MemorialDay (4 page)

Mothers are wonderful. No one can replace them, no matter what kind of a jam they get their sons into. However, in some clever-well-crafted scheme, perhaps their sons can get even.
Forget it, Thanet. She can outsmart you any day of the week and all day long on a Sunday.

Chapter Three

The next graveyard has always been a puzzle to me. Mother and I visit it, not because we have relatives buried there, but because it’s old, unkempt, and surely forgotten by seemingly everybody. We discovered its existence quite by accident several years ago, and it clearly showed us that it hadn’t had ground keepers taking care of it for ages.

However, as I steered my car through some tree branches and on to a grass-covered dirt road that led to the graveyard, I saw that this time, we were going to have company. I recognized the black Cadillac. It was The Godfather’s vehicle. There was also a black hearse parked right next to it. I braked to a stop behind the hearse making damn certain I didn’t hit it. One of those buggies would get me soon enough so I figured there was no need to hurry up that situation.

Mother was out of the car before I could blink. I stepped out slowly and began wandering around as my eyeballs took in the whole area. The long-forgotten graveyard was getting a manicure along with the scent in the air that told me that someone had just cut the grass. Workers were removing brush in the nearby area and dumping it in huge carts, while others were still cutting more down. They had also cleaned of moss and dirt from the gravestones.

Godfather spotted me and hollered, “Quit trying to hide behind that tree branch and come over here, Mr. Detective.”

I went. Godfather was in his wheelchair with a guard on each side. His black suit along with his white shirt, black tie, and black shoes, were spotless, impeccably neat, with no wrinkles anywhere. He could pose for the best dressed man of the year award and win hands down.

“So, tell me, Mr. Shamus, what are you doing here?”

Godfather is a century old. His eyes are still a clear blue, his voice strong and youthful sounding. The guy might live forever. I hope he does. I like him.

“Mother and I usually clean some of the gravestones. I see that they no longer need cleaning, thanks to you and your boys.”

Godfather nodded. He looked at my mother and smiled. She was standing nearby with apprehension all over her face. A while back, she wheedled information out of me about my ex-gangster friend and she didn’t quite know what to think about him outside of Sonny should not be associating with his kind. I tried to convince her that Godfather was a great guy, but she doubted that he was.

“Your mother’s a doll, Blake. Single?”

Oh! Oh! “Yeah, she’s single.”

Godfather cackled, coughed once, and wheezed twice before saying, “Don’t worry. I’m too old to date. But if I were only sixty, I know whose door I would be knocking on.”

I sighed with relief, glad to the bone that he was no longer dating. Godfather is a great guy, but I don’t need a stepfather.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m having this graveyard fixed up,” he said, finally getting down to business.

I nodded. “It
did
cross my mind.”

“I bought the graveyard for my brother. I’ve hired ground keepers to keep it in tip top shape all year round to where it will always be worthy of him. I’m having him buried here.”

Shock must have been on my face. I know it was in my system…just like sticking your index finger in an electrical socket. “I wasn’t aware you had a brother. You’ve never mentioned him to me.”

Godfather nodded. I saw a tear in his right eye. Gravity took it slowly down his cheek to drip onto his impeccable black suit, his voice clogged with emotion. “Winthrop was a great guy—older than me by twenty years. Would you believe he was a cop? When I was seven, I became a street kid. Our parents were killed. My brother found the killers and gunned them all. He got shot up some while doing it, but he was tough, back in uniform and on duty in less than a week. One day, he caught me stealing apples from a street vendor, hauled me in to the precinct and all the cops bawled the hell out of me for a straight hour. I deserved it. Well, one day he gets this idea about joining up. World War One was going full blast, everybody was dying. He thought he could make a difference, help end the war.”

He stopped to wipe the tears from his face and blow his nose. The poor guy was living the whole thing.

“A letter came from a World War One nurse. Her name was Marie. She took care of him, fell in love, and married him. She told me in that letter—it was months later before I received it—how Winthrop had died from being gassed—mustard gas. It was the most terrible of all the gasses Germany used in that war. You begin feeling it after about twelve hours. You get huge blisters all over you. You’re dead in four or five weeks. Horrible stuff and they still find a canister of it, occasionally, and it’s still active.

“All these years, Winthrop has been over there, his bones stashed away in a grave that was long forgotten. I’ve spent a large amount of my money looking for his remains. I loved my brother, then, I love my brother now. We got him back a week ago. He’s to be buried here.” He shook his head. “War is the most terrible thing to ever permanently disease the human race. Just think of the humans killed in wars that might have been geniuses. There may have been an
Archimedes
among them, an
Einstein
, a
Leonardo
daVinci
, a
Michelangelo
, a
Thomas Edison
. The human race needs people with super brains, super intelligence, and how many of them have died on a battlefield? Damn it, I don’t have enough power. If the world were mine, all the politician sonofabitches that start wars would be the only ones to fight them. Think of it, all the politicians would be dead and I think the world would sure as hell be better off. Do you know how many wars we’ve had because of them?”

I started counting on my fingers. “Let’s see, the
Revolutionary War, The War of Eighteen Twelve, The Spanish American War, World War One, World War Two, Korean War, Vietnam War, Persian Gulf,
and Iraq.”

“You missed some. We’ve been involved in fifteen—and who knows, there may be others we haven’t been told about. Jesus Christ!”

Okay, so I’m slow sometime. I should have nailed the name, Marie, sooner. It just now struck me like a bolt of lightning.

“Marie! Godfather, Winthrop’s last name is Jones!”

“So is mine—what about it?”

“What do you know about Marie…her address for instance?”

Godfather shook his head and sighed. “By the time the letter reached me, her address had been smudged away, and there wasn’t one written in her letter.”

“Well then, what did the letter say? Do you remember?”

He smiled and took it out of his vest pocket. “I’ve kept her letter in a little wooden box all these years. I will bury it with Winthrop. Let me read it to you.”

Marie expressed her undying love for Winthrop. She also said she would remain in the service as a nurse.

Well, I’ll be damned! “Godfather, I’m almost positive I know where Marie is buried!”

I told him. Have you ever seen a century old man shred damn nearly fifty years? I swear he did. When Godfather smiled, the wrinkles on his face disappeared and I saw a real handsome guy looking at me. For a few seconds, he shook my hand.

“Blake. Thanks, I owe you, and I expect you to collect from me. I’ll get Marie’s remains if I have to rob her grave at night. She’ll be buried with Winthrop. And also, I’m going to see that Charlotte is brought to this graveyard. When I’m no longer granted time to stick around, I’ll join her. Love is forever, Blake, remember that.”

What a coincidence. If Marie’s gravestone wasn’t nearly covered with moss, I would never have spotted it. Is that Divine Intervention? I certainly think so.

A man in black interrupted our conversation. He was obviously an undertaker judging by the black Mascara directly under his eyes. He walked up to Godfather and quietly announced in a disturbing whisper, reminiscent of a dusty larynx talking after being unused for several centuries, that everything was ready.

Godfather nodded. Six of his boys came from nowhere, walked to the hearse, and pulled out an expensive mahogany coffin. I looked at my century-old friend and made a request. “Sir, with your permission, I would like to pay my respect to Winthrop by joining you at his grave…if I may?”

“You may, Blake, and so may your mother.”

There was no preacher or priest to talk about Winthrop. Godfather said words of love, and the undying respect he still had for his brother as he placed Marie’s letter in Winthrop’s vest pocket. Mother said nothing. I didn’t either. The words were in my head.
Home is the soldier, home from the war. Home is the soldier, you have the duty no more
.

Chapter Four

At Mother’s house, she insisted I stay for coffee, cake, and ice cream. She was quiet during our visit. For her, Memorial Day was over, but the names on the gravestones, once again, were freshly imprinted onto her soul. Her face was sad and her blue eyes told me she was deep into her memories of yesteryear. She kept clutching an old picture album in her lap with her left hand as the fingers on her right hand flipped through the pages of photographs. The album was worn, close to coming apart from being looked at so many uncountable times. It contained photographs taken when she was a child as well as many pictures of her and my father, and relatives, none of whom I ever knew face to face, but only from what I’ve been told. Yes, I’m there, too.

On Memorial Day, I imagine nearly everybody yearns for yesteryear when people, now gone, were alive, full of energy, and most of the time, happy. We miss, but still remember them. Nobody should ever completely forget them.

It was becoming dark when I said goodbye to Mother and hurried to my car. I headed for the graveyard and my rendezvous with Medea, hoping I wasn’t too late to talk her out of joining Richard.

Minutes later, I parked out front in the area close to the graveyard’s entrance. It was dark and hard to see. I keep a pen flashlight in a shirt pocket just in case I needed it, like now. I remembered where Richard was buried and I walked slowly to his grave. Luckily, no one was around, not even the ground keepers, which meant I wouldn’t have to worry about somebody accusing me of being a grave robber, or possibly an idiot out to bust up a few gravestones. There weren’t even any lights on in the Main building. It was vacuum quiet. I could hear my heart beating. Its above-normal rapidness told me it was excited. So was I. I’ve never liked the dark, was scared of it for the first twenty years of my life, and who knows, maybe I still was.

I started to hear somebody crying. She heard me when my right foot stumbled from not being lifted high enough above the ground.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was frightened, little-girl sounding, lost, alone, wanting to die with her husband. My mind started talking to me.
God, Thanet, you’ve got to help this poor kid. Say something to her. Yeah, what, exactly? Get going, dummy. Never mind that you’ve always been a rotten conversationalist with a foot in his mouth that tastes like it’s been walking in cow shit. Damnit all to hell, say anything before she uses that gun Richard said she had on herself.

“Go away. I have a gun. Don’t come near me.”

Or maybe she’ll use it on you? Oh, great! You know how you hate dodging bullets even though it’s better than not dodging them
. “Medea, I’m private detective Thanet Blake. Richard wants me to talk to you.”

Never use a light at night when talking to somebody that has a gun. I’m here to tell you she missed me, but it was still too close for comfort. And yes, I turned off my flashlight and jammed it into the nearest pocket I could find.

So, now what? Laughter in my right ear answered my unsaid question. A voice said, “Medea’s a real deadeye with a gun. I taught her how to shoot. Oh, by the way, she missed you on purpose. She meant to scare you away.”

“One more bullet sent this way and she’ll do it. I hope that’s you, Richard.”

“Of course it’s me, Blake. Expect anyone else?”

“Not really, but in my business, you never can tell. Listen, Richard, you’ve got to help me before I get a few blood soaked holes in me, and the coat I’m wearing gets spoiled. Try saying something to her.”

“I have. She still can’t hear me.”

“I hear you talking,” shouted Medea. “I don’t believe you’re who you say you are. Go away or I’ll shoot where I know you’re at, and this time I won’t try to miss.”

“Do something quick, Richard, or the gravediggers will have to dig another hole in the ground,” I said, using my frantic voice.

“Okay. Uh-h- let me see…All right, ask her about that mole under her left breast and if she’s made an appointment to see a doctor about it.”

“What! Why?”

“Because I’m the only one that knows about that mole, that’s why. I insisted she should go to a doctor for a checkup. Ask her, before you and I are alike.”

“Okay!” I shouted, “Medea, have you been to a doctor about that mole under your left breast?”

Silence reigned for a minute before she shot back with, “There is only one way you could know that. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, Medea, except to say that Richard told me.”

I heard sobbing. It was little-girl-lost type again—the exact kind that brings tears to my eyes. I gulped, grabbed my pen flashlight, and turned it on, all the while hoping I wouldn’t end up chewing on a bullet. “Medea, I’m over here. Follow my light. We need to talk.”

She came to me, a small, frightened human being that had experienced the most horrible thing that can happen to a wife—having a husband killed in a war.

“I’m here, Medea, I’m here for you, and I have a shoulder for you to cry on.”

She did for several moments. I heard her sobs, ragged tear jerking ones that got to me and moistened my eyes. As she hung onto me, I felt her body trembling from the icy coldness that comes with a broken heart. I heard myself whispering repeatedly, “How can I help this poor kid? How…?