“That’s right… Franklin Blodgett.”
“That is such an unusual name. Are there many Blodgetts in Los Angeles?” Soft-spoken and heavily accented, Mrs. Graves’ voice registered an unaffected grace and dignity often known to older people in the South.
“No… not really. It’s a not a common name.” Despite her disability and lack of education, Mrs. Graves had a calm, centered quality, as if the troubles of the world were nothing more than raindrops, kept at bay by a gracious and well-behaved umbrella. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a difficult time, Mrs. Graves, but I’d like to talk to you about your husband… if that’s okay.”
She nodded, then spoke, “Why of course, Franklin, but please… call me Mildred… oh, I’m forgettin’ my manners.” She gestured at the bored-looking young woman sitting next to her. “This here is my niece Eurline. She helps me out quite a bit.” I reached over and shook the younger woman’s hand. “Now, how can I help you? What would you like to know about Wilmer? He was such a sweet man.”
With a history of violent behavior and over fifty convictions, Wilmer Graves was not a man many would describe as “sweet.” The old woman was either deep in denial or she enjoyed a significantly different relationship with Wilmer Graves than the rest of the world—maybe it was a little of both. “A number of people have tentatively identified Mr. Graves as the perpetrator of several robberies during the week before he died. Can you tell me anything about this recent series of crimes, uh, Mildred?”
“Oh dear… I’m afraid it’s all my fault, Franklin… all my fault, just as sure as I’m sittin’ here.”
“I beg your pardon. Are you saying that you persuaded your husband to commit these robberies?” Mildred Graves did not strike me as the Bonnie Parker type.
“Oh heavens, no. It’s just that I have this bad hip.” She patted her left side. “And Wilmer, bless his heart, he was jus’ trying to raise some money so’s I could get an operation. That’s all…. but I never told him to be robbin’ no one.”
“I see… uh, Mildred, it seems that Mr. Graves had an accomplice in these robberies. I’m fairly certain it was a young man named Ted Hendricks. Do you know how your husband became acquainted with Hendricks… and how long he had known him?”
Reflecting on my question, the older woman paused for a moment, then replied, “Well… I’m afraid I just can’t recall any Ted Hendricks… can you tell me a little more about him?”
“Hendricks is quite tall and very young. If you had ever met him, you’d probably remember. He’s also involved in the computer business so he seems like an unlikely crime partner for your husband.”
“Is he a Christian boy… this Ted Hendricks?”
“Uh, I really can’t say, Mildred. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you see Wilmer spent the last twenty years of his life in the service of Jesus Christ, so I thought maybe that boy could’ve heard one of Wilmer’s sermons and they met that way is all.” She briefly paused again then continued, “Poor Wilmer, he was so disappointed in himself, what with all his relapses and everything. He tried so hard, but he just couldn’t help hisself.”
“When was the last time you saw Wilmer, Mrs. Graves, uh, Mildred?”
“Well… let me see. I think it was just about a month ago. Yes… Wilmer had a doctor’s appointment… his health was really goin’ down you know… an’ he left to go to the doctor’s an’ he jus’ never come back.”
“I know your husband was using oxygen… a bottle was found next to him. Did he have other health problems?”
“Well, his kidneys was failin’ him for one thing… the doctors told him he would have to go on one of those artificial kidney machines soon. An’ of course he had high blood pressure and diabetes… he musta took about fifteen or twenty pills a day. There wud’n no doubt about it, Wilmer was a mess…” The old woman paused for a moment, then looked straight at me. “Uh, excuse me, Franklin, but why is it that you’re askin’ me all these questions about Wilmer… him bein’ deceased now an’ all.”
“That’s a fair question, Mildred… you see, I’m a writer and writers need stories… we need something to write about. And when I read about your husband being found all alone out on that highway with nothing around but an oxygen bottle and a gun, I was moved… it seemed that there had to be more to it, so I came out here to write Wilmer’s story.” Despite her circumstances, something about the old woman, a certain inner calm, compelled me to say more, to reveal myself in an unguarded way. I hesitated, gathering my thoughts, then continued, “And to be totally honest, I’m at a point in my life where I really need something… something I can care about. And I can’t exactly say why, but uncovering and telling your husband’s story seems to be fulfilling that need. I’m sorry if it sounds strange, but I can’t explain it any better than that.”
The old woman, her eyes reflecting concern, seemed to be searching my soul. “I understand, Franklin. We all need somethin’ to believe in even if that somethin’ is plum crazy to ever’one else. Just look at me… I believed in Wilmer for almost fifty years an’ he musta broke my heart a million times… now how crazy was that?”
“And what was it, Mildred… what made you hang on when your husband was in and out of prison for decades?”
Momentarily overwhelmed by a lifetime of memories, the old woman appeared to be on the verge of breaking down. Examining her weary expression, I wondered if the residue of unfulfilled expectations was too much for her to bear, but she quickly regained her composure and continued, “Well, I always wanted children of course, but it didn’t take too long to realize that wud’n gonna be so good with Wilmer, what with him always bein’ in prison an’ all, but the thing was… the thing was, Franklin… I loved him… an’ sometimes there jus’ ain’t no explainin’ love… it’s a gift that dud’n offer any explanations.”
We sat there for a moment in silence. There were more questions I could have asked and I still couldn’t grasp how Graves’ wife managed to endure such a seemingly intolerable situation, year after year. Finally, after another minute or so, Eurline, the old woman’s niece, broke the silence. “We got a long drive ahead of us, Aunt Mildred… we should probably be startin’ back home now.”
Lost in thought, Mrs. Graves looked up, first at her niece then at me. She paused again as if she had one last memory to ponder, then responded. “Yes, of course, Eurline… you’re right… we need to be headin’ on home.” She struggled to her feet, positioned herself behind the walker, then turned to me. “It was so nice to meet you, Franklin. If there’s any way I can be of any further help, you jus’ let me know… okay?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Graves, er, Mildred. I really appreciate you taking the time to speak to me.” And as I watched the old woman carefully making her way across the room, the meaning of her decades-long relationship with a man who lived the majority of his life behind bars suddenly became clear to me, and the answer was quite simple: hope. For an uneducated woman in the South, especially one without children, hope had to be a precious commodity, becoming even more so as she aged. And every time Wilmer Graves was released from prison, hope bloomed anew. Each re-entry of her husband into Mildred Graves’ world carried the promise that this time it would be different. This time Wilmer would live what he preached… this time he’d get a job and they’d build a life together… this time he wouldn’t get drunk, rob another gas station and go back to prison. And that hope had fueled her for almost fifty years, but now Wilmer was dead and the hope died with him, and its loss was as sharp as a bright but worn-out old woman slowly trudging across the room.
Time is funny. Some weeks occupy the mental real estate of years, while years can vanish into the memory bank like shit sucked into a sewer. It was only mid-afternoon but the day already felt like three weeks. What the fuck—time for a drink. Surprisingly, my brief time in Clinton had been so packed, I hadn’t seen the inside of a single bar, much less found a favorite. Driving around town I’d spotted several joints and this was the ti
me to check one out. Fatty & Jim’s, a promising little spot, popped up on the mental radar so I parked the Sonic out front and went in. The bar was deserted except for a middle-aged couple hunkering down in a booth. Dark and faintly smelling of smoke, Fatty & Jim’s was clearly old-school—my kinda place. As I plopped myself down on a stool, the bartender slowly made his way in my direction. “What’ll it be, bud?”
Feeling the need of something special, I splurged, “Woodford Reserve… rocks… if you got it.”
The guy behind the bar was bald, average height, overweight and obviously a pro at minding his own business. “Woodford, it is…” the barkeep replied, calmly pulling a bottle out from under the bar and blowing the dust off.
My mood lifting up at the sight of the premium bourbon, I reconsidered, “Hey Mac, make it a double, okay?”
“Sure… no problem.” The guy poured me a generous double, then retreated to a small portable TV at the other end of the bar. Sipping my Woodford, I mulled over the day’s activities. The meeting with Mildred, Wilmer Graves’ wife, had gone well, but left me more than a little depressed. A pleasant, intelligent woman, Mrs. Graves was left facing an empty and barren future with absolutely nothing to look forward to. Okay, maybe it was no different than before, but Wilmer’s death had eliminated her illusions, leaving a wounded, open and aimless core.
Despondent, my thoughts moved on to Patty and her brother, Tommy Joe. With no parental guidance, the kid was headed for trouble. Sure, Patty could offer a little support, but she was a clerk in the sheriff’s office in Clinton, Missouri, with no fucking future herself. Most likely, Tommy Joe would never give a shit about anything; he’d drop out of school, hang around with his dumb-ass friends chasing pussy, taking drugs and getting fired from shitty jobs until he wound up in jail… or worse. Talk about depressing.
Oh yeah, then there was Duane, the beefy state trooper who wanted to kick my butt for bonking Patty. What a fucking mess. Sipping my bourbon, my mind moved on to Bernie, Deputy Dawg, the midget gatekeeper who could make this whole crazy trip worth it if she just pulled her head out of her ass. Well, at least she was following up on Ted Hendricks.
Pondering the ultimate negativity of it all, I was just about to order another drink when I had an idea. It was still light outside; I could drive back out to the bomb site and search for more evidence, something solid that Bernie couldn’t dispute. Okay, it wasn’t much, but it beat sitting by myself in a dark bar, wallowing around the rim of self-pity and despair.
So I paid for my drink and left, but first I stopped by a liquor store and picked up a pint of Jack Daniels. It was a long drive out to the crater and I could use a little pick-me-up. Hopping in the Chevy, I cracked the Jack, took a couple of slugs and headed out Highway 18.
Passing the time listening to old R&B, it wasn’t long until I parked the car at the edge of the crater. The sun was beginning to set and it was already cold as hell. After taking another slug of bourbon, I jumped out of the car and headed out into the large bowl-shaped area. Most of the searching done by Patty and me was near the center of the crater; maybe, by searching around the edges, I could find something we missed.
Walking the perimeter, I surveyed the area as thoughts from the conversation with Bernie bounced around my brain… Cattle pond? Biofuel? Fireworks? She had to be fucking nuts. I mean, okay, at this point here was no definitive evidence that an explosion had happened here, but all you had to do was look around… the way the vegetation at the edges fanned out from the center… the way the debris segregated itself into larger and larger pieces as it moved from dust in the center to large chunks at the rim… I was certain that bomb experts, technicians trained in the use and management of explosives, would have no problem finding the residue of Semtex, C-4, PBX or something even more powerful. Nothing else could create this kind of destruction.
It was cold and getting dark. Irritated at not bringing a flashlight, I obviously couldn’t continue much longer. About to give up, I suddenly tripped on a rock and, attempting to block my fall, felt something hard and rectangular beneath my outstretched hand. Lifting it up, I squinted in the dim light, barely making out the shiny, silver block letters, spelling out “E…S…C…A…L…A…D…E”… Jackpot! It was the nameplate of the Cadillac. Okay, it still didn’t prove an explosion happened out here, but that was just a formality. The SUV was definitely here. Deputy Dawg had to listen to me now.
Desperate for the car heater, I hurried back to the Chevy, jumped in and started the engine. A couple of swigs later, I put the car in gear, pointing it back toward Clinton. Finally, something seemed to be going my way.
It was dark, and darkness on a two-lane highway cutting through the heart of Missouri in the middle of winter is blackout city. With nothing to look at, I zeroed in on my headlights disappearing into the dark, but, with no stimulation—no truck stops, diners or Starbucks ahead—my focus began to fade. Maybe it was the cumulative effects of an overly draining day, maybe it was the lack of sleep, and yeah, okay, maybe it was too much goddam bourbon, but whatever the reason, the next thing I knew the Sonic was racing off the road and into a drainage ditch. Slamming on the brakes, I managed to slow the car’s exit from the roadway, but not before hammering headlong into a dirt embankment on the far side of the ditch.
I was fucked.
Oh well, at least I had almost half a pint left. Okay, I know they say alcohol doesn’t actually warm you up, it just feels that way; but if I was going to get frostbite and maybe buy it, I wanted to feel as little pain as possible. Unscrewing the cap and slugging down a little more Jack, it occurred that someone could drive by, but, with the car in the bottom of a ditch, they probably wouldn’t see me. But I also couldn’t risk standing on the highway in the cold in order to flag a passing car. This was not good.
It was getting colder. Luckily the engine was still running, so the heater worked, but I’d never make it though the night with less than a quarter of a tank of gas. And of course there was no cell phone coverage—unless someone came along, I’d probably freeze to death long before the sun came up. Luckily I wasn’t hurt, so I got out of the car to inspect the damage, and seeing how the right front wheel had crumpled underneath the chassis told me the Sonic would never get out the ditch without a tow truck, but that wasn’t all. Inspecting the rear of the car, I smelled gasoline; getting down on my knees, I reached underneath and felt a steady stream of gas dripping from the tank.
Thinking fast, I came up with a plan. If I could start a fire, someone might spot it and see me down in the ditch. Grabbing an empty coffee cup from the car, I positioned it under the leak, thinking I could use the dripping gasoline to start a fire. With no shortage of fallen trees and broken limbs nearby, I worked fast, breaking off branches and grabbing newspaper from the car, then doused the pile of tinder with gas.
I didn’t have any matches, but there was a cigarette lighter in the car. Wadding a piece of paper, I soaked the end with gasoline, then ignited it with the lighter. Holding the flaming paper above my head, I climbed out of the car, tossing the torch onto the pile of kindling. As intended, the mass of dead wood and paper immediately burst into flames, but, as I walked from the car to the pile of firewood, I neglected to notice a stream of liquid leaking from the cup. Standing in stunned surprise, I watched as the flame abruptly erupted along the trail of gasoline and back into the ditch, immediately engulfing the Chevy in flames. Dumbfounded, I collapsed onto the ground between the two fires; stunned into oblivion, I slowly drained the remains of my Jack Daniels. It wasn’t getting any better.
As I sat there feeling the effects of bourbon numbing my brain I tried to recall everything I could remember about freezing to death. It seems that hypothermia happens in three stages, with the most curious behavior coming in stage three when the victims often exhibit an apparent self-protective action known as terminal burrowing, where the individual, at this point incoherent, attempts to enter a small enclosed space. This behavior is often accompanied by another completely cou
nterintuitive reaction known as paradoxical undressing. Finding naked people frozen to death has often caused potential rescuers to erroneously believe that a deceased person has also been a victim of a sexual assault, an especially curious confluence of personal misfortune.
At that point, as I amused myself with the thought that Patty and Deputy Dawg might discover my naked body curled up in the burned-out trunk of my rented Chevy Sonic, a pair of headlights suddenly appeared on the highway just above the ditch. Amazed at my good fortune, I stumbled to my feet and staggered up the embankment just in time to recognize a distinctive black-and-white cruiser. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I then noticed an even more familiar figure emerging from the highway patrol car and walking my way. It was Duane.
My hands cuffed behind my back, I soon found myself riding in the back seat of the highway patrol car. I can’t say that Duane was exactly gentle with me, but then I don’t exactly remember and don’t know that I would have blamed him if I did. There were a few bruises on my upper torso and back, which occurred when I “tripped,” according to the report made by the law officer. I do recall submitting to a breathalyzer test and hearing Duane’s laughter as he announced the results to no one in particular.
I also remember that, after applying the handcuffs down near the ditch, the highway patrolman went back to his car and returned with what had to be a digital camera, because I can still see a surreal series of flashes lighting the pitch-black area around the burning Sonic. Almost as if in a dream, I watch myself stumbling around in the darkness only to have the world suddenly transformed into brilliant luminescence for split seconds at a time, but whenever it happened, the center of the lighted area stood out, tenaciously retaining the blackened outline of an oddly bent and vaguely vehicular shape.
Moments later, I was roughly thrust into the back seat of the cruiser, after which I apparently passed out, because the next thing I remember is the car stopping in front of the sheriff’s office. My brain completely fogged by bourbon and sleep, I could only make out snatches of a conversation between Duane and Deputy Bodie exchanging clichéd comments like “throw the book at the asshole” and “I knew he was no good” followed by brief bursts of smug laughter.
The Brickeaters Page 10
