Twelve Months (4 page)

The next courageous clan, the Letendres, wasn't there a month when the patriarch of the family was badly beaten and rushed to the emergency room. “Who did this to you?” they inquired.

Covered in cuts and bruises, he vowed he honestly didn't know but believed, “It was some vile ghost who wanted to kill me.” He spent a good stretch at Corrigan Hospital, committed for mental health reasons.

The city boarded the windows and shut off the power to the house. Still, the exterior light came on randomly. Some reported seeing a young man – dripping wet in turn-of-the-century clothing – beckoning for his mother from the deserted widow's walk.

Old Loretta was feared more in death than she was in life. Everyone stayed clear of the Biggins's place. The only true adventurers of the neighborhood, the kids, used to break in. On one such daring night when the tide was high, two children broke in to prove their courage, while a third kept watch on the porch. They say that the porch lookout never saw Old Lady Biggins standing on her walk until it was too late. When he ran inside to warn his friends, to his horror he discovered one had died. In shock, the second remained catatonic for several weeks. When he finally came around, his child-like babble reported that the old lady had approached them, turned to his friend and whispered, “You're home now, Charles. And I'll never let you go again.” At that very moment, the boy choked to death.

That legend witnessed many seasons and outlived many people who tried to dispel it. It undoubtedly grew larger through the ages, so by the time my brother and I caught wind of it, it was bigger than our own lives. It was rumored that the place was going to be a funeral home, but the window boards never came down. Instead, the eerie house continued to serve as a test of courage to adolescents who were chased off the property by town police.

For years, I sprinted past the place on my way to and from school. And though it witnessed all of my childhood woes and triumphs, most of the time I never spared the place a look. As my courage grew, though, so did Joseph's challenges.

On one late September night when I was ten, I decided to take my brother up on his dare. After all the years of harboring fear of the place, I was finally willing to face the demons of Loretta Biggins – and perhaps even my own.

It was autumn in Massachusetts and there was no prettier place on Earth. On this night, the whole world was perfect – except for the Biggins's place. It loomed over me worse than my overactive imagination. I'd agreed to the wager only if I could take Dewey, my best friend, along. Joseph agreed.

Peter Duhon, or Dewey, was a heavy-set kid who was a bit too jaded for his age. Though cocky, it was only a defensive trait to combat his low self-esteem. His overprotective father was the complete opposite of mine and showed me what a good dad could be. As a result, Dewey was hell-bent on being somebody; being successful and having money, which he was convinced would bring him all the happiness he'd ever need.

Donned in our hooded sweatshirts, Dewey and I started for the house. I doubted that Old Lady Biggins's laughter would be any match for that of my cynical brother's. Under the faint light of a crescent moon, like Marines hitting the beach, Dewey and I approached the place on bicycles. There was never a shortage of drama in our neighborhood. I was just nearing the overgrown yard when I actually felt a presence – an invisible, unfriendly presence. I looked over at Dewey, but my best friend was already high-tailing it home. He'd obviously felt the same thing. Unwilling to face Joseph's ruthless teasing, I gritted my teeth and willed myself closer. It was then that I heard it. Though faint, it was the distinct sound of a sea captain's whistle. I expected to find my brother in wait and squinted hard to search the yard for the shoddy ambush. Joseph was nowhere to be found. And then I felt something; it was like a patch of cold air traveling straight through me. I gasped, and at that instant, felt a tormented solitude well up inside of me. I was suddenly lost and alone. In one spine tingling moment, I honestly believed I'd just met the anguished spirit of young Charles Biggins.

The boy's energy was wandering aimlessly, unaware of the great sin he'd committed; unaware of his natural place in the universe. Although the experience reached beyond bizarre, for reasons unknown I did not feel afraid. Instead, it seemed that all of the fear in the world belonged to Charles. The boy was trapped, imprisoned, without knowing any means of escape. Surprising myself, I called out, “Charles?” I saw and heard nothing, but the stiff hairs on the back of my neck announced that the boy was nearby. I could think of nothing but trying to help. “You no longer belong here, Charles,” I told him. “You must go.” The spirit's feelings of despair only increased. Nearly paralyzed, I realized that this boy was in hell; the very hell he'd created when he'd tried to cheat nature by cutting his time short on Earth. He was still connected to this earthly dimension and would probably serve his remaining time alone – lost and scared. I had to get out before it was too late; before I was forced to share in the boy's horrid grief. I pumped my legs and prayed hard all the way home. When I reached safety, I drummed up the courage to look back. There was nothing there.

Joseph was waiting on the porch, smiling. “Told you there was nothing to worry about,” he said.

I calmed my quick breathing and looked into my older brother's eyes. “Nana was right,” I said, panting. “Nobody can punish us more than we can punish ourselves.” With that, I pushed my rubbery legs into the house.

Joseph followed me in. Before the door closed behind him, his words echoed down the street. “Come on, Donny. It couldn't have been that scary. Are you really that sorry you went?”

A shiver traveled the length of my spine. This time, it was from the falling air temperature. I looked up to see that my trip down memory lane was losing light.
Where are you now, Charles Biggins?
I wondered. Turning up the collar on my jacket, I half-stood, stretched out my aching back and eased myself out of the clubhouse. As I started down the tracks, I looked back once and had to smile. When you're a kid, it's so foolish to think that life will remain the way it is forever; that nothing will ever change. But maybe that's the true gift of innocence. Good or bad, I'd survived my childhood and was exposed to just enough to choose the life I wanted. I suppose when you add up those two factors, it was a success.

When I reached the car, I popped a pain pill and called Bella on the cell phone. “Miss me?”

“Before you even left,” she said.

“Listen,” I told her, “I think I'm going to spend the night at Joseph's, so I can spend one more day with my memories. You okay with that?”

“That's fine. But are
you
okay?”

“Yup.”

“The pills helping?” she asked.

“I'm a little tired and achy, but yeah – they're working. How's Riley?”

“She taking it rough, but she'll be fine.” There was a brief pause. “I love you, you know,” she said.

“I know. Me, too,” I said and was starting to learn just how much.

Sometimes, the memory is too kind. Take high school, for example. Most people claim, “I wish I could go back.” But if you recall high school – I mean, really remember it – you'll probably remember it the same way I do. It sucked! There were bullies, peer pressure, acne and girls – a terrible mix. Folks go through their whole lives without having to face a fraction of the rejection they faced in high school. But when we recall it, the only things we remember are the prom, graduation – all the good stuff.

Adolescence and the few years that led up to it are still a bit hazy to me…

The customers who didn't tip on our paper routes got hit hard on Halloween. Weeks before the big night, Joseph, Dewey and I bought dozens of eggs and hid them so they'd go rotten. We also used soap, lipstick and shaving cream – anything that would allow us to express our creativity. We thought we'd done it all one year before we saw Ronnie Forrester, the neighbor bully, throwing small pumpkins off the highway overpass onto passing car windshields. I'll never forget it; the cops thought we were responsible and everyone scattered for cover. But we weren't complete lunatics. We were only egg pitchers.

I remember going to a slaughterhouse with one of our Portuguese neighbors. The pig squealed something horrible until they slit its throat. Once they drained all of its blood, it was my job to stir the big red pot all the way home so it wouldn't clot.

The drive-in theater saw a few empty quarts of beer and once we even smuggled in a mayonnaise jar full of moonshine. As I recall, the security guard couldn't place the odor, and Dewey and I weren't about to stick around until he did.

The older I got, the more I realized that the generations who passed before us were just as screwed up. Though they criticized and judged our every move, they'd also indulged in alcohol abuse, domestic violence and infidelity – my dad more than most. If anything, the one thing that had changed was that there was less hiding it.

The one person I'll never forget from my childhood is Mr. Duhon, Dewey's dad.

Mr. Duhon worried terribly over his son from the moment his boy was born. And for years, the worries were justified; the trials and terrors of toddlers, the daring dangers of youth. Even the quirky quests of adolescence were very upsetting to him; us borrowing his car without permission or licenses, and so on.

Then Dewey grew up. He was all done jumping from roofs and eating hard candy while lying on the couch. But his dad still couldn't adapt. Whether it was the years of conditioning, or his own internal wiring – or a combination of the two – he just couldn't let his guard down. He was a bundle of nerves.

For as long as I knew him, I thought the man's twitchiness was no more than his poor attempt at humor. Years went by before I realized he wasn't kidding at all. He was always overly concerned, without being able to conceal his fears.

Once, the old man sprinkled rat poison under a porch that stood no more than a foot off the ground. When Dewey and I returned home from school, his father was frantic. “Have you boys been playing under the porch?” he asked, as Dewey and I walked up the driveway.

“Huh?” Dewey grunted.

“Have you eaten any of the white powder under the porch?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and anxious.

Dewey just walked away, with my grinning face in tow.

The old man called out behind us. “Because it's rat poison…”

We never looked back.

“You know that holly berries are poisonous, too…right?”

I thought I was going to pee my pants from laughing so hard. “It's not funny,” Dewey said and slammed the door behind us.

But it was funny. The best, oddly enough, was the morning Mr. Duhon buried his mother.

After a life filled with shared misery, Dewey's grandmother gasped her final complaint and left the world bawling as loud as she had coming in. “She's no longer suffering,” Father Grossi sighed. The young priest ran his hand across her wrinkled face and closed her distant eyes on his way.

“Sure,” the family mumbled under its breath, “and neither are we.”

At fifteen, I was honored with being chosen a pallbearer. It was my first assignment as such and I welcomed the opportunity to help my best friend.

It was a cold morning when Aldina Duhon – or Grandma – was laid to rest. Dewey, his father, and his Vovo – Dewey's other grandmother, the Portuguese one – swung by to pick me up. Dewey gestured his hello and then smiled wide, motioning his eyes over the front seat toward his strangely clad father. In one quick moment, I took it all in: Vovo was snoring like a bear. Mr. Duhon, however, was awake and ridiculously out of style. He wore a brown corduroy sports jacket, one size too small, over a white button down shirt. The slender Western rope tie matched perfectly with a pair of black snakeskin boots. To top it off, a belt buckle the size of a hubcap reading, “If It Ain't Country, It Ain't Music,” held up a faded pair of blue khaki slacks. He smelled of cheap cologne and he was smiling.

I nodded and returned the smile. “Mornin', Mr. Duhon,” I said and then glanced back at Dewey. My friend winked. I choked on the laugher that clawed to break free. “This oughta be one hell of a funeral,” I whispered to Dewey.

He grinned. “You have no idea.”

From the outset, it was clear that Mr. Duhon had honored his cherished mother with the pauper's package. With a comical rudeness, the funeral director hurried the handful of mourners along. The priest sensed the urgency and spoke like an experienced auctioneer. Upon his blessing, the pallbearers were asked to “report to the rear of the parlor.”

I did as instructed.

One couple after the other was called to pay their last respects. I stood shocked. Not one moist eye passed me by on the way out.
Old Grandma's cruelty must have touched everyone
, I decided.

“Will the pallbearers please remove the flowers,” the director called out, startling me from my morose thoughts.

I approached the blue velour casket, mouthed one final prayer and grabbed two of the cheap carnation arrangements. As I reached the sidewalk, I discovered that Mr. Duhon had opted to skip on the flower car. The frugal man waved me over and opened his trunk. “Throw'em in here,” he said.

I was taken aback.
For a man who just said good-bye to his mother, Mr. Duhon doesn't look all that sad
, I thought. Rather, he looked impatient, as if he were running late for his tee time.

When I returned to the funeral parlor, the coffin was already sealed closed. Under the director's frustrated direction, I grabbed one handle and assisted Dewey's grandma into the black hearse for her last car ride. The morbid job absolutely dumbfounded me. Even when carefully carried by six able-bodied men, a corpse was so much heavier than most people would guess. Worse yet, it seemed to have a mind of its own, shifting its weight wherever it wanted within the closed casket.

On the way to the church, the smell of flowers was nauseating. Dewey's half-deaf Vovo threatened, “I'm gonna pass out. I swear I am!” Her tone was ear piercing. I struggled not to laugh.

When we arrived at St. Anthony's, I took note of the steep stairs awaiting us and hurried to the hearse. I grabbed my assigned handle, grunted once and marched. Not three steps up, the cardboard casket moaned and creaked like a sea vessel preparing to capsize. I could feel the weight shift, but there was nothing I could do. The box was so cheap and flimsy that I was just hoping we could get Grandma to the altar before all four sides blew out and the old lady performed her last cartwheel. Suddenly, we were stopped. I looked beyond Mr. Duhon for a reason. There was none.
Father Grossi isn't ready,
I assumed.

In the cold air, all six of us waited, arms locked and throbbing. I looked up again, just in time to see several bird droppings hit the back of Mr. Duhon's gaudy jacket. I snapped back to Dewey. My friend had obviously witnessed the same and was already laughing. Vovo took notice of the white wad of bird poop and rushed over with her kerchief. With a sense of purpose, the old hen began wiping, startling Mr. Duhon who'd been oblivious to the aerial attack. I had to look away. It was too much.

By the time I composed myself enough to look back, Vovo had smeared the mess like marshmallow fluff all over the poor man's back. When she pulled her kerchief away to survey her handiwork, another bird hit its target – then another, and another. As if sent by some angelic comedian, the bird crap machine-gunned Mr. Duhon's back. The casket rocked back and forth from the stifled hysteria.
Grandma's saying good-bye the only way she would have,
I thought.

Mr. Duhon was a mess. His entire back was covered in bird droppings. Vovo looked over and shook her head, disgustedly. “To hell with it,” she muttered. Not even she was willing to tackle the job again. It didn't matter. The kerchief was already saturated. Father Grossi waved everyone forward.

I helped place the makeshift coffin onto the aluminum dolly and then darted for the back of the church. Out of respect, I fought desperately to contain my laughter. I couldn't. I was too human. The last pew shook violently.

Before long, Dewey slid in beside me and wiped his crying eyes. I struggled to apologize when I realized my friend wasn't wiping away tears of sorrow. “My father can't get over how broken up you are over Grandma's passing,” he whispered, his last words drifting out on sheer will. He laughed so hard from his belly that it was easily confused for wails of grief.

I tried a few times to answer, but couldn't. “I swear that your grandmother must have had this whole thing planned,” I whispered. “There's no way so many pigeons could have crapped at once and hit only your father.”

Dewey nodded. “She was a mean old coot, but she had a twisted sense of humor…and she constantly screwed with him for being so cheap.”

I came up for air. “Your old man should have used that belt buckle as a shield.”

We laughed until there was nothing left but aching belly pains and mourners who nodded their understanding over our incredible grief. In the end, we were both grateful for the strange sign from above
. If Grandma made it upstairs, then the heat was off for the rest of us.

For a moment, my mind raced back to the present.
Even my childhood memories are obsessed with death,
I thought. But death wasn't so far away now, nor was it nearly as comical.
Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if folks had one last laugh on me?
I pondered. But picturing Madison and Pudge's innocent faces, I quickly reconsidered.
Shoot for something more meaningful,
I decided.

Returning to my childhood, death was a joke – until it became personal.

A year after Dewey's grandmother bid her final farewell, my mom suffered the same fate. At sixteen, I took care of her while she died. I changed her, fed her and did what most good sons do when they're middle-aged.

I held her the morning she died and it broke my heart when she whispered, “I'm sorry I can't stay longer with you boys.” Her premature death haunted me with a strange mix of love and pity. My mother had never lived her life. She'd lived each moment for my brother and me. She loved us completely – so much so that I can still feel it today.

Once she was gone, there was no reason for me to stay at home. I rented an apartment from my Uncle Benny and quickly flew the coop. You know how it is. When you own a fast car, you have all the answers.

My first and last roommate was a drummer, so our one bedroom pad only worked with bunk beds – this way, Matt's drums could fit, too. We paid much more rent than we should have. The only benefit was that the heat was included. With a keen sense of fairness, we used this benefit any chance we could. When the rest of the world was frozen under a sheet of ice, we were prancing around in boxer shorts, our front door opened wide. The place was furnished to the taste of people without money. The only decent thing in the apartment was the new hi-fi stereo system. By the end of the first week, I'd convinced Matt he could build his credit by renting one. He'd excitedly agreed.

It was a test right from the start, with no more mothers taking care of the menial details known as survival. I suppose it was a matter of give and take; we had to learn to do laundry, but there was no longer a need to make a bed. It didn't make sense, anyway – straightening something you were only going to mess up again hours later. Cooking was a real treat. A frying pan lined in crusted lard sat atop the stove. We only needed to heat it and drop whatever we dared eat into the brown, bubbling oil. Beer became a staple in our diet and I felt it just as important to learn the lessons of overindulgence; bed spins, projectile vomiting and waking the following morning with vise-like headaches. Youth can be so cruel to itself.

Like it or not, we had to take jobs. Matt worked at an Indian restaurant, washing dishes for twenty dollars a night. After his first shift, he awoke to find his brand new sneakers infested with ants. He was already behind the eight ball. I chose a different occupation. I began at McKaskie's, a woodworking shop that made giant wooden spools for wire companies. My third day there, I was sanding a reel on a belt sander when I heard a grown man scream out, “Mommy!” I wiped the sawdust from my goggles and saw Tommy Bigelow, the table saw operator, holding his arm. He'd run his hand right into the saw, cutting one of his fingers down the middle like a peeled banana. It was gross. There was blood everywhere. The foreman called the ambulance, offered the paramedic a piece of Tommy's fingertip and then turned around and barked at everyone to “get back to work.” As I returned to the sander, the foreman tapped me on the shoulder. “Get on the table saw, Don,” he said, “We have an order to get out.” I always hated that man. Even still, I cleaned off the blood and did as I was told. All the while, I prayed that OSHA would show up and shut the place down.