FOUR

Stack’s was just outside of Monticello, one of the bigger villages in the county and the county seat. The bar and restaurant were constructed out of a large garage that had been used for buses nearly forty years ago. Barry Stack’s father, Leonard Stack, not only built a hard wood floor tavern, but a two bedroom apartment behind it in which Barry and his wife Tina now lived with Barry’s widowed mother Estelle, who up until recently worked in the bar as well. Barry and Tina had sons, both in the army. One was in Iraq, the other, luckier, was in Germany.

Like Whiskey Town, Stack’s had its regulars, most of whom were locals, high school graduates who had remained in the area, some who had been through the armed services but had returned to find work where they had family. Just about everyone, local or not, knew who Randy Quinn was and what Randy Quinn did for a living. There were a few there who did the same work, but at other cemeteries. To Quinn’s surprise and delight, Barry Palmer was there this particular evening. They had lost touch when Barry had gone to Dallas to work for his uncle in a tool manufacturing plant.

‘I was going to call you tomorrow first thing,’ Barry said the moment Quinn saw him.

‘How long have you been back?’ Quinn said as they hugged hello.

‘Just a day or so.’

No one looking at the two together would believe they had been in the same high school class. Barry had aged decades, it seemed. Once a slim, dark-brown-haired boy with features so dainty they were more feminine, Barry was now forty pounds heavier with dark rings around his eyes, deep lines in his once soft, nearly alabaster face, a face that looked ravaged by whatever lifestyle he had while living in Dallas. Smoking, drinking, working in a drearier environment, perhaps all of it together had taken its toll.

In contrast Randy Quinn seemed only to have blossomed over the intervening years. He had a virile outdoors-man’s complexion, was still as fit looking as he was in high school, but filled out and matured in the right increments so that he looked even more handsome and more vibrant. There was nothing in his face to reveal depression or unhappiness.

‘You still working in the garden of the dead?’ Barry asked after he saw to Quinn getting his beer and after Quinn quickly ordered his food.

‘Yeah, I’m still tilling the ground, only now I’m in charge of the whole farm. Cemetery manager.’

‘What’s that?’ Barry asked and Quinn explained how he had become chief cook and bottle washer for the exclusive Sandburg Cemetery.

‘Dad was there at the start, but only part-time. He helped create it, design it. As it grew and Dad slowed down, I took on more and more and eventually the owners offered me the position.’

Barry nodded and smiled.

‘Still single, too?’

‘And my pockets still jingle. You?’

‘I was married for nearly two and a half years,’ Barry said, pronouncing the words as though each had the taste of sour milk.

‘What happened? You screwed around?’

‘Didn’t get the chance. She beat me to it. I was going to have kids with her, too.’

‘Lucky you found out in time.’

‘I didn’t really find out in time,’ Barry said swirling the beer in his glass. ‘One day she came home to me to tell me she was pregnant with someone else’s baby. The guy wanted her and the baby so she didn’t lie about it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Shrugged and changed the channel. It was a lousy movie. So was my marriage, it seemed.’

‘Too bad.’

‘Right. Soon after my uncle lost his company,’ he added. ‘That’s why I came home.’

‘Really? What happened there?’

Estelle Stack served Quinn his meal.

‘You sure you don’t want to eat anything?’ Quinn asked.

‘Naw. I had some beef jerky an hour ago.’

‘What the hell kind of a dinner is that? So, what happened to your uncle’s business?’ Quinn asked and bit into his roast beef sandwich.

‘Seems he was cheating on his taxes and the IRS came swooping in. He still might go to jail. I don’t know. One day I was there. The next day I was out with no salary. Could’ve stayed in Dallas, I suppose, but just had this urge to come home, tail between my legs or not.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I can offer you some part-time work if you want,’ Quinn said. He smiled. ‘On a cemetery. Even though it’s not good for your sexual and social life,’ he added recalling how Barry would lecture him about finding new work so he could get laid.

Barry laughed.

‘I don’t think I’m worrying about the girls liking me as much. Might take you up on it . . . just until I find something.’

‘Fine. You can come around tomorrow.’

‘Look at you. Hiring people. You’ve become quite the big shot, eh?’

Quinn shrugged.

‘Don’t think of myself as any sort of executive, if that’s what you mean. I do what has to be done. That’s all.’

Barry nodded, but Quinn could see that the situation still seemed to upset him. Quinn was supposed to have become the real loser, unattractive to most girls because of what he and his father did for a living, stuck in a small hometown, living at home with his parents and still doing work more distasteful to most than even digging and cleaning septic tanks. But it was Barry who felt like the failure with work and with women. Not only that, he could clearly see how healthy and strong Quinn was, and there wasn’t a morning he didn’t look in the mirror now and wonder what the hell had happened.

He drained his beer and ordered another. Fortunately for him, his anger at how things turned out didn’t find voice in the conversation they continued to have. Barry found solace in describing the good things he once had, the new friends he had made and the places he had been. He particularly stressed the latter because from what he gleaned of their conversation, it was clear Quinn had not been out of the area for a vacation, not even to visit any relatives.

He could see that some of what he was saying took hold. Quinn’s indifference about what he missed began to wane. He looked sadder, more thoughtful and admitted that there had been many times when he had felt sorry for himself, times when he was convinced he might have made a mistake not going into the army and maybe seeing more of this world. Barry readily agreed, but now that he had gotten the conversation and mood turned more his way, he changed the topic to remembrances of the good times they had together when they were in high school.

Inevitably, their thoughts returned to one girl in high school with whom everyone on male hormones had fallen in love, Lillian Clarkson who was a senior when they were both sophomores. She was sexy as far back as the seventh grade. What ever happened to Lillian Clarkson, the brunette who had what they both thought was a doll’s face with a Mariah Carey body? Barry wanted to know.

‘If she blessed you with a little smile or flirtation, you forgot what bothered or depressed you that day.’

‘Yes,’ Quinn said, but he was really thinking more of Evelyn Kitchen.

‘Remember how we used to count the freckles on her cheeks and argue who was closer to the actual number?’

‘Neither of us got close enough to confirm our guesses,’ Quinn said.

‘Don’t tell me she married that asshole Corny Blocker.’

Corny, shortened from Cornelius, was one of the best looking boys in the senior class at the time. He was a star on the basketball team. His father was a very successful attorney so the Blockers were one of the wealthiest families in their class. Quinn used to say Corny can’t help but be an arrogant bastard; it’s in his blood. But he did admire him and had to admit to himself that he and Lillian made the perfect Hollywood couple, easily winning King and Queen of their prom.

‘No, she didn’t,’ Quinn told him. ‘They broke up during their first year in college. She ended up marrying an attorney though, lives in Oregon. Corny works in his father’s firm and married a girl from Michigan he met on a case he had in New York City. He’s made quite a name for himself already as a trial attorney. One of these days, he might run for district attorney.’

‘How do you know this gossip shit?’ Barry asked. ‘I thought you hated gossip.’

‘Still do, but people always talked about each other around here. You know that. I can’t help but hear things.’

‘At the cemetery??’ Barry asked half joking.

‘Sometimes.’

Quinn never brought Evelyn Kitchen into their conversation. He had never let anyone know how deeply she had touched him. Not even Barry, who was his best friend, knew how much he had longed for her to smile at him. His infatuation with her embarrassed him even more back then. Let someone like Barry know it and he’d kid him forever.

They both continued to laugh at some of their memories and then decided to go over to Whiskey Town just for kicks. Barry wanted to see if he’d recognize any of the regulars and sure enough, he did. Quinn surprised himself by agreeing to go. Something was eating at him in places he usually kept off-limits. He needed more distractions and distractions they were. The night went longer than either thought it would. Reminiscing seemed to be soothing for them both after a while. It was the balm to cure all present depression. By the time they were ready to call it quits, Quinn, who was barely holding his own, advised Barry that he wasn’t in shape to drive.

‘Just come over to my place tonight,’ Quinn told him. ‘Leave your car here.’

Even if he wanted to, Barry wasn’t capable of putting up an argument. He got into Quinn’s truck and proceeded to fall asleep almost immediately. Driving sobered Quinn up quickly. Although it was late and the roads were practically devoid of any traffic, he drove with extra care. He and his father had buried too many victims of automobile accidents. One year, it had been like a motorized epidemic, five teenagers and four community college kids alone. Winter set a trap for those who drank too much and were reckless. Death laid itself out on the icy roads like a welcoming carpet.

When they arrived, he had to wake Barry up to get him into the house and into the guest bedroom that was last used when his father’s younger brother, Frank appeared unexpectedly on his return from a trip to Canada. He was five years younger than Quinn’s father, but he died three years earlier after he lost a battle with lung cancer.

Barry was incapable of undressing himself. Quinn just took off his shoes and dropped him in the bed. He was still curled up like a baby when Quinn woke at six thirty as usual and started to make coffee. He went out to get the morning paper that was left in a box beside his mailbox and returned to have some breakfast. He had the paper out and was reading an article on Matthew Kitchen. He hadn’t realized just how extensive the man’s holdings had become. From what the writer was describing, there apparently were articles and obituaries in a number of state papers. Kitchen’s influence was significant when it came to some national political figures as well as those in the state.

He looked up when Barry stumbled into the kitchen, wiping his face with a cold wet cloth.

‘Didn’t expect you to be up,’ Quinn said.

‘Jesus. How much did I drink?’

‘Lost count,’ Quinn said. ‘Have some coffee.’

Barry flopped into a chair at the table and waited while Quinn poured the coffee. After a few sips, he took a deep breath and then just laughed.

‘I feel like shit, but it was the best time I’ve had for a while,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ Quinn confessed. ‘You want some eggs?’

‘Whatever you have,’ Barry said and turned the newspaper to see what Quinn had been reading. ‘Yeah, I remember this guy. Remember his daughter was a looker, but queer, right?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yeah, believe me, she was not interested in men.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Some girl I was dating was friends with her.’

‘She had no friends in our school. She and her brother hung out with kids who went to private schools.’

‘Yeah, I know, but this girl . . . Lois Feldman . . . right, Lois, she went to one of those private schools. Her father was a lawyer and did some work for Kitchen. She was at the house a few times when I went over to see Lois.’

‘You never told me about that.’

‘Wasn’t that proud of the attempt to date and screw Lois. She wasn’t a great looker, but she had a reputation. Anyway, I got the feeling she resented me taking up Lois’s time, know what I mean? I talked to her, but it was always a pretty short conversation. She’d leave soon after I arrived, but it gave me a creepy feeling about Lois, too. Evelyn and that brother of hers were weird. They were twins, right?’

‘Still are,’ Quinn said. He could feel the irritation in his own voice.

‘You did this burial?’

‘Yep.’ He cracked some eggs and dropped in some milk. ‘Scrambled all right?’

‘Sure. I remember you could cook.’

‘Eggs isn’t cooking. You should taste my meatloaf. That’s cooking.’

Barry laughed and continued perusing the full-page article.

‘What a big shot he was! Really rich, but as they say, you can’t take it with you,’ Barry offered. He said it like most people said it, Quinn thought, almost a justification for being poor.

‘Yeah, well he did. Some of it anyway.’

The words came out before he could stop them. He was still a little annoyed that Barry had known Evelyn Kitchen more intimately than he had.

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You don’t say nothing, Randy. C’mon. What’s it mean?’

‘Can you keep it to yourself?’

‘I’m not exactly going on the radio here. So?’

‘They buried him with valuable jewelry. His kids said that was what he wanted.’

‘Bull shit.’

Quinn turned and raised his hand and then went back to the eggs. He threw some bacon around them and it all began to sizzle.

Barry continued to read the article.

‘How much you think it was worth?’

‘What?’

‘The jewelry.’

‘Jack Waller checked on the items. He thinks easily more than two, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,’ Quinn said. ‘Maybe more. Matthew Kitchen didn’t spare any change when he bought things for himself and he liked expensive things. They have a twenty thousand square foot house.’

‘I remember,’ Barry said. ‘Lois and I were going to go there, but I broke it off before we could.’ He looked at the article again and shook his head. ‘Thousands of dollars in jewelry six feet under. What good that do his kids?’

‘Read on. They don’t need it,’ Quinn said.

‘They don’t need it?’ Barry looked at the pictures of Evelyn and Stuart. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure.’

‘Yeah, what’s that?’ Quinn said bringing the eggs and bacon to the table.

‘He don’t need it neither.’

‘Maybe he did,’ Quinn said sitting and starting on his eggs.

‘How’s that?’

‘The Greeks used to bury their dead with a coin in their mouth.’

‘Huh?’

‘They believed the dead needed it to pay Charon, the ferryman who carried people across the river Styx to the Underworld. Maybe the price’s gone up,’ Quinn added, smiled and ate.

Barry grimaced.

‘Figures you’d know everything about burying people everywhere,’ he said and then started on his eggs and bacon.

‘After breakfast, I’ll take you back to your car. Go home and get yourself cleaned up,’ Quinn told him. ‘Come over to the cemetery about ten. I’ll introduce you to Jack Waller and tell him you’re hired on for a while.’

‘To do what, dig?’

‘Not today. We’ll have to clean up the place, leaves, some trimming maybe. There’s always lots to do. Good hard, outdoor manual work.’

‘Haven’t done that for a while,’ Barry said. ‘If I cut grass, do I cut over the graves?’

‘Yep and around them. Graves is what’s in cemeteries, Barry.’

Barry didn’t look too happy about it.

‘It’s not bad work. You’ll get used to it. Oh,’ he said. ‘You’ll see Nick Reuben’s grave, I’m afraid.’

‘Nick?’

‘Yep. Killed in Iraq. I took special care with that one,’ Quinn said.

Barry sat there for a moment with his fork in the air, his mouth partly opened. Then he shook his head.

‘Special care? You make it sound more like you’re building them a house.’

‘It is a house, a house for the dead.’

‘You look like you believe it.’

‘I do.’

Barry stared at him a moment and then shook his head again before continuing to eat.

‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ he said.

‘Well,’ Quinn said, ‘if you’re there at ten, I’ll know you can.’