That uncertainty he feels will disappear with time. He’ll find out what’s going to happen to this place.
Who knows, maybe he’ll surprise the bejesus out of everyone and make something happen himself. Maybe he’ll get a job working for the coroner’s office or something. He’ll land on his feet, I’m sure. Never said the boy lacked initiative.
Who knows, maybe his hare-brained photography-video thing will work out. I doubt it, but I am of a different generation, a throw-back to a more genteel Savannah, a Savannah where the good have a nice respectable service, and then go to rest out at beautiful Bonaventure Cemetery.
I punch the button that turns my computer screen back on and look at the Forever Hollywood Cemetery website. The sample videos do look good. My eyes go to the post-mortem photographs on the wall near the boy’s desk.
There’s no longer any place for me in this new world.
Chapter 15 – Caleb
Two sad moss-encrusted alligators crouch in the half-submerged chicken wire pen. They lay motionless in the mud of the bank of the creek, baking in the sun.
“You know this place used to be, like, a research hospital?” She looks up into my face for a reaction. She doesn’t get one. “Yeah, they used to do all kinds of crazy shit up in that building.” Scarlet points to the huge brick colonial building that sits in a nearby clearing. We can barely see it through the Spanish moss that hangs from the live oaks.
She probably can’t tell me anything I don’t already know, but I let her continue anyway, enjoying the sound of her raspy voice. Her magenta hair sparkles in the dappled sunlight and I want to touch it. The only reason we came out to Oatland Island is that she wants to be friends like we’d been for two years, like nothing ever happened. She acts like she’s out of danger. She’s not.
“Did you know that the CDC used to bury pesticides and radioactive shit out here? People who live on the island can’t drink the water because it’s all fucked up. They have to, like, dig their own wells, really deep ones, and even those have some kind of contaminants in them. But, you know, they give that fucked up water to these poor animals. Fucking bastards.”
What she is telling me is only partly true. The CDC had everything pretty much cleared up by 2004. I want to slap her for lying but I’m sure it is just plain ignorance. After all, she is not from here. The big two-story brick building had actually started out as a retirement home for railroad workers, then it became a hospital, then a CDC research facility.
“How do you know all of that?”
“I read a book about it in the local history section of the library at school.” She gives me a smug smile that makes me want to bite her cheek.
She doesn’t know anything.
We walk out of the alligator pen and down the gravel path toward the leopards. I inch my hand close to hers. She picks up on it and lifts that hand to twist her plethora of earrings on the near side of her head. She smiles at me, though. A nice friendly smile. I show her my teeth through my still-split lips. It is less of a smile than a show of aggression. Like an animal. I could rip her throat out right here. I wonder if anyone would hear; I’ve only seen one employee today, and she was in the gift shop on the other side of the park.
“Speaking of school,” I say, “what are you going to do after graduation? Did you get that job out in Los Angeles?”
Her doughy face slumps, as do her fat milky shoulders. She squints up at the trees where a squirrel skitters along a branch. I wonder why we never see squirrel droppings or have them fall on our heads or anything. Scarlet glances at me. “I got a letter yesterday.” She swallows hard, tears shining in her cloudy blue eyes. “They’re not making the movie, so the production company’s not hiring.”
Heh heh heh.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I want to smile for real this time but my lips would bleed and I don’t feel like bleeding right now. I clear my throat instead.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlet.” I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her against me. I’m surprised that she doesn’t pull away. She feels soft and pillowy, like holding a cloud. As close to Heaven as I should ever hope to get.
We walk along the trail in silence for a minute or two getting bitten all to hell by the gnats and mosquitoes. I left the bug spray in the car.
“Hey,” I say, “I have an idea.” I try not to show too much enthusiasm.
She turns her full-moon face toward me. I bask in the glow of her sparkly blue eye shadow, her gold-frosted lips.
“You know, I could use some help at the funeral home.” I steal a glance at her. Her face sours. Her cloudy eyes challenge mine. “With the make-up and setting up the parlors. That’s kind of like set dressing, isn’t it?” She just stares at me. “What?”
“Dude, that is just so, like...” She shakes her head.
I want to turn her head so hard her neck pops and her head lolls like someone spiked her beer with ketamine.
“So, like, what?” I ask.
“I can’t do that. I mean, like, work with dead people.”
I know she’s insulted, thinking I’m a monster for suggesting the possibility.
“And you think that’s like set design?” She huffs. Her brows scrunch together, the ring through one of them slanting at an extreme angle.
I want to rip that ring right out. She’s making fun of me.
She starts walking away, toward the parking lot.
“I could kill you right here. No one would see.”
She looks back over her fat shoulder. “What did you just say?”
Heh. “I said ‘you’d be good at it, I’d like you to work with me.’”
She shakes her head and continues toward the car. I guess we’re leaving Oatland.
But she is not leaving Savannah.
Chapter 16 – Scarlet
I rattle my key in the lock and push open the front door to my apartment. I slam it behind me, not bothering to wave good-bye. I kick a pile of clothes off the couch, curl up, and cry. Not cry like silent tears rolled down my cheeks or whatever, but really sob, like someone is killing me or something. I wonder if the neighbors hear me, but then I decide I don’t give a fantastic fuck.
I’m not going to Hollywood. The reality hits me like a bullet to the chest.
Someone killed that part of me. That hope, that dream. That plan, that goal. What the hell else am I going to do with a fucking art degree? Work in a gallery or museum? Can’t do that, didn’t take enough art history. Do window dressing for department stores? Best jobs are in New York and I’d never be able to afford to move there.
Stay here and work in a funeral home? With that weird-ass guy?
He’s so fucking creepy. I mean, I’m sorry I thought he was gay or whatever, and I want to be his friend, like I used to be, but I don’t like him trying to hold my hand or touching my hair or anything. Eeew. He’s fun to talk with. Well, he used to be, anyway. Now he’s just bizarre and hostile. Maybe it’s the anti-psychotic meds he takes, plus drinking on top of them. I don’t know, but I really think he said he wanted to kill me today, out at Oatland Island, but then made out like he totally said something else.
And then there’s the fighting and the seeing giant lizards. I don’t know what that’s all about. I’m, like, kind of worried about him, but what can I do?
Seriously, though, could I work with a nutcase like that? Could I handle that smell of death he carries around on his clothes every day? I’d smell like that, too.
Suck it up. I’m going to have to stay here after graduation. I’ll keep doing the ghost tour thing, get another job, and a place to live, and just try to save up enough money to get the hell out.
And I’ll try to be nice to Funeral Boy, just because I’ve been friends with him for two years, and he doesn’t really have any friends, you know? I think he kind of needs me.
Chapter 17 – Caleb
I stare into the thick tan foam floating on the surface of my Guinness, waiting for it to dissipate. It’s taking too long.
Where in the hell is the waitress? I’m about to throw the glass across the room, my hand curls around the too-cold sweating glass.
“So she thinks we’re gay. Big fucking deal,” Four says, flagging down the waitress. “I told you she was a bitch, remember? Now, was I right or was I right?”
The waitress approaches our table, licking her candy-apple lips. Four gives her a sly smile. I want to spit in her face.
“Hey,” he says, “I would love another Glenfiddich, please, neat, and my friend would like a shot of Wild Turkey.” He tilts his head, looking up at her with his dark puppy-dog eyes. “And, oh, if it’s not too much trouble, how about your phone number?” He grins and winks. He looks ridiculous. Like an oversized chubby gnome.
She giggles and then turns to me with a tight smile. My stomach churns. I’ll never know how he does it, how he charms every woman he meets, even when he’s in that ridiculous zombie costume or a Mighty Mouse T-shirt.
We watch her walk away, her hips swaying to some unheard rhythm.
“Now,” he says, returning his gaze to me, “where were we? Ah, yes, the bitch named Scarlet. Dude, you don’t need that shit. Stuff like that happens all the time. She’s the devil, man. You play with fire you’re going to get burnt to ash.”
“Nothing ever happens to you.”
Four snorts. “Huh. Plenty of shit happens to me. I just do not take shit, that’s all. If I don’t like what some chick is doing,” he waves at me, “‘bye-‘bye, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you in the fat ass on the way out.’” He drains what’s left of his scotch and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his Mighty Mouse T-shirt.
The waitress comes back and sets two napkins on the table. She sets Four’s drink on top of one of them, winks at him, then swishes away. The second napkin has seven digits and a name written on it in red ink. He stuffs that napkin in the hip pocket of his dirty cargo shorts and takes a sip of his scotch. “Good stuff,” he says, smiling.
I sigh and let my eyeballs float around Kevin Barry’s brick-lined downstairs bar. It’s crowded for a Tuesday night. The beginnings of a headache tingle in my temple, aggravated by the buzz of the crowd. I reach into my pocket and pull out a Seroquel. I’m not supposed to drink alcohol with this stuff, but what the hell, my life’s going down the shitter anyway. Where do I get the stuff now that Sterling cut off my shrink visits? Funeral parlor owners know a lot of doctors, that’s where I get it. Dr. Cummings wrote me a prescription. I take it three times a day. It makes me see fewer reptiles. It also makes me unable to form coherent sentences at times. Especially when I’m drunk off my ass.
“How... it’s a fear... or girls like gators, you know? Slashing isn’t stealing.”
Four gives me a questioning look. I don’t know what I just said, either.
“You know what you need, Dude?” Four seems to always know what I need. “You need to get laid, man.”
I think of the hooker down at the Alamo Motel. I think of the patched over stucco spots on the ceiling and the way her eyes bulged when I put my hands around her throat. I think of the pink bathroom with mold-encrusted grout and how I punched her in the face before I dropped a twenty on the floor and left her bleeding and crying.
Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Sure.
What I need, I tell Four, is for Scarlet to stay in Savannah.
What I need is for Scarlet to love me.
Or at least to need me.
Chapter 18 – Sterling
Last Will and Testament
This is the last Will and Testament of Sterling Montgomery Exley III, born on October 13, 1949 of 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401, made this 18th day of May 2012. I hereby revoke all former Wills and Codicils made by me and declare this to be my last Will.
I appoint my nephew Caleb Montgomery Exley to be the Executor of this Will.
I devise and bequeath the residue of my real and personal estate whatsoever and wheresoever to my wife Billie Fletcher (Mason) Exley and my nephew Caleb Montgomery Exley in the following manner. Billie Fletcher (Mason) Exley shall receive in monthly installments the full amount to keep her in the care of Summer Wind Retirement and Hospice Community located at 347 Wilmington Island Road, Savannah, Georgia 31410 for the remainder of her natural life. Caleb Montgomery Exley shall receive all physical property located at and including 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401. Caleb Montgomery Exley shall become the sole proprietor of Exley & Sons Funeral Home located at the same address.
I wish my body to be lain in state in the Serenity Parlor of Exley & Sons Funeral Home located at 121 West Hall Street, Savannah, Georgia 31401. I wish for the music of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeomen of the Guard to be played throughout the viewing. I wish my body to be buried in the Exley Family plot located inside Boneventure Cemetery, Greenwich Road, Savannah, Georgia 31404; plot number 1022 on Stoddard Way.
As witness by my hand the day and year above written
Testators Signature/date
Signed by the said Testator in the presence of us at the same time who at his request and in his presence and in the presence of each other, have subscribed our names at witnesses.
First Witness
Signature
Name Dr. Edward P. Cummings
Address 3 Jones St., Savannah, GA
Occupation Physician
Date18 May 2012
Second Witness
Signature
Name Grainger J. Mercer III
Address 103 E. Gordon Ln., Savannah, GA
Occupation Hospitality
Date18 May 2012
Chapter 19 – Caleb
I knock on her door, holding a bouquet of flowers behind my back, which I, of course, took from an early service we’d had in the Peace Parlor. Footsteps approach the heavy oak door from the other side. Some kind of rustling ensues. I imagine her eye pressed against the peephole lens. I imagine what it would be like to have a blow gun to blow that lens right into her eyeball, cutting the cornea.
“Hey,” Scarlet says opening the door a few inches. I see only a narrow slice of her wide body. “What’s up?”
“Hi.” I pull the flowers from behind my back. “Peace offering?”
She smiles and opens the door wider, letting me step inside her flat. It looks as though an art supply store has exploded in here. Tubes of acrylic and oil paints in every color imaginable lay strewn about the room as if they were shot from a cannon. Three easels display works in various degrees of completion. Jars of stained paint brushes stand on homemade shelves. Pallets with plastic wrap stretched over the tops, keeping custom mixed colors from drying out, line the kitchen table. Bolts of fabric stand in corners and lay beneath the Swedish coffee table. I always wondered what an artist’s home looked like. She’d never invited me over. Now I see why. But, it’s not so bad.
She could have her own studio at the Parlor. It would be bigger than her whole studio apartment.
“Listen,” I say, looking into her bloodshot eyes, “I never meant to offend you in any way by offering you a job at the funeral home. I know your skills are way beyond that, but the economy’s tough right now.”
“Don’t forget I suck so bad nobody wants me in L.A.” She lets out a laugh/sob then bites her lower lip. “I still want to go there so bad. That’s where I’m supposed to be. I feel it.”
I look down at the sketches paving the floor— heartbreaking drawings of girls crying, angry doodles of mushroom clouds engulfing the Hollywood sign, an angel kneeling before a crypt. I try to mold my face into a mask of sympathy when I really feel like laughing until my sides split. I look up at her, into her leaking sapphire eyes.
“Come work with me, Scarlet. Think about it: you can decorate rooms, do people’s make-up, have your very own art studio and bedroom— rent-free, of course— plus, you’ll get to see me every day.” I give her my best smile. I feel her ogling the space where my incisor used to be.
She looks apprehensive.
Or frightened.
Chapt
er 20 – Caleb
The phone rings, drawing me away from the window where I’ve been watching the rain drop from the sky in heavy gobs.
“Exley & Sons, how may I help you?” I punch the speaker phone button and straighten my blue tie with the regimental red stripes as I listen. I could not find my green tie this morning.
“Hey, kid.” I make a face. This particular police detective, Officer... I can’t remember his name at the moment, is the only person who calls me ‘kid.’ I want to pull the outdated phone out of the wall and heave it out the window. “Listen, we’ve got a body,” he says. “It’s over by the projects, you know, off Broad over there.”
He needs me to make a pick-up since the coroner is busy or something. I don’t ask. I don’t care. I hang up without saying good-bye.
I pull on my rain jacket, keys in my hand, and walk out to the detached three-car garage. I’m trying to find the key to one of the hearses in the creeping twilight, my hair getting soaked, as I approach the garage door.
I hear something inside, a humming.
I don’t think much of it since I always hear a drone in my ears.
Then I roll up the garage door.
The hearse I was going to use idles and sputters, humming and coughing inside the cavernous space. A black hose runs from the exhaust pipe to the cracked driver’s window.
I don’t know what to do. I stand there for an indeterminable amount of time, seconds, hours, I don’t know. I understand what is happening but I don’t want to look in the window. What if he’s not done?
I have that funny movie feeling again, like I’m watching myself stand at the garage door staring in at the idling car.
The hose delivering carbon monoxide to the interior of the car turns into a hissing snake and I’m afraid. I back out of the garage. I trip on something, a rock maybe, and sit down hard on the gravel driveway.
Revival House Page 8
