Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Closer to the tombstone, he pondered his actions. Where there should have been a name on the stone, there was a scrim of wind-driven snow. All of the bone-yard stones that faced north had suffered the same, the white shroud making their owners illegible.
Like the stone, the grave was covered with a crust of snow. The man toed at the mound with his foot. Freshly turned dirt appeared. It crumbled freely and mixed with the powdery white.
Convinced, the man straddled the grave, stood facing the headstone, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate.
He aimed his stream at the top, the hot urine melting away the scrim. As letters emerged, he concentrated on the carved notches, and sensed satisfaction as rivulets of yellow water streamed down the stone, opening more glimpses to the words beneath.
He urinated until he was out, the last few drops being forced with all his will. The job was incomplete, the stone only partly revealed.
“Here. Let me help you with that.”
The newcomer had surprised but not alarmed him. He stepped away from the stone and let the second man have his turn.
The urine flowed again, the snow retreated. The letters became names, first and last, the combination an identity, an identity that forever now would be confined to the Elmwood cemetery.
The second man showered the carved name, and with the last of his liquid, vainly tried to melt away some clarity to the date of death. But he was out. He shrugged, shook off on the grave, and zipped.
They stood there examining their desecration; yellow urine now freezing to the face of the stone and the words they had revealed:
Father Gustavus
Milliken
B_ _ _ M_ y 16, 19_ 2 Di _d N_ v. 11, 1977
Eventually, the second man spoke: “You’re lucky about what happened at the bridge. What were you doing there anyway?”
“I guess I went down there to see what all the excitement was about. Then I slipped on the rail and conked myself a good one.”
“Lucky for you” the second responded. “Some people on the scene thought they were dealing with a copycat jumper and would be dragging
two
bodies out of the river.
The men stood for a moment absorbing.
Then Whitey placated: “I waited for you at the church.”
“I know” the second man said.
“You know?”
“Yes, I saw you come in and go directly to the bathroom. When you didn’t come out for so long I thought you had gotten scared. But I really couldn’t blame you. What you planned to share was some heavy, heavy stuff.”
“And now he’ll never know.” Whitey lamented.
“Oh he knows” The second man replied. “I made sure of it. I made your confession for you.”
“Mr. Thelen!” Whitey’s brain was in a cartwheel. “
You
confessed for
me
?”
“Yes.” Scott Thelen replied. “Just like we had talked about back in Broward county. In fact, I’m glad it was me; you’ve been through enough already. And it’s not about the messenger, it’s the message.”
“But how could you say… I mean why would you…” Whitey couldn’t complete his thought.
“Trust me” the therapist confided. “I have my reasons.” A bitter smile shadowed his face.
They stared at the stone and the grave beneath it. Mr. Thelen then turned to Whitey: “Are we done here?”
Whitey considered and then added: “Just one more thing.” He pulled the baggie of pot from his pocket and dumped it wastefully on the grave. The wind took the empty plastic from his fingers and tumbled it across the cemetery grounds.
“It makes you forget.” Whitey explained as they walked off. “And I’m finished with forgetting.”
“That’s good.” Mr. Thelen encouraged. “Now do you think you can start remembering?
Whitey brightened: “I’ve already started. When I was young I had a nickname, they called me Corky.”
“Corky eh? That’s better than the one I used to have.”
Corky bit on the offer: “And what was that?”
“Ronald McDonald.”
“Ronald McDonald!” Corky blurted. He started to ask the man about the story behind the moniker but Mr. Thelen cut him short: “It’s something I would just rather forget.”
Corky nodded in understanding. They walked in silence a bit further and then Corky offered a solemn suggestion. “If it would help, we could go back and salvage some of that pot.”
Scott Thelen wheeled on the younger man incredulously.
Corky's
face was stone cold serious, then melted into a shit eating grin. Scott Thelen realized he had been had, and the two men burst out laughing.
And together, their spirits light, Corky and Ronald McDonald departed from a place of bitter remembrance and entered a world where it was okay to remember.
September
22, 2012
Lincoln, Nebraska
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Steve Walz
,
Ralph Wall
and my wife Leigh Stepanek
for your initial readings and wise recommendations.
Thank you beta read
ers Hollie Case and Anna Kokrda, and to the
many betas who
were too disturbed by the content to
continue
beyond page 40. I gave great consideration to your suggestions to soften the imagery of the initial attack, but in the end decided that the horror, and what we learn from it, must remain in pure form. The truth i
s in the story
.
Thank you to Kerry Livgr
e
n of Kansas for permission
to reprint lyrics from
Carry on Wayward Son
.
Acknowledgement
s
to Pink Floyd:
Money
and
Us and
Them
and
Ted Nugent:
Free for All
.
A sizea
ble thank you to the kind folks at Absolute Write Water Cooler message board. If you are an aspiring author, Absolute Write is an
a
bsolute must.
And finally, thank you to my family:
Wife
Leigh,
sons
Grant and
Christopher
,
and our dog Drakey-d
rake.
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