Only Fools Walk Free

by Sandra R Neeley

  “Sister Clarice had one last request. That we read her last letter aloud to her beloved late husband. It is the simplest request and so, these are her words.”

  “Dearest Samuel,

  If you are hearing this, I am now with you. I have loved you all the days of my life and will continue to love you ever after. I will pray for the day our eyes will once again gaze upon one another, and we will have the lifetime of love that was stolen from us. I wear my wedding ring as I rest now, waiting for our next life together. Come to me soon, husband. I grow weary of waiting, but as your Maman said, you will know when the time is right. Maman ‘Vangeline said so eloquently,‘I shall leave this world with your face in my mind, your name on my lips, and love for you in my heart.’ So will I, my love. Know that you have been my every happiness, Samuel.

  Until we meet again,

  All my love — your wife, Clarice.”

  “Go on,” one of the sisters said.

  “I feel foolish,” the reader responded.

  “It was her last wish. You’ve already read the letter, what’s a little more?”

  “Because reading a letter aloud is a little different than speaking to a spirit.”

  “It is a last wish and who could it possibly hurt?”

  “Very well,” the nun said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but Clarice made me promise, so, here goes. Samuel? Clarice has made arrangements to have the crypt cared for and maintained indefinitely. Her estate is to be split between the convent and caring for this crypt. She said that I should stand here and say that aloud. And to let you know there was no pain at the end, only peace and joy, knowing that she’d soon be with you.”

  Samuel watched from his place on the ground where he’d collapsed and sat weeping once he realized that Clarice was gone. He heard every word, but the ones that were most important were that she didn’t suffer at the end.

  After the sisters left, he rose and dragged himself into the crypt. He usually spent all his time outside so he could see Clarice when she entered the cemetery and started on her way down the path to his crypt. But, now, he sat for days on end inside the crypt, whispering of his love to his beloved Clarice, who was now at rest in the crypt beside his Maman.

  Eventually he ventured outside, where he’d watch the faithful, year after year continue to leave offerings for his Maman. And at some point the care of the crypt fell to the wayside — the only thing keeping it standing was that it was made of marble. The wrought-iron fencing and gate marking its territory became rusty, the black paint peeling away. The marble became stained, and the weeds grew up its sides.

  But it mattered not. Samuel had no way to do anything about it, and the only two people he’d ever loved were no more. A few more years passed, and he grew bored. So bored his very sanity was threatened. He began to try to communicate with the believers who still visited his Maman’s resting place. He was not able to speak with them, but he found he could flick little pebbles at them, causing them to run screeching from his home — his prison. He could lift the notes begging for favors and throw them back at the people leaving them there.

  And then best of all, he found that he could grasp the iron gate, shaking it violently to cause a deafening rattle. He entertained himself with these things until one day, a young girl wandered into his field of vision. She walked right up to his gate, smiling brightly. “What a lonely gravesite, Mother! Can we restore this one?”

  Her mother walked up beside her, looking at the marble structure behind him. “It is a grand one,” she said, seeing beneath the damage the ages and the worshipers had done to it, “or at least it once was.”

  “I like it. Can we make this one our project?”

  “We can ask. Let’s find the caretaker and see if he’ll give us permission.”

  Ten minutes later the little girl, her mother and a burly gentleman in work clothes approached Samuel’s crypt again.

  “You sure you want to clean this one up, lady? It’s looking kind’a rough. And this is the one all the rumors swirl about. Those damn heathens won’t leave it alone — always spray painting symbols and words on it. Leaving offerings, they call it.”

  “Why are they leaving offerings,” the girl’s mother asked, concerned.

  “Dupont is the family name of one of the most famous voodoo queens of New Orleans. She’s buried in there. Maman ‘Vangeline they called her. Those that still believe in such things sneak in and leave their requests on cards and scraps of paper, along with little offerings as payment. Those I don’t mind so much, truth be told. It’s the ones that paint on the crypt and dirty it up that get me — they don’t have no respect at all.”

  “Well, that’s why it needs us to clean it,” the little girl said.

  “Word is it’s haunted, too. Rocks getting thrown at people, the gate rattling at all hours. Most people steer clear of it.”

  “Claire, maybe we should look for another for you to restore, so you can earn your service hours for school. One that’s not such a challenge,” her mother said.

  Claire looked at the large, imposing crypt behind her, now covered in spray-painted graffiti, Voodoo dolls, handwritten notes and small gris-gris bags littering its grasses and weeds, where they grew up sparsely within the confines of its fencing. She stepped forward, wrapping her small, light-brown hand around one of the rusted wrought-iron bars. “No. I want this one. It needs me, Mom. I can feel it, can’t you?”

  Samuel squatted down to really look at the little girl — Claire — her mother had called her. She was no more than 11 or 12 years of age. She was wearing a bright blue shirt with happy, smiling, yellow creatures all over it. Some had one large eye, others wore a pair of goggles. They all wore blue overalls and had large black eyes with silly smiles. Her hair was curly and black, parted and braided into dozens and dozens of braids, with small, brightly-colored barrettes holding the braids secure at each end. She had skin much the same color as his, but her eyes — her eyes were not the luminescent green his were. They were the same bright blue of his Clarice.

  “Can you hear me?” she said.

  Samuel’s brow furrowed — it couldn’t be, he thought.

  “I’m going to make your home pretty again, so you won’t have to be angry or sad anymore.”

  Samuel canted his head to the side, trying to see more deeply into her soul. He hesitantly touched her fingers with his, and gently curled them around her small hands where they clung to the rusted gate post.

  Right away she lit up, smiling and looking at her hand. Her eyes scanned the area within the burial plot, but didn’t register him. Instead she nodded and spoke aloud again. “I’ll be back in a little bit. We have to go get some stuff to start cleaning with. But you can depend on me — I won’t let you down.”

  “Let’s hurry, Mom, I want to get started today,” she said as she turned and followed her mother down the path, stopping to turn back and wave at him.

  Samuel couldn’t believe it. She’d waved at him!

  He paced the ground restlessly until he heard her angelic laugh as she and her mother returned.

  She skipped along beside her mother, the both of them carrying bags of cleaning supplies, and her mother pulled a small red wagon behind them with even more needed tools.

  And Samuel watched spellbound as she talked about how happy cleaning the crypt would make the man who lived in it.

  Having gotten permission, and been given keys for access to the tomb, they unlocked the gate and spent the afternoon scrubbing the sides of the crypt, pulling weeds, and gathering up the gris-gris bags and the other offerings left behind every night by those who still believed that Maman ‘Vangeline could grant their wishes from beyond the grave. They didn’t dispose of the offerings and notes. Instead they enlisted the help of the cemetery caretaker and erected a small wooden stand with a tray on top similar to a shallow three sided box which would allow any who wished to leave favors and offerings in the small wooden tray next to the crypt. It was
inside the fenced in area of the family crypt and they’d have to lean over the fence to do it, but the hope was it would keep the site a little neater and cleaner. Claire and her mother respectfully gathered all the offerings scattered about the crypt and placed them inside the small tray atop the stand they’d erected. They used a gas-operated weedeater to cut down the small patch of grass and to edge around the crypt.

  It was late afternoon when they finally took a break. Claire and her mother stood back, surveying their work.

  “Looks good, Claire-bear,” her mother said.

  “Yes, it does. But still, we have more to do.”

  “We can come back next weekend if you want to.”

  “Really?!” Claire asked excitedly.

  “Really. We can make it a regular thing if you like.”

  Claire rushed over to her mother. “Thanks, Mom! I’d really like that.”

  Later that evening as the nightly visitors began to silently slip into the cemetery, making their way to the Dupont crypt to leave their gifts and make their wishes known, Samuel sat quietly, watching them, listening to their pleas for intercession from Maman ‘Vangeline. They respectfully placed their wishes and gifts in the new tray provided. And the anger he usually felt, the frustration that he took out on those that dared to deface the resting place of his mother and his beautiful Clarice, was not there.

  He thought of the little girl — Claire — and her need to make the crypt beautiful again. Of his feeling of connection to her, and he smiled. Maybe, his Clarice was closer than he thought, and maybe, just maybe, she was not resting in this old crumbling crypt behind him. Maybe she’d been given a second chance, and her heart had brought her back to the one place her soul always knew she could find him.

  Chapter 6

  Months went by, and every week Claire and her mother would come to visit him. In actuality, they weren’t visiting him, they were taking care of the crypt, but still, he was there, so he liked to pretend they were visiting him. He’d begun to look forward to their arrival, expected them even. They’d spend the whole afternoon, cleaning and beautifying the crypt, even hanging decorations for whatever holiday was next on the gate — wreaths of green and red for Christmas, orange and brown for Thanksgiving, green for St. Patrick's day, and green, gold and purple beads and masks hung on all the posts of his fence for Mardi Gras.

  As the seasons changed and passed, the girl grew up, but always she came for her visits. Eventually, she came alone, having grown old enough to bring herself. Claire had grown into a beautiful young woman, and if ever he had doubts of her being Clarice, they were long gone. There were afternoons that she’d not do any more than pick up the litter and gifts strewn about the ground. Then, she’d take a seat on the ground, leaning against the gate as Clarice had always done. She’d ask, “Would you like me to read you a story?” Then she’d read aloud from books of her favorite sonnets. It was on one such day that she’d read for almost an hour, finally tiring and closing the book while clutching it to her chest. She sighed and said aloud, “I love coming here. I always feel so peaceful when I’m here.”

  Samuel used the tricks he’d learned over the decades spent alone to gently tug at her hair, where it curled over the collar of the sweater she wore, poking through the gate she leaned against. She turned quickly, her eyes searching the area. Her eyes rounded, her mouth dropped open, and she looked right at him.

  Samuel smiled softly for her, wondering if it was his imagination or if she could see him.

  Slowly a smile curved her lips. “I can see you,” she whispered.

  His smile grew, and he lifted his hand in a wave, then extended it just a bit.

  Without pause, Claire reached out, putting her hand right through his. He grinned, then adjusted his hand, using both his hands to hold hers.

  She watched — his hands and his face outlined by the mists floating in the air. It was late February, the temperature in New Orleans sporadic at best, cool, cold, warm and muggy all in the same day, causing misty, gray days and damp, cold nights. As he enveloped her hands in his own misty ones, she gasped. “I can feel you!”

  He leaned forward and kissed her hand.

  “Can I do anything for you?” she asked.

  Samuel shook his head, then took a seat cross-legged on the ground and gestured toward her book. He wanted her to know he enjoyed her visits and loved to hear her voice reading to him. Her voice was Clarice’s. When she spoke, he knew it was her. When she was still long enough for him to look into her eyes, he knew it was her. And now that she’d seen him in the mists — their eyes locking, their hearts open, he could feel her. His Clarice had been given a second chance. His own mind swirled as Claire sat down to read him another story. Maybe this was the beginning of his second chance as well. He hadn’t thought of it in years, the phrase his mother had made him memorize. Something about a fool walking free. He’d have to try to remember it and see if he could figure it out.

  Only several blocks away from the cemetery…

  The crash inside the house was easily heard from the street.

  “Stop it! What is wrong with you? They’ll put you out again!” the woman screamed at the young man tossing the cushions of the sofa around the room. “Do you want to be living on the streets again?”

  “Like that matters,” he muttered, as he continued to search for any coins he could find beneath the cushions.

  “What are you looking for?” the old lady screeched, while he made his way around the room tearing apart first one piece of furniture then another.

  “Money, old woman.”

  “How about you get a job? You’ve only got two weeks left here, then you’re on your own. This is juvie, it’s to give you a chance to redeem yourself. Next time, it won’t be a halfway house after juvie detention — it’ll be jail.”

  “How ‘bout you get off my back!”

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  He stopped, his chest heaving, the words of teachers, policemen, judges even, ringing in his ears. ‘Soulless.’ That’s what they all called him. Said his eyes were soulless.

  He’d stopped ripping through the furniture, so the house-mother saw it as an opportunity to try to speak to him again. He was good, down deep inside, she could sense it, but he was always wandering, always lost, always searching for… something. “Please tell me what I can do to help you. You always seem so lost. What is it you are always searching for?”

  The beautiful young man turned to her. He was tall, strong, fierce in his stance, his bright blue eyes and blonde hair giving him an angelic appearance in spite of his intimidating presence, but so heartbreakingly alone and sad. He’d never done anything violent, just petty crimes, but they’d added up, landing him in a juvenile halfway house. And lately, it seemed he was near to bursting, like a fire long kindled, ready to explode and take out all in his path. He had so much potential, and she just couldn’t stop trying to save him.

  He faced her, “You can’t help me. No one can. Everybody I’ve ever met has said that I’m cold, heartless.” He pinned her with a stare, “soulless. There’s nothing to save. So do yourself a favor and just walk away.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He shoved past her, pushing the door open and stomping down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “To find some money!” he shouted at her over his shoulder.

  “Do not do anything to jeopardize your residency here! Your time is almost finished!”

  “Lady, get off my ass! I’ll do whatever the hell I want!” He took off at a full run, and as she watched in the glow of the streetlight, he disappeared around the corner.

  He ran. He ran until the burning of the muscles in his legs made him stop. He paused outside the front gates of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. This is the place he always came to when he felt like he was ready to explode. And tonight was worse than it’d been in a while. The house-mother wanted him to talk to her. How could he explain what he didn’t unders
tand? He never felt anything but frustration, anger, and emptiness. It was like a part of himself was missing. He’d always been like this, from his earliest memories of life in the orphanage to this very moment in time.

  He’d always felt the drive to search, search, search. But for what? Fuck if he knew. But the frustration of never finding satisfaction or whatever nameless thing he was always driven to search for was maddening. It made him angry, and the anger made him act out. He remembered the faces of the many who’d readily dismissed him as useless, unable to be rehabilitated. “Fuck ‘em,” he said to himself, as he walked around the outside perimeter of the cemetery to the opposite side, then scaled the wall, landing on his feet inside. He walked quietly between the graves, breathing deep, taking in the calmness of the night. This was the only place he ever felt like he could breathe easy.

  ~~~~~

  Samuel paced the inside perimeter of his prison again. He was not happy. Claire had been coming to see him less and less. And today when she’d come, she’d only been there for a short while before a dark-haired young man had come for her.

  “Hello!” she called out as she approached the crypt.

  He’d been waiting for her. She usually came on Sundays, and he’d been ready, even though she’d missed several Sundays of late. He rushed to the front gate. “Claire!” he’d said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

  “I can’t see you, today. It’s only misty days that I can see your smile, but I know you’re here.”

  “I am,” he answered. “Always.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been here as much lately. Life happens, ya know?” she said, giving a half-hearted laugh.

  She stood there, her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I met someone. His name is Preston. He’s really handsome. And he’s popular at school. All the girls in my dorm like him, but he likes me. Can you believe it? Me!”