A Month of Sundays

by Jay Harez

  “Some, why do you ask?” he responded

  “We have a small group that gathers to discuss some of the more esoteric events surrounding slavery and the Civil War. It’s free of course and you might find it interesting,” she half said half asked.

  “Well…sure that would be great. Where and when do you guys usually get together?” He asked without thinking.

  “Sunday evenings, usually around seven. If you’re free I can have transportation arranged,” she answered.

  “Ok.” was all Curtis could manage. His doubts were turning serious at this point.

  “Great. Be ready around six forty-five,” she instructed.

  “No problem, see you then,” he told her and the line was dead.

  SUNDAY EVENING

  Sonny sent a Town Car for him and Curtis had just begun to relax and appreciate the smooth ride when he arrived at a row of brownstones.

  He climbed the stoop and the door opened. A tall muscular man stood with his hand extended and his head haloed by the light from inside.

  “Welcome friend, I am Jahn. Do come in,” the man said enthusiastically with a slight German accent.

  They shook hands and Curtis stepped into the foyer. The chauffer was also the butler and he followed Curtis inside and made a motion to take Curtis’s coat. Curtis did not argue.

  For the first hour and a half Curtis was introduced to dozens of people. There were landscapers, property managers, realtors, leasing agents, and a host of other people all involved in real estate in some form or fashion.

  Curtis had collected a number of business cards and the evening was beginning to wind down. People made their way out in groups of twos and threes.

  Sonny appeared beside Curtis and looked at one of the photos in a silver frame standing on a bureau.

  “When the others have left we would like to speak to you for a moment,” Sonny said.

  “Okay,” Curtis said wishing he had a double Hendricks and Tonic right then. He instinctively disliked Sonny’s use of ‘we’.

  “If you will follow me sir,” said the butler who had magically appeared behind Curtis.

  Curtis turned and followed the butler into the main hallway he had come through when he first arrived. The gathering had been through a doorway to his right upon entering the brownstone and Curtis had not noticed the door on his left. The butler opened the door to a large sitting room or parlor.

  As Curtis was re-introduced to the remaining members of the group he was reminded of his latest efforts to get in shape. He had gone from a person who just wanted to be fit and healthy to a person who wanted an athlete’s physique and he was well on his way to that. But he was in no way in the same league as this group. Standing together they reminded him of the teams of super-heroes that fired his imagination as a child, Sound and Fury, Hunters Ordained, and a host of others.

  The room wasn’t opulent exactly, nor was it by any means Spartan. The only way Curtis could describe it was comfortably utilitarian. The wood paneling was made of teak and mahogany. The walls sported an assortment of re-curve bows, slings, boomerangs (not the returning kind) and other weapons.

  He saw Sonny talking to a couple in a corner of the room. They were Miguel and Sophie Porta.

  His observations of the decor were interrupted by the sight of several black and white photos depicting groups of Southern men armed with various weapons and bloodhounds sitting obediently in front of the standing groups.

  There was nothing particularly wrong about the pictures but they did hearken back to one of America’s worst times.

  Sonny sat down in one of the many lounge chairs of the town house.

  “Any idea what a runaway slave did for a living once they reached the north?” Sonny asked without preamble.

  “I know many worked in slaughter houses or shoveled coal for the Union army,” Curtis answered.

  “Some were grave diggers. In the north, prior to the Civil War most gravediggers were escaped slaves. The work was easy to find with the mortality rate being what it was and white people really weren’t eager to do a job so morbid,” she stopped to pour herself a scotch, neat.

  Curtis realized the thing all of these people had in common – they all appeared to be of mixed race.

  Sonny continued, “Medical schools used the recently deceased for research. A family would have a nice funeral, put the body in a freshly dug hole and that night the same grave diggers that dug the hole would exhume the body and sell it to a college or learning hospital,” she turned to face Curtis raising her glass. “Would you like one?”

  “I would love one, thanks,” he said. He was still studying the décor of this place. It was rustic and modern with an element he couldn’t quite define.

  “That sounds like a desecration,” Curtis said.

  “All done in the pursuit of science of course,” Jahn said.

  Sonny smiled as she handed Curtis his drink.

  “Of course,” Curtis chuckled.

  “One of the most noted gravediggers was Grandison the Resurrection Man,” This was Miguel speaking now “He had two families, one in the South where he had a bounty on him as a runaway and his family in the north where he lived and worked as a grave digger. He was allowed to live on campus at the local medical school in an old storage facility,”

  “As part of his compensation for delivering fresh corpses I gather?” Curtis responded.

  “Yes. His family lived better than most black people at the time. He had a wife and two sons, John and Peter, in the North. When his sons reached adulthood they became the campus grounds keepers,” Jahn was on now.

  “I find all of this fascinating, honestly but…” Curtis tried to interject. He had a thousand questions regarding who these people were and even more about the pictures and assorted weapons on display and why they were telling him this story.

  “Please Curtis, indulge us,” Sonny continued. “A visiting professor and practicing physician came to the college to teach for a semester. He was of the old school when it came to medicine and ardently opposed the new practice of embalming under the premise of preserving the ‘Sanctity and Purity’ of the body,” she concluded.

  Curtis chuckled aloud to his surprise.

  “What?” Sonny asked.

  “Nothing just a stray thought please continue,” Curtis said. He could not get rid of a little smile and Sonny stared him.

  She was sitting opposite him with legs crossed and peering at Curtis in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. It was if she were sizing him up, or trying to make up her mind about whether to tell him anymore.

  “The professor took an interest in John, Grandison’s eldest son,” She looked up toward the ceiling of the brownstone. Her brow furrowed a little as she tried to recall the details and continued. “The professor made the John his personal assistant, having the boy run errands here and there and even bought him clothes more appropriate for the valise to a man of the professors repute and consequence,” she explained.

  “John began to take his meals with the professor in the campus apartment the medical college had provided. Despite the risk the professor began to tutor the boy in the art of medicine. Can you imagine being the son of a runaway slave and having the chance to learn medicine? He took to the art immediately. Up to that point he had only been exposed to the dead. So the chance to learn the mechanics of the living must have bordered on intoxicating. Of course you understand what would have happened if they had been found out?” Miguel asked.

  “I know at the time, black’s learning to read was still a crime in many states so I can’t imagine what learning about medicine would have meant,” Curtis responded.

  “It would have been bad for all parties I assure you,” Miguel responded.

  “Sonny, all of you, you really don’t have to tell this story. Especially if this ends with the professor being a pedo…” Curtis began but she cut him off again.

  “No! That’s not what this is about…it’s just as bad though,” she trailed off aga
in.

  When one of the Turner brothers started speaking Curtis was startled. They were sitting on another lounge chair to Curtis’s right but they had been so still he had forgotten about them.

  “The professor got his contract renewed one semester after another. The young man now nearly twenty spent more time working with his father at night. Father and son ranged the local area recovering the bodies of the recently departed and carting them back to the college morgue before dawn. The two brothers hardly saw each other anymore except in passing at dawn and dusk. Grandison eventually took ill and died and their mother passed away within eighteen months. Over the next few years the boys became estranged. One brother continued in his father’s footsteps collecting the recently dead by night, the other continued keeping the grounds by day,” one of the Turners added.

  Curtis didn’t know what to think about these people. It wasn’t as much a discussion as some sort of Southern story telling session. And the story wasn’t even about the South.

  “That year the John the gravedigger had an accident of some sort that caused severe damage to his face. Accounts described him as having a ‘sinister countenance’ and he became known around campus as Ghoulish John,” Sonny paused and put her glass aside though she had only taken a sip.

  “We can continue this another time,” Curtis asserted with no intention of ever coming back. All of this was too weird for him.

  “The professor had by this time stayed on at the college much longer than his original contract,” she continued undeterred.

  “A few of the senior faculty who tried to get rid of him either quit in protest or just disappeared. The facts are a bit sketchy regarding those folks and what happened to them. On the opposite end of the spectrum, an almost fanatical support of the professor was growing on the campus. Students and most of the younger faculty worked fervently to get the professor tenure ahead of themselves in some cases,” Sonny swallowed the last of her scotch and poured herself another.

  “One of the students came to John and Peter’s shack to deliver a note from the Professor. John wasn’t there so he left it with Peter,” said Jahn.

  “The student had no way of knowing that Peter groundskeeper was secretly being tutored every semester by several of the white girls attending the college for nursing and secretarial jobs. The groundskeeper was fully literate and had a keen mind,” the other Turner offered.

  “Those two liked living dangerously,” Curtis said with a hint of admiration. Curtis had never been a big risk taker so that characteristic in others always brought a little envy to the surface.

  “Yes, they did. By this time the groundskeeper was simply known as Keeper. It was just a few days before Christmas,”

  “Around the Winter solstice you mean?” Curtis asked.

  “Yes, the longest night of winter,” Sophie confirmed.

  “According to historical record the note mentioned ‘Sanctifying and Purifying’ the newly inducted” and instructed Ghoulish John, to ‘bring as many as he could that night and preferably before interment’.” She looked at Curtis for a reaction.

  For his part Curtis gave the sincerest reaction he could – utter confusion. Then the cynicism set in and he gave her a side-ways look and smiled as if he realized he was the butt of the joke. To her credit Sonny did not falter or respond. She maintained her stoicism until the smile faded from Curtis’s face. She began to look tired. Now it was his turn to be agitated.

  “Ok I’ll bite. What did that mean?” he asked.

  “Over the years stories of cannibalism have been sensationalized through bad novels and worse movies,” she said.

  “But everyone knows about the risks of disease…” he let the statement stop prematurely as he searched his memory.

  “Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, It’s caused by modified protein or Prions.” she stopped.

  “I gather Prions are harmful,” Curtis offered.

  “Every human has the PRP gene that produces the good proteins your body needs. CJD alters the shape and structure of the good protein into a Prion. Prions eat your brain…in humans at least.” She explained.

  “So avoid Prions. Why is the professor ordering…? Are you saying this guy was a cannibal?” Curtis asked as he stood up and looked around the room.

  “Keeper shared his suspicions with some of his tutors,” Sonny said.

  “Some?” Curtis wondered aloud.

  “Apparently the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when it came to women and Keeper was known for making the rounds. Keeper had a number of illegitimate sons and daughters, all by single white women. We estimate at least eighteen before he was killed,” Sonny concluded.

  “Well, let’s hear the rest of this,” Curtis reclined on a chair opposite hers as he asked.

  “Keeper went to the professor’s house. The college had purchased him a mansion by that time and Keeper’s job offered him a good cover story,” Miguel explained.

  “Apparently he made copious notes that he left with his various tutors about his suspicions. According to those notes the mansion was being prepared for some sort of banquet. The faculty and students not involved had gone home for the holidays. That still left several hundred students and about thirty faculty members on campus for the ten days between semesters,” it was Jahn’s turn to contribute.

  “A celebration of the ‘Sanctity and Purity’ of the flesh,” said Miguel.

  Curtis reflected on the moment in college that he had learned that Texas had continued practicing slavery two years after the Civil War had ended. Maybe this was another one of those ‘aha’ moments he thought.

  “So this celebration of cannibalism was scheduled to happen that evening. What happened next?” Curtis asked.

  “Let’s talk again next Sunday,” Sonny said.

  Curtis was uncertain as to whether he had crossed another line with his glib remark but he suspected so.

  The butler drove him home in silence. Once Curtis got to his cottage he locked the door behind him, made himself a Hendricks and tonic, and went to bed.

  Curtis found a note tacked to his door Monday morning explaining that while he was at Sonny’s get-together one of the maintenance crew had wandered onto Tanner’s lot. One of Tanner’s sisters had chased the poor bastard off the property with a meat cleaver.

  Tanner knew Curtis was in charge of stuff like grounds keeping and he might be upset at the incursion. Curtis decided to see if he could make amends.

  A large woman answered the door this time. She wasn’t the one Curtis had seen digging in the back yard that day and she left the screen door latched as she spoke.

  “Yes?” she asked. Her girth blocked the entire doorway even with the door fully opened.

  “I’m Curtis. I just wanted to apologize for…” he offered.

  “Are you the one who calls himself the Lord of Land?” she asked.

  From somewhere in the house Tanner’s voice boomed. “Get away from that door heifer!”

  She looked at her feet. Or she would have had her sight line not been obstructed by her ridiculous breasts and stomach. She was a rotund creature if ever there was one. ‘Easier to go over than around’ would have been Curtis’s father’s description. However she was tall, taller than Curtis by at least six inches.

  Then she was gone and Tanner was at the door. The screen door remained closed.

  “How can I serve you?” asked Tanner.

  “I just wanted to apologize for the mix-up the other day,” Curtis stammered. He hadn’t really thought this through. “I mean with the yard workers...”

  “You will find no issue here sir,” Tanner responded.

  Curtis tried to place the accent. Perhaps there was just a hint of New England. The accent definitely wasn’t American.

  “Okay well...” Curtis had no follow-up planned.

  Tanner removed his skullcap and scratched his head.

  “Perhaps this week you will make time to sup with us?” Tanner said.

  “Yes! I would like that ver
y much,” Curtis responded. Another invitation. Another acceptance Curtis couldn’t explain. Of course, he had never followed through on the first invitation so another one wouldn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

  He was a solitary creature by nature. He simply enjoyed being alone with his thoughts and television and gin. He knew that the way he lived probably wasn’t healthy but it wasn’t likely to change either.

  Curtis made his way back to his cottage. It was a one and a half story unit with an upstairs only large enough for a shower, toilet and small storage closet.

  An hour later Curtis stepped out of his shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. There was a small frosted glass window directly above the toilet. Curtis slid the vertical pane to the side a few inches to let the steam out.

  From his window he could see the rear of Tanners property. Standing there holding what looked like a drumstick was one of Tanners sisters. She was gnawing on a drumstick for all it was worth. He was at least forty yards away and a good twenty feet up but Curtis was certain she looked at him. Then to make the scene even eerier she waved the drumstick at him. She had gnawed through the bone and it swung back and forth on a strand of tendon as if it were hinged.

  Curtis diagnosed the woman as having Downs Syndrome. He started to raise his hand to waive back when he saw the other sister. She was the one he had met at the door. She was looking over the privacy fence - a section that Tanner hadn’t raised - like those single-line cartoon drawings of Kilroy. Just her eyes, the top of her head and on either side of her head two massive hands were visible. To Curtis those hands looked like catcher’s mitts.

  Curtis stepped back from the window. He was out of their line of sight for the moment and felt as if he had returned to himself. The steam had left the little room and he stood there almost completely dry. How long had he been standing there, he wondered? It was light enough outside to see clearly when he got in the shower and now the photocell on the light in the middle of the park was causing the bulbs to flicker alive as darkness settled in.

  Curtis wondered if he had just experienced his first sober blackout. He made himself a Hendricks and tonic and went to bed.