Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  “Steel-toed shoes and safety glasses are a must while using the equipment.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Wilkes. And I’ll do my best for you. Show up my friend here.”

  Nathan snorted. Wilkes looked already lost in another thought. Kennet thanked him, then he and Nathan headed outside. Somewhere in the cemetery a backhoe grinded, digging a brand new grave.

  The new section of the cemetery was ten acres laid out like the face of a clock. The main road through the property stretched from six to twelve. A perpendicular road split the lot from ten to two. The center lanes took the shape of a cross, intersecting at a statue of Christ the Good Shepherd cradling a lamb. Another road ringed the outer edge of the cemetery.

  At the one o’clock position, a gravel road from the new section to the old was partly hidden by an overgrown holly bush. Most people probably had no idea the road—or the old cemetery—lay beyond. The road finally led to the equipment shed, a squat structure of corrugated metal with a wide door, which was padlocked.

  Nathan maneuvered the key off his key ring and handed it to Kennet. Kennet unlocked and opened the door. Inside, it was dark and hot and smelled of decomposing grass and gasoline. Overhead, birds fluttered in the darkness, disturbed by the presence of visitors. A Toro lawn tractor, two push mowers, and a Scott’s spreader sat parked against the back wall, next to an assortment of rakes and weed trimmers, bags of fertilizer, and grass seed. Shovels and snow removal tools stood collected at the far end of the shed.

  Nathan explained how to use the equipment, how to go about cutting and trimming the grass, and where to dump the clippings. Then, from his truck, he entrusted an old pair of safety glasses and half a dozen blank invoices to Kennet.

  “You’ll have to get yourself a set of steel-toes. I don’t have an extra pair.”

  “Just as well. They’d stink too much.”

  “Very funny, Singleton. Remember, I’m hooking you up here.”

  Kennet tried on the safety glasses and mugged at Nathan, all teeth and jazz-hands.

  “You look the part already, dude. But we’ll just see if you do a better job than me.”

  “I aim to.” Kennet perched the glasses atop his head and hug-slapped his friend. “Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.”

  They climbed in the truck and drove into McKeesport to get Kennet a pair of work boots.

  Chapter 9

  Twilight was falling when Kennet tramped the mile from the cemetery to the care home in his grass-stained work boots, now grown heavy. He was sunburned, drenched with sweat, and covered with clippings and grit from the afternoon’s work. He also carried a greater appreciation for how Nathan earned money for college.

  Breathing in the sweet scent of honeysuckle, he trudged up the gravel lane to the side door and sat down on the steps to remove the boots. His sore feet were relieved to be free of their hot confines. He set the boots inside the door and passed through the empty kitchen to his room.

  He switched on the light and gasped. The room sat empty of all his belongings. The bed, stripped to the mattress, had only a plastic incontinence cover that he didn’t need.

  When he heard footsteps behind him, he turned around. Flavia stood in the hall, manicured hands on her hips.

  “Where’s my stuff?” he said.

  “I’ve got another resident coming in, and I needed the room.”

  He studied her dark eyes, trying to sense what was behind this sudden change. He came up against a very thick wall. “I thought he was staying in my mother’s room. Why’d you switch us without asking me?”

  She crossed her arms beneath her big breasts. “I didn’t switch. Charles Osgood is taking your mother’s old room. But his sister from out of town needs personal care also, and she wants to be placed with her only family.”

  “Then where’s my stuff?”

  “I tried to get hold of you all day, but you weren’t at the funeral home. Mr. Grinold said you no longer work there. You didn’t come home. What happened?”

  He was tempted to think that, immediately after she hung up with the fat bastard, she had cleaned out his room because he could no longer pay the room fee, meager though it was.

  “I found a new job,” he said. “I was working all afternoon.”

  Nostrils flaring, she eyed him up and down, taking in his sweatsocks ringed in green, his grass-covered legs, his grimy tee-shirt. “Anyway, I couldn’t wait. We moved your things to the basement.”

  “The basement?” Kennet made fists. A picture of his father flashed in his mind, and it suddenly made him sick. He forced himself to open his hands and calm down.

  “Unfortunately, Kennet, that’s all the room we have.” She led him down the painted plank steps to the cellar.

  In one of the two rooms beneath the front porch, he found cardboard boxes containing his belongings scattered around the concrete floor, his clothes strewn on a cot with a thin, dingy-looking mattress.

  “You expect me to sleep here?” Propensity for his father’s rage aside, anyone would be upset at this turn of events. But he held his tongue to stem the tide of anger from spewing out at her. She had not, after all, set his stuff on the back stoop.

  “You have no choice,” Flavia said flatly.

  She used to be so kind to him. Almost motherly. But since his mother died, she’d turned strictly business. That’s what Kennet saw about her now: a cold machine, grinding its gears toward some hidden objective.

  “Now that you’ve graduated and your mother’s gone, it’s time you found somewhere else to live.”

  “But—”

  She held up one finger and looked him in the eye. “This is a personal care home for the elderly and incapacitated, not a boarding house for capable young men. You’ve got thirty days.” She turned and mounted the stairs, her firm legs swishing her silk stockings as if she had swept him away.

  • • •

  Kennet lay on the lumpy cot in the dark. Earlier, he had showered in his new private bathroom, which was nothing more than a showerhead mounted to a pipe in the basement ceiling, surrounded by a mildewed plastic curtain over a crusty floor drain. He’d brushed his teeth in the cement utility sink, urinated in the antique commode next to the washing machine, and then retired to his cement cell where he switched off the lightbulb by the string that hung in the center of the room.

  With no window in the poured concrete foundation, it was utterly black, but Kennet swore shapes moved before his eyes. One of them was his father, looming over him, hands swatting at him. Being in this room brought back disturbing memories of when Sir had beaten him and locked him in the coal cellar, where he seethed in anger and wiped at seeping wounds he couldn’t see in the dark.

  He never understood his father’s rage, how the man could veer from indifference and neglect to focused hate and cruelty in one short moment. Now he couldn’t comprehend why Flavia had switched gears on him so abruptly. He could understand why ultimately she might want him to move on now that Ma was gone. But not even a week had passed. And despite her finding out that he’d been fired, he felt strongly that she made her decision to uproot him before she called the funeral home.

  Whatever her reason, he was tired of being overlooked, pushed around, and generally treated like shit. That went for Mr. Grinold, too. He hated the turmoil that had erupted in his life and the grief that only made it harder to deal with. Sure, he needed to move on, but why did all this crap have to happen in one week? Yet he couldn’t procrastinate.

  I’ve got to get out, and the sooner the better.

  Kennet pulled the sheet up to shield himself from the dank, musty air. It took half the night to fall into a fitful slumber, but he did finally sleep, and as he slept, his mother came to him in a dream.

  • • •

  She was clad in a lavender dress and a white lace sweater over which she wore a string of luminescent pearls. She sat in the dining room window seat, backlit by a bright haze outside the windows and surrounded by the yellow roses that Kennet had wanted to buy
for her funeral. Her hair glowed softly, and both eyes were clear as the ocean and piercing as truth. She looked altogether lovely, the picture of serenity.

  Kennet wept at his mother’s beauty. Beyond the breathtaking image, he was certain she felt at peace, and she looked stronger than she ever had during her earthly life. Her hands, folded in her lap, were no longer swollen from arthritis or red from cleaning. Radiating light, she opened her mouth and began to speak as she often had before she passed away.

  “O man greatly beloved, fear not! Peace be to you. Be strong, yes, be strong!”

  He tried to reply, to ask her how she was, was she happy, but it was as if he knelt outside a glass wall through which he could see but could not reach. Though she didn’t respond, he felt she knew he was there and spoke all she could share.

  “I have gone the way of all the earth. Be strong, therefore, and prove yourself a man.”

  “Yes, Ma, I will . . . I promise, I will.”

  The vision faded, and he cried in his sleep until the night gave way to dawn.

  Chapter 10

  When Kennet woke it was almost 10:00 a.m. His muscles ached from the previous day’s hard work. And this crappy mattress. He rubbed his lower back.

  He washed away the stiffness with a long, hot shower, hoping as he dried off that neither Flavia nor Alex would tramp downstairs with a load of bedding and see him naked. He’d always dreamed of having a bathroom to himself, but this was far from a dream come true.

  He dressed in cutoff jeans and a fresh tee-shirt and headed upstairs to pull on his work boots. Yesterday he had cut and trimmed the grass in the new section of the cemetery, but he wanted to tackle the old section today before it grew too hot. It needed some tender loving care it hadn’t seen in years. He really wanted the place to look better than ever. He wanted to impress Nathan and Old Man Wilkes. He wanted some job security.

  He slipped out the side door, relieved that he hadn’t encountered Flavia. Still angry with her, he didn’t want to lose control. He didn’t want to act like his father, quick to bellow or clench his fists.

  Brutality had been commonplace since Kennet was a small child, when his father lost his job as a roofer. A roofer needed to drink an awful lot to get fired for it, but Sir had tumbled off the tarpaper into the rhododendrons one too many times, and after that, he’d done little more than odd jobs: hauling junk, shoveling snow, cutting grass. Just enough to get by—and to keep himself in liquor. It occurred to Kennet that in taking the lawncare job at the cemetery he was, in a way, following in his father’s footsteps. He cringed and turned his thoughts back to Flavia.

  She could have thrown him out, but she didn’t. Sleeping in the basement sucked, but it was better than camping under the Tenleytown bridge. He guessed he needed a little nudging to leave the nest. The cuckoo’s nest, he added and found himself cracking a smile. He hadn’t worked very hard to find his own place, but he needed to step up his efforts soon.

  He was lacing his new boots on the side steps when he sensed someone watching him. He turned his head.

  Alex sneered at him from behind the screen door. “Phone.”

  Kennet straightened. “Who is it?”

  “I told you before, I’m not the frickin’ secretary, Basement Boy.” Alex kicked the door open and tossed the cordless at him. Always the gentleman.

  “Hello, this is Kennet.”

  A man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “Kennet, this is Mr. Grinold.”

  Upon recognizing his old boss, adrenaline surged into Kennet’s system, making him feel sick. His heart fluttered in reaction. But he said nothing, just let the pause hang between them and grow uncomfortable. Was the funeral director going to escalate the marshmallow issue, bring a lawyer in or something equally overblown? That’s all he needed. Kennet wouldn’t put it past him.

  “I’ve been thinking about your situation,” Grinold said, “and I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I’ve reconsidered.”

  “Reconsidered?” A moving van sped down Smithfield in the sunshine. Where was this conversation headed?

  “Yes. I’m prepared to give you your job back. Until you’re able to find something permanent.”

  Kennet felt relieved, but thought better of revealing it to Grinold. “I see.” Should he rub the prick’s upturned nose in it? Tempting, but probably not to his advantage. He sent feelers out to see what might be motivating him. Desperation. Nervousness. About what?

  “There are two clients waiting to be cremated.”

  Ah. Corpses stacking up already, Cecil? Kennet couldn’t help but feel satisfied, knowing he had the jerk over a barrel. He forced the smile from his face; he didn’t want to sound like he was gloating, although he was.

  “I’ve found other work,” Kennet said, making it seem as if it were too late.

  “Really? So soon?” Grinold sounded alarmed.

  “I need a few days to think about it.” A few days in which you’ll have to cook a few yourself.

  “I, I don’t—”

  “Tell you what,” Kennet said. “I could start today for two dollars more an hour.”

  There was tense silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Well, you have been working a few years at the same pay rate. . . .”

  Had he made the man sweat long enough? Not quite. Sensing the gears turning in Grinold’s head, he said, “I’m not interested in coming back if you’re looking for someone else to replace me.”

  “No, no, of course not.” Kennet felt Cecil’s red-hot shame.

  “Think about it for a day or two, and get back to me.”

  “Now, Kennet, you know I’m a decisive man.” His voice rose. “I would need you to start today.”

  “For two dollars an hour more.”

  Grinold growled like a cornered dog. “Very well. For two dollars an hour more.”

  Kennet congratulated himself on negotiating a twenty-five percent raise. “Great,” he said, “we’ve reached an understanding. I’ll be there this afternoon.” And then he hung up before Grinold could reply.

  • • •

  Kennet returned the gas-powered weed trimmer to the equipment shed. He stopped on his way out to examine the scrap of paper tacked next to the light switch. It was yellow with age and held a few lines produced by an old typewriter.

  The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

  The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,

  The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

  No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

  Who had written this piece? Orrville Wilkes or someone long dead? Kennet didn’t know. Birds flapped in the darkness above, perhaps indicating why the snippet was posted here. Interesting.

  His work done, Kennet heeded the breezy call of morning and made his way to the tulip tree where he stretched out to enjoy the sweet smell of freshly cut grass.

  He had mowed and bagged the clippings in the old section and then trimmed around the trees and markers. It looked so much better now. Not as cultivated as the new section, but more respectful of those entombed beneath the sod.

  In the dappled sunlight, Kennet studied the headstones through heavy eyes. Harold Clemens’s stone, dated 1936, was carved from granite that had turned coal black. It read, “Husband of Myra Clemens.” Another from 1918 read, “Weep not for me, my companion dear; I am not dead, but sleeping here.”

  The newest stone in the old section was erected in 1987 for a woman simply named Viola. Beneath her first name and the dates, the inscription read, “Gone But Not Forgotten.”

  Kennet let his eyes droop shut. As he succumbed to the paralysis of sleep, a propeller airplane puttered overhead, a metal snap clanged against the cemetery flagpole, a dog barked in the distance. The warm breeze covered him like a bed sheet. Resting there was like lying in the aisle of his mother’s church the night the prophet lady laid her hands on him twelve years ago.

  • • •

  The barren branches of the tulip tree lashed the
evening sky. Leaving the laundry basket behind, Kennet climbed out of their old Plymouth Fury into the downpour. His mother was still dabbing fresh makeup on her bruises under the dome light. He was relieved to escape his father, if only for a short while. She got out of the car.

  He leaped the dirty water coursing along the road and yanked open the church’s front door, ushering his mother inside. In the vestibule, they shed their jackets and shook off the rain. Kennet’s Keds were soaked, and that worried him, because they had to hold up until Christmas when he’d get—hoped he’d get—a new pair to last until school was out and second grade was over. If Ma could afford it.

  The sanctuary of the Holy Ghost and Fire Pentecostal Church was warm from the gas radiator that ticked at the back of the sanctuary. The spicy smell of anointing oil comforted Kennet, and the throbbing of the Hammond organ engulfed him as Brother Alabanza pounded out a chorus and floored the volume pedal like he was breaking the starting line of the Indianapolis 500. The old stained glass windows buzzed in their crusty frames, four panes of rippled glass—green, lavender, gold, and white.

  The church was about half full, as big a crowd as he’d ever seen. The congregation sang and clapped as Sister Masler, at her usual station before the chancel rail, banged her tambourine and swished her muumuu about. She had a butt on her like a rhinoceros.

  Kennet and his mom were late again, but he was glad they could steal away from home. Anything was better than home. Even church.

  Several metal buckets were placed around the room to catch rainwater seeping through the stained ceiling tiles. Kennet wondered if the autumn downpour was the “Latter Rain” that Pastor Treet so often mentioned in his sermons.

  Ma slid into an empty pew near the front, sat down, and then handed Kennet a pencil and a few sheets of folded notebook paper from her ratty handbag. Her fingernails were ragged nubs from chewing.

  Kennet pulled a black Bible from the pew rack in front of him, and a paddle fan skittered to the hardwood floor. His mother shot him a look that could have turned the dripping water into icicles. He shrugged in apology, groped under the pew for the fan, and stuck it back in the hymnal rack. The front of the fan pictured Jesus in a rocky pasture, holding his staff in one hand, a yearning lamb in the other. Kennet liked the picture. He envied the lamb, safe and loved. On the back an advertisement was printed in Old English block letters that Kennet had read a hundred times: “Compliments of Grinold’s Funeral Home.”