Thursday, June 2, 2011

Kit stepped into the parlor of the Dennis-Stanz Funeral Home one block south of the courthouse. Despite the bright lights and perfectly arranged furniture, the burden of death could not be hidden. The cloying aroma of floral bouquets filled the air.

The receptionist stopped typing on his keyboard and looked up. “Good afternoon. May I help you?” the young man asked with a practiced smile.

“Uh, yeah, I’m Kit—I mean, Christopher—McNeil. My mom, Paula Rhodes, was…”

The receptionist nodded. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Has the family made any prearrangements? If not, that’s no problem. We can have someone sit down and go through everything. Are there other family members who will be joining you?”

“No, no, I mean… She passed away last week. The funeral was on Sunday.”

“Oh, my apologies, sir. Paula Rhodes, you said?” He pecked several keys and looked at the monitor. “Yes, here we are. You’re her son, Christopher?”

“Yeah. I was on the road. I’m in a band, and we were touring.” He felt that he needed to justify his absence. “I just…found out yesterday.”

“I understand. Please know that all of us here at Dennis-Stanz express our condolences for your loss.”

Kit shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks. I was wondering where she’s buried. I-I’d like to visit.”

“Of course, sir. She’s interred in Scarburn County Memorial Gardens. Are you familiar with the area?”

Kit nodded.

“Your mother’s resting place is in Section 4, Row H, the seventh marker from the road. Let me write that down for you.” After another expression of sympathy from the receptionist, Kit departed with the sticky note in hand.

The weather was identical to yesterday, and the early afternoon sun baked Black Rock as he drove through. The cemetery was about fifteen minutes west of town. He occupied his mind by looking for buildings and roads that he remembered from childhood.

He turned off County Road 501 onto an adjacent two-lane that snaked around the base of several hills. He passed two new apartment buildings, a convenience store, a laundromat, and a Baptist church. A metal sign directed him to turn, and the road ended at the cemetery gates. The gates stood open, and he rolled slowly through as if too much speed would disturb the dead.

He referred to the sticky note and scanned the small signs that marked sections and rows. The last time he had been here was for the graveside service of Donald Jeffs, a member of his graduating class who’d died in a freak accident at work. A forklift had tipped over and crushed him, although no one could explain how a piece of heavy machinery could just turn over on its own.

Jeffs’s death hadn’t been the first. By 1993, seven years after graduation, fourteen other classmates had died. Rumors of foul play were attached to a few, but nothing was ever proven. Mystery and peculiarity—like the forklift accident—surrounded half a dozen of them.

The curse of Black Rock strikes again.

He had often wondered if he was as cursed as the town seemed to be. Surely no one could have as much bad luck as he had experienced. It seemed that no matter what he did, eventually it all fell apart. If King Midas could touch something and make it turn to gold, Kit felt like his touch brought nothing but frustration and futility. When he had left Black Rock a month after his last visit to this cemetery, he had secretly hoped his bad luck would end when he crossed the county line.

It hadn’t, of course. After a while he had resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to have the kind of life other people did. There wasn’t going to be a nice house, a wife, some kids, or a dog. No stable income. Security. Hope. He told himself that he didn’t really want those sorts of things. He was a loner. He didn’t want any attachments that might make him become like his father.

But what if he did want something to call his own at some point down the road? What were the chances of it happening? Slim to none, he figured. So why dream about it? Why work toward it? He was snakebitten when it came to things going his way. That was why he didn’t gamble. No use reaffirming what he already knew by losing hard-earned money.

Gravel crunched beneath his tires as he eased onto the lane for Row H. He stopped and got out at the seventh marker. The stone rectangle was unobtrusive, decorated with angels in the top corners. Blocks of sod had been laid over the grave and dirt still surrounded the area. Kit knelt. His fingers traced his mother’s name.

Memories came unbidden. Most didn’t have a lot of detail but were filled with feelings of warmth, security, and contentment—as if all the best things about her had been distilled into these sensations. Of course, there were the memories that had always stayed with him—the Guitar Player magazine, the Christmas he got his first amp, her face as she took pictures of him at graduation, and even the excitement in her voice when he’d told her about the audition for Southern by the Grace of God.

Remembering the magazine prompted the recollection of their library visits together.

Albert had always been a union man. He’d attended union meetings every Tuesday evening. During that time, Kit and his mother visited the library. He would pick out two or three books, and she checked them out for him.

Over the next few days Kit would devour his books. He always liked to read beside his open window when the weather permitted. Spring winds that smelled of honeysuckle and clover kept him company as he followed the exploits of The Hardy Boys. Summer thunderstorms added menace to scary stories late in the evening.

Those library trips had been something just between the two of them—something that Albert couldn’t take away. He knew they went each week but didn’t care. If it wasn’t the newspaper or related to his job, Albert had no interest in reading it.

Kneeling in front of the headstone, Kit smiled softly at the memory of getting his very own library card. The librarian had handed him the keys to the kingdom. He could check out books on his own! The power he carried in his pocket was nearly intoxicating to an eight-year-old boy.

Those trips—and the books—had been one of the ways he learned to cope with Albert’s mood swings. Reading was an escape for his mind when his body was imprisoned. He had walked the Hyborian Age with Conan and scurried through the rabbit warrens of Watership Down while his bruises healed. The magical world of Xanth in A Spell for Chameleon had mesmerized him, and he’d joined Bilbo’s magnificent journey in The Hobbit to forget the venom of his father’s biting criticisms.

His mother had always found ways to ease his suffering. She had gone behind Albert’s back to bring him chocolate chip cookies and milk, comic books, and model kits. He wasn’t sure if Albert had known about those things, or if his mother had endured Albert’s wrath as a result. It struck him just how much of her own money she’d sacrificed back then to help offset his father’s cruelties. Had she cried into her pillow sometimes the same way Kit had? How much hurt had she absorbed so it wouldn’t get to him? Had she suffered in silence on his behalf? Hot tears ran down his face.

The afternoon wore on, and Kit felt no urge to leave. He walked around the cemetery a few times, visiting the markers of some of his old classmates. He also saw several patches of blight, and once again, the pale coloration and lumpy texture gave him a peculiar, disgusted feeling. He always ended up back at his mother’s grave. He talked to her, apologizing for all the ways he felt he had let her down and for all the missed opportunities to spend time with her. He thanked her for everything she had done for him, for how she’d raised him.

As he purged his soul, all of his bad decisions and screwups and failures resurfaced as well. He imagined his mother listening patiently, nodding occasionally, and offering him her smile that said everything was going to be all right. He confessed everything, and she silently absolved him. His conscience didn’t sting quite as much as he sat on the fresh sod and listened to the breeze in the pines. His remorse was genuine, and unburdening himself left him exhausted but freer than he had felt in ages. When gray clouds promising rain crept over the mountains, he said his final goodbye and drove away with an aching but lighter heart.

 

Kit had no interest in returning to the house, so he got back on County Road 501, heading west. He realized he wasn’t going anywhere in particular, but when he saw the sign for Marty’s Joint and an arrow pointing to an upcoming left turn, he smiled and took it.

Half a mile later the old brick building came into view. A portable yellow marquee sign with a flashing arrow read:

 

MARTY’S JOINT

BEER MUSIC POOL

 

FRI—SAT 6/3-6/4

THE OUTLAW POSSE BAND

 

WE ID. SMOKING ALLOWED.

 

Kit smiled again. He’d played at Marty’s Joint when he was twenty. A couple of shows had been solo, and two were as last-minute fill-ins for local bands.

His first public appearance—not including playing for his mom or Troy—had been in the high school talent show. He had performed an acoustic version of Eddie Rabbitt’s “I Love a Rainy Night” and had gotten a standing ovation. A lot of people had known that he played but few had realized how good he had become. He hadn’t won the talent show. That honor went to Emily Towers, who had danced a nearly flawless reproduction of the final performance in Flashdance, but the principal had called him back for an encore to close the show. He’d played “Pride and Joy” from Stevie Ray Vaughan’s Texas Flood album.

Kit parked between two pickup trucks and crossed the gravel lot.

Marty’s Joint had three windows and a red front door, and the place hadn’t changed since the 1970s. The wood-paneled walls held the same dartboard, neon beer signs, framed photos of classic country musicians, and the NO FIGHTING sign that had been there forever. Tables and chairs cluttered the edges of the room, leaving space near the stage for dancing. A row of booths lined the wall beyond the bar. Stained glass light fixtures dangled like gaudy earrings above four pool tables. The jukebox was dark but a radio behind the bar played Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me.” Two men sat at a table while another man occupied a stool and talked to the bartender.

“Afternoon,” the bartender said, turning from his conversation. “Getcha something?” He was covered in tattoos and hair, and his skin appeared to be made from cracked leather.

“Hey,” Kit replied. “Kitchen open yet?”

The bartender glanced over his shoulder at the Coors Light clock. “About half an hour.”

“Cool. Let me have a beer.”

“Bottle or draft?”

“Bottle is fine.” Kit searched his memory as he studied the bartender, but nothing clicked. Kit didn’t remember him.

Cold bottle in hand, Kit sat down at one of the tables and watched a sports talk program on a wall-mounted television. Several men wandered in, greeting each other and throwing curious glances toward Kit’s table. They were all dressed in dirty work clothes. He got another beer, and when the kitchen opened, he ordered chicken tenders and fried chips. As he ate, more men dropped in. They lined the bar like targets in a shooting gallery.

He was wiping grease from his fingers when the door opened and someone said, “I don’t believe it!”

The speaker walked toward him, the grin on his face spreading by the second.

His gait seemed familiar to Kit, and he looked the newcomer up and down. The face—with a few added pounds and a beard—was definitely familiar. “Oh my God,” Kit whispered as he rose to his feet.

“Kit? Is that you?” the man asked. His grin faltered briefly as the possibility of mistaken identity crossed his face.

“Oh my God!” Kit shouted. He couldn’t contain his elation. “Troy! Jesus. Oh, man!”

The two old friends shook hands, pumping each other’s arms. Troy slapped Kit on the shoulder.

“Holy shit! How’re you doing? What’re you doing here? When did you get into town?”

Kit laughed. “Whoa, slow down! One question at a time, man.”

Troy pulled out a chair. “Jesus Christ, it’s good to see you.” He looked over his shoulder. “Reggie, two beers over here.”

“You see any damned waitresses around here?” the tattooed man retorted with a smile. “Get over here and get ’em yourself, you lazy bastard.”

Troy retrieved the bottles and sat down across from Kit. They grinned like schoolboys, faces flush with surprise and joy.

“When did you come back?” Troy asked after taking a drink.

Kit explained about his mother in between swigs from the bottle.

“Yeah,” Troy said, “I went to the visitation. I wondered where you were.”

Kit explained that as well, and a fresh wave of guilt hit him for not being there for his mom in her last days. His anger returned as he talked about what Albert had done and about the prickly homecoming he’d received from his father, but the excitement of their reunion soon overshadowed even that. They talked and laughed, catching up on the events of their lives.

“Look at you,” Kit said. “When we were kids, you were so skinny you had to wear snowshoes in the shower to keep from falling down the drain!”

“Now I look like you did back then, Butter Butt.”

“You married?”

“Yeah, on my second. You?”

“Twice divorced. Currently single.”

“Kids?” Troy asked after swallowing a mouthful of beer.

“God, no! My life is enough of a mess. I can’t imagine trying to be a father when I can’t even get my own shit together.”

“I’ve got two by my first wife and one with Shawna.”

Kit told him about his sputtering music career and his most recent embarrassment in Memphis. Troy worked as the director of maintenance for the Spring City School District and commuted from Black Rock.

Even though they hadn’t seen each other in almost two decades, Kit found it just as easy to talk to his friend now as he had growing up. The transparency felt good. After the time spent at his mother’s grave and now this fortuitous reunion, Kit felt as if his soul had been washed clean. It was a welcome feeling, one he wished he could have more often.

“So much for that place on the beach you always wanted, eh?” Kit pushed his empty plate aside.

“Place on the— You gotta be kidding me! You still remember that?”

“Coming back here has jarred loose a lot of stuff.”

Troy grew serious. “Speaking of that, do you remember when we used to think this place was cursed, because of all the weird deaths and stuff? Well, have I got some things to tell you.”