Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  But enough of these self-centered musings. At any moment a polite white person’s spirit was liable to rise up from a moldy grave and say, “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you spare a poor, lonely soul a moment of your precious time?” Daisy set her jaw resolutely. What I need to do now is keep my eyes peeled for anybody who don’t look too healthy. And in case the haunt was behind her, to listen. At that very instant, the Ute shaman did hear something. What she heard was … a sort of low, humming sound.

  What the devil is that? She glanced over her shoulder. Oh, no—it’s that big moron in the baggy bib overalls. And Daisy knew what Freddy Whitsun was up to. He’s following me around like I was a little child that needed looking after. In a rare exhibition of equanimity, she acknowledged that the hireling was merely doing his job, but … That sissy little white man in the three-piece suit put him up to it. As the cemetery manager was not present to suffer her wrath, Daisy turned to face the underling driving the offensive vehicle. When her hateful glare bounced right off Whitsun’s deadpan face, she shook her walking stick at the hulking annoyance.

  Believing the tired old lady was flagging him down, Freddy Whitsun braked the cart to a stop.

  Evil looks and stick shaking having failed, she croaked, “Go away!”

  The cemetery’s stolid soldier did not retreat. And not merely because he hadn’t heard what she had said. Once Mr. Whitsun took on a task, he always got the job done. No matter what. He had, of course, never taken on Miss Daisy.

  And neither had the steely-eyed woman ever dealt with anyone as stubborn as she was. This was extremely vexing. If I start walking, I bet he’ll just start up again and follow me.

  She did and he did.

  Daisy uttered an oath in the Ute tongue. A vile one, which shall not be translated.

  Pausing, she heard the mousy squeak of the electric truck’s brakes. This was simply intolerable. No spirit was going to speak to her, much less show her (or his) face while the oafish cemetery custodian was motoring along behind her. But what can I do? Daisy considered bashing Whitsun senseless with her oak walking stick, but the irate old warrior decided against this course of action because … His skull is probably two inches thick. The thing to do (she thought) was reason with the man. On second thought … No, there’s no use talking to a fat white man that wears bib overalls—once that kind gets his so-called mind set on something, he just won’t let go. It occurred to the tribal elder that she was at least ten times as smart as the new cemetery custodian. Maybe I can think of a way to discourage him. This was a civilized approach and quite in keeping with modern ways of solving problems, but she decided to give it a try anyway. Without turning around, Daisy waved her walking stick in a gesture that clearly conveyed the message: Drive your ugly little truck on up here, you big half-wit.

  Whitsun grunted and mumbled to himself, “I guess the old girl’s feet are gettin’ sore and she wants a ride back to where she started.” He proceeded at the maximum speed that the mechanical governor would allow—i.e., a blinding twenty-two miles per hour. Braking the vehicle to a stop beside the aged Indian woman, he set the hand brake. “You want a ride?”

  Turning to gaze at her hopeful benefactor, she gave the man a close inspection. Tufts of hair sprouted from Freddy Whitsun’s nostrils and ears, and his eyes presented the vacant expression of a fellow who has to take his shoes off to count to twenty. While she grudgingly admitted that a man could not be held accountable for what was in his blood, Daisy figured he was responsible for his attire. This one wore a dirty red bandanna around his sunburned neck, and his billed ABC Hardware cap (which was adjusted about two notches too small) perched high on his pointy head. Worst of all, the custodian’s blue bib overalls were suspended precariously from his right shoulder. The left gallus (Daisy’s singular for galluses) had slipped loose from the brass bib button to dangle along Whitsun’s massive arm. This combination of filthy bandanna, goofy cap, and dangling gallus was enough to make the old woman’s eyes ache. This must be the granddaddy of all the Beverly Hillbillies.

  Jed Clampett’s alleged ancestor repeated his offer: “So—d’you want to ride?”

  “I don’t know,” Daisy said. “I never rode in anything like that.” Leaning on her oak staff, the critic directed her disparaging gaze at the electric motor vehicle. There was plenty of room for a passenger on the bench seat beside Whitsun, and the rear section of miniature utility truck was stocked with such implements as a short-handled shovel, a hedge clipper, a galvanized steel toolbox, and an assortment of odds and ends. Several sturdy steel eyebolts and hooks were affixed to the side and rear of the truck bed. Daisy thought these must be for attaching items such as buckets of moldy grave dirt, Acme tombstone-repair putty, Jiffy quicklime, and whatever else cemetery employees were accustomed to toting around. She returned her beady gaze to Whitsun’s innocent face. “Your little truck looks kinda dangerous to me.”

  The custodian was quick to offer encouragement to the hesitant passenger. “It’s safe as can be, ma’am. There ain’t no doors nor seat belts, but it don’t go fast enough to catch up with a three-legged snail.”

  The old woman was not comforted by these well-meant assurances. “Does it have good brakes?”

  “Sure.” Whitsun patted the hand brake. “When this is set, the truck won’t move an inch.”

  “How do you make it go?”

  The patient man showed her the throttle control on the steering column. “Would you like to get in now, ma’am?”

  “Well, I suppose so.” Daisy took a tentative step toward the vehicle.

  The relieved custodian dismounted, with the intent of giving her a helping hand, and—

  The old woman stopped dead still, raised her nose in the air like a wary coyote, and sniffed. “What’s that?”

  Whitsun blinked. “What’s what?”

  “I smell something that stinks,” the sniffer announced.

  The driver inhaled a healthy whiff through his flared, hairy nostrils. Freddy Whitsun’s brow furrowed into a puzzled frown. “I don’t smell nothin’.”

  “You’ve lived in town so long, all you can smell is beer and pizza.” Lowering her head, the Ute woman took another sniff. “I live way out in the wilderness where there’s no exhaust fumes to pollute my nose. If the wind is right, I can smell field-mouse pee a mile away.”

  Duly impressed by this specious testimony, Mr. Whitsun followed Daisy to the rear of the vehicle.

  “There.” The alleged smeller of distant mouse urine pointed her trusty walking stick. “It’s a dead animal—caught underneath your little truck.”

  “Lemme see.” Whitsun dropped to his knees and peered under the electric vehicle. After a careful inspection, he said, “I don’t see nothin’ under here; everything looks all right to me— Aaaiiieeee!”

  The tribal elder watched the ugly little truck take off like … well, like an ugly little truck with an oversize man bumping along behind it like a fattened hog tied to the backside. A fattened hog wearing brand-new bib overalls, whose loose left gallus had (somehow or other) gotten attached to one of several convenient steel hooks that protruded from the rear of the truck—whose hand brake had (somehow or other) slipped out of the Stop and into the Go position.

  And look at him go!

  Barely twelve miles per hour with the massive human anchor in tow, but this was a pretty good clip for Mr. Whitsun, who—every time he attempted to get onto his feet—fell back onto his butt, or his face, and continued to be dragged along like the largish specimen of porcine livestock referred to above.

  Certain professors of mathematics who teach university courses labeled Statistics 101 will protest that the convergence at practically the same instant of three unlikely events (hooked left gallus, malfunctioning hand brake, and throttle lever accidentally slipped to the let-’er-rip position) must be described as mildly suspicious. At the very least.

  Daisy Perika would call it a fortuitous coincidence, and remind those nitpicking critics that they (coincidences) do
happen.

  It is true that Charlie Moon’s aunt had more important things to do than watch such a pitiful spectacle, but she felt obliged to tarry long enough to observe the hasty departure of the annoying cemetery custodian. Though not prone to dwell upon the faults of others, she could not resist an observation: People who drive motor vehicles should be more careful. Daisy cringed as she watched the man bounce off a mossy granite tombstone and heard his alarming oath. Mr. Bib Overalls was a vulgar fellow who was unable to control his dirty mouth in the presence of a lady, but … I hope he don’t get hurt too bad.

  Violence is (so they say) deplorable, but Daisy Perika generally managed to find a bright side to other people’s sufferings. In this instance, she comforted herself with the satisfying thought that Mr. Whitsun’s experience would be educational. That’ll teach him not to bother elderly ladies who want to be left alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ALONE AT LAST

  But only in a limited sense. There were the haunts she hoped to encounter, and somewhere back there behind her was a flesh-and-blood cemetery custodian who might properly be described as “in distress.” Or worse. Was the unfortunate Mr. Fixit still among the living? Don’t bother to ask the tribal elder. One of her favorite sayings is: “Out of sight, out of mind,” and by the time she had proceeded a few steps from the site of Freddy Whitsun’s sudden and dramatic departure, the lady’s entire attention was focused on the important business that had brought her to Granite Creek Cemetery in the first place. The Experiment.

  Sad to say, though Daisy did her utmost to watch and to listen for the least hint of an appearance of one of the graveyard’s permanent residents, the shaman had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. But she wasn’t about to give up. Not right away.

  Like an aged she-hound sniffing out the hint of jackrabbit scent, she kept doggedly at her task. For almost half an hour.

  Very commendable for an admittedly impatient soul.

  But sooner or later, the hard Truth must be faced up to and Daisy was eyeball-to-eyeball with that tough customer. The far-from-home research project suggested by the pitukupf was a dismal failure. Not only don’t I see any spirits—I can’t even hear any of their voices. In a cemetery of this size, a score of whispering wraiths was bound to be clustered around her, each intent on bending the old woman’s ear. The conclusion was inescapable. I’m worse off now than I was in Cañón del Espíritu; I’ve lost all of my powers. She expelled a self-pitying sigh. By this time next week I probably won’t be able to smell fat bacon frying or see my own face in the mirror. One depressing thought produced another. Sarah will have to spoon-feed me with oatmeal and lead me to bed. Things would only get worse. After a while I’ll end up in some old folks’ home and after a visit or two from Charlie Moon and Sarah, they’ll get busy with this and that and come to see me maybe once a month. If that often. It’s not like I’ve always been nice to them. Miss Daisy tried to recall the last time she’d said a kind word to either of those sweet souls. Sometime last year?

  The heavy wages of sin are hard to bear and impossible to spend.

  As the tribal elder seated herself on an uncomfortable cement bench thoughtfully provided in 1939 by the Daughters of the American Revolution, she knew that it was time to call a halt to the Experiment. But in light of the accident suffered by the careless cemetery employee, she thought it might be imprudent to return to the custodian’s residence and wait for Sarah Frank to show up. If I do, that little white man with the silly mustache might ask me if I know what happened to the big fat one in the bib overalls. Loath to provide testimony on that delicate matter, Daisy decided to take a shortcut to U.S. Grant Park, where the Ute-Papago orphan was (presumably) involved in her homework assignment.

  ENCOUNTERING THE UNEXPECTED

  As the sad old woman trudged along a worn brick path that wound its serpentine way through a cluster of small hills, her mind was entirely occupied with her troubles. Daisy took little notice of this old portion of the cemetery, which was gradually being restored to its former glory by the Granite Creek Historical Society. Her inattention was unfortunate, because there were several interesting and curious sights to see, and—

  But wait. All of a sudden, Daisy P. has stopped on a half dime.

  It appears that the elderly person hears something that has caught her attention.

  She has.

  Something eerie.

  It might have been the breeze whispering in the spruce, but to the shaman it sounded like, Oh, please stop and talk to me … I’m so awfully lonely.

  Bingo!

  Charlie Moon’s discouraged auntie felt a surge of hope. That sounds like a dead woman’s voice. “Where are you, sweetie?”

  Right here … please don’t pass me by!

  Daisy cocked her head. She sounds awfully young. Of course. Beside the bricked walkway, in the cool shade of a venerable walnut tree, she spotted the weatherworn limestone tombstone. With some squinting, she managed to make out the inscription that decades of wind, dust, and rain had almost eroded away.

  MAUDE PLIMPTON

  1869–1888

  “Maude … is that you?”

  Can you hear me…?

  “Sure I can.” Now for the acid test. “Come out where I can see you.”

  Nothing.

  “Don’t be shy, Maude … just step right up here and let me get a good look at you.”

  Again, the voice: I’m right in front of you … I could reach out and touch you. And she did! The gentle stroke of a cold, clammy hand on Daisy Perika’s cheek was like a slap in the face. The result of the shaman’s experiment was in.

  A devastated Daisy heard herself mumble, “I’m sorry … I can’t quite make you out.” And I’ll never see a dead person again … not till I’m on the other side with the whole lot of them.

  The haunt was pleading now: Oh, please help me … I’m afraid and it’s so cold and I can’t find my way home.

  Daisy had troubles enough of her own and was not in the mood to comfort a whining haunt. But credit shall be given where it is due. Despite her disappointment in this rock-solid confirmation that she could no longer see dead folk, the tribal elder did her best to soothe and advise the distraught young woman. “Here’s the thing, Maude—you’re dead as a doornail and have been for over a hundred years, so you might as well get used to it.” There being no immediate response from the spirit, she continued to dish out the consolations. “This hole in the ground is your home, until an angel comes to take you across the Jordan or…” Daisy didn’t have the heart to mention the other possibility. “I’m sure that before you died of TB or dropsy or whatnot that you were a good little girl, so sooner or later you’ll go to heaven and be really happy there.” The old woman raised her gaze to consult the sun, which was visibly descending toward the mountainous horizon even as she watched. “I’m sorry, Maude—but I’ve got to get over to U.S. Grant Park and find Sarah.” As Daisy was turning away, she glanced back at the specter she couldn’t see. “But soon as I can, I’ll come back and plant a little rosebush on your grave and we’ll talk about whatever’s on your mind. In the meantime, there’s no point in being lonely—see if you can make friends with another dead person.” An afterthought: “You ought to introduce yourself to a man. But try to find a decent fellow that you’ve got something in common with—like a hobby.” I bet she collects postage stamps or pop-bottle caps.

  Not a peep from the spirit.

  Maude’s probably upset because I won’t stay and talk to her.

  Either that or the invisible presence was mulling over what she’d said.

  This latter possibility provoked Daisy to provide additional advice: “And find something useful to do, dearie—don’t spend the next thousand years moping around here feeling sorry for yourself.” Hoping that Miss Plimpton was at least considering her sensible counsel, the old woman said, “Goodbye.” Her stout walking stick click-clicking on the worn brick pathway, Daisy trudged away through the dark, dr
eary old section of the cemetery. It seemed as if the bright green of the park where Sarah waited was miles and worlds away.

  TO CLARIFY A SMALL POINT

  Had Daisy Perika really had a brief conversation with the restless soul of one Maude Plimpton, whose name she’d read on the old tombstone? No. That spirit had departed ages ago. But in light of the disembodied voice’s proximity to Miss Plimpton’s monument, the tribal elder’s error was understandable—and one that would not have greatly surprised her. As Daisy had observed not an hour ago—There are bound to be lots of haunts in a graveyard the size of this one.

  ONE LAST THING

  The advice Daisy had offered the lonely spirit had been heard by someone. And it would have remarkable repercussions. Where and when? Right here in Granite Creek Cemetery—and before the sun rose again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SARAH FRANK’S ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN U.S. GRANT PARK

  The aforesaid scholar was surprised to discover such tranquillity and soul-soothing peace in this charming little hideaway—and right in the center of the busy, bustling Granite Creek! The lissome young lady was seated on a comfortable bench that was quite unlike the concrete monstrosity Daisy had rested on in the cemetery. This sensuously curved construct of slender pine slats seemed custom-made to caressingly support her thighs and back. To top it all off, the girl’s large, dark eyes were treated to the sight of an oval pond where stunningly gorgeous wood ducks and haughty black swans glided effortlessly on a glassy opalescent surface. Stately weeping willows and soaring spruce on the bank seemed altogether too perfect to be real.