Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  And no grinning skull, no dried flesh clinging to bone, just dirt filled bags laid end to end along the length of the coffin.

  We turned off the flashlights, climbed out, and started pushing sand back in the hole. We worked for an hour, making frequent trips into the woods to dig up dirt to make up for the broken coffin’s volume. After at least five thousand trips to the woods, and much scrapping and replacing of sod and weeds, and a final inspection under flashlight, we picked up the bikes and pushed them along the road.

  At the far corner of the cemetery we walked into the woods and sat in wet leaves. I fumbled with the corkscrew, got the bottle of zinfandel open, took a long drink and passed it to Priscilla. She drank, drank again, and passed the bottle back with the comment, “The Chapman’s are lizards.”

  “Yes indeed. I wonder how long they have been doing this sort of thing.”

  “Listen, where the hell is Frank?”

  “Probably in that special place, perhaps, as you hinted, with telltale marks on his bones. They took one hell of a chance, what if Eva had wanted to see the whole body instead of just taking a quick look?”

  “I wasn’t there so I don’t have an answer to that. But I do know Eva wouldn’t have wanted to take a long look at Frank’s body, she has a thing about looking at bodies, any bodies. Even road kill upsets her.”

  We sat against the tree, drinking and letting the rain spatter on us until we finished the wine. I unzipped the trailer, took a kitty treat out of my pocket and petted Cat while withholding the treat. She tolerated the petting for maybe fifteen seconds, then bit down softly on my hand and growled until I dropped the treat in front of her nose.

  She gets a little cranky when she’s cold and damp.

  We pushed the bikes to the road and started pedaling. Priscilla pulled up beside me and said, “Conrad has to be in on it. Rundle too.”

  “I agree. Maybe we should have another chat with Conrad. And T. William, we should have another go at him, preferably when he’s alone.”

  “Harry, T William has mud for brains and he’s getting worse every day. You can bet Dorthea isn’t going to let him out of her sight. Taking care of him has got to be tough on her, it’s like taking care of a pretty stupid six year old.” She reached over and tapped me on the hand. “That Watson guy? We find the Special Place, I’ll bet a matched set of chipmunk balls he’ll be there too, and he won’t have his precious Canadian Maple Leafs wrapped around his fat, hairy white gut.”

  I looked at her. “Hairy white gut?”

  “Listen, there are a zillion or so Charlie Watsons in this world and they all have fat hairy white guts.”

  … . .

  EVA HIT THE TABLE WITH THE flat of her hand and whispered, “Damn,” startling Cat, and sending her hobbling to my end of the table. I picked her up and put her on my lap. Eva’s mouth opened, closed, and dropped open again. Ona stood up, went to the refrigerator and brought back a bottle of rose and a Coor’s. I opened the wine and poured Priscilla and I a water glass full. Sarah stuck with her Champagne.

  “So where the hell is my Frank?” Eva rasped

  “We don’t know,” I said. “Chapman referred to his special place, whatever, wherever that may be, and it appears that that is where he may be.”

  “You two gonna find out?”

  “Oh yes, yes indeedy,” Priscilla said. The look on her face would scare a mongoose.

  Eva drank beer and shook her head. “Well hell, so there I was, bawling like a newborn calf and throwing dirt on a coffin already filled with dirt. I was a damn fool. Terrible as I felt, I should have taken a good long look at Frank’s body.” After a moment she said, “You two are going to have to be careful, those people are scabs.”

  Sarah, her eyes big and shiny, sipped her champagne and bobbed her head. “Scabs,” she said.

  … . .

  BEFORE CRAWLING INTO BED I LOOKED into the main cabin. Priscilla, clad in her bunny jammies, was still at the Xbox, totally absorbed in her hunt through dangerous places. It was almost five A.M. Pedaling back at one in the morning had been dumb, the Ladies on the Hill told us so several times as we fiddled with the bikes. We promised to come back in a day or so and pedaled through a black rain toward the farm. A couple of miles out of town a police cruiser pulled alongside us and shined a high powered light on us. I squinted into the blinding glare, smiled and waved. He panned us with the light for several seconds, then turned if off and drove along beside us for an eternity before pulling away.

  Cat apparently decided to bunk with me tonight and was waiting at the foot of the bed. I picked her up, dropped her on the pillow, and crawled under the covers. Purring softly, she spent several minutes cleaning herself, then put her head down on the pillow and purred in my ear. I sighed contentedly and closed my eyes.

  Old men need security, or at least the illusion of it, and snuggling down in my mahogany cave with Cat and listening to the fire popping and crackling, was my security, and worth every cold wet mile, even worth being frightened by men in with guns and badges who have the power to take it all away.

  … . .

  THE SMELL OF FRESH BREWED COFFEE brought me out of the bag at noon. A gray light filled the grove and frost still covered the ground, forcing the dead weeds to their knees and coating the granite rocks with a white stubble. I put on a blue running suit and sat in the settee, sipping coffee and nibbling at a granola bar. Several sparrows and starlings flew to the feeders and pecked and scratched. Several more of the drab little things were pecking at the ground. And then I noticed at least fifty birds perched in the trees, or sitting on the ground, and realized the feeders were empty. What with Jankey and all I had forgotten to refill them.

  Priscilla plopped down in the opposite seat, poured me more coffee and said, “About time. I thought maybe you’d settled in for the winter.”

  She was dressed in purple sweat pants and a purple tee shirt with DILLIGAF printed across the front in bold yellow letters. I looked under the table and saw that she had shoes on, so I said, “There’s bird seed under the cockpit’s left seat.” I nodded toward the trees. “Will you please fill the feeders? The birds are pretty hungry and I’m not ready to venture out yet.”

  She gave me a look, pushed up from the settee and clumped outside. I watched as she hauled two buckets of seed toward the tree line. When she approached the first feeder several sparrows swooped down and pecked at the seed while it was still in the bucket. By the time she got to the last feeder she was enveloped in a cloud of fluttering, squabbling, squawking birds. Cat, who is a dedicated bird watcher, pasted her face against the window, made noises in the back of her throat and beat her tail against the napkin holder I’d borrowed from Gretchen’s seven or eight years ago.

  Priscilla dropped into the cabin. Deliberately stomping her feet, she marched to the settee and plunked down. She glared at me for a moment and raised her right hand. Her index finger popped up, and she slowly swung her hand to her left shoulder and pointed. Right on top, soaking into the purple cloth was a mottled white splotch. “Bird shit,” she said. “You’re not ready to venture outside, and I get shit on by a dumb ass bird. Those things are nasty, you oughta potty train them.” She took a napkin, dunked it in coffee and rubbed at the spot.

  I put my hands together in front of me and bowed my head. “I thank you for your sacrifice. The starving birdies thank you. You’re truly a wonderful human being, full of empathy and compassion for our little feathered friends. In fact, you’re… ”

  “Jack a sock in it, Old Man. Listen, we going to accomplish anything today?”

  “Today is a day of R and R. We’re going to hang around the boat and do little while I recover from the emotional turmoil of digging up a grave. Then I suggest supper at the barn.” I looked out the window and waited for the explosion.

  She stood up and said, “Sounds good to me, I’ll be at The Washington Mall, doing battle with Raiders and Mutants, kicking ass and making trash.”

  … . .

 
I READ, NAPPED, READ SOME MORE, and toward evening went for a walk. Cat spent most of her day dozing in front of the stove, and Priscilla spent most of her day with Fallout 3. Once, an hour or so after a late lunch, she jumped up from the Xbox, stomped around the cabin and yelled “Shit!” and “Goddamn it!” about twenty times before finally settling down. I wisely kept quiet as the look on her face would fry rocks.

  Around six we headed for the barn. Dolly, the big wall eyed Guernsey, caught up with us near the gate. She lumbered up to Priscilla, lowered her head and gently butted her in the side. Priscilla laughed and cooed, and spent several minutes giving dolly’s neck and ears a massage. “So what happens to them when they can’t give milk anymore?”

  “I don’t know if they ever stop giving milk. But if they do it doesn’t mean anything. Annie’s a retired vet and dearly loves animals and will care for them until they die of old age. So, not to worry about Dolly, she’s in the best of hands.”

  We reached the gate, and instead of fighting with the damn thing, climbed over it and walked toward the barn. When I looked back, Dolly and the rest of the herd were lined up along the gate watching us. I nudged Priscilla and said, “Why don’t you get a saddle for Dolly? You could ride the wild New Hampshire range, foiling the villainous deeds of desperadoes and keeping damsels and children safe from the clutches of beer laden rednecks in pickup trucks. You two could become legends in your time”

  She turned and regarded me with eyes gone flat. I moved a couple of feet away and bravely stumbled on. “I can see it now; you and Dolly, galloping through town. You could get a white hat, and people would look and wonder … “

  She struck. A spring loaded backhand to my Solar Plexus. I bent over, clutched my chest, and hoped she wouldn’t strike again. When I could function I smiled and said, “Is that any way for a heroine to act? What will the children think?”

  She snorted and smacked the back of my head. “They’ll thank me for ridding the world of a smart ass old man.”

  Years ago, soon after the farm became a home for indigent seniors, the front half of the second floor of the barn was converted into a general purpose room. It sports a kitchen, dining area, and toward the back, a lounge and library. The lounge consists of several islands of living room sets complete with rugs and lamps. Spiked to the walls were pine bookcases packed with a truly eclectic range of books.

  The lounge was crowded, with every piece of furniture occupied. People were chatting, reading, or just sitting and staring at the blazing logs in the stone fireplace that Herb Rico, an obnoxious stonemason built years ago. The big room was basted with the smell of roast chicken, and Cat, who had been dozing, poked her head and bad paw out of the sling and licked her chops in anticipation. Ignoring the look of the face of the withered, white haired woman behind the serving table, I filled my plate with steaming meat. Priscilla, shuffling along impatiently in back of Ida Briggs, also piled on the meat and little else.

  As we neared the end of the serving line Priscilla accidentally bumped Ida with her tray. Ida, a tall buxom woman with thinning hair and wearing about twenty-six pounds of cheap jewelry, turned slowly, stared down at Priscilla and whined, “Little girl, you smell like a cow.”

  Holding her plate with one hand Priscilla reached out, snapped Ida on the nose with her index finger and said, “Lady, you’re built like a cow, you’re uglier than a cow, and you smell like perfumed lighter fluid.” As Ida sputtered and desperately dredged her brain for a comeback, I pulled Priscilla away from the line and steered her to the far end of the dining area where we sat at a folding table that wobbled.

  As I put Cat on the table, Annie, helping a feeble looking, sad faced man I’d never seen before, joined us. Annie is seventyish, handsome in a wrinkled way, and a practicing hardnosed renaissance woman. Behind her frosty eyes is a mind honed razor sharp by time and adversity. She got the man seated, smiled at us and said, “This is Henry Granger. Henry recently got booted out of Joyful Years, an assisted living establishment, because his insurance no longer covered his expenses, a large portion of which went to keep him drugged and in a state of dementia. I took away his drugs this morning and by the weekend I think he’ll be his old self again.” She gave us a look. “In the meantime let’s be tolerant shall we?”

  I gave Henry a sideways glance. He looked at me with desperate eyes and farted, long and loud. I looked away, doused my chicken with salt and pepper, dipped my head and ripped into the meat. Priscilla nodded at Annie, gave Henry a smile, lightly pinched his cheek, and focused on her meat.

  There’s nothing like a day doing nothing to bring out Meat Lust. We ripped into the chicken like famished voles, stopping occasionally to wash it down with ice water from the pitcher in the middle of the table. Cat made the rounds, trying every trick in her begging repertoire, but Annie gave us her speech on why cats should eat nothing but cat food, so she was ignored and she finally snuggled up to the water pitcher and put her head between her paws. When there was nothing left but a pile of bones on my plate I poured more water, gave Annie a greasy smile and said, “This would have gone down better with a glass of wine.”

  Annie smiled back and said, “Feel free to go to The Barnyard after you eat. I understand ‘Gone With The Wind,’ is playing yet again.” She turned to Priscilla, stared blatantly at her a moment and said, “Rumor has it you and Dolly have become fast friends.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “She’s just a big old whoose that likes to have her ears scratched.”

  Annie nodded and said, “She is a dear, probably the most spoiled bovine in the state.”

  Priscilla smiled, reached out and grabbed the water pitcher and filled her glass. When she lifted the pitcher, her forearm muscles stood out in stark relief and her veins looked like clotheslines running down her arm. Annie reached over, pushed in on a vein and said, “Obviously you’re one of those bodybuilders, dedicated to monotonous, repetitive movement. How on earth do you maintain your motivation?”

  “It’s a mind thing. I love the way I feel, the way I can move. I love pushing the iron and myself to the limit. And I hate. I hate the way most women look, the way I would look if I didn’t push iron… sloppy, no tone, no endurance. Thirty years old and they waddle. When I’m eighty, I’ll still be pushing iron. I’ll have a face like yours and a body like mine.”

  “My dear, you appear to be as obsessive as our Harry.”

  “Who’s obsessive?” I said

  “You may rationalize all you desire, Harry, but there is something behind all that effort, something driving you besides the desire to be fit. I submit that is fear. Behind most obsessive behavior is fear, fear and habit.”

  I sighed theatrically and changed the subject. “Would you happen to know anything about the Chapman Funeral Home?”

  “Don’t care to discuss your emotional anomalies at the dinner table, Harry? I don’t blame you. The Chapman Funeral Home? Well, I know that several years ago they buried a Dear One from here and they tried every trick in their nasty little book to escalate the bill. T. William and Dorthea Chapman are quite cold blooded and as empathic as eels.” She pursed her lips and pointed a finger at the ceiling. “Someone, I don’t remember who, said that they don’t conduct business anymore because Dorthea has hypertension and had a mild stroke about a year ago. I consider that fortuitous, as they have ceased robbing poor grieving souls.”

  She peeled meat off a chicken bone with hooked fingers, and ignoring a plea from Cat, pushed it into her mouth. She resembled a raven feeding on carrion. She pointed a grease slicked finger at me and said, “The whole family is rancid, at least those that still reside around here.”

  “The whole family?” I said.

  “Yes, besides Dorthea and her husband, there’s Dorthea’s brother, Amos Conrad. He’s a doctor and was at the hospital for a good many years. Some people think him a saint, but I consider him another unempathic eel. He’s retired now, thank God. The whole pack of them should be run out of town on a rail.”

  We staye
d a while longer, chatting with Annie, until Henry, who had not said a word, farted again, and started drooling from his mouth and nose. I quickly said goodby, thank you, see you later, and stood up. Annie, while wiping the drool off the old man, gave me a knowing smile and nodded.

  … . .

  AS WE WALKED ALONG THE SIDE of the barn toward the pasture gate, Priscilla said, “So what’s The Barnyard?”

  “It’s a tavern.”

  Priscilla stopped and looked at me. “A bar? Here? You gotta be kidding.”

  “I kid not. Until recently, instead of a pitcher of water, there was a gallon jug of wine at every table, and… “

  “At every table? I bet it was top shelf.”

  “Absolutely, Annie probably paid two, three dollars a gallon for the stuff. Anyway, there was an influx of new and boisterous residents. A couple of them were adamant teetotalers, two or three were reformed alcoholics and proud of it, and they kept haranguing Annie to stop serving alcohol at the evening meals. Then one cold night Orilla Peterson got lost in the East Pasture trying to make it back to her trailer. She was found huddled against one of the farm’s cows. So Annie bowed to the Powers That Be and shut off the supply.”

  Priscilla laughed. “And so the drinkers revolted, banded together, and built The Barnyard.”

  “Actually they formed committees, at least five of them. And after a week or so of intense negotiations with Annie, they actually managed to put together a pretty decent tavern.”

  “I gotta see this. Is it open?”

  I pushed open a warped door in the side of the barn. We entered a room with stalls constructed of ancient boards worn thin by friction from countless hairy bodies. I led us through a series of corridors and rooms smelling of old hay and manure until we reached the deepest, darkest corner of the barn. Directly ahead was a door painted green with a poorly drawn rendition of a cow in the middle. As I pushed open the door, I turned to Priscilla and said, “If Florence is bartending, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from giving her a rough time.”