1975
Kevin
handed the bottle to his guest and then continued pacing the viewing area in
the front of the chapel. After circling
around a floral arrangement, he ran his hand down top of the mahogany coffin.
J
Christopher slid down in the front pew.
He peeled the wrinkled paper bag back far enough to read the label of
the Tennessee mash. He nodded his
approval. A good brand was worth
drinking just about anywhere, even in a funeral home. He pulled off the bag and let it fall to the
floor.
“You
worked here a long time,” he said as he unscrewed the cap.
Kevin
nodded. “A good job is a hard to come
by.”
“Good
and job are two words that don’t go together.”
J Christopher said and then laughed at his own witticism. He took a long swig from the bottle and
winced at the taste. “Damn,” he said,
staring at the bottle as if it could unlock some mystery. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt
sleeve. He held the bottle out to his
host, but Kevin shook his head.
“No,”
he said. “I feel good.”
“It
ain’t about feeling good,” J Christopher said.
“It’s about feeling right.” He
took another long swig. “I’m starting to
feel right.” He let out a loud
cackle. “I ain’t there yet, but I’m
getting close.”
Kevin
flashed a set of square white teeth. “I
heard that,” he said. He backed up
against the coffin, pressed his palms against the lid for leverage, and then
hoisted himself into a sitting position on top.
“You
shouldn’t sit on a casket,” J Christopher said.
“It’s disrespectful.”
Kevin
tilted his head toward the head of the coffin.
“He don’t mind. Besides, I like
it up here.”
J
Christopher’s face twisted. “You mean
there’s a body in there?”
Kevin
shrugged. “This is a funeral home.
What’d you expect?”
“Don’t
know,” said J Christopher. “But I’ve heard
some stories.”
“The
dead can’t hurt you.”
“I
wouldn’t be so sure,” J Christopher said.
“The
dead aren’t the ones you have to worry about,” Kevin said.
J
Christopher took another swig of mash. “I
heard your old boss got sent up to the state pen after a same-day
funeral.” He laughed again. “He tried to bury the evidence, but got
caught.”
“Naw,”
Kevin said, still smiling. “Ernie’s
okay.”
J
Christopher drained the rest of the bottle.
“If there’s one thing that man ain’t, it’s okay. He’s as bad as they come.” He gestured toward Kevin with the empty
bottle. “He’s the one you have to worry
about.”
“Ernie’s
got his fingers in a lot of pies, that’s all.
A funeral home is a handy thing to own when you got your finger in a lot
of pies.”
“Pies,
shit. You talk like you own it,” J
Christopher said. He dropped the empty
bottle on the pew beside him.
“I
don’t own it,” Kevin said, shaking his head.
“I never owned it. I just ran it
for him while he was away.”
“What
do you mean was?”
“Hello,
J.”
The
voice came from the doorway. All of the mirth
drained from J Christopher’s eyes as they dropped from Kevin to the casket in
front of him.
Kevin
hopped down and strolled to the back of the room. He greeted Ernie with a half handshake, half hug.
J
Christopher never turned around. He just
kept staring ahead at that mahogany casket.
Ernie
strolled to the front of the room, slid into the pew beside J Christopher. He picked up the empty liquor bottle.
“Still
like Jack Daniels, I see.”
J
Christopher looked down and away from Ernie.
His hands fidgeted in his lap. “When did you get out?” he asked after a long
pause.
“Sunday.”
Kevin
called from the back of the room. “J
Christopher was just telling me he couldn’t wait to see you again.”
“Is
that right?” Ernie put his arm around J Christopher, almost like a man
comforting a mother who has just lost a child. “Well, you can thank my lawyer then. You see, a life sentence don’t really mean
life anymore, and a 15-year sentence don’t mean you’ll do the whole
stretch. It’s the nature of our legal
system.”
For
the first time, J Christopher peaked at Ernie out of the corner of his eye.
“You
ain’t gonna burn me up, are you?” he asked.
Ernie
let out a long, loud laugh. “No,” he
said. “I learned my lesson. Fires attract too much attention.”
He
made a motion to Kevin in the back of the room and Kevin disappeared.
J
Christopher turned and tried to follow him with his eyes, but all he could see
was an empty doorway. “Where’s he
going?”
“Relax,”
Ernie said. He squeezed J Christopher’s
shoulders. “He just went to get you
another drink. Wouldn’t you like another
drink?”
J
Christopher’s hand’s and head began to shake.
“A drink would settle you down,” Ernie said. “You’re all nervous.”
A
flash of defiance entered J Christopher’s expression. “I ain’t nervous,” he said. “I ain’t afraid of what’s coming.”
Kevin
entered and handed J Christopher a glass of whiskey over ice.
“That’s right,” Ernie said. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
* * *
Deputy
Sheriff Ford leaned against his cruiser and watched the paramedics load the
body. He shook a cigarette out of his
packet and used his elbow to shield the flame from the wind.
A
van pulled up behind him. The reporter,
Jim Easton, climbed down from the driver’s seat and walked up beside the deputy. “Morning,” he said
Ford
cranked the flint, but his Zippo was out of fluid. After ten more tries failed to ignite, he
pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it in his shirt pocket. He continued to roll the flint with the pad
of his thumb. “You’re out awfully
early.”
“What’s
going on?” Jim nodded to the two stretcher
bearers lifting a still figure out of a patch of yellow grass.
The
deputy stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Some nigger had too many and
wandered out into the cold and froze to death.”
“How
did he freeze?” Jim asked. “The low
temperature last night was 37.”
“Too
much to drink then. Either way, he
shouldn’t have been wandering the highway in the middle of the night.”
“Who
is it?”
“Who
is what?” asked the deputy.
“The
man who died.”
“The
deceased has not yet been identified.”
“You
mind if I take a look?” Jim asked.
“I
suppose it wouldn’t hurt him any.” The deputy sheriff cupped one hand over his
mouth and called out to the two paramedics.
They had the body lowered onto the ground to open the back door of the hearse. “You two bring him over here for a second.”
The
two paramedics looked at each other and then did as they were told. They carried the body over to the sheriff and
the other white man.
Even
on a windy morning, Jim detected the odor of liquor mixed with a pungent body
odor emanating from the stretcher. No
sheet covered the body, and so nothing hid the contorted expression brought on
by rigor mortis. Jim could barely stand
to look at the corpse, but Ford appeared to revel in the deceased man’s
apparent anger. “You had yourself a hard
night, didn’t you brother?” He asked the
body.
Jim
looked up at one of the two paramedics, both of whom stood waiting patiently.
“Hey
Kevin,” Jim said, looking up at the taller, more slender of the two attendants. “Got yourself a new partner?”
Kevin
grinned. “Yes sir.
This is Evan. He’s a new
hire.” The other man said nothing. He was a large man, maybe 6’4” and 300
pounds, and wore a blank expression.
Jim
forced himself to look at the dead man.
“Wait a second,” he said. “I know
this man.” He looked at Kevin. “Isn’t
that Christopher Baxter?”
Kevin
shrugged.
“You two friends also?” Deputy Ford
smirked.
Jim
pointed at the corpse. “That’s Christopher
Baxter,” he said. “That’s the Reverend’s
brother.”
* * *
The
toxicologist’s report landed on Sheriff Maddox’s desk. He opened the folder and studied the numbers
printed on the paper.
Ford
walked in. “Is that it?” he asked.
Maddox
glanced at his deputy. “Toxicology
report.”
“Let
me guess. The man had alcohol in his
system.”
Maddox
continued to read the report. “The man
had a lot of alcohol in his system. In
fact, I don’t think there’s a human alive that could consume as much alcohol as
this man had in his system.”
“You
never met my cousin Henry,” Ford said, cackling.
“This
is serious,” Maddox said. “I believe
this man was murdered.”
“So
what if he was?” Ford said, turning serious.
“It ain’t like we can do anything about it. We ain’t got any evidence. We ain’t got any case.”
Sheriff
Maddox closed the report, dropped it on his desk. “I don’t like it. People thinking they can disregard the law.”
“We
all know who done it, Sheriff.”
“You
think so, huh?”
“I
know so,” Ford said. “And he’s gonna
keep on doing it too.”
“I
won’t let that happen. There’s no such
thing as the perfect crime.”
“What
are you going to do about?” Ford
asked. It was just a question, but
Maddox took it as a challenge.
“I
don’t know,” he said, “but I’m going to do something.”
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