in1

by Unknown

  But not God…

  And now, there was a new fallacy. "It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping." The biggest fallacy of them all, because Grampa wasn' t sleeping, he was dead. He was never going to wake up again. There would be no more walks or games or Saturday morning cartoons or long talks about things that mattered to Timmy, things his grandfather seemed interested in, too, because they were important to his grandson. His grandfather was dead, so why couldn ' t his mother just say it out loud? Why did she treat Timmy like he was a little kid?

  Next, would she tell him, "Guess what, it turns out Santa Claus is real after all"?

  Of course she wouldn ' t, because it wasn 't true. Santa Claus wasn't real, U'rown Goode was actually Timmy's own good, and…

  Grandpa wasn't coming back again.

  Timmy opened his eyes. Tears rolled down his face. He balled his fists at his sides and wept, and his mother and father held him between them, crying as well. He cast one last glance at his grandfather's body, and then looked no more. He didn't have to. The image was burned into his retinas.

  Grandpa wasn't sleeping.

  After the viewing, there was a short break before the funeral service. Timmy' s parents Page 27

  and some of the distant family members stayed at the casket, saying their final goodbyes before the lid was closed. Timmy elected not to join them, and slipped away through the crowd. The other adults went outside to smoke, or mingled between the pews, talking softly. Timmy, Doug, and Barry wandered aimlessly around the church, ending up downstairs in one of the Sunday school rooms. Barry sat on top of the table, his legs hanging over the side.

  Timmy stood in the corner. Doug had found a Hot Wheels car, left behind by a younger child, and was running it aimlessly back and forth over the tabletop.

  "You guys want to do something after this… is over?" Timmy asked. "I really need to get my mind off things."

  "Sorry, man, but I can't," Doug apologized. "My mom drove, and my bike's at home."

  "So? You could walk back to your house. It's not that far." Doug shuddered. "And go by Catcher's driveway? No thanks, man. It's bad enough when he chases me on my bike. No way I'm letting him go after me when I' m on foot. He 'd kill me. Besides, it's raining outside. I'd get wet and catch a cold. Nothing worse than a summer cold."

  "Wimp." Timmy turned to Barry. "How about you?"

  "I can't either, man. I've got to… well, you know."

  "What?"

  "I've got to help my dad with your Grandpa, after everyone else leaves."

  "Oh…" He'd forgotten about that. It seemed weird, somehow, that his best friend would help to bury his grandfather. Fresh grief welled up inside him, and Timmy sighed. Behind them, someone cleared her throat. The boys turned around. Katie Moore stood in the doorway to the Sunday school room. Timmy' s heart beat a little faster, the way it always did when Katie was around. Sometimes, Timmy hated the way Katie made him feel. It was exciting, but scary, too. On Sundays, during the sermon, he found his gaze invariably drawn to her. Next year, she ' d be starting sixth grade, and would go to the junior high school with them. He wondered what that would be like, and if they 'd see more of each other then, and if so, if the possibilities of them hanging out together more often would increase. Thinking about it made his stomach hurt.

  "Hey Katie," Barry said.

  "Hey." She smiled sadly. "Hi Timmy."

  Timmy responded with what could only be described as a garbled squawk.

  "What's up, Katie?" Doug asked.

  "They sent me down here to find you guys," she explained. "The funeral is getting ready to start."

  "Oh."

  Timmy's apprehension returned at the thought of sitting in the front pew, staring at his grandfather's notsleeping corpse while Katie' s father droned on about ashes and dust and walking through the valley of the shadow of death. "We 'll be right up."

  "I'm sorry about your Grandpa, Timmy. He was a nice man." Doug's Hot Wheels car made scratching noises in the background. Barry cleared his throat and loosened his tie.

  Timmy realized Katie was staring at him, and that he hadn't responded.

  "Thanks." He searched for something else to say to her before she left, anxious to keep the conversation going for just a little longer. "I' m sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she's okay."

  "Yeah, me too. I miss her."

  "Do you guys know where she went?"

  Katie's voice grew quieter. "No. Mom and Dad are really worried. She got in a fight with Dad before she left the house. He didn' t want her going out with Pat. She did anyway. The Page 28

  township and state police said they 'd tell us when they heard something, but that's about all."

  "Well, I'm sorry," Timmy said again, and meant it.

  "So am I." She smiled again, but this time it wasn' t quite so sad. Their eyes lingered for a moment. Then Katie blushed and turned away.

  They heard her shoes clomping up the stairs two at a time. Timmy's face and ears were scarlet.

  "You like her," Barry teased, shoving him playfully. Grinning, Timmy pushed him back. "Screw you. I do not."

  "Why not? She's cute, man."

  Timmy's stomach sank. Did Barry like Katie, too? He' d said hi to her first, while Timmy was still struggling to talk. And if so, did Katie like Barry more than she liked him?

  "Not as cute as her sister, though," Barry added quickly, as if sensing his friend's thoughts.

  Doug stood up and slipped the toy car into his pants pocket. "I guess we better go upstairs."

  "Yeah," Timmy sighed. "I guess we better." Then he thought of his grandpa again, and started crying. It was starting to sink in that he'd never see him, talk to him, or hear his voice again. Timmy remembered the last time he' d seen him, Saturday morning when they 'd been watching cartoons together. He'd hugged him goodbye and then gone out to play with Doug. He' d been anxious to go outside and enjoy his summer vacation. If only he 'd known then what he knew now. He would have stayed behind.

  Summers were endless. Life was not.

  He was still weeping when he took a seat between his parents in the front pew, and when Reverend Moore began the service.

  "Friends, would you please bow your heads in prayer." The preacher's voice was soft, and the sobs echoed over it.

  The tears kept falling, and Timmy wondered if they'd ever stop. They did stop, though, after the service, when the coffin was carried to the hearse. The sudden lack of tears surprised him, and for a moment, Timmy felt guilty. The emotions drained from his body as the tears dried up. Timmy felt empty. Hollow. He watched the pallbearers his father among them, tears streaming down his face load his grandfather's casket into the back of the hearse and experienced only a numb sense of finality.

  The rain had stopped, too. Beams of sunlight peeked through the dissipating cloud cover. White and yellow butterflies played in the puddles. Sluggish earthworms, forced topside by the rains, crawled and squirmed on the blacktop. The mourners walked slowly along behind the hearse, following it down the cemetery'

  s middle road. They talked softly among themselves, murmuring gossip that had nothing to do with the deceased; President Reagan and William Casey and Ed Meese, the godless Communists, the godly Pat Robertson, who was going to see the Charlie Daniels Band at this year's York Fair, what had happened on last week's episode of Hill Street Blues, how Charlie Pitts had been able to afford that big new satellite television dish when he was still on disability, and the twelve point buck that Elliott Ramsey had poached out of season in Mr. Brown's orchard, and whether or not the Orioles would make it to the World Series (even though they lived in Pennsylvania, Southern York County was close enough to the Maryland state border that most of the residents rooted for Baltimore's teams). Timmy felt like hollering at everybody to shut up, but he didn't. Instead, he tried to ignore the whispers, and looked down over the hill. Far below, in the old part of the cemetery, he noticed again that another gravestone had sunken down into the ground. Page 29

  He 'd s
een two more like that the day Doug unveiled the mapa day that seemed like an eternity ago, even though it had been less than a week.

  It was hard to tell through the drizzle, but it looked like in addition to the sinking grave markers, a few more headstones might have fallen over onto the grass, too. Barry 's dad was letting the cemetery fall into disrepair. Despite the man's misgivings, it was unlike him. Even if he was laid up drunk somewhere, he' d crack the whip, making sure his son covered for him. Maybe he just didn 't have enough time to keep up with the sinking tombstones.

  The funeral procession halted. The coffin was unloaded from the hearse while the crowd circled the open grave. Timmy's breath caught in his throat. Barry and his father had dug the grave that morning. The top of the hole was framed with a brass rail and covered with a white cloth. A mound of fresh, reddish, claylike dirt lay piled to one side, along with squares of sod. Deep backhoe tracks marked the grass, but Clark Smeltzer had moved the machine back into the utility shed so that it wouldn 't loom over the service.

  This was it, his grandfather's final resting placea long, rectangular hole in the ground, right next to his grandmother. Now, every time Timmy came here to play, they 'd both be nearby. The morbid strangeness of it all was not lost on him. This was both his playground and his grandparents' burial ground. If not for the Dugout and the fierce pride he took in its construction, he 'd have suggested to Barry and Doug that they'd been right before, and maybe they should play in Bowman' s Woods more often, or settle for a tree house somewhere else.

  After the graveside portion of the service, Timmy trudged home with his parents. They walked in silence, not speaking, emotionally and physically exhausted. For the first time in his life, Timmy felt two new sensations. He felt old.

  And he felt mortaleven more now than when he did playing among the graves of kids his own age.

  He didn't at all like feeling either one.

  Grandpa wasn't sleeping. He was dead. That was that. Sooner or later, everybody died. And one day, it would be his turn.

  The cemetery had a new permanent resident.

  After everyone else went home, Barry and his father went back to their house, changed from their suits into work clothes, and then returned to the grave. Slowly, they lowered Dane Graco 's coffin into the hole via a winch rope and pulley system. The casket was heavy, and Barry' s arms and back ached afterward. His father didn ' t allow him to take a break once the coffin rested at the bottom of the grave. Instead, Barry began shoveling dirt back into the hole while his father retrieved the backhoe. The clouds had finally cleared, and the temperature rose. It was hard, sweaty work, and Barry was glad that evening was drawing closer. It would have been even hotter had the sun been in the sky, rather than setting on the horizon. His calloused hands blistered beneath his leather work gloves.

  Barry hated this, hated working for his father, slaving away every day, mowing and digging and raking while his friends enjoyed the summer. Nobody else' s fathers made them work like this. Randy Graco didn't force Timmy to go to the paper mill with him every day. Why should he be stuck doing this stuff all summer long, just because his father was a drunk? Chores, his father called them.

  Barry knew about chores, and this wasn't it. Timmy had chores; weeding the garden and sweeping out the basement, stuff that took him an hour or so to complete. Timmy bitched and complained about it, but Barry could only laugh. Timmy had no idea how lucky he was. He didn 't have to bust his rear just to cover for his old man's laziness. Page 30

  Barry didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, but it certainly wasn't his father. Buzzing gnats flew in front of his face, darting for his eyes and ears. He waved them away and dropped another shovel full of dirt onto the coffin, listening to it hit the wood and trickle down the sides.

  Minutes later, another sound echoed across the graveyard, the roar of the backhoe's powerful diesel engine as it sputtered to life. Slowly, his father backed it out of the utility shed and drove over to the grave, carefully weaving the big machine through the tombstones. Barry backed out of the way, grateful for the short break, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Using the scoop, his father quickly filled the hole with dirt. Then he shut off the backhoe, hopped down, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled into the sky. The tip glowed.

  Barry thought his father seemed nervous.

  The sun edged closer to the horizon.

  "No screwing around now," Clark grumbled. "Let's get this done quick. Your mom's got dinner waiting."

  "Yes, sir."

  Barry tensed. His father' s tone was all too familiar. It meant trouble tonight. For him, for his mother, for anybody who did anything to piss him off. Barry wondered whose turn it would be this time.

  He hated his father. Sometimes, late at night when everyone was asleep, Barry imagined what it would be like to kill him. He thought about it again now. To hit him over the head with the shovel, dig up the dirt and throw him down on top of Dane Graco' s coffin, then fill it all in again, burying his old man alive. He grinned, even as sour bile rose in his throat. He knew it wasn't right, thinking that way. He knew that God could see inside his heart, just like Reverend Moore said. But he couldn't help it. Besides, if God really cared, then why didn't He step in and help them? Why did He allow Barry and his mother to continue living this way? He imagined his father in the hole, gasping and sputtering as the dirt hit him in the face. His smile grew broader.

  "What are you grinning about?" Clark grunted. "You laughing at me?"

  "No."

  "Then what you grinning about?"

  "Nothing."

  "Wipe that damn smirk off your face and keep working."

  "Yeah…"

  "Yeah? Yeah what?"

  Barry lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."

  They replanted the squares of sod on top of the grave, as they'd done so many times before, and neither said a word to the other as they worked. Barry watched his father out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if he was drunk yet. He knew that his father kept a bottle of Wild Turkey hidden in the shed, and it was very likely he 'd taken a few swigs while getting the backhoe. Barry hadn't told Timmy and Doug about the secret stash. They might want to try some, the way they had last summer when they

  'd found a six pack of Old Milwaukee beer that Pat Kemp had left in the creek to stay cold (the oversized pounder cans). Secretly, Barry was terrified of alcohol and its effects. He'd seen firsthand what it did to his father, turning him into someone else, into a monster, and he had no desire to do the same. Barry 's biggest fear was of becoming his father. He'd heard other adults say that happenedas you got older, you became your parents. He' d vowed that in his case, he 'd make sure that didn't happen. Never. He hated it when some wellmeaning adult patted him on the head and said, 'Why, you look just like your father.'

  His father was an abusive drunk, and Barry had the scars, both physical and mental, to Page 31

  prove it.

  But his father didn' t seem drunk now. He seemed… apprehensive. And as the sun sank lower, his agitation increased. He kept glancing around the cemetery, as if looking for something… or someone.

  "You okay, Dad?"

  Clark frowned. "Course I'm okay. Why? You saying I don't look okay?"

  "No. It's nothing."

  "Well, then quit dicking around."

  "Yes, sir."

  Finished with the job, they tamped the sod down firmly, and then stepped back. Clark Smeltzer mopped his forehead with a red bandanna. "Let's get home."

  "Don't we need to water the sod first?"

  "No." He glanced up at the advancing twilight. "We'll do it tomorrow. Been a long day."

  "But"

  "None of your lip." A vein throbbed on his father's forehead. "I said we're leaving. Now."

  "Sorry."

  "Shut up."

  They went home. Barry's mother had fixed pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes.

  Barry did his best to eat, but he had no appetite. When his mother asked him what was
wrong, he didn't reply. The look on his father's face halted further discussion. After dinner, Barry tried to watch television. He couldn't focus on the show. Later on, his father got very drunk, split Barry' s lip open with a backhand slap, and chased his mother around the house with a belt, laughing and shouting. Barry fled for the safety of his bedroom, and put his fingers in his ears to block out the sounds of leather meeting flesh, and of his mother 's screams, and his father's curses. He' d tried to help her once before, and as a result, had been out of school for a week until the bruises faded. Afterward, his mother had made him promise never to do it again. And he hadn't. Not because of his promise, but because he was afraid. Afraid of what his father would do the next time.

  So he did nothing.

  Under his pillow was a BB pistol, powered by a CO2 cartridge. It looked just like the gun Clint Eastwood used in his Dirty Harry movies. Barry often wished it were the real thing. Sometimes, when his father was passed out drunk and there was no danger of waking him up, Barry would creep up beside him in the darkness and point the BB pistol at his head.

  But not tonight.

  Barry cried himself to sleep; hot tears, full of shame and anger and hopelessness. He dreamed of monsters.

  Doug cowered in bed; dirty flannel SpiderMan sheets pulled up over his head, he listened to his mother pawing at his doorknob, pleading drunkenly, her speech slurred by vodka, whispering the things she wanted to do to him, things Doug had read about in Hustler. Dirty things. He' d never told Barry or Timmy, but those things filled him with dread. The same pictures of naked women that his friends drooled and snickered over made him feel queasy.