by Tim Marquitz
“I-I—“ I couldn’t find the words. My legs wobbled and I felt my strength drain away.
He caught me as my knees buckled and went out from beneath me, calling out to the clerk to help. “Have you been drinking?”
I shook my head. It was even Joseph’s voice I heard. I was certain.
The clerk helped me to a seat, but I couldn’t tell you what he even looked like. I could only see Joseph. “You have to be him,” I heard myself say. “You have to be.”
“I’m not sure who you think I am, sir, but I’m not this Joseph person. I’m sorry, but my name is Michael. Michael Banks, as I said.”
“You need me to call 911?” I heard the clerk ask.
I stared at the man a moment longer and he waved off the clerk. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t look drunk, just surprised.” He knelt down before me. “Are you okay?”
Memories flooded my head and I couldn’t find my tongue. Here before me was the mirror image of my grandson, yet Joseph was dead. I was there, at his bedside, when he passed away, when they put him in the ground. I watched as they filled his grave.
My eyes stung as tears spilled free, my head awhirl in confusion. The man looked so much like Joseph, but it couldn’t be. Joseph was gone forever; dead. He was dead.
Had I become so senile as to believe he’d come back to life? No matter how much this young man, this Michael, resembled Joseph, he couldn’t be him. He just couldn’t.
I swallowed hard and peeled the tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I-I’m sorry. I just…” I drew in a deep breath to find the words. “You look so much like my grandson. I lost him to what the doctors believe was a bacterial infection that had compromised his lungs.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. It must be hard.” He helped me to my feet. “I look a lot like your grandson?”
I nodded, unable to do more.
“Need some help getting to your car?”
Tears in my eyes, I stared at him a moment longer. He looked so much like Joseph. “No, I-no, thank you.” I shook my head. “I needed a drink when I came in here, and I need it even more now.”
He smiled, and gestured toward the clerk. “Well then, Steve here will take care of you. Give him the employee discount, Steve,” he said to the clerk, before turning back to me. “I suggest you wait until you get home to crack open your purchase.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you, and I apologize for the shock. Be safe.” He waved, then left the store.
“You sure you’re all right?” Steve asked as I stared out the windows.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I looked to the clerk to see a stocky, older man, nearly my own age staring at me. “I’m fine,” I told him, though I was sure we both knew I was lying. He just smiled and nodded content to leave it at that. “You got a liter of Jack here somewhere?”
Probably happy to see me on my way, he hurried behind the counter and snatched up a bottle, showing it to me before he slipped it into a brown paper bag. “Anything else?”
“No, that’ll do it.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him some cash, telling him to keep the change for the trouble. “You worked here long?”
“About four years. It’s easy work, plus it supplements my retirement nicely. Damn economy.” He shrugged, figuring I’d understand.
I nodded. “And your boss?”
“Michael? He’s the owner’s son; been here since the business opened, far as I know.”
I grabbed the bag off the counter and thanked him. My heart still pounded in my chest. Though still early, it had felt like a long day, and I just wanted to go home and forget all about it. I waved goodbye. Less than a minute later, I was back in the car and on the road. My hands shook the entire way.
Barely inside the house, I had the bottle cracked open and downed my first sip. It burned its way to my stomach, tearing at my throat and causing me to cough. The second drink went down easier, as did the third. A short while later I sat woozy in my easy chair, half the bottle gone. My stomach roiled with the alcohol and my mind swirled.
Over and over I replayed the scene of running into Michael. I could see his face clearly through the haze that clouded my thoughts, and I couldn’t help but imagine Joseph. He looked exactly as I remembered my grandson, from his height and build, to the color and style of his hair, to his very features.
They say we all have a double somewhere in the world who looks exactly as we do, the limitations of human genetics only able to create so many truly unique individuals before it needs to replicate one. But even if that were true, what are the odds that there’d be another person who looks exactly like Joseph here in the same city?
Were Joseph still alive, I would have thought he was playing a prank on me, but he was never much for practical jokes. He’d always been a serious boy. I couldn’t picture Joseph doing something like that, but Michael looked so much like Joseph that it had me contemplating the unlikely in place of the impossible. It just wasn’t natural to have someone look so much like my Joseph, and to stumble across him, today of all days. It wasn’t fair.
I remembered Father Conlon’s words right then: “God only gives us as much as we can handle.” Another sip of Jack silenced the bitter laugh that threatened to sneak out. If God believed I could handle being taunted by the vision of my grandson, alive and well after so long, only to have him torn from me again, He was wrong.
The bottle of Jack empty, I stared at the blur of the television until I couldn’t see it anymore.
#
I woke with a shout, the old grandfather clock chiming midnight. It took a moment to realize where I was, my back stiff from the chair, my eyes blurry. My head spun and shivers shook me as I wrapped my arms across my chest to ward off the cold. I’d been dreaming.
Images of Joseph clawing his way out of his grave clung to my memories. Wild-eyed and decayed, he pulled himself from the earth, pieces of skin torn away to reveal stringy gray muscle. Rotten and yellowed teeth peeked through his cheek where the flesh had given way, revealing the blackened gums beneath. The smell of putrefaction wafted up and assailed my nose. He stared at me, howling a maelstrom’s fury, my ears ringing. His green eyes had become a quivering white, maggots squirming behind the lenses to steal the color.
I trembled as the memories grew dimmer, the images retreating as consciousness crept back to me. My head thundered as I looked to the bottle in my lap. Vaguely remembering drinking at all, I knocked it to the floor, cringing as clanked loudly and sent sharp, stabbing pains through my brain. The television sounded overloud in the silence of the house, so I scrambled for the remote and muted it. By its flickering light, I got to my feet, but had to clutch the arms of the chair to keep from tumbling back into it. Clearly still drunk, the liquor sloshed in my stomach and I felt a pang of nausea as the room spun around me. I stayed that way for several minutes until the world settled and I found my balance.
Once I could move without fear of vomiting or falling over, I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water across my face as I clung to the sink. Though my stomach churned and my skull pounded mercilessly, thoughts of Joseph flickered in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I’d passed out sure that Joseph was dead and gone, but I’d awoken with a nagging uncertainty that set fire to my veins. What if?
It defied all reason and sense, but still I couldn’t shake the thought Joseph was alive. I’d watched the boy grow from infant to man, and had seen his face nearly every day for his entire twenty-one years. It was the same face I’d seen on Michael, down to the smallest detail. But that was impossible.
How could Joseph be alive? I’d come face to face with him, so if it was Joseph, how come he didn’t know me? There wasn’t even a hint of recognition in Michael’s eyes as he looked at me; not a hint. It didn’t make sense.
I knew the alcohol was still in me, could feel its poison making me sluggish, but it did nothing to stem the tide of foolish thoughts that filled my head. It was if I’d seen a ghost, my grandson reincarnated. I could speak to Michael all day
and never know the truth, but I had to know. I had to.
There was only one way to be sure.
I grabbed my jacket and slipped it on as I went out to the shed in the backyard. Reason screamed at me as I undid the lock and stepped inside the dark storage area, but I pushed it aside, no doubt the liquor clouding my judgment, but I didn’t care. It gave me the courage to do what I must.
What I needed was right up front, making my search easy. I snatched up a pair of work gloves and a long-handled shovel, and went around front to the car, leaving the shed door to the mercy of the breeze.
Before I could talk myself out of doing something stupid, I was down the road. The heater on full, my hands still trembled as they clutched to the wheel. The streets were nearly empty as I made my way across town, for which I was grateful. Drunk as I was, I was afraid I’d kill someone. Over and over again I tried to convince myself to stop, to turn around and go home, to forego the idiocy of what I intended, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but continue on. Emboldened by the whiskey in my veins, I prayed to find the gates to Evergreen closed and locked against me. I’d never be able to scale the high walls of the cemetery.
Again, God let me down.
The gates stood open, streetlamps lighting the driveway as though an invitation. A moment later, I was inside. The leaves crunched beneath the tires, reminding me of my earlier visit, and I begged for their sound to carry. Maybe there was a grounds person on duty, or security—someone, anyone—who might hear me and give me the resolve to turn away. Left on my own, I feared there might be no chance for my redemption.
I pulled up to Hope. No one came to stop me.
Trembling, I parked the car so its lights shined into the garden and hit the brights. It wasn’t perfect, but I could clearly see my family lot from where I sat. It would be enough for what I needed. Gloves on and shovel in hand, I got out of the car and made my way over to my family, the cemetery shrouded in silence as though it were offended by my presence. I whispered prayers and begged for absolution as I came to stand over Joseph’s grave, my eyes reading the inscription of their own volition.
Beloved Son and Grandson
Joseph David Masters
Rest Eternal
1984 – 2005
If I was wrong, and I had to be, there was a good chance I was throwing away my only opportunity to be reunited with my family. There was no way I could imagine God forgiving the trespass I contemplated. The earth where Joseph had been laid was consecrated, blessed by Father Conlon as my grandson was lowered into the ground.
I stared at the headstone as I trembled in the cold air. Rest Eternal. The words stood out as I sunk the blade of the shovel into the soft ground. Casting aside the first shovel-full of dirt, there was no turning back.
It took only a few minutes before my body reminded me how old I was. Spasms racked my lower back as I dug, and I was grateful the garden had been leveled so recently. The dirt was loose and came up easily. Though it was hard work, my knuckles aching, my body fell into the rhythm born of experience. I’d spent twenty-five years in the Army with stints in both Vietnam and Korea, so I’d dug my fair share of holes.
I’d never dug up a grave before, though.
As I shoveled the dirt aside and dug deeper into Joseph’s resting place, I couldn’t help but feel I was damning myself. I was desecrating my grandson’s grave, and for what? So I could prove to myself he was dead? I already knew that. I’d held his cold, stiff hand as the coroner pronounced the time of death, and I’d wept over him in his coffin. I couldn’t for the life of me fathom why I needed to dig up his corpse to prove what I already knew, but I couldn’t bring my hands to stop. They went on and on, casting dirt from the grave with a mechanical insistence that spoke of insanity.
I had to know.
The need drove me on.
#
Hours later, my hands blistered and seeping into the gloves, I stopped to catch my breath. I looked up from the hole I dug to realize my eyes were flush with the ground above. Nearly six feet tall, even hunched as I was, I suddenly remembered the grave hadn’t been anywhere near that deep. I’d watched as the cemetery workers lowered Joseph into the ground. There’d been a concrete liner set in the hole, the lid of which couldn’t have been more than three feet from the surface, yet I’d struck nothing after digging over five feet down. Even if the liner had collapsed, there would have been pieces of it in the grave. Surely the bronze casket would still be there, it having only been six years, but there was nothing.
No liner, no coffin, and no body; Joseph wasn’t here.
I fell back against the wall, my legs weak. My boy was gone, his grave empty. The vomit I’d held in check since I awoke found its moment to break free. I dropped to my knees as a warm stream spewed from my mouth. The sour stink of liquor filled my nose and burned my eyes as I emptied my stomach into the cold dirt of the vacant grave. Coughing and spitting up the foul-tasting bile, I pulled myself to my feet to be away from the stench. I leaned against the shovel for support and stared at the night sky that hovered star-filled above me.
“Why?” I asked, my voice drifting into the darkness. God deigned not to answer.
Joseph was gone, taken from me not once, but twice. How was it possible? My heart pounding against my ribs, my eyes drifted to the dirt wall across from where I stood. My stomach sunk. Clare lay but a foot on the other side.
I dug at the wall with frantic insistence, hoping with every scrape of my shovel that I struck the concrete wall of her liner. There was nothing but more dirt and the spider web of grass roots. The wall crumbled and fell about my feet in moist chunks as I tore into it. Close to three feet through, I gave up with a sob as the dark dirt turned to light-colored sand that spilled through the hole I’d made like an hourglass. My tears were cold on my cheeks as I realized that Clare too was missing. Someone had stolen my grandchildren.
Who else had been taken?
The question took my legs out from under me. I collapsed into the corner of the grave, unable to catch my breath. The darkness fell over me as I stared into it. I was lost.
For years I’d believed the last of my grandchildren to be resting peaceful in their graves. That, in itself, was torture, but to know now that they were gone, that their graves were empty…that was its own kind of Hell. One I didn’t know how to deal with.
I sat in the grave for what must have been hours, though it might only have been minutes. My mind cast adrift from coherent thought, I couldn’t tell you how long I remained there. It wasn’t until the cold crept into my bones, the alcohol finally wearing off somewhat, before it became too uncomfortable to bear. My knees throbbed, and my hands had grown stiff inside the gloves. If I stayed any longer, the cemetery workers would only need to shovel the dirt back into the hole to hide the evidence of my grave invasion.
While I had a vague idea as to what I should do, I knew I couldn’t wait there to be found. I got to my feet, ignoring the stabbing agony that speared my joints, and sunk the shovel into the bottom of the grave. With it wedged in the corner, I stepped onto the handle and used it to leverage me up high enough so that I could climb from the hole. Once outside, I pulled the shovel out and returned to my car, leaving the open graves behind. I didn’t have the time or desire to cover my tracks.
I drove home at a snail’s pace. Unlike when I’d come to the cemetery, fueled on whiskey and having no reason to live, I now had a purpose. Joseph and Clare’s graves had been ransacked, and perhaps the rest of my family’s as well, and I needed to find out why.
I knew a good place to start.
#
Exhausted, both emotionally and physically, I returned home before dawn. Too early to accomplish anything, I crawled into bed and slept. I would need the rest.
For once, the nightmares kept their distance, for which I was grateful. There was no way I could have dealt with them now. My life had become its own nightmare.
I awoke from my dreamless slumber just a few hours later, my head
pounding a symphony. No matter how much alcohol was still in my system or how little sleep I managed, I could never stay in bed very late. A lifetime of military service had drummed the early hours into me, my body rising with the sun on instinct.
That was for the best, I figured. It wouldn’t be long before Joseph’s grave was found disinterred. If the police were notified, they’d be showing up at my doorstep soon enough to ask me questions or, at the very least, inform me of what had happened. Being the last of Joseph’s living kin, it wouldn’t take them long to get in touch. And if the police weren’t called, I suspected I’d still have visitors of one kind or another. Whoever had dug up Joseph and Clare had done so in secret, and they could find me just as easily as the police could. They wouldn’t want people to know what was going on, and I could imagine they’d do just about anything to keep their dirty dealings a secret.
Not that I knew much of anything. All I did know was that I didn’t want them finding me before I found them. I’d thought about calling the cops myself, but I just couldn’t picture them taking me seriously. I could see them hauling me off for a psychiatric evaluation when I told them my dead grandson had been dug up and was alive, but went by a different name and didn’t really even seem to be him anymore. No, that’s not crazy at all.
I couldn’t even believe it, but I’d talked to Michael, experienced the insanity of it firsthand. However unbelievable it was, Michael wasn’t Joseph, even if the body was my grandson’s.
If I was going to learn something, I’d have to do it on my own, at least at first, and I could only think of one certain way to find out what had happened to my family.
