by Marcy McKay
Pennies from Burger Heaven
Marcy McKay
SkipJack Publishing
Houston
Copyright ©2015 by Marcy McKay. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in critical articles and reviews.This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
McKay, Marcy.
Pennies from burger heaven: a novel/by Marcy McKay.
First edition.
(Burger Heaven novels; 1)
ISBN 978-1-939889-33-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-939889-32-4 (e-book)
1. Literary Suspense – Fiction. 2. Coming of Age – Fiction
First edition: December 2015
Editor: Becky Vinter
Cover design: Jane Dixon Smith of JD Smith – Design
***
SkipJack Publishing
Houston
For Mark
Always.
“Be merciful unto me; be merciful unto me.
For my soul trusteth in thee:
yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I take my refuge,
until these calamities be overpast.”
Psalm 57:1
Contents
Accolades
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Story Behind the Story
Hell Bent and Heaven Bound (Book 2 in the Burger Heaven Series):
Other Fiction From SkipJack Publishing
Nonfiction from SkipJack Publishing
Winner – Writers’ League of Texas, Best Mainstream Novel
Winner – Frontiers in Writing, Best Mainstream Novel
Winner – Frontiers in Writing, Best of Show
“Offering poignant and heartbreaking insights into the horrors and trials of homeless life on the streets, finding heaven where you least expect it, and help in those you never thought to ask.” – A.G. Howard, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Splintered Series
“Grabs you by the heartstrings from the start and won’t let you go, even after you’ve read the last word.” – Ken Oder, author of The Closing and Old Wounds to the Heart
“The achingly beautifulness of Copper Daniels’ life sneaks up on you. Can’t wait for the next Burger Heaven novel.” – Pamela Fagan Hutchins, author of the Katie & Annalise mystery series
“Gave me shivers on the first page…[Marcy McKay’s] writing is beautiful and emotional, without being sappy.” – Frontiers in Writing
“Unputdownable.” – Texas Writers’ League Annual Manuscript Contest
CHAPTER 1
Me and Mama live here at the cemetery, by the Warrior Angel statue. It’s our home. He always stands high on those four pedestals, with his dark wings stretched wide. That stone sword stays in his left hand, while he keeps his right out toward Burger Heaven. Asking God for help.
Who knew angels were beggars like me?
“Feeling better, Mama?” I say, then see her empty sleeping bag.
The dark green just stares back.
“Mama?” I yawn and look around to nothing but quiet graves.
She’s probably gone to the bathroom. I start to lie back down ’til last night socks me in the gut. All her tears, all her crazy talk, how she got so sick. I eyeball the statue, but if he knows where she is, he’s not saying.
I better go find her myself. She needed me then and she’ll need me now. Especially, if she’s still pukey.
Climbing from my sleeping bag, my legs feel stiff from their frosty sleep. I keep my bright blue coat zipped with the hoodie up, then rub my gloves together to get warm. My breath snakes out and my toes poke all wiggly-like through the holes in my sneakers. I can’t walk in a straight line here like I do down most streets. I zigzag through all the headstones, bushes and trees. Patches of snow from last week’s storm surround graves tucked into pockets of shade. Dew sparkles like diamonds on grass that’s actually green on this side of the cemetery.
Everything shines brighter for the Somebodies of the world.
As I pass a turned-over vase of red roses, I set it upright. The droopy petals still smell flowery. I call out to Mama.
The birds chirp at me overhead.
Her screams from last night clatter through me again. She dropped to her knees and sobbed against my legs, “I’ve got to chaaaaaaaaaaaange.”
I move a little faster. You can’t miss Mama. She’s super-model thin and tall, with leafy green eyes and tiny flecks of gold in ’em. Maybe she’s not like a real super-model, but she’s definitely taller than me and every bit as bone skinny. She wears her jet black hair straight down and parted in the middle. She thinks she looks like Cher. I saw the singer once on TV and didn’t think so, but wasn’t dumb enough to say it out loud, thank you very little. Mama doesn’t have movie-star teeth, either, though she does wear a silver jacket made of real rabbit fur like they do in Hollywood. Well, it’s more dingy than silver now, but I still want one just like it when I grow up.
If it was summertime, you’d see Mama’s blue angel wings tattooed across her shoulders and back. She did that after I was born, inked in to protect us both. It fits her, too. She always looks ready to fly away.
The breeze swishes through the trees as I call out for her again.
Mama better get home soon ’cause O’Dell will show up for work any second, then there’ll be hell to pay. We may live on the Historic Side of the cemetery, but they won’t let us spend eternity here when we keel over. There’ll be no flashy statues or real flowers. We’ll be buried back in the Nobody Section. That used to be the only spot they allowed the Blacks, the Mexicans, the Chinamen and other No Names, too.
I pass David Marshall’s grave where we took care of our morning business yesterday. His headstone is shaped like an actual tree stump. Broken trunks are supposed to be a sign for death, a life cut short, like his buried body isn’t clue enough.
My gut twists. Maybe she went to the pond to feed the ducks, even though we always do that together. I’ll check, but first I squat behind this elm tree. We try to switch bathrooms each time to be nice. They may be stiffers, but who wants to get peed on every day?
After I’m done, I follow a well-worn path. The big cloud above looks like someone is laughing
with their mouth open wide. I can do that. I make Mama giggle so hard water squirts straight from her nose. It’s funny-gross and gross-funny. You know something’s hilarious when you make ’em rock snot.
We’re way more than mother and daughter. We’re business partners and best friends. Mama says there are over fifty thousand bodies here at Eternal Peace. When I was little she said that meant there were over fifty thousand stories, each filled with glad, mad and sad. People who made it well past their hundredth birthdays. Husbands who leave gifts on their wives’ graves, while their girlfriends wait in the car. The worst are parents visiting their little ones at Baby Land. You can hear ’em crying in the wind at night. Their sadness makes you want to disapp—
That thought stops me. My world turns topsy-turvy and I have to steady myself against a grave. Scared torches my belly. Why didn’t I think of it before?
The Disappeareds.
Rumor has it that there’s a Street Killer on the loose in Paradise, murdering the Nobodies of the world. Folks will be there one second, then poof! They’re gone.
Disappeared.
But, that’s happening miles away from Eternal Peace. We’re safe here.
Right?
“Mama!” I screech.
Ripping my lucky penny from my pocket, I pull my gloves off to rub Mr. Lincoln’s beard extra hard, commanding him to find her quick. I rush through the graves. Next, we stopped at Ronald Freedmont’s. My gaze darts around for her. The black iron fence loops all the way around the grounds like little, pointy soldiers. “Eternal Peace” is written in gold across the twin gates that stay locked after dark to keep the goodness in and the badness out.
What if it stopped working last night?
Biting my lip, I race faster. Salty tears try to climb up my throat, but I shove ’em down. They do me no good and I need to stay focused. Plus, Mama hates wusses. She wasn’t at the pond and she’s not at Ronald Freedmont’s now. I lean against his too-tall grave and try to ignore the headache knocking at my brain. Mama says Ronnie here must’ve thought a lot of himself ’cause his name’s plastered across the marble in huge, scrawly letters. A mint bush sprouts beside him. We come here every day to eat the leaves to clean our teeth. His plant grows and grows, like he waters himself with regret. That sounds like something stuck in your teeth, but it means sad, wishing you’d done different. I know all about that.
Last night, most of all. My mind whirls. Maybe she’s lost, or kidnapped, or dea—
No. The Street Killer didn’t get her. She’s not a Disappeared. She’s too smart for that. I’ll find her any minute.
I cram the mint in my mouth, then head on, hollering her name ’til my throat croaks. The sun has started rising, a small orange flame against the sleepy blue sky. It looks more perfect than a picture. Today acts like another, normal day. I sure hope so, but sprint harder, just in case.
Something jumps in front of me. I scream and stumble back, but catch myself in time. A jackrabbit hops by, springing through tiny spaces between the graves. I double over to rest and calm myself down. We’ve got our habits. We’ve got our routines. O’Dell and the other lazies are about to show up to not work all day. We’re usually long gone by now and we always leave together.
What if she left without me?
Each step seems to chant Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma. I should’ve waited to fall asleep after her. I should’ve checked on her throughout the night. I should’ve never slept at all.
What’d she say through all her screaming and crying?
Oh yeah, she was bad-mouthing someone. “Asshole, thinks he can trick me … but … I’ll show him.”
Who’d she mean? How’d he trick her? Did showing him get her into trouble? I trot up to a ginormous, stone building. It’s the Main Mausoleum at Eternal Peace and the biggest place on the grounds.
It looks like a fancy church, but a mausoleum is a cemetery house to bury Somebodies. Folks who want to stay stuck-up, even in the afterlife. We sneak inside sometimes to sleep when it’s extra cold outside. I wanted to come here last night, but thought Mama was in no shape to move.
Guess I was wrong. She moved herself, all right. But where?
Creeping behind the bushes, I reach up to the window.
Locked. It won’t budge. I can’t believe O’Dell did his job for a change.
Yanking back my hoodie, my crazy curls spring out every which way as I zoom on from the Historic Section. I could punch O’Dell. He’s such a Butt Munch. He really wants us gone. The wind moans, like it’s aching for me.
The Nobody Section almost looks like nothing’s back here ’til you’re almost on top of it. Brown grass, tons of weeds, and most graves are just foot markers—bricks buried straight in the ground. O’Dell and his bunch never work on this side of the cemetery. Folks used to call this the Colored Section.
Mama said years ago there was this big sickness called the influenza. It was a flu that killed folks faster than the groundskeepers could dig, so they started dumping the bodies together into huge piles like trash. If the workmen then were half as worthless as O’Dell, that’s not too much of a shocker.
This is our doorway in-and-out to the rest of the world. I could see from far away Mama wasn’t here, but couldn’t stop myself from checking since we passed by together last night. I walk over to my very favorite grave in all of Eternal Peace. This brick buried here on the end:
UNKNOWN NEGRO
Did they really not know his name, or did they just not care?
Anyway, he’s king of the Nobodies. He’s one of us.
“Where is she?” I ask him.
He’s as silent as the Warrior Angel.
Maybe she’s already home. Maybe we just made opposite loops and missed each other. Maybe she’s at home right now.
Hope fuels me as I take a different route back to check new places. Mama smells like cinnamon gum, cigarettes and sweet sweat from working so hard for us. Catch a whiff of her and you’ll know true-blue, deep-in-my-heart, looney-tunes kind of love.
All I want to do is breathe in her now and feel her hands smooth out the kinks in my hair again, while she tells me about California. We’re moving there soon to start a new life. LA has palm trees and the sun shines every day of the year. We’ll never be cold again.
Ever.
An invisible fist rams my gut each time she doesn’t answer my calls.
Back in the Historic Section, I stop near the chapel to catch my breath. The red-bricked building has a black cross on top. They hold smaller funerals there, or when folks don’t have their own church home. Naked rose bushes surround it; those thorns look ready to tear me apart. It’s the one place I’ve never been here at the cemetery and don’t want to, but I’ve had zero luck everywhere else, so I should check.
As I tiptoe to the porch, my hands shake like I need a fix, though I’d never do drugs ’cause it eats you from the inside out. Even worse, it gobbles up the people around you, too. I’m sweating all over, even though I see the groundskeepers and funeral people go in and out of here all the time.
I pause outside the door. Mama will spank me for sure about this, but I tug on the wooden handles anyway.
Locked.
I’m equal sad and glad ’cause I didn’t want to go in there, but Mama’s still missing. I should’ve known she wouldn’t be in the chapel and race away.
I know I’m closer to home when I catch a whiff of her hurl from last night near the Vanderhausen Mausoleum. The Main Mausoleum wasn’t good enough for ’em, so they built their own cemetery house. They’re the snobbiest snobs. My eyes burn from the stench. I cover my mouth and keep going, wishing the wind would change direction.
The Warrior Angel stands stone still as usual. Our sleeping bags haven’t budged a bit. My heart feels lost in my own body, like it doesn’t know what to do without Mama. I flop in front of the statue and bury my face in my gloves. This can’t be happening.
But, it is.
I make myself take three extra slow breaths. All the folks who’
ve gone missing were in Paradise, and that’s over an hour’s walk away. Besides, I still don’t know for sure who’s missing. That one lady was gone a while, but showed up after a bender. Everyone else are just rumors.
So far.
I sure don’t want to break the rules and go out alone, but Mama sort of gave me no choice. We went straight to the Burger Heaven from here yesterday, so I guess I’ll try there first. As long as I don’t have to go to Paradise. It’s hell on a good day, but there’s no good days.
I don’t have a stone sword like the Warrior Angel and I sure don’t need God, but Mr. Lincoln’s mojo better come back fast. I roll up our sleeping bags, then tuck ’em back in their spots—inside the lilac bush beside Miz Elsie. Her grave is shaped like two praying hands. I grab the cardboard sign Mama keeps remaking for us:
NEED MONEY FOR FOOD
GOD BLESS
She adds that last part out loud as people pass by ’cause that pulls at their heart strings, then that pulls at their purse strings. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.
I fold the sign and stuff it into the front of my coat. It’s like my belly reads it ’cause it growls, extra-long and loud.
“Shut up,” I say, but it doesn’t listen. Some of my body parts have minds of their own.
