roll by.
I get up to stretch. It’s stuffy in the motel room, the smell of sex now gone. I need fresh air so I open the door to step out. Moonlight bathes me in a glorious white — you don’t get this type of thing in the city where electricity chokes out Mother Nature.
I have no shirt on, only wearing my gym shorts and a beaten pair of slippers. It doesn’t matter because there’s no one in the motel parking lot. No cars roll down the street. Far up the walkway I see the light from Clark Hutchins’s TV set. Faintly, the voices carry through the door. I walk up about halfway where a couple vending machines sit against the brick between rooms. The colors of the Coca-Cola machine are faded, almost acid-washed. Caffeine. I’ll need it if I’m going to bust out another chapter tonight. Jerry, this new editor at my publisher, is a regular Nazi when it comes to deadlines, dead mother or not.
There are two bucks in quarters in my short’s pockets. I have a membership to Gold’s Gym back in Chicago, but I normally don’t do much working out. Usually, I just walk on the treadmill while Darlene does her Zumba or spin class. The change is for snacks in case she keeps me waiting too long. I know it’s a bad habit, but remember I’m a writer, not some world class athlete.
Not surprisingly, a can of coke is only fifty cents around here. So I buy two and start looking at the one next to it. It houses an array of snack foods: Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes, Cinnamon Rolls, Snickers, Reese’s. I try not to think about how old they might be when I pop in seventy-five more cents. A Reese’s slowly starts to uncurl from the wire which holds it in place. My mouth salivates at the phantom taste of sugar and salt, milk chocolate and peanut butter.
Then it stops, the package dangling on the edge.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I say, rubbing my head. This place just gets worse and worse.
I look around the lot again. All the rooms are dark, I don’t think there’s any other guests but Darlene and me. Black windows, closed drapes, no cars. My mind is made up. I give the machine a shove. The glass vibrates, but other than that, nothing happens. No Reese’s.
I grab hold with two hands, start rocking the damn machine back and forth.
Again, nothing.
“Damn,” I say under my breath.
I could try for another snack, but all I got is fifty cents, and the damn machine will probably eat that, too. Maybe Darlene will want a Coke in the morning. Screw that, I’m cheap. I may be looking to double my income this year with book sales, but that doesn’t mean money grows on trees.
So I walk up toward the motel office where I hear studio laughter leaking from beneath the door (not porn). I don’t bother knocking and walk right in. Clark is watching an old re-run of Happy Days. The television plays in black and white and looks ancient.
He doesn’t even notice me at first, so I clear my throat. Like the vending machine, no response. I do it louder this time. He swivels around, his eyes wide, looking like he just got caught yanking one out at church. Clark leans forward and turns the volume knob all the way down.
“Jack, how ya doing?” he says in a southern drawl that’s not native to Woodhaven. “The room all good for ya? That pretty fiancé happy?” He says the last part with a wink, causing a couple droplets of sweat to roll down from his hairline.
I skip the small talk, get right to the point. Truth is, this bastard creeps me out, even without the rumors of spying on the guests and painting the walls with his jizz. “Vending machine ate my quarters. I wanted a Reese’s.”
“Oh, hell, I been meaning to fix that. Called the vending machine company ‘bout six months ago and they ain’t never showed. Go figure. ‘Round here we gotta do things ourselves, but you know that, don’t ya, lil Jacky?” He chuckles.
“Yep,” I say, knowing Clark will never get around to fixing the machine and neither will the company who owns it, either.
He kind of stares blankly at me for a moment, as if he’s mentally checked out. I attribute it to either slight retardation or just way too much booze. It’s probably the latter, but I’ve never been able to rule out the former. Then he shakes his head. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Clark gets up. He’s a thin man, maybe too thin. He looks like he already has a foot in the grave.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, leaving the room.
Like coming back home, I realize trying to get my measly seventy-five cents was probably a mistake. I look around. The office is smaller than the motel rooms and somehow looks even more retro. Darlene might call it chic or some other weird fashion term. There’s wood paneling on the walls. The desk is made out of solid oak, polished. On the floor is a rug of psychedelic colors: red and blue and green and yellow. An empty water cooler hums in the background. I catch a faint whiff of mold and smoke, despite there being a sign above a cork board behind the counter reading: NO SMOKING.
The cork board is filled with flyers. Some look as old as the room, the corners of the pages curled and discolored. Others look newer, one, in particular, catches my eye. It’s next to another newer one that says: COME DOWN TO THE TOWN SQUARE FOR OUR 68TH ANNUAL FIREWORK FESTIVAL. PARADE! FOOD! BOOZE! GAMES! FUN! FUN! 7-12, YOU CAN PARK AT MOE’S. A few shakily drawn firework displays are above the words. But the flyer that caught my eye shows a picture of a man I faintly recognize. This one is done up more professionally. The words read, MUSCULAR HEAVEN WITH KEVIN. TRAIN HARD. GET RIPPED. CALL WOODHAVEN REC CENTER FOR AVAILABLE TIMES. SEVEN DAYS/WK.
I smile at the picture. It looks a lot like Kevin Crawford, one of the few friends I had in high school. He was just as nerdy and pathetic as I was, but when we went off to college we lost touch. He probably weighed about 130, tall as hell. A strong wind would’ve blown him out of town, but now, unless it’s Photoshopped, he looks more Goliath than David.
I walk behind the desk and grip a tab with the name (that does, in fact, say Kevin Crawford) and number on the flyer and rip it off. Kill two birds with one stone here, I think. Learn some work-out techniques and catch up with an old friend. As long as I’m stuck in town I might as well, right?
Clark shuffles in with a key ring. He stops and gives me a crooked gaze. “Whatcha doin’ behind my desk?”
“Flyers,” I say.
“Aw, yeah. You gonna stick around for the fireworks?”
I wish I could say no, but the truth is, I am.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Good, good,” Clark says. “Now let’s go get you your Reese’s.”
He walks out of the office, me trailing behind him. I still have the paper in my hand with Kevin’s name on it. I'll call him in the morning after the funeral. For now, I look forward to a chocolate and peanut butter cup of deliciousness.
Six
Woodhaven Memorial Cemetery is a small lot about a five minute walk from the town square. I wear black dress pants, a white undershirt, and a black suit jacket — no tie. I have a pair of sunglasses over my eyes despite it not being too sunny yet. The time is 9:13 a.m. The date is July 2nd. It is Friday. We didn’t have calling hours for my mother yesterday. She didn’t want them and rightfully so. She wasn’t well-liked in the community if I’m being totally honest. She was just kind of there. So far, it’s just me, Darlene, the priest — who I don’t recognize — and a couple of meaty employees who helped carry the casket. At least they’re dressed nicely.
The priest coughs into his arm a couple times, then pulls a handkerchief free from his pocket. I look straight at him as a glob of blood hanging on his lip is wiped away. It’s gross, but as of right now, I am numb.
“Shall we begin?” he asks after slipping the handkerchief away. Then he looks around at the graveyard, the onl
y signs of life are a couple of birds cawing in the trees behind us. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
“No, go ahead,” I say. My voice is so quiet, it’s almost lost in the breeze.
Darlene elbows me. “Your brother,” she whispers loud enough for the priest to hear.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound like I’d forgotten.
I hadn’t.
“Shall we wait?” the priest asks again.
“No, go on.”
He huffs in annoyance, then has to stifle another cough.
My mind is lost as he drones on from his Bible. I don’t even remember if my mother was religious. I want to say she wasn’t, but how could I have known? I hadn’t talked to her except for birthdays and holidays for ten years. Maybe she found God in that time. All alone out here in the middle of nowhere, she’d need someone to talk to, right?
“…love is a powerful weapon,” the priest drones on.
Darlene sniffles by my side.
It hits me how much I didn’t know my mother outside of being a mother. I didn’t know what kind of music she liked, her favorite food, her favorite television shows, movies…I didn’t know anything. Now I never will because she’s laying in a polished, black casket two feet in front of me, next to a hole in the earth six feet deep. Sometimes, I don’t even remember her first name. She’s just Mother, never Mom or Mommy. Mother…so prim and proper.
The sadness really rolls over me. A tear falls out from behind the cover of my lenses, hits me on my lip, tasting salty, feeling warm. Another one follows and soon I’m sobbing. Darlene wraps her arms around me, pulls me closer.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, but I don’t believe her. It will never be okay. My mother is dead and I was a terrible son.
The priest finishes up with, “Let us go in peace to live out the word of God.” His Bible closes with a sudden, final thump, reminding me of a closing casket. He walks around the head of the grave and places a hand on my shoulder. With soft eyes and a practiced frown, he says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Me too, I think to myself because I really am. If I could go back in time and fix all of this, I would.
“Thank you,” Darlene says, being my voice of reason.
I never got the flowers, I realize. All because Freddy Huber punched me in the face. The wound throbs at the thought of that bastard.
“When you are ready, we will lower her. Take as much time as you need,” the priest says.
“I’m ready now,” I say.
“I’m not,” a voice calls from behind me. Before I turn around, I already know who it is. Norman Jupiter. My older brother by five years. He wears a tuxedo, something you might get married in, and he has a bouquet of…you guessed it, roses.
Norm lives in some Midwestern state — Pennsylvania, Indiana, I’m not sure — but I am sure he shouldn’t have a tan on his face as bright as the sun itself. I know he’s an outdoorsman through and through. If I frisked him, I’d probably find a couple of guns — one tucked in his waistband, the other in an ankle holster — along with a switchblade or two. He believes in self-defense. He believes in violence. Seriously, go get a time machine and take a look at my childhood. He was always bigger and bolder, always getting in fights and whomping on me. Said it would make me tougher, but I think it just gave me nightmares. Really, looking back, I think Norm was bound to serve in the military, bound to make a career out of it. When he left me and Mother, we unraveled. He was our glue. I would’ve given anything for him to come back.
“Nice of you to show up,” I say. “Late.”
He outstretches his arms. “Little brother, it’s been so damn long!” He hugs me and it’s both uncomfortable and familiar. Just like he used to after a punch that was too hard and brought tears to my eyes when we were kids — Don’t cry, Jacky. Mom might hear and whoop both our asses. “How are ya?” He points up at the small cut under my eye and says, “Not too good, I guess,” followed by a chuckle.
“Not now,” I say. “Now’s not really the time to play catch-up, is it, Norm?”
He looks past me at the coffin. “Right,” he says. Then he sees Darlene and his jaw drops. “Wow, little brother, you really scored this?”
Darlene’s lip snarls. “Yeah, he did,” she says. This is still something I can’t comprehend, but yeah, I did.
“Sirs?” the priest says. “Shall we continue?”
“Yes,” I say.
Norm answers right after me with a resounding, “No.”
There’s a moment of silence as the priest’s eyes dart between us, not knowing who to follow orders from. The employees stand at each end of the casket lowering device, their hands hovering above the cranks which will send my mom to her final resting place.
“I want to see her again,” Norm says.
“You could’ve seen her anytime in the past fifteen years,” I say.
He ignores me, heads for the casket, then squats down on the green felt around it. “How the hell do you open this thing?”
My hand flies out to stop him. It’s not because I know the morticians probably did a terrible job of putting her together, but it’s because I might completely dissolve if I have to see her dead. “Leave her alone! All this time and you wanna bother her now?”
Norm looks up at me — something he’s never done in all thirty-three years of his life — like I’ve slapped him.
“Stop it!” Darlene yells. Her arms are folded across her chest, face growing redder. This is the look I don’t like, the one that tells me I better listen or she’s going to explode. Norm must see it, too. He may be a giant asshole, but he’s no dummy. “Stop it!” she repeats. “You’re embarrassing yourselves.”
I feel the priest’s eyes on me, the employees, too. At the same time, I feel God looking down. Maybe even my mom. But the only eyes I care about are Darlene’s.
Norm straightens up, looking at me. “You got a good woman there, little bro. Take good care of her.”
The comment surprises me. Norm was never too big on sharing compliments; he’s more of a jealous-make-excuses-about-why-you’re-wrong-and-he’s-right kind of guy. Trust me, you know the type.
Has my older brother finally grown up?
As if on cue, he walks off, finally sensing he’s not welcome.
I watch him go for a moment, then I turn to the priest. “Go on.”
We bury my mom. Me, Darlene, a priest, and two overweight cemetery employees whose names I don’t know.
The whole time, all I can think about is Kevin Crawford.
Seven
I’m not even halfway out of the cemetery when I fish around for the tiny slip of paper I’d pulled free from Clark Hutchins’s bulletin board.
I dial the number. It rings a few times before someone picks up. A woman. “Hi, this is the Woodhaven Recreation Center. Abby Cage speaking, how may I help you?
“Hello, I’m looking for Kevin Crawford.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The receiver clicks as she transfers my call, then the line starts to ring again.
“Kevin Crawford,” a deep voice answers on the other line. He sounds tired. “Train hard. Get ripped.”
“Hey, Kevin. It’s Jack Jupiter.”
Silence.
“Jack Jupiter? No way,” he says, a little more perked up.
“Yeah, I’m in town for a few days, and I saw your flyer. I was looking to get in a few good workouts. Pick up some proper training techniques before I drive back to Chicago.”
“Jack Jupiter? No shit?”
“Yep, it’s Jack.”
Kevin was not always the brightest fellow.
I’m at the car now, waiting for Darlene who is still back in the funeral home clearing up a few things.
“Well, Jack, come on down…let’s see, I’m all booked today, but how about tomorrow? Come on down tomorrow at say — no, that’s right before the festival, stupid thing.”
“The festival!” I say. “No, I can do it then. I’m not going, and honestly
, between you and me, the fewer people in the gym, the more comfortable I’ll be.”
“Should be deserted around that time, I really don’t know why we’re open in the first place. Oh well, I get paid by the hour.” He chuckles. “Come in at six sharp, we’ll only have about forty-five minutes before the rec closes. That cool?”
“Perfect.”
“All right, Jack, I’ll get you fixed up.”
“Thanks, Kevin. Can’t wait,” I say.
There’s another uncomfortable silence until Kevin’s gruff voice breaks it. “Say, man, I heard about your mom. I’m real sorry. It’s an awful thing, them deer. Animals have been acting real funny lately. Wrong place — ”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, closing my eyes and trying not to think of my mom’s casket covered in dirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up.
Darlene is a few steps away, and she grins, trying to comfort me.
It’s not enough because not even her dazzling smile can stop the tears from coming.
Eight
Today is July 3rd. I buried my mother yesterday.
I spend the day writing while Darlene goes shopping. Most of the businesses in the square stay open because they know the festival will bring in a few outsiders (we home-towners know their merchandise is crap). When she gets back, I’m already halfway out the door, heading to the gym.
“Be careful,” she says, kissing me.
“I’ll be fine, babe,” I say.
She grabs my bicep. “I think you’re buff enough, mister.”
I point to my eye. “This says otherwise. I’ll be back in about an hour. Maybe we can get a funnel cake and watch the fireworks tonight.”
The Dead Collection Box Set #1: Jack Zombie Books 1-4 Page 3
