Out to retrieve the paper in slippers and a housecoat goes Mrs. Parker, shuffling down toward the street in the humid Manaloosa air, gun in hand in case of panthers, alligators or bears. None of these creatures has ever been seen in her neighborhood, but she knows better than to let down her guard. And Democrats might be lurking in the bushes.
As the only reporter for the Shade, I occasionally have to go out seeking a juicy front-page story to accompany the piece about yet another old man arrested with his pants around his ankles at the park. We’ve come to call it Perverts Park due to the consistent arrests in that otherwise tranquil setting. Theories abound as to the circumstances that result in kindly old grandpas becoming drooling predators with a bent for nature at its most lewd and lascivious.
Dementia makes sense, but these are men who routinely play eighteen holes of golf in a group that seems to be otherwise firing on all cylinders. It’s the nineteenth hole found in a bent over golfing buddy that mystifies undercover investigators. It saddens me to publish half a dozen pictures of little Jimmy and Jenna’s grandfathers in orange jumpsuits, all white haired, straight faced and looking surprised in mug shots that are almost indistinguishable one from another. Like they just woke up from a bad dream. Thanksgiving dinner will never be the same when Grandma has to carve the turkey by herself. The community seems sympathetic, but they keep their distance.
I visit the town cemetery for inspiration when the faucet of news in Manaloosa runs dry. Recent burials may yield clues to tales of human interest. All lives lived are stories when told properly. And it’s a good excuse to visit my family plot, the six-pack of real estate my mother chose to purchase when things took a grim turn in our family years back. At the rate family members were dropping, the offer of a six-for-the-price-of-five deal was more than she could refuse. So two spots are mine. It was generous of her to provide for my future needs, but it had the feel of, “I’m going now, see ya in a few cosmic minutes, honey.”
And to provide an extra spot on the chance that I might someday marry was a bit presumptuous. So there, bracketed on either end by parents and grandparents, are my waiting place and one for the future Mrs. Yes, Mom was a planner, right down to the six matching headstones. “You never know if they’ll be able to get them to match,” she told me when she bought all six. There was no arguing with her logic, but the pre-inscribed names and dates spooked me away from visiting the location of my eternal rest. Sure, my name and year of birth were known, but taking her best guess at the year of my demise to secure volume chiseling prices? “Does it really matter?” she asked.
Each day I get a little closer to opting for cremation and selling the two spots out from between the folks but my fear of eternal damnation for selling the spots to strangers has thus far held me at bay.
A slamming car door and the approaching figure of a man in uniform interrupts my family ruminations. It is Tom Ferrell, his squad car parked on one of the many winding avenues within the Manaloosa Town Cemetery. Tom pays frequent visits to his fallen fellow officers, the most recent of which were taken out in the Maynard incident two years ago. Hat off respectfully, head down, he appears to say a brief prayer, then glances my way and approaches hesitantly.
“It’s ok, Tom, just trying to dig up some news.” I said.
“Journalistic grave robbery?” he smiles.
“Something like that. Not much going on.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
I raise my eyebrows inquisitively, in a pathetic plea for gossip.
“Its no secret. I’m just a bit on edge. The Maynard kid was expelled on Friday.”
“Didn’t make it far into the school year. Something major?”
“More of the same, stealing, graffiti. But he set fire to the boys’ locker room, broke Kenny Bartlett’s arm in three places and killed the little rabbit the science teacher keeps in class. I mean, he really made a mess of it. The kid is sick.”
An idea came to me, an idea only a reporter would entertain. It rattled around in my head briefly but needed sounding out.
“What if I was to interview him?” I said.
“Interview for what?”
“I’m just thinking this through. He’s seeking attention. What if I ask him for his perspective on the expulsion. Sort of therapeutic. Get him talking, releasing the pent up energy before he takes it to the streets. He might feel like a star. Maybe even share his life story.”
“I’m not sure I’d go near that place unarmed. The uncle is batshit crazy.”
“What if you were down the road a ways, on standby?” I smile.
“That’s a serious breech of something,” he pauses, “But yeah, ok. Off duty.”
We stroll together to our cars, talk about his schedule and a time that will be most likely to find Greg Maynard passed out, Johnny most likely to be at the house, a weekday when friends are in school and maybe even hope to catch him outside. We agree on ten in the morning next Tuesday.