Memorial Day

by Wayne Greenough

  About twenty feet away is the entrance to the graveyard’s military memorial wall. It’s not very large. It’s a memorial for the military men from this city who lost their lives during the Vietnam War. My friend, Gordon Rumpott Adams is there. He’s attired in his old Army uniform and busying himself by touching one section of the wall. I join Rumpott just as a man walks up to him and says, hi. Instead of speaking to them, I listen to what they are saying.

  “You’re touching my father’s name. Did you know him?”

  Rumpott’s eyes gathered moisture as he started talking. “Touching names enables me to feel the heat and thoughts of the heroes entombed here. To me, they are not dead. They are merely elsewhere. Your father, you say? Yes, I knew him, indeed. Out of all the people I have known, he was the bravest, my commanding officer and my friend. He was indeed the one to walk the battlefields with.”

  “Were you there with him…when…?”

  Rumpott nodded, before saying, “Yes, along with five others. Enemy fire that was coming from every direction, pinned us down. It was obvious to all of us that we were not going to come out of it alive. You’re father decided otherwise. He lobbed a grenade. His right arm was so strong, so accurate he could have been a world champion baseball player. At the same time, he stood up firing his M-Sixteen and ordering us to run. We did. We found him later, along with twenty dead Vietcong nearby. Your dad was, and is the bravest man I’ve ever known. I know many more great things about him. It would take hours, even days to relate all there is to tell about your truly courageous father. When you wish to know more, I’m in the phonebook. My name is Gordon Adams. Friends call me Rumpott. You may address me as such because you have just become a friend.”

  The man could only nod, his sudden emotion keeping him from speaking. He shook Rumpott’s hand and left. I noticed he was using a handkerchief.

  Rumpott looked at me, took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. “It’s good to see you, Thanet.”

  “And it is good to see you, Rumpott. You’ve been gone.”

  “Yes, to Vietnam. Sadly, my wife is still not to be found. My experts are continuing the search.”

  When Rumpott was in the Army, he married a Vietnamese lady. She disappeared and he has spent years looking for her.

  “You just did a wonderful thing, telling that guy about his father.”

  “My commanding officer was that special. He could even out drink me. Listen, the Honor Guard at the burial is going to meet me later on at Paskanouto’s Coffee Joint. We’re going to drown ourselves in coffee and swap military stories. Care to join us?”

  “That sounds good to me, Rumpott. I’ll see you later. Right now, Mother is waiting for me in the main building.”

  “Tell her I said, hi, Thanet. Also tell her if she wants to join my harem, she can become a Den Mother to my ladies.”

  I gave him a dirty look and he gave me his thunderous laughter.

  As I head toward the main building to join Mother, and have a gallon of coffee and a dozen cookies, I hear a voice.

  “Hey there, Mr. Shamus. I say, hey there, Mr. Private Dick. Wait a minute!”

  I turn to face the voice and I see no one. That fact immediately makes me think someone is perhaps trying to be funny, or perhaps they’re going to be hostile. Like, maybe it’s some punk with a stiletto in his sweaty hand who wants to carve his initials onto my forehead because knifing people is the only way he can pop his cookies. Well, he’s in the wrong place for that, and he’s met the wrong guy. I reach inside my suit coat and give my new gat a pat. The feel of its cold steel on my fingers told me it was right where it should be.

  “Okay, I’ve waited the minute you asked for. Now, where are you?”

  “I’m right in front of you. Don’t bother to look for me. No, it’s not your eyes. I just haven’t been able to materialize, not even as a white apparition, that thing that looks like a cone-shaped bed sheet. You see it very often in movies, and it’s supposed to scare the hell out of people. I don’t know why I haven’t made any kind of an appearance. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Anyway, using your limited vocabulary, I’m what you would call a ghost.”

  Oh, yeah, sure you are, and I’m Teddy Roosevelt. That was the first thought that popped into my mind. Believe it or not, folks, I haven’t been drinking. I’m cold sober. I haven’t even smoked today. You might ask, do I believe in ghosts? My answer is, no, I don’t. Now, because my body and faculties at present are in a respectable condition, which is a rarity for me, and I am quite certain I am not hallucinating from too much dissipation over the years, or possibly from not enough dissipation over the years, I am naturally wondering where the guy is hiding.

  “You are Thanet Blake, the private dick, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m Blake. So what the hell are you going to do about it?”

  ““That’s a nice attitude you’ve just thrown at me. Are you always crabby? I need you.”

  “Oh, Hell, so do half the people in this city, and unfortunately, that’s the half that has no money, but still knocks at my door for help, and because I’m a nice guy, not a crabby one, like you just said I was, I help them. Now, let’s cut out the bullshit. I want you to show yourself. This joke has gone far enough.”

  “This isn’t a joke. I’m dead. I told you that I’m a ghost, and I can’t materialize. Look, Blake, you’ve got to help me. Please, you’re the only one that can.”

  His last sentence turned into a mournful plea that ended with a sob. Its sound got to me. It always does.

  “Okay. I’ll stand here and listen to you.”

  “It’s Medea. She’s going to kill herself.”

  Oh. “All right, calm yourself down. So tell me, who is Medea?”

  “My wife, or rather I should say she was my wife.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “No, I’m dead! How many times do I have to tell you? I am a ghost!”

  “Yeah you told me, three times now. But I’m finding that hard to believe.” In fact, I didn’t believe the guy. I looked all around again. There weren’t any tombstones big enough for him to hide behind. I repeat what I’ve already told you, just in case you never got it the first time around, or perhaps you didn’t believe me. Honestly, I am sober, not suffering from withdrawal symptoms, and fairly certain I’m not hallucinating. Do you know what that means? If I’m in normal condition and the guy can’t be seen, then he actually is a ghost! I swallowed a lump of fear in my throat. As a young snot-nosed kid, ghost stories always scared me so much I had to run to the nearest bathroom, and half the time I was a little too late. My voice wasn’t hardboiled when I asked, “Okay, so tell me who you are.”

  “My name’s Richard. You just saw my burial.”

  “What? You’re the soldier killed in Afghanistan!”

  “Hey, Blake, you’re not as stupid as you look. Yeah. Damnit, I got it by a road side bomb, but I managed to save a couple of the guys before I went over. Well, are you for hire? I need your help. You have to prevent Medea from killing herself.”

  What he was telling me began to sound real to me. So, before I knew I was saying it, I said, “All right, all right, you’ve just hired me. I’m curious about one thing, though.

  You’ve contacted me, so why can’t you contact your wife, talk to her, and convince her to stay alive?”

  “I got inside your skull, Blake, and found out some things you tell no one, including yourself. You’re not hardboiled, nor are you the pagan you claim to be. You believe in the hereafter, and that’s why you can hear me. Medea doesn’t know whether to believe in what she calls, such stuff. I think that’s why I wasn’t able to get through to her, no matter how hard I tried, not even to where she could hear my voice. I did pick up some of her thoughts. She wants to end her suffering, her tears, her loneliness, the feeling of being empty, by dying on my grave. You’ve got to stop her, Blake, convince her to live out her life, marry some other lucky guy, have kids, and tell them about me—that I was a great guy who died while hel
ping my country.”

  I sighed. Convincing Medea to stay alive was going to be the toughest assignment I’ve ever had, and I knew I was going to tackle it. Helping a dead Marine would make me feel great as if I had done something for my country. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a Shamus. However, stay out of my skull, Richard. I’ve got things in there I don’t want anybody to know, including myself. Now, do you know when your wife will try offing herself?”

  “Tonight, when it’s dark and all the people have left the graveyard. She’s going to lie on my grave and shoot herself.”

  Oh, Hell. What a helluva way to go over. “Okay. Somehow, I’ll stop her. Right now, I have other graveyards to visit. I’ll be back here just before dark.”

  “Don’t fail me, Blake.”

  “I won’t. I’ll give it my best shot, Richard.”

  I didn’t know how, but I knew he was gone. I looked to my left and saw people staring in my direction and saying unkind things about me.

  “Daddy, who’s that man talking to? I don’t see anyone,” said a cute little girl with blonde pigtails. She was hugging her father, her blues eyes looking bigger than normal and showing me she was scared.

  “He’s talking to himself. That’s just Thanet Blake, the poverty hill peeper with the bad reputation that everybody knows about, Elvira. Don’t be afraid of him. He’s probably harmless, today. He’s always drunk,” said the father as he hurried to button up his suit coat. I suspect he thought his coat would protect him from the alcoholic vapors drifting from me to him by the wind. “Just look the other way and pay no attention to the despicable lush. He belongs in the city’s skid row area with all the other bums. The only case he can finish with any success is a case of alcohol. “

  The little lady’s mother was next. She dipped her comment in acid. “What a disgusting sight that man is, being drunk while visiting dead relatives,” said momma, as she gave me a superb long nose sour look she most likely perfected by practicing in the bathroom mirror. An elderly person dressed in faded bib overalls and a crusher hat was with them. I supposed he was the grandfather because there was a family resemblance. He took a long look at me and began laughing. “Maybe I should join him. I sure could use a shot of booze. Hey, Blake, you delightful drunken bastard, how about giving me a swig of your formaldehyde from that hip flask all you private dicks carry? My son and his wife are so disgustingly upper class stiff, they starch their underwear. I don’t. Give me a drink. I’m thirsty as hell.”

  He shuffled a few steps toward me and stopped when he took a hard look at my face. Every once in a while I get mad—like now. I shouted at them. “I don’t have my hip flask with me and I haven’t had a shot of rye since last night. Mind your own business! Better yet, hire me to air out the, twisted with corruption, skeletons in your closets and I’ll charge you double.”

  I wandered off still mad until I counted to ten and realized I shouldn’t allow ignorant people to bug me so badly that I crawl down to their gutter level thinking and argue with them.

  I went to the main building. People were milling about everywhere. Some were lined up and asking for the locations of family gravestones, others were just milling. Because of the crowd, it took me a few minutes to find Mother. She was standing near a huge coffee pot. It was on a close to collapsing table that was already heaped to capacity with a ton of cookies. I picked up a mug that looked as if it hadn’t been used, poured coffee, and grabbed a hand full of chocolate éclairs from an area that hadn’t been disturbed by somebody’s hand. I’m a sucker for them, particularly their white centers.

  As I drank and chomped, I noticed Mother staring intently at me. The stare was the usual one I get when she’s analyzing me. This went on for several minutes, and yes, it makes me squirm. More often than not, she gets too much information from me.

  “Well, Sonny, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Don’t tell me nothing is because your face tells me otherwise.”

  I should wear a paper bag on my face when I’m with Mother. Oh, boy. Her tone of voice tells me it is now officially hot seat time, and I’m in it. So what do I say next? Maybe I should just blurt out the truth. Hey Mother, I’ve been hired by a ghost. Should I really say that? Sure, why not? The worst thing she could do would be to have her only child, which just happens to be me, committed. So, here goes.

  Because there were people all around us, that I felt shouldn’t hear what I was going to say, I moved real close to her and whispered into her left ear. “I’ve taken on a new case.”

  Mother turned pale and caught her breath. She whispered in my right ear. “Does it involve murder, Sonny? Please say it doesn’t. Murder cases are so dangerous for you.”

  “There’s no danger for me, this time. As for it involving murder, in a way, it does. I think people being killed in a war, is mass murder.”

  Mother frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “The soldier we saw being buried has hired me.”

  Mother actually did a W.C. Fields double take before whispering, “Let me smell your breath.”

  As I had brushed my teeth in the morning, I figured she wouldn’t suffer through halitosis when I breathed on her. I leaned down to her face and swooshed my breath at her. She sniffed several times before saying, “Well, you haven’t been drinking today, and I don’t smell tobacco, or even a breath mint that you frequently use when you attempt to disguise your usual alcoholic aroma. I wonder, could you be suffering from withdrawal symptoms, seeing and hearing things, trembling all over? Describe what is wrong with you because I know there must be.”

  “Believe me, there is nothing wrong with me, outside of the fact that I have a mother giving me the third degree.”

  She wrinkled up her nose. She’s a cute lady when she does that. It’s her way of correcting her son’s manners. “Then, Sonny, you’re telling me one of your fibs—a very inappropriate one, under the circumstances.”

  “Mother, I’m being on the level with you. Besides, have I ever fibbed to you?”

  “Yes, more times than I can count.”

  “All right, all right, I have fibbed, but not this time. Look, didn’t you tell me about two weeks ago that two new ladies have joined your tea socials?”

  “Yes. Emily Morton and Starla Smith, oh, and Sonny, Miss Starla, notice I said, Miss, just happens to be young enough and wild enough for you to date. She’s a gorgeous raven-haired beauty, she’s never been married, and she is presently unattached.”

  Mother stopped and frowned before adding, “However, there is an element of danger about her that puzzles me. I can’t put my finger on it. But tell me, what do Emily and Starla have to do with what we’re talking about?”

  Mother thinks I should get over Dru and find somebody. “Are you saying what’s her name, Starla is dangerous, and yet, you want me to do the tango with her when you know danger scares me? Now, don’t you start playing Cupid again, Mother. I’m not ready to do any dating. What I’m getting at is what you told me about those two ladies. You said they were two of the city’s well known psychics.”

  “Yes they are. What exactly are you getting at, Sonny?”

  “Just this…Have they been able to communicate with the dead?”

  “They claim so, and the séance we had at one of my socials was very convincing that they can do just that.” Mother sighed. “Is your next sentence what I think you’re going to say?”

  “It certainly is, and it goes like this. If they are on the level about what they can do, is it really so strange that I have been hired by a ghost?”

  Mother frowned. “Yes, it most certainly is strange.” She looked at me for at least a minute. “All right, Sonny, what does the soldier ghost want you to do, and when?”

  “Tonight, after the graveyard is empty, he wants me to meet with his wife. Her name’s Medea. She plans to kill herself. I’m to stop her from doing so. “

  Mother said nothing, but I saw tears in her eyes.

  Chapter Two<
br />
  Not all the people who have died for our country are buried in the graveyard Mother and I first visited. Many are in the ones we are now standing in, though much smaller, but kept in excellent condition. The grass has been freshly mowed and the gravestones are cleaned and free of moss. Some of the monuments are several feet tall and appear quite ominous in the dark. The cemetery is busy, full of folks placing flowers on graves and talking. Mother and I were close enough to listen to a sad-faced old guy dressed in blue jeans and a checkered shirt, who had rode up in his car, got out, and was talking to three other people. They were putting flowers on a head stone.

  “I sure miss old Spinny. He was one great individual. I stopped visiting him because of that stupid mistake I made. I’m still kicking my ass and wishing that a doctor had sewn my mouth shut an hour before I went to see him on that last damn day. Damn it all to Hell!”

  “What mistake did you make, dear? You never have told me why you stopped drinking beer with him, every Saturday night.”

  The lady was evidently his wife. She was wearing a flowered dress, a ribbon-shaped United States flag in her gray hair and hugging the sad faced guy with love and devotion on her wrinkled free face. Actually, who else would call him, dear?

  “Oh, damn, being a history buff, I went and asked him about Pearl Harbor. He was there that day, when Japanese planes attacked.” He paused to clear his throat and take deep breaths before saying, “Spinny got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he began reliving that day all over again. Then, he started to cry. I left his house. That’s why I never visited him again—because of my big mouth and what my words did to him. I wish I could go back in time and change that day.”

  Mother was born in Kentucky. Five years ago, she journeyed back to her old Kentucky home and met relatives I didn’t know we had. She was told about the ones who fought in the Civil War. One was named Roger. He fought for the North. The other— Houston, was his name—fought for the South. Roger had some fingers shot off, evidently by a Confederate soldier, and because he could no longer fire a weapon, they decided he should become a cook. He died of dysentery, caused, possibly, by his own cooking.