They looked like tombstones to me, those large slabs that Jim and his friend were loading into the trunk of Jim’s black Chevrolet. His friend had rigged a slide and tied ropes around the slabs to haul them in. The back wheels felt the load. I thought the weight would crush the shocks.
Jim was pleased when he had finished. He rolled his pack of cigarettes down from his T-shirt sleeve to have his smoke. When I asked Jim why he had heaved all that weight into his trunk, Jim gave me one of his superior looks, winked, and nodded. When I looked around, Jim’s friend had disappeared.
The next morning, we all learned that the Portsmouth drag way had been the scene of a fatal accident. Jim’s car had been totaled just after midnight. Jim had been killed instantly when his car had spun out of control and rolled over. Jim’s body was now at the morgue. I wanted to tell Jim’s friend the situation, but I did not know where to look for him. I would recognize him anywhere: He was a cadaverous man with a limp and a disfigured face.
When the police came to ask Jim’s family questions, one officer noticed me and asked me whether I knew Jim. I said that I did. He then asked whether I knew about Jim’s drag racing. I said that I did not. I said that I had seen Jim and another man loading heavy slabs into the back of Jim’s Chevy yesterday afternoon.
The officer told me that the slabs were tombstones stolen from the local cemetery. He said that stealing the stones was sacrilege. He also said that no one knew the whereabouts of the man who had helped Jim load the stones into the trunk of his car.
When I gave the officer my description of Jim’s friend, he got a faraway look in his eye as if he recognized the man from his own experience, probably many years ago. I asked the officer whether he knew the man I had described. He gave me a superior look, winked, and nodded. He said that I was lucky to have survived meeting Jim’s friend. He asked whether I was sure Jim’s friend had a limp. I said I was sure.
The officer wanted me to think through what I said about Jim’s friend simply disappearing. I said that he was there until Jim lighted his cigarette. Then Jim’s friend vanished. I remembered the smell of sulfur from the match that Jim had struck. I remembered watching Jim take a long drag on his lighted cigarette. Jim had held the tobacco smoke deep in his lungs. He had gotten a faraway look in his eyes. Then Jim had exhaled, slowly.
“Those cigarettes will kill you, son,” the officer said, sternly. I reflected to myself that Jim had not died from smoking his cigarettes. In fact, that last smoke Jim took, remains impressed in my memory as the happiest I had ever seen him.