CAPPED
Living in the cemetery lawnmower shed turned out pretty well. Murray had gotten used to the uninsulated prefab and its peculiarities. Sure, the concrete floor leached warmth from anything that touched it and the place reeked of motor oil and industrial cleaners. The window rattled when a city bus passed on the street. The little hut was an iceberg during cold spells, and yes, its seams made an eerie whistle when the wind gusted. Nonetheless, it had only one serious drawback.
The shed sat atop a foundation that had been mistakenly poured eighty or ninety years ago over an old woman’s grave, and she complained nonstop to anyone who’d listen. It was enough to drive a person crazy.
If you parked the riding mower under the front utility shelf, there was room in back for a cot and a milk crate that held a battery lantern so you could read yourself to sleep. Murray preferred it to home and was very grateful to Pearl for suggesting it, and to her dad, the cemetery caretaker, for making it available.
Saturday morning was chilly but not shivery. Murray washed his face in a metal basin, put on jeans and pulled a hoodie over his sweatshirt, grabbed an apple from the grocery bag he kept on the tool bench. Breakfast. He’d get something at 7-Eleven for lunch. Candy bar, orange, something easy. What was cheap and built muscles? A banana? Murray noticed his T-shirts were tighter. But he wasn’t fat. He might be getting some muscles. Made him wonder why. All the walking he did? Genes from whoever his father had been?
And he’d grown taller in the last few months. He could tell because his pants were too short. Time to visit Salvation Army. And his face? Pimples were rare now. His messy hair almost fit current styles. His nose was still too big, but his face wasn’t actually frightening. No horns. No fangs. Girls looked at him sometimes.
* * *
In February nothing needed mowing, but there was always trash to be bagged, stuff that visitors left behind, plus cups and wrappers the wind blew in off the street. Murray was picking a fast food sack out of the hedge at the cemetery’s north border when he heard somebody jogging through the leaves and downed branches behind him. Unusual. Most people were somber and dignified in cemeteries. He looked up and was surprised to see Pearl. Ordinarily she was quiet. She’d been known to sneak up and startle him just to watch him jump. So … in a rush today. Why?
Pearl didn’t seem like a cemetery caretaker’s daughter. Her skin wasn’t pale green, her head didn’t do three-sixties. She looked … well, gingery blond hair, tight curls, a decent face that didn’t need makeup; medium tall, a girl jock with muscles and the start of a figure. Actually, Murray thought she looked kind of pretty. But dangerous. Smart and stubborn. Went after what she wanted like a torpedo. Could get you to do things you’d rather not. Murray braced himself.
“Hey, Ghostbuster. I need your help.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’d rather pick up trash than talk to me?”
“Um…” At least half the time Pearl came around she had something she wanted Murray to do that was borderline risky. He’d learned to be careful about what he agreed to. “What kind of help?”
“Your special thing. Like the others.” Pearl held out a dirty wool stocking cap.
Murray didn’t get it. “What others?”
“Others with the gift. Clairvoyants.”
Murray stepped back onto the garbage bag and heard it rip. “Dang it, Pearl, don’t use that … I don’t … Leave me alone.”
“You just probably haven’t tried it before.” She pushed the cap toward him. “They hold something that the person wears or handles a lot and they get information.”
“What information?”
“Tell me where to find that down-and-out guy who walks around outside the gate all the time.”
“Try outside the gate.”
Pearl stuck out her tongue. Glared. “I have stuff for him.”
“Uh, why?” Murray couldn’t imagine.
“You know the ratty sleeping bag he carries? Dad and I got him a new one and a coat and some canned meat. I’m pretty sure he sleeps up in these hedges sometimes.”
Murray nodded. Both Pearl and Janochek did kind things for people all the time. Murray was one of them. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
Murray tried to remember. “Probably not for a week. Ask at the mission.”
“I did. Nothing. They didn’t recognize him.”
“How would they? You don’t even know his name, right?”
“That big red bump on his forehead? Like an infected boil? Pretty hard to miss. They said they’d never met him.”
“Yeah, so, what could I do? I’ll tell him you have stuff when I run into him.”
“No, you could actually find him.” Pearl held out the stocking cap again.
“You’re nuts. Even if that’s really his, you want me to read the label and tell you where he bought it or something?”
She stuck the cap out closer to his hand. “Just hold it and tell me what comes to you.”
Where do you even start with a request like that? Murray had never done anything like it. Would never do anything like it. Felt queasy just thinking about touching the smelly thing.
“I’ve been reading,” Pearl said, rummaging in her backpack like she was searching for a book. “Clairvoyants can hold somebody’s favorite pen and know where they’re hiding.”
Murray retreated another step, hearing paper and cans crunch under his feet.
Pearl shook her head, pursed her lips. “Don’t be such a pussy. Give it a shot.”
Text copyright © 2015 by Charlie Price
