The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  The truck, headlights lit, rolled forward, then fell onto its side, plummeting into the ravine like a train derailing.

  A scream. The truck’s headlights flashed orange, one after the other, and went out as it overturned to a stop in the black pit.

  The slow raspy turning of a pair of rear wheels, then silence until the young man trapped beneath the truck moaned. The sound of another engine came from the north, lights in the distance, dust in the air, young men with arms at their sides standing at the edge like rocks marking the dropoff.

  “He ain’t dead. Now what?”

  “We all agreed! Get the others!”

  Running feet, followed by a voice in the distance. “Hurry up! We need help!”

  “Where is it?”

  “This way.”

  The voices came closer to the ravine at which some young men stood as sentinels while others slid down on backsides.

  “Did he heel and toe out of here?”

  “He’s down there.”

  “Is he—?”

  “No, but he won’t be doin’ the Lindy hop no more.”

  “Oh, Jesus. What’ll we do? There were 39 at the movies and only 38 will be back.”

  “We all agreed on this, pardners. So come along down.”

  “You ain’t FDR.”

  “Yeah, but I’d have no trouble hog-tying you.”

  The moaning in the ravine continued. Those on the edge hesitated as if awaiting a boxing gloves grudge match. Two falsetto voices duked it out.

  “It’s on him but he’s not hamburger?”

  “I told you we should’ve used the Dodge.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everybody knows Dodges are heavier than GMCs. We found that out when we had to push it up the hill at the fire tower.”

  Bela spoke with authority from deep in the ravine. “All of you will come down here! Move over to this corner! Must I wait?”

  “But there’s blood!”

  “I see it! In the dark it’s black like—!”

  “Like what? Her blood?”

  “To hell with blood!” shouted Bela. “We made our vow! When I say lift, we all lift. When I say drop, we drop.”

  Everyone slid down the embankment. There was a strange smell in the ravine. Sweat, hot metal, and gasoline. One of the guys spun two of the GMC’s upturned wheels. The wobbly wheels silhouetted against the starry sky were reminiscent of the elevated knees of a woman on her back from the deck of flip cards one of the guys had hidden in the bottom of his footlocker back at camp. Yeah, back at camp down in the canyon where everything must be peaceful compared to this.

  Finally, when they were gathered, Bela gave his orders. “We will all lift.” And a moment later, “Good, on three. One, two, three—”

  Metal squeaking and twisting, along with moans becoming screams, pierced the night as the truck was lifted and dropped. A final scream echoed through a nearby canyon. The men in the ravine remained silent until the echo quit.

  It took several minutes. But finally the screams became whimpers and harsh wet inhales and exhales changed to…silence.

  “That’s some crooner. He won’t sing no more.”

  “That’s the idea, his mouth’s shut for good.”

  “I wish I was back riding rails. Those were the good old days. Oh, God—Did he have hair on him?”

  Bela again. “I felt inside pockets. No hair. We carry her hair. It was part of our agreement. Each received strands and promised. After tonight we never speak of it. If someone asks, he put down money saying he wished to race back from Green River. During accident those of us with him in the GMC became scratched and bruised. Say it back to me.”

  “Yeah, we know. Scratches and bruises. I got one and so does Joe.”

  “When camp superintendent asks, Sal waved his sawbuck. The argument over whether the GMC could beat the Dodge was his wager. The sawbuck went back into his pocket. He left without waiting for anyone to cover bet and few were able to get into the GMC with him. Those of you in back jumped out before truck rolled.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be Charlie McCarthy dummies.”

  “It’s not funny! Do we agree?”

  “Yeah, yeah—”

  “All of you, say it!”

  A chorus of muted voices. “Agreed.”

  “Does anyone not agree?”

  No response except the shadows of fidgeting young men against the twinkling backdrop of stars. One man lifted a cap to scratch his head, another hugged himself and shivered, a third stood at a distance pissing against a rock. Instead of lighting cigarettes like they usually would, they gathered in small groups, their youthful brashness extinguished.

  Bela climbed out of the ravine. “Come. We must all squeeze into Dodge.”

  The upturned wheels of the GMC were motionless as they trotted away. An engine started reluctantly in the distance, one gear ground into another, and the Dodge labored into the night with its load of 38 men. Because of all the legs dangling off the back and sides of the open truck, it could have been a huge bug skittering across the parched earth. It took some time for the dust to settle.

  The only sound in the ravine was the ticking of the GMC’s engine as it cooled. Below the front corner of the overturned GMC, starlight reflected in a pool of black blood. Nearby, a shadowbox sagebrush lizard skittered beneath the wreck.

  There were 38 now. With four jammed in the cab of the Dodge, that made 34 in the back. Bela, wedged in the middle with two hips banging his, couldn’t help thinking 13 plus 13 plus 13 equaled 39, and here there were only 38 in the Dodge as it struggled in lower and lower gears up the grades, Joe beside him banging the shift stick against Bela’s knee as they neared camp.

  Morning on the road between Green River, Wyoming, and Manila, Utah. Cool, sunny, windless, and dry despite distant thunder to the south. Dust had settled back on arriving vehicles, all black except the Green River hospital ambulance closest to the ravine. Behind it, two Wyoming state police cars and the Sweetwater county sheriff’s car. Facing north, a Dagget county sheriff’s car and two unmarked cars. Down in the ravine the Sweetwater county coroner was in suit and tie, the ambulance driver in jacket and slacks. The cops in blue uniforms with officer’s hats and the Army officers in olive drab and tan uniforms with garrison caps looking down from the ravine edge waited for a nod from the coroner. When they got it, several looked toward the sky. The sun was behind them to the east.

  “Wrecker’s on the way,” said a Green River cop.

  “Guess we’ll need it to get him out of there,” said the Pocatello District CCC commander who resembled James Cagney.

  “You’ll notify next of kin?”

  “My camp superintendent’ll do it. He knows the young man.”

  “Too bad when the young get killed.”

  “You mean like the Green River girl?” asked the James Cagney look-alike.

  “You think this has anything to do with Rose’s murder?”

  “No, my camp superintendent says they were racing trucks last night.”

  “Don’t you have regular drivers?”

  “Someone messed up and told the men they could drive them.”

  “How many were out here?”

  “Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine including that one. They’re saying he’s the bad nickel, arranged the truck race that got himself killed.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, we could’ve used a man like that in the upcoming war.”

  “You really think we’ll have this war?”

  “I’ve seen this before. It’s inevitable.”

  “Young men like the ones at your camps will be the ones who’ll suffer.”

  “That’s the way war goes.”

  The cops and the CCC Army officers helped the coroner and ambulance driver up the last s
teep part of the climb from the ravine. The sound of an engine came from the north, the wrecker like a herd of horses chased by a cloud of reddish brown high desert dust.

  The tan Buick’s tall driver waited while the stocky passenger went to the Manila post office phone booth. After previous hot days, the cool was welcome. They’d been south of camp waiting for CCC crews on the Vernal road but nobody showed. They’d considered driving into camp to find out what was going on, but didn’t want to be seen. As the driver stared at his partner jabbering in the phone booth, he looked forward to being back in Brooklyn where everything was closer, not miles away to a damn telephone.

  An old man came from the post office and limped the other way without looking toward the phone booth. The stocky guy finished and walked slowly back, stopping halfway to remove his hat, wiping his head with his handkerchief while looking back toward the phone booth, then hurrying to the car without putting his hat back on. He slid in and slammed the door. He stared out at the phone booth.

  “The sun made the phone booth a furnace. I’m trying to forget—”

  “What the hell is it?” asked the driver.

  The passenger suddenly resembled a fat sweaty kid. “Called the camp a couple times. Got a secretary. I can tell something’s up when I say I’m a relative. Wants me to leave a message but doesn’t ask my name. So I call again and say I need to talk to the superintendent. I make off I’m Big Sal. Next thing I know I’m on the horn with the superintendent and he’s telling me he’s sorry but has some really bad news and is there anyone with me. I says my old lady’s with me. He asks if there’s anyone with the two of us. Now I’m in really deep, so I says one of our company workers is here. And that’s when he tells me.”

  “What?”

  “Little Sal’s dead.”

  “Holy mother of God. How?”

  “A truck accident coming back from Green River last night. Because of where Little Sal was sitting, he got crushed.”

  “Shit. Maybe we should see the body and make sure.”

  “He says they took the body up to the morgue in Green River.”

  When the driver started the Buick, the stocky guy asked, “Where we going?”

  “Where do you think? We got to make sure.”

  An hour later, by insisting they were long lost uncles traveling west, the pale-faced mortician gave them a quick look, patted them both on the shoulders, and next thing they knew they were back in the Buick that felt hot despite the cool day.

  “Now what?”

  “You heard pale face. He wants us, being we’re relatives, to call the parents.”

  “The boss and his uncle put us out here to take care of the kid and now—”

  “Let’s head west.”

  “They’d find us.”

  “Let’s tell Al to call? He’s got the inside skinny with Rosario. He’s from Kansas City so maybe he won’t get burned so bad. Yeah, Al calls the uncle and has him tell Big Sal. Depending how it goes, we figure whether it’d be a good idea to go back to Brooklyn.”

  Camp Manila, Sheep Creek Canyon. Thunder in the mountains before dawn, but no rain. At breakfast, after announcing the “accident,” the camp superintendent gave the day off and left with a couple assistants. Decken considered showing a geology film he’d gotten from Salt Lake, but knew better than to approach the superintendent. Everything was canceled. The only thing planned was an evening service by the district chaplain driving in from Pocatello headquarters.

  Decken walked the camp to see what was up. Barracks One, Two, and Four men gathered in the recreation building, several saying they always thought Barracks Three was wacky, not only because of Sal Cavallo, but because Barracks Three “city boys” got too much slack. Whoever heard of trucks out at night without at least one LEM driver? Then there was that European guy with the accent, the hair cutter, and Henry disappearing, and the Buicks with two on board always around Barracks Three’s job site.

  At lunchtime, someone put cigarettes on the tables. Free cigarettes were usually reserved for Sundays or special occasions, a couple guys always managing to come early, swipe them, and sell them back later. Especially Sal Cavallo, stealing cigarettes one of his specialties. Today at lunch the cigarettes stayed put and Decken noticed men who didn’t smoke offering cigarettes to men who did.

  Another wacky thing was a full meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and beans at lunch instead of job site sack lunches. The smell of meatloaf baking wafted through camp all morning. Decken heard a couple guys say if they closed their eyes they could be home because it smelled like moms’ cooking. After an afternoon with guys speaking quietly and smoking, or playing ping-pong in the recreation building, everyone somehow agreed to put on dress uniforms early because the bulletin board showed a repeat of lunch but with apple pie thrown in.

  At both meals, Barracks Three men sat at two of the long tables side-by-side separate from the others. After the short service given by the district chaplain and dinner, Decken, who’d been sitting with other LEMs, walked to the Barracks Three tables and said, “Sorry about what happened, men.”

  On his way out the door, Decken turned back and saw the Barracks Three men staring at him with strange looks on their faces. They hadn’t taken a bite of pie, whereas men from other barracks were finished and either filing out the door or up at the coffee pots.

  The sun was low in the west, getting ready to set behind Windy Ridge. Beyond Windy Ridge was Ute Peak and the fire tower, but Decken couldn’t see it from here. He had a funny feeling about the fire tower, like it was an eye of God watching. Decken felt there was bound to be trouble in camp, but wasn’t sure why he felt that way and walked slowly back to his quarters. The rumble of thunder from miles south rolled across the mountains.

  Warm Brooklyn evening, 1939. Salvatore Cavallo on his second story back porch. A baseball game ended in the park a block over and he watched as boys made their way into the neighborhood. It’d been a semi-official game complete with coaches and umpire dads. He wished Little Sal were still a boy, out there on the diamond instead of in Utah swallowing dust. That’s what Sal said was his main job, swallowing dust.

  Cavallo picked up his wine glass and took a sip. Back in the house the radio console boomed in the living room, Francesca listening to big bands because what else was there to do on a warm summer evening? Music in the house was better than arguing. When he and Francesca argued he didn’t mention Uncle Rosario still playing the goddamn godfather. Cavallo took a gulp of wine to finish the glass and poured more from the half-empty bottle.

  Things would be better when his uncle died. Cavallo could call his son back from Utah. He’d be Little Sal again, getting in trouble here where he could keep an eye on him. Maybe assign Lonzo to keep him in line. Yeah, good idea. If his uncle died he’d bring Sal back to Brooklyn, make one of the other boys his driver, and give Lonzo a babysitting job with muscle. His uncle, having only girls, had no idea what it took to raise a Brooklyn boy.

  As Cavallo was about to take another gulp of wine, he heard a car in the alley and saw Uncle Rosario’s Lincoln behind the back wall. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, but instead of his uncle, Felice the fawning odd job runner, got out. Felice wore no hat and, to Cavallo, his hair was too long in back. Maybe his uncle liked Felice because he was like a daughter. Maybe he and his uncle would have a few laughs tonight talking about Little Sal out west sowing wild oats. But when Felice ran around the Lincoln and opened the opposite back door and Cavallo saw the look on his uncle’s face, even at this distance, whatever laughter he thought was there vanished.

  The back door banged against the wall. The big band music from the living room radio console cut off in the middle of a tune. Uncle Rosario’s voice and Francesca’s voice and Felice’s voice went at it for a while. The only thing Cavallo could make out was his uncle insisting, “I must speak with Salvatore.” Then shouting, “No! Only Salvatore! Now!”


  Cavallo stood in the hall at the top of the stairs. At the bottom his uncle struggled, trying to climb. Finally, gasping, his uncle motioned to Felice who picked up his uncle and carried him like a baby, the cane pointing the way, Uncle Rosario coughing. Felice put Uncle Rosario in the wicker sofa, propping cushions around him. Tears streamed from his uncle’s eyes, coughs erupted like phlegmy thunder. Maybe his uncle would die before his eyes.

  Before Uncle Rosario could say anything, the phone rang downstairs inside the house. A moment later Francesca’s screams filled the house and echoed out into the neighborhood.

  Francesca leaped into the casket. It took three of the boys to haul her out and carry her away. The doctor’s pills did no good. She didn’t make it to church. At the cemetery she sat in the limousine while Lonzo accompanied Cavallo to the grave. Uncle Rosario was in a wheelchair, Felice pushing. Francesca’s ulcer had begun bleeding when they met the train bringing Salvatore’s body home. During the funeral luncheon Francesca vomited blood into her plate and was hospitalized. Blood on pasta like spaghetti sauce.

  Cavallo and Uncle Rosario did not speak until Little Sal had been in the ground a full week. Eventually they met in the office at the main warehouse. He asked that Felice not be in the meeting. His uncle motioned Felice out. They sat across from one another at the table, the conversation short and to the point.

  “I want to find those responsible.”

  “I agree,” said his uncle.

  “You said we have funds. Can we use them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Write down instructions. When you pass I’ll take this to its conclusion.”

  “It will be difficult.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible.”

  “Do you want me to contact our men in Utah?”

  “No, I’ll do it!”

  Frank Grogan, the elderly Green River sheriff, knocked on the Minch house front door. Not much of a house, not much of a door from the way it rattled. Mrs. Minch was younger than Frank, but weathered from washing and hanging out laundry for townsfolk.