Like the funeral home, the dumpy little tabernacle sat off Smithfield Street, which ambled along the Youghiogheny River on the outskirts of Tenleytown, part of the city of McKeesport, southeast of Pittsburgh. Behind the church lay the old cemetery, crammed with gravestones harking back to the nineteenth century. On sunny Sunday mornings, Kennet gazed out the open side windows and watched robins and jays flit from stone to stone. Once he actually spied a groundhog nosing out a bone.
Ma stood and sang softly, her eyes clenched shut, her red hands raised. Those hands were raw from cleaning—cleaning at McKeesport high school, cleaning rich people’s houses on the weekends, and constantly cleaning up after his father.
Up front, Sister Masler waved a hanky above her head as if flagging down the Good Old Gospel Ship.
Peace settled on the congregation, and the singing trailed off in hushed expressions of worship. Kennet liked this moment best. Maybe the lamb in Jesus’ arms had nothing on him, at least not for a minute or two.
Pastor Treet broke the quiet, delivering a long prayer in a whining vibrato. He prayed all the way around the world and back, stopping only for a furlough in Indonesia, where some missionaries were stationed.
After an appeal ardent enough to wrench open a padlocked pocketbook, a couple of fresh-scrubbed men took up the offering, passing chicken buckets down the pews and across the center aisle. Ma dropped a dollar in the bucket. He knew it was a dollar because she’d crumpled it into a ball, something she did so no one knew how little she could afford to give.
Finally, Pastor Treet welcomed everyone, especially the visitors, and invited them to greet their neighbor with “a token of Christian affection.” Babble erupted, handshakes and embraces commenced, and Kennet made his way to the side wall, where he leaned against the cool wainscoting, dark with crackled varnish.
He usually didn’t mind the women fussing over him or the men joshing him, but he hated when they asked about his bruises. He wasn’t up for that tonight and felt especially conspicuous because last week he’d intervened between his father and mother, and Sir had booted him into the coffee table, giving him a black eye and a nasty cut on his cheek that needed stitches. He got butterfly bandages instead because stitches required a doctor, and a doctor cost money.
A sad-looking fellow with a shiny bald head leaned over and stuck out his paw. Kennet reluctantly shook it, his small hand engulfed in callused beef. To Kennet’s relief, the man said nothing about the bandages or his shiner.
Everyone sat back down, the pews creaking.
Pastor Treet rattled off the announcements like an auctioneer and then leaned over the oak pulpit. The flickering candles on the communion table brightened his waxy brow.
“Brothers and sisters, it’s my great pleasure to introduce Sister Etta Hargrave. God never let the prophet Samuel’s words fall to the ground. They always came to pass. Such is the ministry of Sister Etta, as you well know. A modern-day seer. We’re glad to have her back, aren’t we saints?”
A murmur of agreement rose from the faithful.
Treet adjusted his black glasses on his nose. “We’ve witnessed her ministry here a number of times, and those who’ve received a prophetic word from Sister Etta have testified to the acc’racy of its content. Beyond that, as I said, her words have always come to pass. Such is the measure—or a measure, I should say—of a New Testament prophet. Now, without further ado, the handmaiden of the Lord.”
Treet lowered himself to one of the thrones on the platform as a hunched stick of a woman in a gray dress and lace sweater hobbled to the pulpit. Her hair was drawn back severely, and sharp eyes glinted behind her wireframe glasses.
“They call me Sister Etta. . . .”
She commenced with greetings and a few remarks that prompted chuckles from the congregation, the same chuckles they reserved for every visiting minister, only slightly heartier than the phony laughter they offered Pastor Treet. Kennet knew when the laughs were real, and he knew when they were fake.
Sister Etta called for testimonies from those she ministered to the last time she was here, and one by one they stood and swore to the accuracy of her prophecies.
Berla Jones, a middle-aged woman with big breasts and buck teeth, jumped up and announced, “Last time Sister Etta was here, she proph’sied about the man I would marry, and I nearly fell over from shock.”
If Kennet recalled right, she actually did fall over. It happened sometimes. But never to him. There was no way he’d let it happen to him. The last visiting evangelist who blessed all the children with laying on of hands had tried to push him over, and he wanted none of that.
Berla continued. “But you’ve all met my Henry.” She yanked the sad-looking bald fellow to his feet. “We’re engaged to be wed Saturday after Thanksgivin’, and you’re all invited!”
Henry smiled sheepishly, everyone applauded, and they sat down together, Berla squeezing his arm and grinning like a picket fence.
Sister Etta gave glory to God, opened her Bible, and took for her text Isaiah 43:2.
“‘When you pass through the waters,’” she read, “‘I will be with thee; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over thee. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set thee ablaze.’”
She had a strong voice for such a small woman. Not dry and reedy like Sister Masler’s, but rich and clear, with precision. Like Mrs. Haas, Kennet’s homeroom teacher.
Sister Etta made the hour fly as she told how God saved Noah in the ark; led the children of Israel safely across the Red Sea; spared Daniel in the lions’ den; and rescued Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the fiery furnace. “God delivered every one,” she declared and moved from behind the pulpit.
Kennet’s favorite story was about David and Goliath, but the way this preacher lady spun the tales, he could listen to her talk all night. He didn’t need to occupy himself with drawing or writing in his secret code. The pencil and paper lay untouched beside him on the pew.
Then Sister Etta was calling someone to the front. She extended a finger like a chicken bone in his direction. He almost said, Who, me?, pointing at his chest. He turned around both ways, but no one sat directly behind him.
His mother rose and pulled him to his feet. She nudged him toward the aisle, but Kennet planted his Keds.
“Ma, I don’t wanna.” Like always, he’d tagged along with her so that he wouldn’t be left at home with Sir. He didn’t mind church, and he was enjoying the message tonight, but he wanted nothing more than a few hours of peace and safety. In panic he looked up at his mother and shook his head violently. She eyed him from beneath her gray curls and gave him a push.
“No, Ma!” he whispered, squirming in her grasp. She held tighter with her red fingers and marched him up the center aisle to the platform.
Sister Etta’s frame was lean, her hands clasped at her waist, eyes bright and piercing. Kennet sensed everyone’s gaze on him. His face grew hot, and his stomach trembled like a hive full of bees. Nervous bees.
“Little Brother,” Sister Etta said, “the moment I laid eyes on you, my spirit jumped within me, and I knew the Lord had something for you.” Her voice rang clear. “Stand right here before me, and let’s see what he has to say.”
Kennet suddenly had to pee, but his mother stood behind him, her fingers on his spine. He didn’t dare bolt. Reluctantly, he stepped forward, and Sister Etta, balanced on the edge of the platform above him, gripped his shoulder in a sharp, bony hand. The other hand, backlit by the pulpit spotlight, descended toward his curly head. She spouted off in tongues, some strange language that sounded like Swahili.
A rush of power swept him, nearly knocking him out of his Keds. He felt energy pouring out of her, coursing over him like a wave of voltage, akin to what he felt when he passed under the high tension wires on summer hikes—only stronger. It permeated and probed him. Sister Etta’s hand landed on Kennet’s head. He jittered while she spoke.
“Son, the Lord would
say unto thee, ‘All they that devour thee shall be devoured, and all thine adversaries, every one of them, shall go into captivity. And they that spoil thee shall be spoiled, and all that prey upon you will I make a prey. For I will restore health unto you, and I will heal thee of thy wounds,’ saith the Lord, ‘because they called you an outcast, one undesired.’”
Kennet was overwhelmed by the strange power. He crumpled as the blazing light behind the prophet’s hand was swallowed up in blackness.
When he came to, he found himself lying on the vinyl runner in the aisle, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Sister Etta still stood on the platform, ministering to Sister Masler, who was shaking and gibbering.
Kennet scrambled to his feet. His mother lay sprawled on the floor behind him, draped with a blue cloth, something the altar workers did to keep the men from seeing up the skirts of those slain in the Spirit. No one seemed to pay him any attention, so he slipped down the aisle, through the vestibule, and out the front door. It had stopped raining, but the wind was colder, and clouds had passed over the moon.
• • •
Kennet didn’t know how long he had snoozed under the tulip tree, but when he woke, the shadows beneath the stones had pivoted, and a dark figure stood above him.
“Glad I’m not paying you by the hour, Rip Van Winkle.”
Kennet stretched. “Hi, Mr. Wilkes. Hope you’re not sore because I took a nap. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Wilkes orated in a theatrical voice: “‘There at the foot of yonder beech, that wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, his listless length at noontide would he stretch, and pore upon the brook that babbles by.’”
“You like poetry.”
“Never used to.” Wilkes squinted at the back field toward the woods, his wispy white hair lifting in the breeze. “But my wife loved it. I began to study and memorize it. For her.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure she appreciates it.”
“She died of breast cancer years ago.” Wilkes sounded somber. “All I have left is my photos. And the poetry.”
Kennet recalled the snapshots of the handsome red-haired woman on the walls of Wilkes’s office. For some reason, he found it hard to believe she was dead.
After a moment, the old man’s voice brightened. “Looks terrific back here.”
“Thanks,” Kennet said, getting to his feet. “I thought it could use a little sprucing up. How’s the front look to you?”
“You did a great job, young man. I’ll have to tell your friend he’s got a contender in the lawncare business.”
Kennet chuckled. “You do that.”
“Know much about this part of the cemetery?” the old man asked.
“It used to belong to the church, didn’t it?”
“Right. Established by the Presbyterians long before the Pentecostals took it over.” He pronounced it Pennycostas. “But half the graves here, the really old ones, were exhumed from Hogsback Hill—one of the first settlements in the area, with the first cemetery.”
All Kennet knew about Hogsback Hill was that it now was crowded with old buildings, most of which should be condemned. You didn’t want to stroll there alone at night.
“Town grew up around the cemetery and threatened its desecration.”
“When was this?” Kennet asked.
“Late eighteen hundreds. They moved the graves out here. Then after an influenza epidemic at the close of the century more property had to be acquired. So town officials formed a perpetual care society and planned Good Shepherd Cemetery, right next to the church and its existing graveyard.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.” Wilkes grinned with his dentures and then pulled a blue bandana from his back pocket. He polished the top of Viola’s headstone, pocketed the handkerchief, and headed back through the trees to the office.
Gone But Not Forgotten. Kennet studied the headstone again and wondered if it belonged to Wilkes’s wife.
Chapter 11
That evening Grinold followed the hall from his office to the funeral home annex, carrying the brown kraft envelope that contained the paperwork for Harlan O’Connor. Kennet had time to cremate him before calling it a day. At least he better have. The little bastard better not talk back about it, either, now that he’s making two dollars an hour more. Grinold gruffed in disgust. Yet he could ill afford Kennet making an issue of being fired, seeing as he knew about Delores Swann. Grinold wasn’t sure how much Kennet knew, but he was using kid gloves. For now. Grinold flung open the annex door.
Kennet looked up with wide eyes. He was holding the metal skewer. “I was just putting this away, Mr. Grinold. I wasn’t going to toast any marshmallows. Honest.”
“I certainly hope not. Are you preheating?”
“Yes. That the paperwork?”
Grinold was about to hand Kennet the envelope, but drew it back. Seeing the skewer brought something else to mind.
“Any special precautions?”
“No.” Cecil studied Kennet’s face for a moment. Rather a handsome face. Yet vacuous. Unintelligent.
“Something wrong, Mr. Grinold?” Kennet looked a little panicked, as usual. Grinold liked it that way.
“I was just thinking of a little experiment.” It would be the perfect way to find out whether his young employee was telling the truth or inventing tall tales. Knowing that his “psychic gift” was impossible, Grinold gloated about the time when he would fire Kennet for good. Hopefully, soon.
“Experiment?”
“Yes, Kennet. Are the marshmallows still here?”
“Unless you threw them away.”
“I should have, but I didn’t. Bring them out.”
“I hope there’s no problem . . .”
“Relax. Just get the marshmallows.” Dummy.
The young man rummaged in a box of urn liners, fishing for the bag of sweets. Kraft Jet-Puffed. Grinold doubted there was an advertising opportunity in this particular story. Kennet held out the bag, looking nervous.
“You don’t need them yet, do you?”
“Beg your pardon?”
Kennet was so dense sometimes. “Go ahead and cremate Mr. O’Connor. I’ll hang on to the paperwork until you’re through. Then we’ll have our little experiment.”
Kennet blinked a few times and then nodded.
At last, comprehension. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” Grinold slipped the envelope under his arm and returned to his office. He would show Kennet that he had no special “gift.” And teach him not to lie so foolishly.
The phone rang as he sat down at his desk. Since Mary Grace was gone for the day, he picked up the receiver. “Grinold’s Funeral Home, Cecil Grinold speaking.”
“Hello, Cecil. Flavia Costa here.”
“Good evening, Flavia.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call during business hours, but it’s hard for me to get away from the residents during the day.”
“That’s quite all right, I’m here. What can I do for you?” He hoped she would suggest they meet for coffee. If all went well, she would be a step up from Delores.
“I’ll get to the point. I’d like to propose a business arrangement.”
“Yes?”
“As you know, when my clientele leave the care home, they usually go to their final resting place. All residents are required to have minimum insurance which, if they have no other savings set aside, covers nothing beyond cremation.”
“Yes, I think I understand how it works for you.” He tapped his sausage fingers on the blotter and glanced at the clock.
“In the past I’ve used a number of funeral homes in the area, but seeing as we’re neighboring businesses, I’d like to use your services exclusively.”
Not a coffee date, but an equally intriguing proposition. “I’m delighted in your interest, Flavia. I suppose you have special terms in mind?” Women always did.
“Your cremation fee is two thousand dollars, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“In exchange for an exclusive arrangement with Grinold’s Funeral Home, I’d expect cremation for twelve hundred.”
Grinold laughed, but not derisively. He didn’t want to sour the deal. “I’m sorry, that discount schedule won’t work because my costs are a thousand.” A lie. He could cremate for $250. “But I’d be happy to give you a ten percent discount at eighteen.”
She drew a deep breath. “I appreciate that, but we’re talking about an exclusive arrangement. My home is right next door, easy to get a gurney in and out of, and every resident is a guaranteed payment. Thirteen hundred.”
“Seventeen . . .”
They continued negotiating until they agreed at $1500.
“Perhaps we could sign the paperwork over coffee sometime soon,” Grinold offered.
After a moment, she said, “I believe our word is good enough. At our next turnover, I’ll be sure to call you directly.”
• • •
Kennet sensed him coming a minute before he opened the door. The cool-down timer beeped as if on cue. Kennet switched the timer off while the funeral director approached, tapping the brown envelope against his pudgy palm.
“Ready?” Grinold said coolly.
“For the experiment?”
“Exactly. Get your skewer and your sweets.”
Kennet fidgeted with the twist-tie on the bag of marshmallows, fumbled two of the soft morsels out, and impaled them on the skewer. He donned his face mask and opened the oven. For a moment, he got the sinking feeling that his gift would fail him and leave him looking like a fool.
Arms folded over his gut, Grinold watched.
The oven exhaled powerful heat, and the feelings swept over Kennet as if the dead man’s spirit were passing by. A wave of nausea hit him, and then a horrendous pressure in his chest, as if an elephant had stepped on him. He reached out to steady himself, willing away the dizziness. Since he’d led Grinold to believe his gift was tied to eating the marshmallows, he needed to keep it together until he got them in his mouth. Kennet thrust the marshmallows over the ashes and twirled the skewer between his palms.
Death Perception Page 8
