🔵 By Tyler Bowman. Photo by lauragrafie.
The spare car was an old, faded gold coupe de’ville and Mike was right, it was definitely a beater. The drivers side door grinded open on rusted hinges and Beverly struggled with getting it to close back. Inside, the leather seats were scuffed and torn like a dog had chewed on them, there was no radio, and at least twenty pine tree air freshers were hanging from the cracked rear view mirror. Yup, she definitely wasn’t worried about damaging this classic. A wreck might actually improve its condition.
Good thing Thompon’s was just down the road. Beverly didn’t want to find out the hard way how reliable her new ride was. Turning the key, the cadi surprisingly cranked right on up. The car ran smooth and quiet, and she had to remind herself that Mike was a mechanic and that she shouldn’t be so surprised. The land yacht was so big that hitting a pothole or two was simply unavoidable, but she eventually made it out of the lot and onto the road.
Thompson’s Funeral Home was what some might consider the premier funeral home in Burlington. Its facade included wrought iron window dressings and sconces that illuminated the exterior at night. Gothic angles, coupled with an impressive wooden door braced with bronze, gave it the illusion that the building was plucked right out of a Dracula movie, when in fact, it was actually built in the mid nineties. Enough hearses sat out front to accommodate half the city’s population passing away on the same day.
Beverly packed the Cadillac beside a much nicer, newer model, then quickly made her way inside. The interior was very modern and well lit. there were light woods, neutral paints, and a hint of cinnamon apple in the air. It didn’t feel like a funeral home at all and it struck Beverly for the first time that that may have been the point. A young man in a nice suit, thin tie, and gel in his hair greeted her with a warm smile from behind a glass and stainless steel desk.
“Good morning, mam. Can I help you?”
Clutching her purse closer to her side she approached his desk. After clearing her throat she then spoke softly.
“I need to make arrangements for my – excuse me – for my son. I’d like him to be buried alongside his father and I.”
She took a deep breath before continuing.
“We have two plots at Pine Hill Cemetary. His father, my husband, is already buried there. I’ll need to purchase another plot beside ours.”
Fingers flashed across the keyboard. “And your last name?”
“Jenkins. I used you guys when my husband Tom passed.”
A steady chythm of keystrokes continued briefly before the man stopped and frowned. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Jenkins. I’m looking at the two plots you purchased, however, since then the surrounding plots have been bought up as well.”
“All of them? Is there nothing close at all?”
“Seven rows over, and three rows down, is the closest available.” He paused for a second. “Looks like the prices have gone up a bit, too.”
And the nightmare continued. Beverly refused to bury her son alone, next to strangers. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it. She swallowed hard.
“Let’s make arrangements to bury him next to his father.”
He looked up at her with raised eyebrows, but then shrugged and went back to typing. Beverly knew what he had almost asked, and was glad, for his sake, that he didn’t. No mother should have to bury their child, it’s supposed to be the other way around. The plot should be for her. It was infuriating to know that she would not be layed to rest beside them. She was on the fence before, whether or not to confront Mrs. Shepherd, but this minor detail just launched her over the edge.
“We’ll make arrangements to have him picked up this afternoon. Would you like to schedule a viewing?”
Beverly snapped out of the angry visions she was having to think about the question. “Yes, please, but a private one for friends and family only. I’ll email you a list of names.”
“How does Monday at five sound. That’ll give us the weekend to get everything in order.”
She pushed back the horrifying images of Jamie being prepped and dressed for display on a cold stainless steel table. His life had been vibrant and full of joy, she didn’t want anyone’s last memory of her son to be of him laying in a casket. To hell with family and friends, they could attend the funeral if they wanted, but the viewing would be hers alone.
“Actually, it will just be me at the viewing. And yes, five o clock will be fine. Let’s plan the funeral for Wednesday. Nothing fancy, maybe some flowers? Jamie’s favorite color was blue.”
As the two of them hashed out the rest of the details Beverly entered into a detached, robotic state that kept the reality of the process at bay. The cost of everything ended up being a lot cheaper than she had expected due to using her own plot she already owned. Eventually she’ll have to purchase another one, or maybe she’d let somebody else worry about that when she’s gone. It wouldn’t matter to her then.
Leaving the funeral home was a blur. Beverly found herself snapping back to when a piercing screech let loose from the Cadillac’s door, tore her from her stupor. She sat there for a few minutes taking deep breaths with both hands on the wheel. Cars flew by on Church Street. People going about their lives, oblivious to the pain and loss Bev was experiencing. She’d do just about anything to be one of those people right now. Pulling back into Mike’s, Beverly noticed the rear-end of her Honda sticking out from one of the garages. She didn’t think the brakes should have taken that long and was surprised to see Jimmy bent under the hood still. Great, she thought, what else was wrong with it?
The bell jingled as Beverly stepped into the waiting area. Without a word, or even looking up, the preoccupied receptionist pointed towards Mike’s office. Knocking, a gruff voice yelled for her to come in. the mechanic’s burly form made the desk he sat behind look tiny. She didn’t notice that before. Hunched over multiple catalogs, he circled and compared part numbers and prices. There was no computer present anywhere in the office so she assumed that he preferred the more time consuming method. Mike looked up from his catalogs with a sad smile. Misinterpreting, Beverly’s heart skipped a beat, afraid to hear what else was wrong with her car.
“Did everything go okay over at Thompson’s?”, he asked. “I see the ole beater got you there and back in one piece.” His smile brightened.
Bev didn’t feel like discussing the issue with the burial plot. She just wanted to get her car and leave. There was a certain woman that she had a bone to pick with, and she didn’t want those flames to die down while she sat in the waiting room staring at either Fox news or Motor Trend.
“As well as could be expected.” She flashed him a polite smile. “I noticed that your mechanic out there was still working on my car .did you find something else that was wrong?”
Mike chuckled. “Mrs. Jenkins, it’s be a shorter list if I told ya what was right with you car.” Beverly’s stomach clenched. “But we did get your brakes fixed, so you’re good to go there. We also changed your oil, belts, and plugs just to keep ya from havin’ to come back next week with even bigger problems. A finger tapped at his chin. “Oh, and we topped off all the fluids.”
Beverly frowned. She appreciated what they had done. Hopefully the money saved from not having to bus another plot would cover the additional maintenance. “How much will -”
Mike cut her off wit ha hand. “Just cover the parts for the brakes and we’ll call it all square.”
“Mike. I – I don’t know what to say.”
“Just be sure and tell Tom his old buddy says hey.”
The man’s smile was infections.
Beverly made it safely out of the shop’s lot. By the way her old Honda was running, she could tell that it had regained some of its life back. Jimmy had finished up shortly after her talk with Mike, and it was all Sally could do to pause long enough from her puzzle to process the transaction. Now heading towards the east side of Burlington, she played out many different scenarios of how her encounter with Mrs. Shepherd might go. Images flashed across her mind’s eye of the two of them screaming and pulling hair, even ones where they sat amicably on a couch together discussing the tragic events in a civil manner, but Beverly shook those thoughts away. A part of her did want this woman to be normal and understanding, to be sorry for what Max did and possibly even apologize on the boys’ behalf. But Bev did remember some information from the news articles she found, mostly that Mrs. Shepherd was extremely bat-shit. She didn’t care, thought, this bitch needed to know that she was complicit in Jamie’s death.
East Burlington was the low income side of town, with any new business or developments tending to favor the West. This simple fact was prevalent among the community, and was reinforced, in Beverly as she drove down the Shepherd’s street. No kids could be seen playing outside, tipped over trashcans littered most yards, while some were even strewn out in the road. Men with baggy pants and over sized jackets loitered at street corners or on porches, eyeing her suspiciously as she crept by looking at house numbers.
Beverly stopped in front of a yard with a sign staked into the ground, notifying that the grass needed mowing. She took in the dilapidated home and for a split second panicked, thinking it had been abandoned, before remembering detective Donnovan said he’d been here just days prior. It appeared that Max wasn’t the only thing Mrs. Shepherd neglected. Time to hold this woman accountable, Bev thought, stepping out of her car.
Walking through the tall, itchy grass, she made sure not to trip over any landmines in the form of broken liquor and beer bottles. Once at the porch she didn’t dare put any pressure on its rickety railing as she could see the last bit of nails clinging on for dear life. She used a knuckled first to know, then noticed that the door already stood slightly ajar. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of someone having broken in. what if it was a squatter? Was she really ready for this, she questioned herself. With nothing else to lose Beverly pushed lightly on the door.
“Hello.” She said cautiously, bracing for an attack. “Is anyone here?” No one answered. “Hello?” She said again, stepping on into the house.
Inside was an overwhelming stench cocktail of spoiled milk, piss, and sweat. Doubting that anyone could stand to live with such an odor, Beverly relaxed a little. Although disappointed, it was obvious to her that she must be a the wrong home. Just to be sure, she moved deeper inside. A torn couch with a missing cushion sat in the corner of what would normally have been a living-room. A glass top coffee table, absent the glass top, took up the middle of the room. There was no television. In the kitchen there were chunks of the linoleum flooring ripped up. An assortment of cereals and pastas adorned the filthy counter tops. Moldy and greasy dishes were piled chest high in the sink. She decided to check the refrigerator in hopes of determining how long it’s been since anyone lived here. As soon as the doors’ seal cracked, Beverly began to gag uncontrollably. She discovered the source of the spoiled milk. Catching her breath and holding it, she analyzed the fridge’s contents. The chunky milk, leftover Chinese, pizza boxes, lots of condiments, two twelve packs of Natural Light – minus a few beers.
The most shocking revelation was that the appliance was actually running, which meant the power had cut off, then back on, or the milk was just really, really old. She clamped a hand over her nose and peered inside. Yup, it was really, really, really old. The Natural light did have her curious, though, so she decided to keep searching the house.
Making her way down the hallways, Beverly stopped at the first door that she figured belonged to a bedroom. She halted abruptly after opening it, her eyes gorging on the scene in front of her. More beer bottles littered the hardwood floor, used condoms were dotted throughout, and a dresser’s worth of socks and panties covered the areas in-between like a makeshift carpet. That’s not what held her attention, though, it was the bare naked figure sprawled out on a box spring mattress that was so captivating. A stained sheet partially covered the womans body, her pale bruised butt pointing straight up at the ceiling. Throaty snores assured Beverly that this character was indeed asleep or passed out, and thank God. She wasn’t sure if this woman was Mrs. Shepherd or not, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to wake her and find out. As quiet as humanly possible she closed the door back and contemplated leaving. But if by chance this was the right house, then Max’s room had to be around here somewhere.
There was a bathroom with dirty towels all over the place, and a bathtub coated in soap scum. Then there was a linen closet with no linens. And finally, behind the last door, a room in which Bev had to stretch her imagination in order to picture a little boy living in. tucked over in one corner of the room someone had taken the missing couch cushion and used it as the anchor for a pallet of mangy looking pillows. A tattered green blanket tossed to the side of the makeshift bed appeared to be its only covering. In the opposite corner sat a waist high pile of wrinkled children’s clothing. Beverly doubted that there was a matching pair of socks in the whole lot. Walking into the room she tried her best to picture Max playing in such an environment. Whoever stayed in this room had taken the time to meticulously build a good sized castle out of empty beer cans, one that was just big enough for a small child to play in. amazed at finding such a creative structure she walked up to it and crouched for a better look. She was really surprised that it hadn’t toppled over until she noticed pieces of tape and globs of glue holding some of the cans together. It had taken someone a lot of patient hours to complete. Thin sheets, acting as drapes, hung over a solitary window, casting the small room in a dim gloomy light. Beverly stepped around the pile of clothes and tore them down so that she could see better. Small thumbtacks holding up the sheets flew from the wall and skittered across the floor. A composition book, tucked partially under the green blanket, caught her eye. The cover was stained brown by what Bev hoped was only water-damage. A few pages looked to be missing, but otherwise well intact. She opened the cover and forgot how to breathe. Scrawled in red marker on the inside cover was the name Max.
Beverly dropped the journal in shock, but quickly retrieved it, tucking it under her shirt in her waistband. With her adrenaline fully pumping she knew it was time to leave, and fast. What the hell was she doing, she chided herself, this was so stupid. Rushing from the room, the thin sole of one of her sandals stepped onto a tack, causing her to stumble right into the art-deco beer castle. The castle collapsed under her body in an explosion of crushed cans. She instinctively threw up her hands as she landed right in the midst of the destruction. Carefully, she sat up and rolled from the pile, then pulled her foot up to examine the tack lodged in her shoe’s sole. She wiggled it free. An angry, slurred voice erupted from up up the hallway.
“I’m calling the cops, asshole!”