MemorialDay (2 page)

“I thought he had to shovel coal all by himself,” said another, who I assumed would grow up to be a wiseass.

I heard their grandpa laugh before he shouted, “We didn’t row or shovel coal, you young whippersnappers. We burned fuel oil. And I did have one or two other sailors helping me with that.”

“What was the food like?” another boy asked, who, by his size, I would judge food to be his main hobby in life, perhaps a gourmet cook as an adult.

“Now, there’s an intelligent question, Billy. It shows me you have a thinking head on your shoulders. You’re a good lad. The food was great, even though it wasn’t seasoned like your grandmother’s. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, the mess tables were loaded down with turkeys with all the trimmings, and fresh milk. Every man onboard received a pack of cigarettes and a cigar. I want you young ones to understand that the soldiers and marines fighting in Korea were eating food that I wouldn’t want to eat. And they didn’t have the comfort of a table on a mess deck either.”

A woman the man’s age hugged him. “Come on, dear, before you talk our legs off. We’re going to the next grave, which is Matilda’s. You know, your speech about being in the Navy during the Korean War is getting longer every year.”

“I know that. Still, people need to remember, never to forget the people who joined up and fought for this country. Oh, I still want to say something about the boiler room. We had two of them in Number Three fire room. Big as small houses, they were. Why, one time, we had an explosion that lifted one of the boilers a foot up in the air. You should have seen some guy’s head for the escape hatch. I’ll bet they checked their skivvies when they got off duty.”

“Did you check yours, Grandpa?” one of the kids asked.

“Never mind. Where’s the next grave? You young ones have no respect. You should all be put in a one-room house that’s in an outback about a mile away from people and all forms of civilization until you’re thirty. Then, your parents should decide whether to keep you there, or to let you join the human race. Personally, I’d keep you outback.”

“Come along, dear. You know, I’m beginning to think that perhaps you should write a book.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing and I intend to. Just as soon as we get home, I’m grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. Then look out world, here I come! Just call me, Mr. Bestseller!”

* * * *

Mother knows I want to be alone for the three graves of the people I know. She quietly mentions for me not to hurry, to take as long as I want, and that she will meet me in the main building enjoying the coffee and cookies always served there. I nod and head for Dru’s grave. Those of you who have read,
The Ferguson Murder
know that she’s my wife. Dru was fond of Daisies, Chicory, and Queen Anne’s lace. I put some on her grave in a heart shaped pattern and say a few words. “I wish you were here, kid. I’m lonely, night and day. It’s hard going on without you, but I know that is what you would want me to do. I haven’t found anybody else to walk by my side. I think I never will. You were just that special…so very special that I know there was only one like you on this Earth. It’s too bad you and my mother never met. She would have loved you, almost as much as I love you. A police friend gave me twenty clear marbles. He said if I look close enough in to them, I would begin to see my true love. I stare at them almost every night. I
still
haven’t been able to see you, but I know the time will come when I do. I love you, Dru. I truly love you. I’m lonely for the feel of you in my arms, the scent of your body, the pleasure of looking at your lovely face, the sound of your voice, and especially your unforgettable smile…”

I stood from a kneeling position, wiped my eyes, and walked slowly away. Rosy’s grave is nearby. Rosy was the most beautiful lady of the night in the city. We were friends. Yes, we were just friends, and if any of you think otherwise, you’re wrong. Rosy needed a break and never got it. I placed her favorite flower, a Tropicana Rose, on her grave. “I’m sorry, kid. I should have helped you more than I did, gotten you off the street, given you the job you always asked for, but I couldn’t afford to hire you. I blame myself for what happened to you.”

Thirty feet away is Tommy’s tomb stone. Tommy lived through the Vietnam War. He was a hero with lots of medals. In
The Ferguson Murder
he died saving my life. There were flowers all over his grave showing that his relatives had already paid their respect to him. “Thanks Tommy. I owe you a debt I can never repay. I’m sure you must know that your nephews rebuilt your newsstand and it is up and operating seven days a week. They’re making a good profit in spite of the fact that I’m still mooching coffee and donuts.”

In the distance, I see Captain Holt. He’s the best cop in the city. I don’t go over to him. I know he wants to be alone with his one true love. Three days before Holt was to marry Lisa, a drunk with a gun ended the young female officer’s life. That was fourteen years ago, and Holt still has undying love for her. Police people are heroes that should be appreciated much more than they are. I can’t imagine a society without them, and I know what I might have become if a very special policeman hadn’t befriended me.

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 helping 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.”