by Torsten Krol
I do not often get to feeling slit-eyed mean, but going to fetch the gloves and shovel that is exactly how I felt about things. It was plain ridiculous to have to keep moving a dead man around like this, and undignified even if he’s a murderer. Every dead man deserves to lie peaceful once he’s under the soil, not disturbed over and over for no good reason. Dean’s ghost would not be happy about this.
I dug like a machine I’m so steamed. It was not such hard work because the dirt is still loose from being dug out three times now already including the first time when Dean dug it. No, it was the sheer waste of time and effort had got me mad. By the time I got down to Dean I was in a fine fury about things and it may be that I treated him rough getting him hauled out into the yard. I carried him over to the grass heap breathing through my mouth because Dean stunk like nothing I smelled before, a man four days dead now and letting the world know it. I set him down and told myself not to throw up, then I opened up a big hole in the mound of grass clippings and was just about to put him inside and cover him over when it occurs to me the stink will come through something like piled grass very easy and maybe the video guy will smell it and blow the whistle.
Dean had to be stink-proofed, so I got two of the big plastic bags that had lawn clippings in them before and pulled them over him, one from the top and one from the bottom, then I got tape from Dean’s workbench in the barn and taped those two bags together very careful so they’re airtight like I wanted. When that was done you couldn’t hardly smell him at all, and even that little bit of stench was probably coming from my shirt when I held him against me to carry him over. Putting him inside just a bedsheet had not been the smartest thing, but the problem was solved now, I’m thinking while I put him in the hole and pulled grass over him three foot thick. Then I went inside and showered again and run all my clothes through the washing machine I’m so stinking filthy dirty. Then I made pizza again, two of them seeing as they’re Thin’n’Crispy not the Deep Dish kind and I’m hungry like since I don’t know when. But at least the problem has been taken care of.
That’s when I remembered I didn’t fill in the yard hole again, which got me yelling dirty words to match my mood I’m so strung out now and mad at myself. So back out to the yard again and the hole got dirt shoveled in like before. It doesn’t look like a hole that got dug out and filled two days ago, it looks like a hole that got filled in just now, but there’s nothing I can do about it except hope that the video cop is not bright enough to notice that before I sink the spade in again come tomorrow. Man, was I tired.
It was coming on to night by then so I showered all over again and hung out my laundry with the last of the light bleeding away west in the sky. After that was done I went back inside and turned on the TV for the early news, which has got plenty about a manhunt across the entire Midwest now for Dean and warnings about not to approach him he’s so dangerous, like he’s covered in anthrax or something. They wanted him so bad there’s a reward out for information concerning his whereabouts. A hundred grand, that’s a bunch of cash and it’s just a shame that I can’t collect it without getting into deeper trouble than I’m already in. I bet Dean never figured he’d one day be worth so much.
After all that effort relocating Dean I was so tired I fell asleep in front of the tube like many people do and woke up a long time later with this voice telling me I had to change myself for the better or risk being kept from happiness, which is the natural reward for every soul that embraced the Lord as his savior. My eyes opened and there he is in front of me, Preacher Bob himself.
He’s not a handsome man and he doesn’t try to be, not like some of them that hurl the Book at you from TV, with their dyed hair and teeth so white they hurt your eyes. Preacher Bob looked like he slept in his suit and woke up with an empty bottle beside him, and that is the thing that makes folk love him like they do, because he’s just like them, not some slick showbiz kind of preacher like you often get nowadays. To look at him you wouldn’t think that he’s a multimillionaire that has got his own Bible college there in Topeka that churns out preachers and whatnot to go across the globe and convert all those heathen folk to Christian ways as well as all the sinners right here in the USA. Preacher Bob, his congregation doesn’t go so much for the razzle-dazzle kind of thing with lots of singing and a chapel that looks like someplace they might show the Academy Awards out of. Preacher Bob’s setup is entirely different to that, just a simple stage with a little stand where he keeps his Bible to read out of. There is no choir and no second guy up there that he talks to the way some of them do, what they call Conversations about Christ. Preacher Bob does not hold a conversation, he preaches a Sermon just like they did it in olden times with no frills and mood lighting and white teeth. Not Bob, that is just not his style.
He has got these half-moon glasses that hang around his neck on a little chain till he’s ready to read a passage from whichever part of the Bible he’s interested in right now, Jewteronomy or Revolutions, whatever, he picks them up and perches them on the end of his nose which has got a bulb on the end of it like a red onion and he commences to read out loud. Real loud. If Preacher Bob has got a homely face he has been repaid for it with a voice that sounds like God himself, all stern and deep and serious. It gets your attention, that voice, even if you aren’t the religious kind. It reaches out and takes hold of you like a big warm hand you can’t stay away from, and once those fingers close around you he’s got you right where he wants, listening to the Voice that’s telling you where you Went Astray in life and how to fix it Like New again, which is through Jesus Christ and no other way at all.
The way he talked, you wanted to believe every part of it, he makes it all sound so simple and true. All you have to do is walk through the church door Preacher Bob is holding open special just for you and everything from then on will be fine because you’re under the wing of Jesus on the one hand and the wing of Preacher Bob on the other, all safe and secure the rest of your life. Now he’s talking about tithing, giving ten percent of your income to the Lord, which is every bit as important as the praying you have to do to keep tight with Jesus. It’s the same old gimme-your-money message they all dish out, only with Preacher Bob it sounds so genuine and real, like every cent of the money will go to helping little starved African kids find their way to Jesus with Your Help and those generous cash donations are Tax-Deductible, folks. I could practically feel myself reach for my wallet the way he talks.
This is the guy that got a letter from someone as unimportant in the grand scheme of things like Aunt Bree was, and he didn’t just ignore it like you might expect a VIP like him to do, no, he sent Chet Marchand out to Callisto to try and save Dean’s soul before he went and lost it forever by going over to the Muslims. It was a surprising thing that he did that, reached out to save a single soul at risk of Eternal Damnation when he’s got all this other stuff to be taking care of, so you had to admire him a little bit even if you aren’t the churchgoing type the way I never have been.
He stopped talking half a minute or so like he does to get his wind back, just pacing back and forth a little way while he gathers his thoughts and prepares to launch into the next part while the congregation in front of him and the audience at home wait patient for him to crank it up again.
“Now what is the topic of the hour?” he asks, then he answers himself. “Terrorism. That terrible word, my friends, that we hear every time we switch on the news. Terror-ism. We have had just in my own lifetime Nazi-ism, Commun-ism and now something equally bad and terrible – Terror-ism. The dictionary defines Terror as an intense, overpowering fear, the ability to instill such fear, violence toward private citizens, public property and political enemies promoted by a group to achieve or maintain supremacy. That sums it up nicely, don’t you think? But, my friends, those definitions are just not adequate to encompass the other aspect of terrorism, by which I mean the un-Christian aspect. The Christian Church does not practice terrorism, but the Muslim religion does. It does so openly, i
n the name of Allah.
“Now I do not mean to imply that all Muslim people are terrorists, or the situation would be a thousand times worse than it is. But I do say that in the name of their god, certain practitioners of the Muslim faith have turned the world into a battlefield. Their aim, they openly admit this, is conversion of everyone else on the planet to their way of thinking. Imagine that. Every single man, woman and child walking the face of this earth must turn away from Jesus and accept Mohammed as the one to whom God revealed the truth. Not Jesus. Mohammed. It has been the practice of these Mohammedans to use the sword in getting their way. That was in the days when swords were the latest weapon. Now, of course, they use bombs and bullets to further their aim. According to Islam we must all do exactly as they want us to, or they will kill us. It’s as simple and as terrible as that. Think like we do, pray like we do, or we will kill you, that’s the message from these people.”
Bob started quivering all over, you could practically feel the rage building up inside him and coming through the screen at you. “What-a-nerve,” he says, then again to ram it home, “What-a-nerve! Friends, we do not tell the Muslim people of the world to think and pray as we do. We may suggest to them that our way is the true way, but we do not threaten them with loss of life if they disagree, which is their choice. Let’s not forget, you choose to be a Christian, you cannot be coerced or threatened or bribed to be a Christian. And yet these . . . fiends with their bombs and bullets insist that we do exactly that. In order to be saved, my friends! Saved from what? From the way of life you and I and countless millions of Christians have lived and prayed for generations these last two thousand years. Two thousand years! Islam is not that old. Islam is centuries younger than Christianity, and yet these Johnny-come-latelies seek to tell us where the truth lies!”
Bob was plenty steamed about it, the situation with those terrorists. “And just in case you think that a terrorist is someone over there in the Middle East with a rag around his head, let me remind you that there are such people right here in America. Not descended from Arabian stock. Not immigrants to our fair land from their own country of scorching heat and desert sands. No, I’m referring to homegrown Americans brought up in the Christian Church and culture. How is it possible, I hear you ask, that this could happen? That an American boy from the heartland would turn away from what he knows is right, the traditions and lessons and way of life he has been brought up in ...turn away from those things and embrace the beliefs of Islam? How is that possible? I’ll tell you how, and the answer will come as no surprise to those of you who have been listening to me these many years now. The devil is a whisperer, friends. He whispers in the ear of the weak and misguided and gets inside their head and turns their thoughts away from Jesus, yes he does. He might turn your head and make you into a drug addict. He might turn your head and make you into a child molester. He might turn your head and make you into any one of a dozen different kinds of monster, up to and including the very worst kind, my friends – the murderer.”
Preacher Bob took a drink of water from the glass he keeps next to the Bible. “And not just a murderer – a special kind of murderer, maybe the very worst kind there is. I’m talking about the murderer who kills within his very own family. His own family. Think about that. Let’s imagine there has already been tragedy in this family. A husband who abandoned his wife while she was bearing his child. A wife who abandoned her baby once he was born. Terrible burdens to begin life under, but not the worst, because that wife had a sister who was unmarried, and that sister did the Christian thing, my friends – she stepped into the breach and raised that child as her own! This happened. These are facts. It happened here in Kansas. And do you know what happened after the passing of time? Did that child thrive and become a good citizen by following the example of his aunt who took him in and devoted her life to his? He did not. The devil whispered in that young man’s ear ...and he turned and slew that righteous woman.”
A long soft whisper ran through the congregation. Bob stood there shaking his head with his lips pressed together tight, like he can’t hardly bear to think about this tragedy that happened right here in Kansas. “Slew her with a shotgun, friends.” The whisper ran around Bob’s TV chapel again, and now I’m paying real close attention. “And put her torn and maimed body in a freezer while he contemplated how to dispose of her. This good woman who had scooped him up from disaster and held him to her bosom. What kind of a young man is this we’re talking about here? I’ll tell you what kind. The devil whispered in his ear not once, but twice. Twice! And what was it that the second whisper was advocating? I’ll tell you that too. Islam. He wanted that murderous young man to convert to Islam.”
He said it so dramatic he had to wait for the ripple of outrage that run around the congregation to ease off, then he said, “And was the devil content to stop there? He was not. The devil whispered a third time into the receptive ear of that young man, and bade him take up a weapon ...and gun down one of the finest men in public office this great nation has ever had the privilege of sending to Washington!”
The congregation, they got real excited and started in applauding. Bob hasn’t even spoke Senator Ketchum’s name out loud, but it’s clear they know who he’s talking about. He didn’t say Dean’s name either, maybe he can’t on account of legal reasons, I don’t know, but if folks were wondering which misguided devil-whispered young man he was referring to before, they sure as hell know it’s Dean now, by God.
Bob waited for the fuss to die away a little, then he went on, “Haven’t we had enough of these assassinations of our best Presidents? Lincoln, gunned down after saving the nation and freeing the slaves! Kennedy, gunned down while in his prime after staring down the Communist monster over Cuba! We will not have this happen again!”
Open cheering, even some whistling. This doesn’t usually happen on a religious show. Bob is working the crowd like a man selling Youth Pills to retirees. “Now, friends,” he says, “I know the man in question is not yet our President. Not yet until November 2008 rolls around...” he says with a grin. More whistling which he bats down with his hands and goes on, “but the message is clear. The best and brightest hope that we Americans have to sustain our battle against the terrorists is being threatened even before assuming the highest office in the land. Threatened before he even begins his official run for that office. Threatened by the lowest of the low – an individual so blighted by lack of conscience he murdered his own aunt that raised him like her son! An individual so lacking in gratitude for having been born an American Christian he has turned away from the light and embraced the darkness! He has sworn to take the life of a man beloved by millions. Sworn to take his life! Now his target, who’s known to be a man of stout heart and courage, is not going to back down from this confrontation. Not this man! He’ll be there, out in the open under God’s great sky, moving around our country to ask you for your vote when the time comes, and all the while this young murderer will be stalking him in the name of Allah! He will not succeed! Not while our prayers are with him, protecting him as if beneath the wing of the Lord our savior!”
That pretty much brung the house down, and they were still clapping their hands when the credits rolled. I have sometimes before watched these shows but never saw one that got people so excited about something that wasn’t healing body pain and illness by the laying-on of hands. I wondered if the senator was watching and judging how many extra votes Preacher Bob had just now handed him.
I turned the TV off and heard a welcome sound way off in the distance, the rumbling of thunder. Why welcome? Because it means the earth filling the hole in the back yard will get good and wet and will settle some, and look like a mound that was created Wednesday not Friday, which is exactly what I needed for fooling the video cop tomorrow. It was almost like Preacher Bob had seen my difficulty and sent some rain to cover my crime. I went out on the porch to see the lightning flicker-flashing way off to the west and felt the wind in my face. The storm was coming
in this direction so you could say that Salvation was heading my way. Amen to that.
NINE
Saturday morning and here comes the cop right on time, his tires splashing through the puddles. He’s a rookie by the look of him, around my age with very fair hair, and he’s brung his camera. He says he’s there to tape the house interior and the grave hole getting emptied out, and he’s not happy about it because he wasn’t officially rostered for weekend work only the Chief insisted. He sounded kind of pissed about things in general, the way he talked.
I took him around back and showed him the mound, which looks like it’s been there some considerable time thanks to the rain. He shot it for a few seconds to show it undisturbed, then he gave me a look that’s kind of apologetic which means he’s been told by Chief Webb that it’s me doing the spadework today. I picked up the shovel and started in on it while he shot me doing it, then he said he may as well start in on the house while I’m busy out here. So off he went through the back door while I felt my first sweat of the day start to come through my shirt. Damn that Chief Webb!
Those first couple of feet of dirt were heavy with rain and stuck to me because of the dampness, which made progress even slower and filthier. I swore never again to pick up a shovel the rest of my life. Even my favorite dog, if I ever had one, would not get buried in the yard when he died, he’d be put up in the branches of a tree like the Indians used to do with their kin and left there to get eaten away by time and weather. The further down I got the drier the earth, so that was easier, only I’m getting tired by now so it was no picnic even then. The rookie come back out when I’m around halfway down and says he’s done the entire place. I probably should’ve cleaned up a little before he started taping but too late now.
He lit a smoke and watched me work, which was irksome, and told me the department is so cheap it doesn’t even have a DVD recorder, just this crappy old videocam that’s a dinosaur, he calls it even if it is a Sony. This tape he just now shot will be going to Homeland Security for a permanent record and won’t ever be taped over again. It’s a special tape, he says, because it’s connected to the threat against Senator Ketchum which everyone is talking about. You could tell that even though he didn’t want to fritter away his Saturday like this he’s kind of proud to be the one that made the tape that’s so god-damn important. He stood over me smoking his cigarette while he talked, even flicked his ash down into the hole next to me, which made me want to sling a shovel of dirt up at him for payback, only you can’t do stuff like that to a cop even if he’s a rookie.
