Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  The priest shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to take him into town. They have a pauper’s site where they can bury him.”

  Both Stan and Les looked unhappy. “Not much to ask,” Les muttered.

  That’s when I broke in. “He told me he was, sir. Just last night. He said he was born and raised a Catholic.”

  The priest turned those funny eyes on me. “Are you sure of that, my son?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  I wasn’t sure what the expression was sweeping across the priest’s face, but after a long pause, he said, “We do have lots of room. Folks don’t die here anymore. They wait for when they’re on their way to California. Come along, I’ll show you where.”

  It took us more than an hour to dig the grave, even though it was fine loam my dad would have loved to have out in his cornfield. Stan had a tough time doing it with one hand, but Les never stopped for breath, and I did as much as I could. Even the old priest turned over a few shovelsfull, and we finished by daybreak.

  Then we wrapped Clem up in the blanket, and Stan and I lowered him down into Les’s arms. After he had put the bundle down carefully at the bottom of the hole and had scrambled out, the priest stood at one end, while the others of us gathered around with bowed heads.

  “Dear Lord. We consign Clem, this unknown wanderer to your care. Have mercy on his soul and have mercy on all of us who are also nothing more than wanderers on this earth. Amen.”

  The three of us standing there with bowed heads answered, “Amen.” I threw the first shovelfull of dirt down on the blanketed form, my head turned away so none of the others could see the tears. That’s when I heard the train whistle, way off in the distance.

  We hiked into town and said nothing on the way. At the bus station, the goodbys were quiet ones. Les almost crushed my hand. Stan shook mine firmly with his good one. I watched them as they went down the street in the direction of the railroad tracks, then I hunted around for a pay phone and managed to fish out a nickel from all the loose stuff in my pockets.

  As soon as Mom knew who it was she was crying so much I couldn’t make heads nor tails out of what she was saying. In a few minutes, Dad came to the phone. I knew he’d probably been out to the barn because he was out of breath when he answered—but I think he was kind of choked up too.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Dad was never mean to me, but I was almost as scared when I heard his voice as I had been when the Pinkertons came after us. He didn’t sound angry though. Just wanted to know if I could get back by myself. I told him I had plenty of money for bus fare, so he said he’d meet me in town.

  He did. It was a good feeling to see the familiar Nash parked outside the Dayton bus station when we pulled in. I didn’t know what to expect. I sure didn’t think he’d hug me the way he did. He’d never been much for hugging. He kept looking away, which made me think of how I’d looked away when I threw the shovelfull of soil down on Clem’s body.

  Maybe he was just as upset as I was. I covered my feelings by talking all the way home, some twenty miles from the town to the farm. I told him all about the trip in the boxcar, the meeting with the three hoboes, how Clem kept telling me all about life on the road. I even told Dad about the chalk marks. And then I described the attack by the Pinkertons and how Clem had really saved my life and could have escaped if it hadn’t been for me.

  I choked up when I told about the burial. Dad didn’t look my way. In fact, he said almost nothing the whole trip home. Of course, I hadn’t given him much of a chance.

  Mom didn’t try to hide her feelings, and for the first time I really felt bad about what I’d done. I’d just been thinking of myself when I left the note and took off while everyone was asleep. My kid sister and twin brothers couldn’t make out what was going on—the twins, especially, since they were only four. But Sis wanted to know all about the circus I hadn’t even gotten to.

  Dad hustled me off to take a bath as soon as he could tear me out of Mom’s arms. Boy, but the bath felt good. And when I came out all fresh and clean, the table was set with even more food than we usually had. Dad had been lucky, with a farm that was all paid for from Grampa, so we lived a lot better than most of the farmers around there. Of course I really didn’t know at the time about how lucky we were.

  I guess I ate more than usual, too, because I sure felt full when we finished. While Mom was clearing the dishes away, Dad said he wanted me to come with him. I wondered where we were going as we walked down the path to the road.

  When we got there, he leaned down to look at the bottom of the gatepost. Both of us could see a small X there. Dad reached into his pocket, took out a piece of chalk, erased the X, replaced it with a V, then drew an upside down V right on top of it.

  LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION!

  Greg Saunders couldn’t believe it when he finally located the lot. Jeezus! The last empty lot in a classy subdivision, and he’d gotten it at the county foreclosure auction for eighty-five hundred dollars. He hadn’t taken time to look up the location when he had put in his bid, but even a lot in Smitty’s Marsh would be worth more than that, and this one was a steal. He could put up any kind of a hut here, and those four-hundred thousand, five-hundred thousand dollar jobbies next door and across the street would jack up the value of the shack way beyond what it would be in the South End or over in Jebton Heights.

  Why it ever went into foreclosure in the first place was beyond him. Probably a couple getting a divorce who couldn’t stand to agree on anything, even the sale of the place. There were people like that. Cut off their noses to spite their faces. Saunders knew he would never forget the bottom line, no matter what he felt about anyone or anything. Money is what counts, and only money.

  He was still shaking his head over people’s stupidity as he fished out the paper he’d scribbled the lot number on. Holding it at arms length to make up for the reading glasses he’d forgotten, he read the numbers again: 6-17-088-011 and checked them against the old survey stakes he found at the corner of the lot.

  Saunders prided himself on doing figures in his head. This time he was figuring fast, and the amounts were coming out great. Eighty-five hundred for the lot, no more than thirty-five thousand for the finished product—landscaping and all. Not bad for a turnkey spec house. The lot was even fairly level, so there would be a minimal amount of grading. The boulder in the center of the lot would be a pain, but he’d worry about the big rock later.

  The major cost would be for the actual house construction, and there were plenty of ways to shave down construction costs. The damn electrical inspector couldn’t be bought off, so Saunders would have to toe the line with him. But the plumbing inspector would look the other way if he were palmed a couple hundred. The little items there could add up in a hurry, like using lead solder instead of fifty-fifty. With all the pipes buried in the walls and floor when it was finished, no one would know the difference. And maybe one or two vents less than code. Yup, plumbing would come in at least three thousand below legitimate costs.

  As for the structural inspector…hell! He wouldn’t be able to see anything even if he weren’t looking the other way. A couple of bottles of Jack Daniels will keep him happy. Then, lumber grades can be backed down a level. Cheaper grades alone would save close to a thousand. Leaving out the toe braces, maybe putting in some two-foot spacings where they should be eighteen inches—those items would add up to at least another couple-a-thousand.

  Landscaping wouldn’t involve anything beyond labor. He knew of some State land where he could go in after sunset and pull up a few small oaks and maples. They’d never grow, of course, but he’d have sold the house by the time they died, and he’d be long gone by then. The numbers rattled around in his head, and instead of twenty percent over costs, this house should bring in thirty-five percent or more. Maybe a lot more.

  Furnishings would come cheap. Damaged stuff where the torn backs could be hidden against a wall. Factory rebuilt stove and fridge. Carpe
ting from a discount warehouse. No problems there.

  Yup, the backhoe and graders would be out tomorrow to level the ground and get rid of the chunk of granite in the middle. With a half-dozen temporary hires and a little overtime—damn little—for the regular crew, Saunders could see the house completed in less than thirty days. A record.

  ***

  The first half-hour after daybreak the next morning revealed some of the drawbacks to the site. Accustomed to working in new and barren subdivisions, Saunders suddenly found out how neighbors could be a real pain in the ass. The first inkling was a visit from the homeowner just to the north. He was a small, dark-skinned individual who introduced himself as Bashir Faraldo, spelling it out for Saunders’ benefit.

  Some damn Ay-rab who probably sends money to terrorists, Saunders decided, ignoring the proffered hand.

  “Would you be the person in charge of the construction?” the neighbor asked.

  “Yes, I would be.” Saunders was eyeing his crew who, as far as he was concerned, weren’t moving fast enough in dropping the bulldozer off the flatbed.

  “Do you realize there’s a county ordinance against construction before seven A.M.?”

  Saunders focused on the man who came barely up to his shoulder. “No, I don’t realize. All I realize is I’ve got a job to do.” Maybe this isn’t such a great location if a bunch of Ay-rabs live next door. On the other hand…he estimated the little man’s house must have cost well over a half million, not counting the lot or landscaping. Ay-rab or not, a mansion like his next door could damn near double the value of Saunder’s spec house.

  The neighbor’s eyes flashed, and he rolled forward on his toes as though to add some height to his diminutive size. “Since you are unwilling to comply, I shall contact the county attorney and demand he enforce the regulation.” Saunders snorted and turned his back on the neighbor, who stalked off to his house.

  County attorney—hah! Saunders had lost track of how many letters he’d received from the county attorney—so many he no longer even bothered to turn them over to Stan Goodman to handle. Why give that damn yid lawyer more excuses to charge me, he’d decided. By the time Mohammed gets through the red tape at the County Building, the house will be built and sold. After that, it will just be a few more letters from the County to tear up and throw away.

  Then the kids showed up. Saunders summoned his foreman, Wilt Baker, in order to chew his ass out for letting the kids get even near the equipment. “Godammit, just because I’m insured doesn’t mean I want one of those kids getting his head crushed by a dozer track. Christ, I’d have a ton of paperwork to fill in, and the cops would close us down for hours, maybe days. Keep those fucking kids the hell away from the property. Kick ‘em off the sidewalk.”

  Baker nodded and went off to shoo the kids away, while the contractor shook his head in disgust. Wilt was getting along in years. Saunders’ father had hired him over twenty years ago, and he might have been worth his wages then, but there were plenty of eighteen-year-olds who’d be eager to take his place and would be willing to start at the bottom of the pay scale. Saunders was pondering what excuse he would use to dump Baker after this job, when a woman emerged from the house to the south and headed in his direction.

  If she’d been young and attractive, Saunders might have listened to her. She was neither young nor attractive, so he didn’t make a pretense. Something about dirt blowing over on her side of the fence. Shit! You can’t level a property without raising some dust. Sure, the regulations call for hosing down as you work, but why add to the cost? He handled the complaint by simply walking away.

  Colin Billings was supervising the earth moving. Saunders’ increasingly foul mood centered on Billings, a tall muscular black to whom he was paying additional wages under the table. The thought of the extra money nagged at him, but Billings wouldn’t work for just the regular salary. Saunder’s father had once said he could hire a whole crew of jigs for the wages of one white man. But those were the good old days. Things sure as hell weren’t that way these days. Not with the fucking unions.

  If Billings weren’t such a damn fast worker who could lift a ten-pound framing hammer and slam in nails faster than a machine, and if he weren’t able to pick up a two-hundred pound beam like it was a tinker toy, Saunders would have gotten rid of him long ago—stupid affirmative action regulations or not.

  Saunders toyed with the idea of an anonymous call to the IRS to tell them Billings was pocketing a lot of unreported cash, then decided they might want to know where Billings was getting it. He’d have to think of some other way of chopping Billings down.

  His annoyance reached a fever pitch as he got out of his pickup where he’d gone to get the blueprints. There was Billings, talking to some white-bearded, rosy-cheeked character who had a nondescript dog on a leash. The man and his dog were actually on the property! Saunders rushed over to them in a rage.

  The dog saw him first, growled, and the hairs on his neck stood up. Saunders was hoping he’d attack, figuring on breaking at least a few ribs with his steel-toed construction shoes. “Get back to work Billings. And as for you, Santa Claus, get yourself and your damn mutt off my property.”

  Santa Claus was obviously startled by the reception, started to say something, changed his mind, nodded to Billings, and slowly walked out to the sidewalk, crossed the street, turned and watched the ongoing bulldozing, the backhoe digging a trench to attach to the sewer line, the carpenters making a rough stake-out of the house site. By afternoon, standing at a safe distance, were a ring of watchers including the Ay-rab, the woman neighbor, Santa Claus, residents from across the street, and children who were being restrained by parents. Saunders ignored the onlookers.

  His major concern by afternoon was not the gawkers but the damn big boulder right smack in the middle of the house site. It was larger than he’d anticipated. The backhoe couldn’t budge it. Some nitro to break it up into manageable pieces would have made sense, but not with neighbors nearby. A blast would probably tempt the sneaky Ay-rab to break one of his own windows and then sue for damages.

  Saunders cursed, broke out his cell phone and called for a crane and flatbed, knowing the short notice would cost him extra, but he had to get moving on the foundation. Once the rock was loaded—and it turned out to be about all the crane could handle—Saunders started to instruct the driver to dump it into Smitty’s pond, since the county would charge an exorbitant tipping fee for dropping it at their landfill.

  One of the temps overheard and said, “Hey, boss, there’s a fancy place over in the next block where they’re putting in a rockery. Maybe they’ll take it off your hands.”

  “O.K. Go along with the driver. Maybe you might be able to get a few bucks for it. But get rid of it! And get right back to work.”

  The worker’s return brought a surprise. With a big grin on his face, he pulled out a check and handed it to Saunders. Eight hundred dollars! “Yeah, the wife fell in love with the rock. After I sold it to her old man, she said it was going to be the center of her rock garden, with a fountain all over it. She said she would have been willing to pay ten times as much for it.”

  Saunders glared at the worker, pocketed the check, and grunted, “Get back to work.”

  ***

  The work went even more rapidly than Saunders had anticipated, but then he’d cut even more corners than he had originally planned on. No felt under the roofing, more sand reducing the richness of the foundation pour, even some used electrical supplies he’d managed to sneak by the tight-assed electrical inspector. If he could drive the workers a bit harder, then he might be able to make it for even less than thirty thousand. Shit! No way could he beat that figure and still have the house stand up long enough to be sold.

  Leaning against his pickup while supervising the planting of the stolen trees and shrubs, Saunders was relishing the thought. The crowd across the street had thinned after the first week. Santa Claus had made an occasional visit—but kept his distance. Mohammed walked b
y and glared, while the old bitch next door could be seen peering through the curtains.

  The only encounter with the kids had been a basketball bouncing onto the lot shortly after construction began. Sanders threw it into the burn barrel. No one had come asking for it. The same day he’d received service of some papers he couldn’t read without his glasses. Cursing his lawyer who was supposed to handle such matters, he tossed them into the same barrel.

  The one fly in the ointment on the final day was the price he was asking for the house, which was advertised in the evening paper probably hitting the streets by now. Ninety-nine thousand seemed dirt cheap, considering the neighborhood and how impressive the house looked. He hadn’t counted on the army-surplus paint going on so well. It would turn to chalk before the year was out, but right now it sparkled like the finest grade available. Maybe he should have ignored the hundred thousand dollar barrier and gone for a hundred and nine thousand. Even in depressed areas, these days, a house like this would run easy into six figures.

  While musing over what might turn out to be a multi-thousand-dollar mistake, he started through the day’s mail he had been carrying around in the truck for several days. Some items were obviously bills. He didn’t bother with his eyeglasses, since he recognized the county attorney’s logo—this time again on certified mail. It made him angry to think the county was wasting his tax money on certified mail he would never bother to read.

  The rest of the thick packet of mail did consist mainly of bills—none of which he was about to pay until the house sold—some more letters from attorneys named Halberstram and something else, also certified, also undoubtedly dunning him for the cost of lumber or power tools or some such thing. Screw them! They could wait. Stacking the letters together he tore the stack in half and threw the pieces into the gutter.

  A large car pulled up behind his pickup, and a prosperous looking man carrying a large dispatch case emerged from behind the wheel. Saunders perked up, having decided this was the first customer, then felt a pang at the thought so quick a response meant a hundred and nine thousand wouldn’t have been far out of line. Maybe there was still some way to inflate the asking price. Hell! The paper could have made a mistake.