Bones in Daylight, Page 2

  "Mr. Turner, I sure agree that the taxman asks too much of all of us. I realize we're not a wealthy community, and we hardly have much to give. But I feel sorry for the few children who do still live in our town. There's not many of them left anymore. There's maybe a handful if you count the grandkids Shirley Ross raises now. I think those kids deserve a safe place to go to school. Just because we studied in a building covered in lead paint doesn't mean that we should force children to now. And Mr. Turner, I know those children at school hardly have enough books to go around. What kind of future are we going to give those girls and boys if we can't even provide them a dry place for learning?"

  Leroy Anderson filled his lungs to take a turn shouting at Roscoe. "How much more are we going to have to give to those teachers? We've given them more than they deserve!"

  Leroy's remarks sparked a round of applause before Nate again straightened his cracking back. "Truth be told, Mr. Turner, this is an issue that might divide us. It's no secret that the referendum's going to hinge on how Owensville votes. So we're coming to you. This town was at its best when your glass factory operated, and we don't want to do anything that might murder our chances of that glass factory ever reopening its doors. So we're asking you to think about it, Mr. Turner. Sleep on it. We'll come back in a few days to learn what you think."

  "And, Mr. Turner, we sure hope you like what we brought you again today," Mattie Hempen shouted from the back of the gathering. "We don't have much, but we give as we can."

  The assembly slowly dispersed. The aging residents limped back to their waiting vehicles, wincing in the sunlight as each step flared the pain living in all the joints without cartilage. Mr. Turner still didn't lift his head, nor did he lift a hand to gesture farewell. Roscoe remained comfortably tucked beneath his blankets while the sun lifted a little higher and the day turned many degrees warmer.

  Mr. Turner might not have moved, but the departure of those residents nonetheless stirred activity. Many minutes after the last resident left the backyard, the cellar doors to the home's basement opened, and a short, heavy man with a salt and pepper beard concealing many of his chins wheezed into the sunlight. Sweat drenched his simple t-shirt, and the man shaded his eyes as he hurried to inspect the offerings piled upon the picnic table. Smiling, he lifted the lid from Mrs. Rodden's crockpot before lowering his nose to smell the aroma of barbeque pork. He shoved a pinch of that delicacy into his mouth before he gathered the boxes and carried them one by one through the open cellar doors. The man scanning the horizon as he took the final plate, checking to see if anyone still lingered in that barren land surrounding the estate, and then pulled the cellar doors closed before descending into darkness.

  Still, Roscoe Turner didn't move upon his bed. The old man was oblivious to the theft of all those gifts set on his table.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3 - Another Visitation

  "I'm fine, Mr. Hooper. I really am. Thank you for thinking of me, but I don't want to step away in case more people visit. I don't want anyone to think that I forgot about them, or that I don't appreciate them coming."

  Lauren Freeman kindly declined the funeral home proprietor's suggestion that she step away from her father's closed casket long enough for a cup of coffee, perhaps long enough to take a little comfort from a cold cinnamon roll. Few people arrived at that parlor to give parting respects to her father. Lauren wasn't surprised. Her father was a private man. He travelled for work. He kept no social circles. He never cultivated friends. Her father's home office sent a lovely flower bouquet. But very few walked into the funeral home, and Lauren thus far failed to recognize any of the visitors. The scant traffic forced Lauren to stand alone at the closed casket for long intervals of time. Her feet swelled. Her back tightened. But she didn't move away from that casket, too afraid that physical distance would force her to accept the finality and loss.

  "Lauren Freeman? Is that really you? I've not seen you since you were a girl. But I still recognize your mother in your face. I still recognize the Turner blood in you."

  Lauren turned towards the source of that commotion in time to catch a breath before a darkly-dyed hive of a hairdo mounted atop a set of wide shoulders squeezed her in a conciliatory embrace. The woman smelled like potpourri, and Lauren cringed when the woman's large foot trampled upon her own. She squeezed Lauren as no one else had, and Lauren felt ashamed that she couldn't think of that woman's name. Lauren couldn't recall ever seeing that guest before as the visitor kept squeezing the air from her lungs. But Lauren knew that woman was no stranger. She had mentioned her mother's family name, and thus in an instant summoned so many memories of a distant time. She had spoken the name 'Turner,' and Lauren knew she had come from a town two states away named Owensville.

  The woman pulled out of the embrace just as Lauren feared her lungs would burst. "Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. I just heard of Jackson's passing. The weekly paper in Smithton put a little line in the obituaries. News still travels so slowly to Owensville. Was your father ill?"

  Lauren nodded. "Cancer. I don't think he'd been feeling well for years. He wouldn't see a doctor until it was too late. It was in his blood and bones before he found out. He fought it as he could for several months."

  The woman sighed. "The Freeman family wasn't blessed with the Turner's kind of health, child. That's probably why all the Freemans vanished from Owensville when you and your father left us. It must've been a terrible fight if your father's casket is closed."

  Lauren couldn't help but think of what the cancer had done to her father. Jackson Freeman had been a tall and athletic man, of a build made by working his own father's concrete business. Jackson Freeman had massive forearms and muscular legs, and Lauren vowed to never forget riding on her father's shoulders when he used to walk the short, empty blocks of Owensville's downtown. That had been almost thirty-five years ago, when Lauren had just started first grade. But within only six months, the cancer turned Jackson into a narrow, scarecrow of a man, had turned his tan skin gray and devoured him from within until he was little else but sticks and skin. So she had chosen a closed casket service, not because she hoped to spare any guest from the unpleasant truth about what her father was at his end. She chose that closed casket because she couldn't let another memory of her sick father threaten those recollections she owned of what her father had been when young. Death, and even cancer, might've been a natural part of the world, but Lauren knew of no commandment that forced her to display what sickness left behind.

  "Oh, dear, forgive me. You likely don't remember who I am. My name is Shirley Ross. You used to come by my home and play with my girl Trisha before you left Owensville. We were right across the alley from the house of your father's parents. Do you still remember all the ice cream sandwiches I used to feed to you girls?"

  "Of course. I remember the mess on my hands."

  Shirley smiled. "You were both so young. Neither of you could keep the ice cream out of your hair."

  Lauren remembered Trisha's penchant for cruelty as well as she remembered dripping ice cream. Like most of the children Lauren remembered from her time in Owensville, Trisha was mean and rough. She remembered crashing her bicycle after Trisha forced her to remove the training wheels, and she remembered how Trisha had slapped her face for being weak when she had asked for a band-aide.

  "And how is Trisha? Does she still live in Owensville?"

  "She's been gone almost three years now," Shirley sighed, and all the energy that woman carried into the funeral parlor seemed to vanish. "The heroine finally took her. She was powerless against it. Just turned her into a shell of what she had been. Got so I hardly recognized her."

  "I'm so sorry."

  Shirley took a breath and smiled again. "Oh, but sorrow sometimes hides a blessing, dear. I'm raising her boy and girl now. Though I worry Owensville's gotten too old for them. Life goes on, like it or not. All of Owensville sends their condolences with me, Lauren. I'm sure Roscoe would've attended his son-in-law's funeral if he had
the means and energy for it. Roscoe's health just isn't what it once was."

  Lauren stiffened at her grandfather's name. She suddenly smelled cheap cigars mixed with strong cologne. An image materialized in her mind of dentures grinning at the bottom of a glass of blue water. She thought of shoe-horns and of velvet hats. She thought of thick, black glasses, and she remembered a house filled with knick-knacks and stale candy. She remembered how the silence used to seem so loud in Roscoe's lonely estate.

  "Grandpa Roscoe?" Lauren's eyes widened. "I had no idea he was still alive. He must be almost two decades over one-hundred."

  "He might not be kicking anymore, but he's still ticking."

  Lauren sighed. "I had no idea. I would've informed him of my dad's death. I feel horrible."

  Shirley gently squeezed Lauren's hand. "I'm sure Roscoe will understand. I'm sure all will be mended if you only pay him a visit. Owensville sometimes feels like a very lonely place. You would make us all happy by paying the town a visit."

  "I think I would like that."

  "Forgive me if I pry, but have you made arrangements for your father's burial. Wouldn't you think his family would want him to come home?"

  "Dad had a very clear spot for his grave already in mind."

  Lauren told a half-truth. Her father did have a something in mind when it came to his burial. But that something wasn't a particular hill of green glass. Her father's only stipulation was that, whatever his daughter did with his remains, that she made sure he never returned to Owensville.

  "But I promise to visit once I have everything settled, Mrs. Ross."

  Shirley beamed with pride. "Bless you. You'll be lucky if Owensville doesn't throw you a welcoming parade. Be sure to visit your cousin Maximillian as well. He manages Roscoe's estate now, and I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear you're coming back home."

  "I'll be sure to visit him as well."

  "Bless you."

  Shirley Ross set a vase of flowers on the small table next to Jackson's casket before departing. The scent of her perfume lingered for many minutes, and Lauren indulged herself in what positive memories she still owned of Owensville while she waited out the last hours remaining to her father's visitation. She thought of summers filled with cheap fireworks and finger-scorching sparklers. She thought of the French Toast Grandpa Roscoe's housemaid Irene used to fry in her ancient skillet, French Toast crusted in flour and lard that made the Maple syrup taste sweeter than anything Lauren ever knew. She thought about wearing the dresses left behind by her deceased mother, and she thought about all the costume jewelry left behind by Roscoe's departed wife Eve that she found scattered about grandpa's home. A return to Owensville might be a pleasant trip. She needed a journey to escape the suffering and sorrow of her father's illness. Perhaps, a trip to Owensville would remind her of younger and happier days.

  Just maybe, Owensville might remind Lauren that life went on after the dead were buried.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4 - Homecoming

  "With all of the world's gadgets, how can a town like Owensville keep getting harder and harder to find?"

  Lauren's car idled along the county highway's narrow roadside. Her smartphone's navigational maps had her spinning around in circles for the last forty minutes, and so Lauren retrieved the wrinkled, old road atlas that continued to serve as the only reliable guide to locating Owensville.

  "The turn was six miles behind me. Didn't there used to be a small gas station at that junction? Could they have torn it down, and is that why I missed it?"

  Lauren wrestled her car onto the proper direction, and her memories again drifted back through the years as the tires hummed along the warming asphalt. She recognized the concrete foundation marking where that old gas station stood when she returned to the junction. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. Lauren remembered the litter of collie pups the owners of that station displayed in the window long ago, remembered pleading with her father for one of those animals on that morning they filled their gas tank before leaving town, and she remembered how her father sighed and told her it was for the best to to let all born on that land struggle and die in the town Roscoe owned. Lauren turned onto the rough bumpy road leading to Owensville and suspected her father knew even then that Owensville was dead on account of a blight. Why else would he have fled with his daughter and driven two states away for only a rumor of another town offering employment?

  Her car rolled into town five minutes later. She passed only a couple of homes before reaching what had been Owensville's heart, a downtown composed of a few blocks of empty and shuttered buildings. She still recognized the diner her father used to frequent, a place where he often took her for chocolate cokes. She remembered all the times Jackson had there filled her with pancakes after Roscoe's back pain turned him so temperamental that he screamed at the girl who dared to laugh and run in an old home filled with family ghosts. She recognized the ice cream parlor, where she would help her father zap aliens on the glowing arcade games. She remembered so many people approaching her father whenever they visited downtown, always telling him how much they owed Roscoe, how grateful they always felt to have been on the man's payroll, how happily their wives sat for perms in the beauty salon Roscoe's wife kept in that downtown. And though he always smiled, Lauren remembered how those comments always turned her father sad.

  Owensville's downtown was on its deathbed even then; Lauren hadn't noticed it as a girl. No commerce of any kind could thrive in such a town. There was no heart to support a doctor, an insurance agent, a banker, an attorney or even a realtor. Such enterprises couldn't exist in a hallow place, whose remaining populace had no means to generate the income capable of feeding such downtown offices. Those buildings of downtown were only bones, skeletons unworthy of the effort required to see them properly demolished and buried.

  Her car rolled through downtown in a blink, and Lauren gathered a breath before coasting further down the road towards the empty buildings of Roscoe Turner's glass factory. The factory's immensity still dwarfed Owensville's scattering of homes and brick buildings of downtown A tall, broad water tower rose well above the brown and orange fence of corrugated metal erected decades ago to conceal sight of the ruins. Dozens of exhaust stacks stretched into the air from various buildings and warehouses whose upper stories of broken windows managed to climb into view above the fencing. Lauren owned no concept of what the purpose for any of those buildings may have been. She knew nothing about the process that made her grandfather so wealthy, knew nothing about the glass products manufactured by Roscoe's plant. She had only ever known the glass factory as a dark collection of buildings, as a place without energy, a place that did nothing more than wait for the sun to bleach away any color paint had ever supplied to those walls.

  Lauren sighed as she further scanned the horizon. "The land looks just as shunted as I remember. Even the weeds look sparse and week."

  After all the decades since the factory ceased production, the toxins that once oozed from the complex still prevented the sprouting of much any kind of green. Owensville provided no natural shade, whatever trees remained standing along the side of any road long ago lost their canopies. Any agricultural industry that might've ever surrounded Owensville had been sacrificed so that Roscoe Turner's furnaces burned brightly. Corn didn't rise in the summer. Beans never grew in tidy rows. No amount of rain yet cleaned the toxins from the ground. Lauren wondered if that poison drifted into the lungs when a dry season turned the ground to dust, if the poison trespassed into Owensville's homes when a rainy season turned the ground to mud that clung to a resident's boot.

  Roscoe's Colonial estate waited a handful of miles further down that road. Clumps of homes randomly floated by Lauren's windshield, small structures sharing a common pitch to the roof and design to front porches. She assumed such homes must've been built during that era when the glass factory was young. They must've been built by men who couldn't look far enough into the future to ever fear a time when the g
lass factory would no longer give them sustenance. Blue tarps currently covered many of the roofs, makeshift and ugly repairs that did what they could to keep rainwater from seeping into the inner walls. Windstorms had ripped the siding off of several houses to reveal inner timbers and panels warping to the elements. Plastic toys and abandoned lawn mowers decorated lawns like yard gnomes.

  Lauren failed to see anyone tending to a garden, or walking a pet dog. Did everyone hide behind the windows and boards that covered all the windows? What did that populace fear? Were they afraid of looters scuttling to their community in search of treasure to steal? Could Owensville even offer anything valuable?

  Her heart quickened. After decades away from the town of her parents, some odometer installed deep within Lauren still felt when she came into proximity with the Turner home. A right turn placed her car onto the lane named after her family, and a giant tree stump told her when Roscoe's home waited around the upcoming curve. She didn't breathe as she peeked at the front of that home as it appeared suddenly in view. None of the windows were shattered, and the glass even glistened in the sunlight. She spotted no water streaks on the roof. The lawn was tidy. She saw no indication that any of the paint on the white trim work was peeling.

  She was moving very slowly by the time her car continued far enough down the drive to reveal the rear of that home, where she could only stare at what had befallen to the back of her grandfather's home.