Richmond Noir

by Andrew Blossom

  I wish the place weren’t named Hollywood, though. That makes it sound too phony, fake, like it’s a hangout for dead movie stars. But Hollywood Cemetery was a landmark in Richmond long before the first silent films ever came out of that other Hollywood. Maybe that Hollywood was named for this one. In any case, our Hollywood is the greatest Confederate cemetery in the country. Maybe even in the whole world.

  As you can probably tell, I’m highly educated. I might have been a renowned scholar but for my accident. Apparently—and I say apparently because I have no memory of the event—I was struck by a car while riding my motor scooter without a helmet. Why a scholar would be on a motor scooter, I haven’t a clue. Motor scooters are undignified—scholars should drive used Volvos. In any case, they say I suffered significant head trauma—something I believe because I do get terrible headaches almost daily.

  There was another side effect of the accident that’s been a slight problem. When I came out of the coma, I developed a compulsion to keep talking, even when no one is around, like those people I’ve heard about on the subway trains in New York City. It’s like the accident turned on a faucet in my head and words just keep pouring out all the time, except when I’m on medication. I can’t explain it. As soon as I get a thought, it comes right out of my mouth. So they give me pills to stop the leak. Of course, the bad thing is that whenever I stop taking the pills they find out right away because I can’t keep myself from telling everybody about it. That’s one reason the police know every detail of what I did in the cemetery. I might as well have given them documentary footage.

  So, anyway, I know there was an accident, and I know there were consequences.

  Much of what they tell me about my condition, however, is untrue. They say I’m given to violent outbursts, but that’s all a matter of perspective. They say I’ve lost certain social skills, that I no longer comprehend the subtleties of human interaction. Yet who among us comprehends our neighbor? They say I don’t make logical connections the way normal people do.

  By they, of course, I mean my therapist, Dr. Myles, and sometimes my Uncle Morty. Uncle Morty is a good man, but he’s been duped by Dr. Myles. He believes everything the doctor tells him about me, almost as if he were the doctor’s apprentice. Though Uncle Morty isn’t an apprentice, he’s a general contractor.

  I know about apprentices because that’s one field in which I have truly excelled. When I first came to work for my Uncle Morty two years ago—no, wait, it’s been longer than that. Let me think. Seventeen. Yes, that’s it, seventeen years. And in the seventeen years I’ve worked for my Uncle Morty, I’ve been every kind of apprentice you can think of. It was Uncle Morty and Aunt Eileen who took me in after I lost my fellowship at the university. They say they’re my parents, and that’s sweet of them, but I don’t feel comfortable enough to allow them that level of intimacy. Still, Uncle Morty figured out the perfect job for me. He said I could be the company apprentice. It’s almost the same thing as being a student, except you don’t have to write papers or study for tests.

  “All you have to do is watch,” he told me. “Watch and learn.” I think we both thought it would help me regain my focus. And we were right.

  I started off as a janitor’s apprentice and I stayed at the main building all day. Uncle Morty owns a big construction company, and he has a sheet-metal warehouse where he keeps his heavy equipment. As you might imagine, floors have to be kept clean in a place like that, and my job was to watch Arby the janitor keep everything in order. Just watch and stay out of the way—that was my entire job description, and it came straight from Uncle Morty. I did that job pretty well, and after a while I got promoted to groundskeeper’s apprentice. In that job, I had to watch Miguel ride the lawn tractor and patch the driveway and fertilize the grounds. That’s what we called the yard around the building—the grounds. I don’t know why we didn’t call it a yard, because it sure looked like one. I thought about asking Miguel about it once, but I didn’t. Asking questions wasn’t part of my job.

  I was an excellent groundskeeper’s apprentice. I stared at Miguel all day long, even on our breaks, which probably made him feel important. Pretty soon Miguel talked to Uncle Morty and the next thing I knew, I was promoted to plumber’s apprentice, watching Big Dan. I watched him like a hawk, or like an owl, maybe, until he went to Uncle Morty and got me another promotion, this time to carpenter’s apprentice with Wilber. I liked working with Wilber because he had the same name as the guy on Mr. Ed, which was a TV show about a talking horse. I liked that show a lot. It proved that anything was possible.

  After Wilber I became an electrician’s apprentice for Gus, which I also liked because Gus sounded like a proper name for an electrician. Then I was a mason’s apprentice for a guy whose name I can never remember because I keep thinking his name ought to be Mason, which it isn’t. Then I began to move through my apprenticeships on all the pieces of heavy equipment—the forklift, the backhoe, the grader, and finally, all the way to the top of the apprenticeship mountain, the bulldozer. Basically, they’re all excavators. My favorite is the Cat 312CL because it has an enclosed cab and a mechanical thumb. The enclosed cab makes it less noisy, plus you can keep away from bad weather. But the best part is the mechanical thumb, which is what separates it from an ordinary backhoe. A normal backhoe claws and scoops, but an excavator with a mechanical thumb can actually grab things. The dredger bucket clamps tight around whatever you’re trying to pull up. I don’t know why they call the extra part a thumb, though. To me it’s more like the bottom half of a set of jaws, like on a giant dinosaur. There’s true power in an excavator with jaws like that. It’s a dangerous piece of machinery.

  But just because I got shifted around through so many positions in the company, don’t think I couldn’t hold a job. The job was pretty much the same whatever it was, because whatever it was, I was still the apprentice. I watched and I learned, and I stayed out of the way. But at the same time, I was moving up through the ranks. I think Uncle Morty was trying to familiarize me with the whole operation—you know, grooming me to take over the business when he retires. I could do it too. After so many years of apprenticing there, I know how everything works.

  Eddie knew how everything worked too. He was site foreman on the cemetery project. I know that was a tough job because I used to be a foreman’s apprentice and I’ve seen how busy things can get.

  Uncle Morty was real happy when he first got the cemetery contract, but it turned out to be a nightmare. That’s what I heard him say, that the cemetery project had been a nightmare. One nightmare after another, he said, starting with the retaining wall and ending with Eddie and Aunt Eileen. I don’t know what Aunt Eileen had to do with any of it. She’s not really on the payroll. But she was sure there a lot. She used to come out to watch us on the days Uncle Morty had to be away at other projects, I guess to report back to him on what kind of progress we were making. She and Eddie would eat lunch together behind the chapel, I guess so he could fill her in. It’s not the best spot in the cemetery, as far as getting a good view is concerned. It’s way too overgrown with bushes. I prefer the spot just across from President Tyler. That’s where you get the most picturesque view, and when I look out at the broad stretch of the James below—where it’s too rocky and shallow for boats to navigate—I can almost forget I’m in a cemetery surrounded by skeletons and who knows what other bad things.

  The problem with the cemetery was that parts of it were starting to fall away into the river. Erosion. And, of course, a lot of the most important bodies were planted near the edge of the bluff, where big chunks were already starting to crumble away. I don’t know why so many of the famous people got buried near the edge, but that’s how it is. Maybe folks thought they deserved a nice view. Jefferson Davis was a good twenty paces from the edge, which afforded him a few more years of security, in terms of natural processes. But Presidents Monroe and Tyler were in more imminent danger. Tyler was buried barely eight steps from the precipice. One good mudslide an
d he’d be floating down the James and out to sea, with Monroe only about five steps behind him.

  So the city hired Uncle Morty to erect a retaining wall along the bank to keep every body in place. It’s hard to build a wall on the face of so steep a bluff. And even if you get the wall in place, it’ll block the drainage, which increases the weight and makes the problem worse than it was before. What you have to do is drill drainage holes under the graves to allow the excess water a way to escape. And I can tell you, from my time as a driller’s apprentice, that’s one tricky feat of engineering.

  It’s risky work too. I almost went over the edge myself one day when I sat on a stack of twenty-foot PVC piping. The stack gave way and about half the pipes rolled over the cliff. Eddie tried to blame me for it, but Uncle Morty said it was Eddie’s own fault for putting the pipes too near the edge and for not keeping an eye on me like he was supposed to. I sided with Uncle Morty in that argument. So it was Eddie’s fault we lost half a day’s work getting the pipes back up to the work site.

  The time I didn’t side with Uncle Morty was when he tried to fire Eddie. I know Uncle Morty was under a lot of emotional strain, because Aunt Eileen had just told him she was leaving him for somebody else. That came as a big surprise to me. Things had been peaceful at home, with nobody ever saying anything to anybody, so I’m not sure why Aunt Eileen was so unhappy. In any case, it was understandable that Uncle Morty might have been a little on edge. But Eddie hadn’t done anything wrong all day, everything was going just as smooth as could be, when Uncle Morty drove up in his Cadillac and got out, already mad as I’d ever seen him. He told Eddie he was fired and good luck supporting his new girlfriend without a paycheck. Eddie said he’d file a union grievance and bring the whole project to a standstill. That stopped Uncle Morty on the spot. He paced around for a minute like he was about to explode, and then he said, “Fine, then you’re not fired. But you’re not the foreman anymore.” Then he pointed a finger straight at me. “You work for him now,” he said, and Eddie looked at me with his eyes squinted and his forehead wrinkled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie asked him.

  Uncle Morty got a satisfied look on his face. “From here on out, you’re his apprentice.”

  Eddie seemed baffled, and maybe a little angry too. “That moron don’t do shit around here,” he said.

  Uncle Morty smiled, but not like he was happy. “You’re free to quit if you don’t like the job,” he said.

  That was a proud moment in my life. After years of being everybody else’s apprentice, I finally had an apprentice of my own.

  Eddie wasn’t happy about it, though. I still had Ted, the bulldozer operator, to watch, and a bulldozer is a pretty interesting piece of equipment. But all Eddie had to look at was me, and I can tell you I’m not that interesting. I tend not to move much, because watching something closely takes a lot of concentration. That’s what makes me a good apprentice. So Eddie had a pretty dull time of it. At first he complained a lot. He said nobody could treat him like that and get away with it. But after a few days he calmed down, and took on a whole new attitude. He told me dirty jokes and offered me chewing gum and sometimes he’d put his arm around my shoulder like we were golfing buddies. He asked me a lot of questions about my accident—which is not a proper thing for an apprentice to do, but I didn’t correct him. It was kind of nice having somebody take an interest in me. In just a week’s time, I had more conversation with Eddie than I’d had with anybody else in all the years I could remember. And Eddie listened to everything I said, almost like Dr. Myles. Sometimes he even took notes like Dr. Myles, which was certainly flattering. Eddie said he disagreed with most of Dr. Myles’s diagnosis. He didn’t think I was paranoid at all. And he thought it was unfair that Uncle Morty wouldn’t let me run any of the heavy machinery, especially since I’d studied how to operate every type of excavator we had.

  One day we took a walk around the old part of the cemetery on a break—sometimes you just need to stretch your legs—and we walked by the black wrought-iron dog near the top of the first hill inside the main entryway. I told him that dog had been made in my family’s ironworks factory before the war. It’s a cute dog, life-sized, and it stands watch over the grave of a little child. Sometimes people leave toys there at the dog’s feet, which is sweet I guess, though not very practical. Anyway, that got me talking about my family’s history. One thing led to another, and pretty soon I was telling Eddie about the loss of my family’s fortune after the war. I thought he’d just tell me to get over it, like everybody else, but he didn’t. He took a genuine interest in my pain, and promised to look into the matter for me. I didn’t know at first what he meant by that. But the next day, which was Sunday, he called me up and told me to meet him right away out at the cemetery. He said he’d be waiting at the Jefferson Davis gravesite. He said he had the answers I was looking for.

  It took me awhile to get there because I had to take the bus, and then I still had to walk a good ways after that. By the time I got there, Eddie had already put up construction tape across the car paths at that end of the cemetery. I asked him what the tape was for, and he said we needed privacy to sort everything out.

  “Sort what out?” I asked him, and he explained it all. He said he’d got on the Internet and found out that Jefferson Davis had spent all the years after his presidency collecting evidence that certain prominent families of Virginia had been swindled out of their fortunes by carpetbaggers, and that my family was among them. He said that President Grant had been obsessed with preventing the Davis papers from ever coming to light.

  “The Grant administration was the most corrupt in history,” I told him.

  “Well, there you go,” he said, obviously pleased that I’d know such a thing.

  The problem, Eddie explained, was that all the incriminating documents had disappeared when Davis died. But if somebody could find those documents, the government would have to pay restitution to the victims’ families.

  “And here’s the interesting thing,” Eddie said, smiling. “Jefferson Davis died in New Orleans, and that’s where they had his funeral.”

  “But he’s right here,” I told him, and I pointed to the life-sized stone likeness of the president of the Confederacy standing atop the gravesite.

  “That’s what they want you to think,” Eddie said.

  “But they shipped his body here and reburied it,” I said.

  Eddie shook his head. “Not his body. A coffin. And nobody every looked inside.”

  Then he laid it all out for me, and it made perfect sense. The government had used President Davis’s death as a cover to hide all the evidence that would have brought down so many of those who had prospered illegally after the war. All the papers that would restore my family’s fortune were stashed away inside the president’s casket—the last place anyone would ever think to look.

  “And here’s the clincher,” Eddie told me. He put his arm around my shoulder again and led me over to the Davis grave. I looked down at the broad, flat stone that claimed to be covering the remains of President Davis and his wife, Va-rina Howell Davis. Then Eddie pointed to an adjoining plot directly in front of the stone statue of the former president. Not ten steps from the foot of the Davis grave, a more modest tombstone rested on a well-trimmed patch of ground, and it had a single word carved into its face: GRANT.

  I was dumbfounded. There’s no way the president of the Confederacy would be placed in a spot where his statue had to stare forever at the name of the man who brought about his ruin, the man responsible for the fall of Richmond itself, the man who forced Lee’s surrender a few weeks later at Appomattox Courthouse. I felt a chill run up my spine.

  “But what can I do?” I asked Eddie. He frowned and scratched his chin like he was thinking, but I figure maybe he had his answer ready all along.

  “If it was me,” he said, “I reckon I’d dig up those papers and set everything right again.” He took a slow breath and shook his head. “’Cours
e, that would take a mighty big piece of equipment.”

  I’d never been more excited in my life. “I can run the bulldozer,” I told him. “It’ll scrape these marble slabs right out of the way. The statue too.”

  “Say, that’s a smart idea,” he said, and he patted my shoulder.

  “You wait here,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he answered. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  I hustled back to the chapel area where we stored the heavy equipment and climbed onto the bulldozer. I’d never really run the machine before, but that didn’t matter. The point of being a good apprentice is to be ready when the time comes, and so I’d always watched carefully when Ted operated the controls. I knew exactly what to do.

  It took me a minute to get the hang of steering. I don’t even have a driver’s license—the state of Virginia won’t issue me one, I think because of my headaches. And I do feel bad about all the gravestones I knocked over on my way back to the Davis family plot. Collateral damage, I think it’s called.

  When I got there, I wasted no time. First, I positioned the bulldozer in front of the memorial, raised the blade, and plowed ahead into the stone base of the statue. It cracked loudly, and the statue broke off at the ankles, toppling backward onto the ground. Then I backed up a bit, lowered the blade to scraping level, shifted the bulldozer into a more powerful setting, and rammed into the covering of the so-called graves. The bulldozer barely slowed as it scooped the shattering marble away, shoving the ragged pieces onto the broken remains of the fallen statue.

  I backed away again and shut off the engine. Eddie walked up beside me as I climbed down from the seat and we both stepped to the edge of the grave to see what I’d uncovered.