The Graveyard Shift Page 3

I retract my hand, clear my throat, and rise from her side. I can’t let her see me like this, not in her fragile state.

  “Hah,” I say, “not enough coffee, I’m afraid. That’s all. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, my love, but you’ve married a Class-A caffeine addict. And right now there’s nothing this soul needs more than a good stiff cup of joe. You know how terrible withdrawals can be, don’t you?”

  At this, the faintest of smiles touches her lips. “You joke,” she says, eyes still alight with concern, “but I think too much of that stuff is affecting your sleep. You were so restless last night. And the night before.”

  “Don’t you worry your lovely little head about me,” I say with a smile. I can’t stop thinking about that haunting eyeball, but I don’t want to worry my wife any further. She already knows something is afoot. I must steal away for a moment to gather my thoughts.

  “I’m going to go put a fresh pot on. And you’ll see that once I’ve had my first cup of morning glory I’ll be right as rain.”

  “Would you like me to make it for you?” she asks, starting to shift her legs with great strain.

  “No, no, please, you shouldn’t. Not until you’ve recovered. I’ll not have my wife suffer a car accident and go about serving me. It’s my job to serve you.” I grab her perfume bottle. “Here, would madam care for some more of her favorite perfume?”

  “Why yes, please,” she says, going pink in the cheeks. The sight of it warms my troubled heart. As does the scent. Her scent, in addition to that of the perfume, is a hauntingly joyous thing.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promise her, taking one last whiff before I ease the door shut behind me.

  The first thing I do is grab a brass candlestick from the hall table. The metal slips a little on the sweat of my palms, but its weight is reassuring in my hands. I pad down the pine floored hallway as stealthily as I can. I want nothing more than to believe that my house is empty save for myself and my wife, but like all clever men, I am haunted by my imagination.

  I check the upstairs rooms one at a time. There are only two of them. The first is my personal office, a paper-bombed box full of books and ungraded term essays. The other is the spare bedroom, which is currently being used for storage. Joanna doesn’t have many material possessions—a trait I positively worship in her—so the junk in there is all overflow from my cluttered office. Soon, however, I’ve no doubt it will be converted into a nursery for our future family. But that thought is far from pertinent at the moment. Right now, with nervous sweat beading on my brow and a blunt bludgeon gripped in my hands, all that I can focus on is battling the fear of my own impending death.

  I quickly find that the office is empty, save for my disastrous filing system. And a few moments later, on hands and knees looking under the bed, I learn the same is true for the spare bedroom. I breathe a deep breath of partial relief, and now feeling more in control of myself, take to the stairs. When I reach the main floor of my home—our home—I stop to listen carefully. I hear nothing but silence. Outside, cars pass by on the street and birds chirp erratically, but those are the only audible sounds.

  I heft the candlestick over my shoulder as I imagine a baseball player would, and circle the right side of the landing to enter the living room. As in the rest of the house, the curtains are all drawn tightly shut and the space is dark. I reach out to pull the chain of the nearest lamp and watch as the room springs to life.

  The black pit of the fireplace is surrounded by shelves full of classical literature and world geography. On both sides of the mantle sprout long, well-worn leather sofas, both of which are empty and collecting a fair bit of dust. My grandmother’s mahogany piano stands idly quiet beside me. Like so many of the best things in this world it sits lifeless and mute despite its vast potential. The room, much like the back yard, feels depressed. It isn’t just empty. It is unlived in.

  I press onward in my circular sweep, pushing through the double doors at the other end of the living room, where I find myself in the kitchen. It is only twenty foot square and I need not even flip the light switch to see that this area too is unoccupied. Lonely white wall tile surrounds me like an abandoned operating room as I continue through the next doorway and into the final chamber of the house.

  A glance beneath the table reveals that the dining room is also undisturbed. I rest a hand on the seatback of the nearest chair and sigh in relief. My home is free of intruders. It is free of George, and his murderous, invasive eyes.

  How could I have been so careless as to leave the front door wide open? I make my way to the lone dining room window, which overlooks the front yard. To my dismay, I see that the grass is mangy and irregular, the potted flowers drooping toward the ground. But at least the yard is empty, devoid of prowlers.

  Beyond my gate I see movement, which causes my pulse to spike. But it’s only a pair of students, laughing, on their way down the street. Cars zip by in the road, unaware of the tormented soul watching them through his dining room window.

  Coffee. I’ve just remembered it. The last thing I want to do is lie to my beloved, so I bustle back to the kitchen. The candleholder is still in my right hand as I pull open the pantry door with my left and grab a bag of coffee grounds. Maybe my white lie was right. Maybe a cup of joe will ease my scrambled mind. As I nestle the candleholder into my armpit, I fill the pot with water and send a small stream down the side of the coffeemaker as my unsteady hand attempts to pour it. I’m still shaking, still nervous.

  I’m not sure why I’m still so uneasy, until the knocks begin to ring out once again, the urgent hammering of a fist on my front door.

  I shove the pot back into the maker, clutch my candlestick with both hands, and slink toward the front door. I can see it jumping in the threshold with each knock, or maybe that’s just that overactive imagination of mine, but the intensity of each knock is increasing. I can hear Joanna in the other room, calling for me.

  “Ignore it,” she says. “Come back to bed.”

  Or maybe that’s just my own scattered thoughts telling me what I want to hear. The knocks continue still, and so too do I continue toward the doorway. George isn’t going to go away. Not until I talk to him and make him go away. I know this. And if he means to kill me, now is when he’s going to try. I also know this.

  I pull the door open, and there stands George, hair more disheveled than the last time I saw him. He holds no weapons in either of his hands, but his jacket is painted in bits of my trash. His eyes are bloodshot and filled with tears, and they focus in on me much as they did behind my fence.

  “Joanna,” he mutters. “I—I know you have her, but I can’t prove it. No… not yet.” His nostrils flare. “Give her back to me. Give me back my fucking wife.”

  “You’re insane,” I say, as I hold my candlestick behind my back, ready to strike should he make a sudden move. “Look at you, digging through my trash like a raccoon. What the hell is wrong with you?” My voice raises. “Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?”

  “All I want,” George breathes, “is my Joanna. And I know you have her. I know you have her held up here, you sick fuck.” This last word he spits with such vigor I feel a spatter of saliva on my face.

  I wipe it away in disdain, using the hand not clutching my only means of defense. “So what, you think I’m holding her hostage here? This is ridiculous. You need to get off of my property, and if I see you digging through my trash again or prancing around my yard, I’m going to call the police. You hear me?”

  He does hear me, and I can see how much it stings him. I wouldn’t think the threat of police would be enough to drive off someone as insane as George, but it’s working. Perhaps I should have done this sooner.

  “That’s right, so don’t you ever bother us again,” I say. “Or I’ll have you arrested for harassment.”

  George’s eyes light up. “Us? So she is here?”

  I’m feeling bold. Brash. I smile in his wrinkled, weathered face, and tell him, “Yes, that’s right. We a
re here, and we are happy. And she will never be yours again. So piss off.”

  I raise the candleholder for emphasis, and at this, George’s eyes continued to water.

  “That was all I needed to hear,” he whispers. “You… you fucked up. You really fucked up.”

  Without further word he scrambles away, bursting loudly into tears as he meanders down the sidewalk. I, meanwhile, toss my candlestick onto the couch after I close the door and slink inside. I lock the door. And then double lock it. I’ve verbally bested him, but I feel now more than ever that he means to kill me.

  “Ken, what’s wrong?” Joanna calls, as I slump up the stairs toward our bedroom. “I heard shouting. Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” I say, as I stand in the doorway, arms crossed. “It was George. Again.”

  Joanna sighs. I can see how upset this makes her, but I can no longer help it. There’s no longer any sense in disguising the fact that our honeymoon has been ruined.

  “And what did he want? Why will he still not leave us alone?” Joanna asks. I can finally hear it in her voice, the fear.

  “He wants you back,” I grunt. “For all I know he’s going to come barging in like some caveman and drag you out by your hair. The man is truly insane.”

  Joanna shakes her head. “Oh Ken, he can’t just take me like I’m some piece of property. Look, he was never like you are.” She glances at her perfume bottle. “You buy me the most amazing things. You spoil me. You’ve been there to take care of me through a very serious car accident. George would have never done that for me. Any of it.”

  She stretches out her arms, motioning for me to come to her, and I can’t help but obey. She has that effect over me, and I slip into bed, nestling my head against her neck. Her fingers run through my hair, and my body’s tense, rigid form releases like a puddle into our soft bed.

  “Sleep,” she says. “You’re worked up. You’re tired. Spend the rest of the day in my arms. Isn’t that what you promised me?”

  I sigh, and feel my heavy eyelids closing. “I did. But what if he comes back?”

  “The phone is on the nightstand. We can call the police and have him arrested.”

  Joanna always knows what to say to calm my nerves, and so I drift off easily in her embrace. Before sleep takes me, I realize that I could spend the rest of my life like this and die a happy man.

  Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that I’m still half-asleep and incredibly groggy when I hear the knocks at the front door. They sound muddled, like a dream, but as I peel myself away from Joanna’s bosom I hear them louder and with more clarity. I reach for the cordless phone, but then I stop.

  “Aren’t you going to call the police?” Joanna asks. “I didn’t want it to come to this, but maybe that’s what’s best. Maybe he’ll finally leave us alone, even if they just scare him a little.”

  “It doesn’t sound like him. Those knocks.”

  I know this sounds crazy, but they aren’t erratic, frantic. They’re calm. Rhythmic. Practiced even. There is someone else at my door.

  “I’m just going to check,” I tell her, as I lift myself up and plant a kiss on her cheek. “If it’s him, I’ll come right back and call the police.”

  “Do be careful, dear.”

  I skulk to the front entry, pressing my eye to the peephole, and I see, with much relief, that George is not there. It’s a policeman, or rather two of them, and they both wear concern on their faces. The lead officer, a pudgy man with thinning hair and a mustache, arches an eyebrow as I open the door.

  “Are you Kenneth Parsons?”

  “I am,” I breathe.

  “We’ve had a call about a disturbance,” the officer says. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  I am both excited and terrified at the same time. “Yes!” I cry. “There has been a huge disturbance! George Robinson has been here all day, and I think he means to kill me!” I feel my heart begin to race. “Please, help me.”

  “Sir, can you tell us about the bloodstain on the bumper of your car?” asks a second officer, a young man with whitish blonde hair.

  But I don’t understand. What does this have to do with George?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But this man, this man is harassing me—”

  I’m quickly interrupted by the lead officer. “And is it true that you have Joanna Robinson here with you?”

  “Her name is Parsons now,” I say. “We’re married, but yes! He’s harassing her too!”

  “So she’s here?” confirms the second officer.

  “Yes, and we’re just trying to enjoy our honeymoon in peace,” I insist. Only now do I see that George is standing on the sidewalk, being restrained by two more police officers.

  “I told you!” he screams. “He has her, the sick fuck!”

  “Please step aside,” the blonde officer says. I do, and he brushes my shoulder gruffly as he storms inside my house. I can only assume he wants to interview my wife, to seal George’s fate.

  But I am wrong.

  “Jesus Christ!” a voice yells from my room. “Ron, you’ve got to see this!”

  The lead officer enters our bedroom and takes the Lord’s name in vain as well. Another officer barges in the door and grabs me by the arm, slams me face first into the wall and shoves handcuffs over both of my wrists. A lot is being said. There’s so much screaming. George is crying.

  “This man is trying to kill me!” I yell, but no one is listening. “He was following us around at the funeral! He’s stalking us!”

  I don’t understand what’s going on until two men with a stretcher wheel Joanna out of our room plugging their noses.

  “The smell was just awful in there,” the first man says. “He was using this perfume to try to mask the smell, but… it’s really bad. Like rotten trash. Mr. Robinson, please be warned of this.”

  But George pays no mind.

  “My wife,” he cries, as he throws himself at her. “My wife has been returned to me.” He pauses, glances at her face, and begins to weep even harder. “My God, what has he done to you?”

  He peels back the sheets to reveal a wedding dress. The wedding dress I picked for her right after the funeral. She had never wanted to change out of it. She told me this.

  “Joanna!” I call out. “Please, clear this up with them! This must be a mistake!”

  But they can’t hear her. They can’t hear her like I do, and she’s wheeled outside to the coroner’s van that has just arrived in my driveway. Mrs. Whitaker is beside it, her mouth agape and her skin ghostly white. She has a plate full of cookies in her hands.

  “I told you,” George screams, as he points his fingers madly at me, “I told you I finally got the proof I needed. He admitted it! He ran her over, he killed her, and then he…” He chokes out these last few words. “He stole her fucking body after the funeral and brought it here to turn into his… his toy.” He leans over in the bushes and vomits.

  “She’s not a toy!” I scream, thrashing against the wall. “She’s my bride! I liberated her from you, and at the funeral she called out to me! She wanted this!”

  The police take George away and walk him into my front yard, and by now, all of my neighbors are out in their own yards staring. This doesn’t concern me. My only concern is Joanna, being wheeled toward the county coroner’s van. Being taken away from me.

  “At least let her have her perfume!” I cry, still flailing against the officer’s hands. “She loves it! It reminds her of gay Par—ee! We’re going to vacation there when she gets better!”

  But no one is listening to me. No one but Joanna. And I can see her smile at me one last time as the van’s rear door is pulled shut.

  She’s calling out to me, and no matter what they do with her, no matter where they bury her, I will find my love and I will bring her back to me. Right where she wants to be.

  Because death can’t keep us apart. Death will never keep us apart.

  Interlud
e: Relativity

  I've been sitting in this chair for 20 minutes now, staring through this window, wondering if they can even see me.

  I can see them. I can see Macy Stadler, fidgeting with those delicate housewife hands of hers, next to the flabby fat-roll she calls a husband. She’s always looking at those hands. I wonder if it’s hard for her to look Bill in the eyes, ever since the handsome neighbor boy came along. She tells Bill he’s quite the handyman, and her appliances break a lot when he’s not home. Little Jeremy’s very good with his hands, I hear.

  Now, I don’t think Bill’s stupid. I think he’s just got his priorities out of whack. For the past six months he’s been too wrapped up in dollar signs and imaginary numbers to see the pain his wife is in. I wonder if he even realizes his daughter isn’t there.

  From this window, I can see Stella, too. So many people have been stuffed into this tiny brick room, and so too is Stella Leonard. Look at her; eyes pouched, watery from vodka and age. Dolled all up in her moth-eaten Sunday best, she’s almost the spitting image of her sister.

  Stella has nothing, but you can find all of her possessions at various pawnshops across the city. Her sister is to thank for this—that, and an itch for cocaine that just can’t ever seem to be scratched. Stella’s always denied that her sister’s had a problem, but if you ask me, the problem wasn’t coke or pain killers or sleeping pills. It was that Stella just didn’t care enough. Not until it was too late, anyhow.

  I can also see Father Andrews. He’s leaning his soul on his thick black book like a crutch, but no amount of praying is going to keep him in the good graces of the man upstairs…unless, of course, the Almighty’s got a soft spot for shepherds that like to prey upon the youth of their flock.

  Father Andrews clears his throat and flops open his Bible. He’s not on the other side of the glass with the rest of them. He’s standing two feet away, looking down at his book of words, jabbering. Even he doesn’t dare see me.

  The only one who can see me is Letty, out there, crying. That lustrous light is gone from her eyes. She’s angry with me. Disappointed in me. I want to tell her, my beautiful sister, that the blackness in her heart won’t last forever, but she’s being ushered from the room.