LENNY
I cap the gin and put it back in the drawer, then go into the bathroom and take a long look in the mirror above the sink. I splash water on my face, then bend over the toilet and push my finger deep down my throat. The liquor comes up, as does the strawberry Pop-Tart I ate on the way in. I wince at the taste, then use my hand to scoop water from the faucet and rinse out my mouth. Pulling my Dodgers hat from the hook by the door, I grab a can of marking spray and the keys to the cart.
Lillian’s plot is in the sun at this time of day, and I park a bit away and approach slowly, gathering my emotions as I spray the outline of the plot. I used to be a man of few tears, but Marcella’s death broke that dam. Now I tear up at the sight of an abandoned kitten, or at a teenager helping an old man across the road. As I draw a thick orange line down the green grass of her grave, the tears begin.
“It’s natural to cry.” The writer from the paper stood on the hospice front stoop in a black sweatshirt and jeans, her hair in pigtails that were too young for her. “If you have to, just go into the bathroom and let it all out.”
“I’m fine,” I said curtly. “Don’t worry about me.” Maybe this was a mistake. A stranger, meeting Marcella? How important was an obituary after all?
Marcella had shrieked from her bed, the noise shrill and long, and I sighed, my patience long gone. “Just follow the noise.”
Lillian Smith passed through the door. Her head barely reached my chest. That was the first thing I noticed, how small she was. The second thing was the pitch of her scream. Rushing into the room, I found the writer standing at the foot of Marcella’s bed, screaming back at my daughter with one long and angry yell.
I stared at her, confused.
Marcella did the same.
When Lillian finally stopped—and damn, that woman had lungs on her—Marcella cleared her throat and spoke in the dignified manner she reserved for poor fashion choices and cooties. “Um, what was that for?”
“It made me feel better. What was yours for?”
Marcella regarded her blankly. “Attention, I guess. I’m dying, in case you weren’t aware.”
“Oh, let me be sure to write this down.” Lillian made a big production of pulling out a pen and uncapping it, then rustling through different notebook pages until she got to a blank one. “Michella Thompson—”
“It’s Marcella,” my daughter interrupted, then gave me a look as if to ask what discount store I got this woman from. “M-A-R—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it,” Lillian said mildly. “Marcella Thompson, who passed on xyz date, was a screamer. It was a shrill scream, one similar to a chimpanzee dying.” She looked up and raised her brows for approval. “Good?”
“I don’t think I sound like a chimpanzee,” Marcella said indignantly, and I smiled for the first time in almost a week.
“Well, accuracy is important.” Lillian fished a phone out of her bag. “Let’s look up animal screams and find a good fit.”
I stepped back into the hall and watched as Lillian sat on the edge of the bed and showed her phone to Marcella. She tapped the screen, and a wail of some sort erupted from the device. Marcella giggled. “Not that one.”
Lillian was there two hours that first day, and when she left, Marcella made her promise to come back the following morning, which she did, and every morning after, for the next thirteen days.
And then, on day fourteen, Marcella was gone.
The area is relatively level, which means the backhoe could do most of the heavy lifting, but I still grab a shovel out of the shed and start the slow and laborious process of digging her grave. It’s early—this task would normally be done the morning of the funeral—but I don’t mind refreshing it, if needed. I need the hard physical labor and the time to process the fact that she is gone.
As the grave deepens, sweat pools on the fat of my lower back and runs down the sides of my arms. I pause a few times to stretch my back and catch my breath. The ache and strain of muscles feel right, like I’m paying a penance to her.
Not knowing the cause is hard for me to swallow. I need to know more, need to be able to put it in a logical bucket before I set it on the shelf. Once I get back to the shed, I’ll turn on the ancient computer and do an internet search on her name.
I pause again and wipe the sweat off my forehead, then pull the baseball cap tighter. I could have waited until dusk. It would have been cooler then, but I like the work, and need to move the toxins out of my body. When I get back to the office, a gallon of water will be in order. Already brain cells that haven’t functioned in years are starting to fire, and the fog that typically hangs over my emotions is beginning to clear. Some of that is good; some of it isn’t. Stabbing the shovel into the dirt, I trudge up the hill and into the shade of a palm tree. Breathing hard, I pull the phone out of my pocket and scroll down to a number I haven’t dialed in years.
“Lenny, you sonofabitch,” Rancin answers, the familiar sounds of the police bullpen in the background.
“Hey, Rancin.”
“We were just talking about you the other week. Lapet says you’re the reason we lost the fancy coffeepot with the pods.”
I have to smile at that. “It was that stripper, the one with the dentures.”
“Oh shit, you’re right. So sorta your fault.”
“I’ll take the blame if you can give me some info on a recent death.” A squirrel runs by, pauses to look at me, then skitters up the tree. Lillian always threw them bits of her crust, but I have only loose change and a few peppermints in my pocket.