Headboards And Tombstones It was a few weeks after the boyfriend killed Smith and Jones, and after Woody had died in his bath tub. The police had searched and searched, but had not found the boyfriend anywhere in Los Angeles County. He hadn’t been hiding though, it was just that he left no evidence for them to track him. His guns were clean, at least as clean record wise as he could have them. His life was not troubled with records. He was perfect for what he was doing, and what he must continue to do. He was staying in a cheap motel in an out of the way place. He laid in his bed and smoked, or went out to the coffee shop across the street. He took long showers and thought of Mary. That was all he could really think about, Mary. It was in his mind of every minute of every day. And everything reminded him of Mary. Every cigarette he smoked reminded him of the one he would smoke after they made love, or the one he would smoke while they were out eating. Or even the one they would smoke together while driving around town. But it was her memory that kept him going. And after a while, he began to think about going out and finding her body so that she could have a proper burial or ceremony with her parents. Or something along those lines. He just wanted some form of closure, and if this is what it took, then he would kill everyone then find her remains. Or maybe he would just let her remains be. But for now, he would sit in this cheap motel for a while, smoke cigarettes and watch television or listen to the clock radio while the heat died down from these investigations. The police didn’t have anything on him, at least he thought they didn’t have anything on him. They didn’t know his name, he was never arrested, he wore gloves when he loaded the bullets. There was no file on him because he didn’t official exist. He knew though, even as he lay in bed half naked smoking cigarettes and reading a cheap paperback novel while listening to the radio what had to be done, and that was sweet revenge. He believe that anything he did would never really end the pain of his beloved being lost, but it would definitely ease the hurt of her memory and in time even chill his angry bones. He had so many things on his mind, and he just thought about who he was going to kill next. Joe Castalino, the deputy he knew for sure now was responsible for most of Mary’s pain before she died. How he knew this, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew. He was listening to an oldies station, one of those with the monotone disc jockey who blabbered on about how this song was great because of some memory he had in high school of a girl he once knew, and he made out to it. Then he back sold some songs, like Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water,” and finally front sold the next song before putting it on. It was Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Suddenly, without any idea of what was going on, he began to think about Mary, and one incredible night they spent together, lying in the bed talking. And with this memory, he began to sob. * * * “American Pie” had a major significance to his relationship, because it was the song that was playing in the background when he proposed to Mary. They had finished making love, and they were laying in bed with each other, and they were talking. It was the conversation. The two of them had talked about marriage before, but in a fantastical way, a way that wasn’t exactly serious, but at the same time they thought it might be. So, when he asked her if she wanted to get married, she was hesitant on answering. And she gave him the only answer she could give him. The ‘I don’t know…’ answer. He hated that answer with a passion. That meant that she didn’t really want to talk about it, and that always pissed him off. “Why?” “Because…” She began to form a thought, but then let it die. She was toying with him now, and she knew it. He waited for her to answer, but then he realized what was going on and that she wasn’t going to finish. She bit her lower lip in a seductive way and looked at him longingly, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to shut up and make love again. “What were you going to say?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, you were going to say something but then decided not to. Don’t give me that bullshit ‘I don’t know’ answer either. You know, you just don’t want to say it.” He was completely calm while saying this. He wasn’t angry, even though the words said another way would have sounded angry. Mary knew this sort of tone he gave her, knew it was playful. “Okay, well, there’s a problem with us getting married right now.” “Why?” “Well, first off there is our little business. We’d have to stop that. Secondly, I want to finish school first, and get a real job. A job where I don’t have to carry a gun all the damn time.” He sat up, and sighed. “What?” she asked, still giving him that playful seductive look. “Well, Mary, you could still finish school. I don’t care what you do for a living. I know you want to finish school, and I know you don’t like carrying a gun with you all the time. But that’s what we’ve gotten ourselves into. This is the life we lead. We live by the sword, we die by the sword.” “I know that. Don’t lecture me.” She rolled her eyes like a teenager would when her mother is lecturing her on making out with the boys after fourth period literature class. He sat for a moment. He didn’t know what to think now. “Mary,” he said, “I love you. I’ve always loved you from the first time I saw you. I can’t imagine my life without you. I will love you for the rest of my life and throughout eternity. I want to marry you.” “I know you do. I want to marry you too, but not right now.” His thoughts began to drift to other things. He barely breathed for fear of disturbing the moment, but his thoughts still drifted to others matters besides his wanting to marry. He was still thinking about his marriage, and silently making a decision in that bed, one that would effect his life for the rest of his years. “American Pie” was still playing the background, and it had gotten to the part about a “generation lost in space, with no time left to start again…” And he thought about how appropriate the song was to his life, about how much the lyrics about the couple dancing in the gym reflected his relationship with Mary. And how much Woody was the Jester in the song. Woody would not be stealing his thorny crown. “You know, it’s funny that beds are kind of like graves,” he said randomly, yet philosophically. “How So?” Mary asked, sitting up in bed for this bit of conversation. The sheets fell down a bit, so that her breasts were exposed to the air. “Look at it.” He turned to the headboard, pointing at it. “We lay on a bed, people lay in graves. A bed has a headboard, a grave has a tombstone. Both mark a place to where people’s heads lie, and which end their feet are. You make up a bed, sometimes even laying flowers on it for your lover.” He looked at her as he said the last line, grinning a bit. He had once left a trail of rose petals from the living room to the bedroom, and covered the bed with them. He was somewhat of a hopeless romantic when it came things like that. “Interesting,” she said, and began to push him back down on the bed. She maneuvered herself on top of him, kissing him on the lips. “Plus, the old west is the perfect example of this. Routinely, they would use wood slats or crosses to mark graves. Why? Because stone was so hard to come by in small towns across the west. Mind you, they used Stone too, but not as much as wood. Obviously, stone tombstones are more fancy than a wooden one, but sometimes that’s what you got.” “They are also not as fancy as a headboard darling.” “Well, yeah. But still much like a headboard. Maybe that is why death is called the ‘eternal sleep.’” “Hmm.” “That was sort of random, wasn’t it?” “Yeah.” “So you don’t want to get married yet, but you do want to get married?” He had abruptly changed the subject. This is one thing that Mary absolutely hated but loved about him. “Yeah,” she answered. “So you just want to continue being in a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship, or should I propose to you?” “Is this a proposal?” she asked, her eyebrow raised in a way that was questioning, yet also mischievous. She was still on top of him, looking down. “Well, yeah.” “Real romantic, you know that?” “I’m just full of romance, don’t you know?” “Liar.” “Bite me.” “Mmmm, where?” “Don’t tempt me.” “Fuck you. Now propose right.” “No.” “Yes, I win times infinity. Now propose to me right.” “What, you want me to get down off the bed, ring and all, and get on one knee and say ‘Mary, I love you. Will you marry me? Not right now of course, but will you eventually marry me?’” “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” “Won’t do it!” “Why not!?!” “Because, I don’t want to.” “That’s not a satisfactory answer.” “Bite me, hard.” “Mmmm, where?” She kissed him. And they made love again. * * * He sat still in bed, the radio still blaring the lyrics and melody to “American Pie.” It was one of their songs, and now it wasn’t one of their songs. It was just another song that he thought was good. It was ending though, and all he could do was sob to think about the good times he had with Mary while it played in the background. He finished his cigarette, and got up out of the bed. I need a cup of coffee, he thought. A strong cup of coffee, with lots of sugar, and pancakes with a side of bacon. He didn’t know what time it was, but he knew it was morning and that he had not eaten since last night. He was hungry, and maybe the pancakes would cheer him up a little bit. Pancakes would be very good right now, he thought. He went to the dresser across from his bed. He put on a pair of dark blue jeans and a belt that were laying on the floor beside the dresser. He grabbed the holster that were strewn on the back of the chair beside the dresser, but laid them on the bed. He tucked in t-shirt, a black one. He checked the guns to see if they were loaded. First, he ejected the magazine from one, and checked to see how many rounds it had in it. They were little pieces of revenge, these bullets made of brass and lead, filled with gunpowder. The four hundred pounds of force that the gunpowder, when exploded would enter the body like no other knife. It could shatter bone and slice through tissue and muscle finally tumbling to a halt inside someone, causing them to bleed like a stuck pig. He checked the other gun in much the same way. Then he slid his boots on, and slipped the small Heckler and Koch .40 caliber Compact automatic pistol into his right boot. He knew for sure that this one was loaded. He had retrieved it from under his pillow. He slid into his jacket, and put the holster on around his waist. The guns were concealed perfectly under this loose fitting jacket. He made sure that he had extra magazines for his guns in the outer pockets of this particular jacket. He grabbed his keys, and began to slip the rings on his fingers. The rings. The were three rings he wore on his fingers. One on his right hand, and two on his left. One was the ring he wore for when he became an Eagle Scout. It was hard to imagine him, a cold blooded killer an Eagle Scout. But once he was. His project he did, in order to become an Eagle Scout was to build a walking trail in a park. He had gotten a grant from the local and state government for this work, worth a few hundred thousand dollars. He built the walking bridges and park benches himself, but hired a crew for the actual trail. When it was completed, everyone was happy. Dogs were walked by owners on the trial, runners used it every morning and night. The government even built a playground in the middle of the long circuit for kids to play on. And everyone enjoyed the work that he did. And this ring was a reminder of all their happiness. The second ring was one he had bought in college. It was a skull on a silver band. It was a reminder that one thing that was certain in life was death, and their was no escaping it’s icy grip. It also reminded him that death was also all around him. People had originally thought that he bought it to look like a badass, but he was deeper than that. And that rang true now more than ever. That death was all around him, and you couldn’t escape it. Finally, the last ring was a plain silver band. It was one that Mary had given him on their 1st Anniversary. He spun it around his finger with his right hand, since he wore it on his left index finger. It spun around and around, until he was thinking about what she said to him when she gave it to him. “This is a symbol,” she had said, “of my love to you. Please, my darling, wear it always.” He even remembered his reply, “I will. I love you.” He turned, and thought he heard someone at the door. There was a knocking, louder this time. He drew one of his guns. “Housekeeping!” a girl’s voice boomed. She was apparently used to this job. He holstered his gun before she began to jiggle the handle. He breathed deeply, and grabbed his cigarettes and Zippo from the nightstand. Finally, he picked up his wallet and slipped it into the back left pocket of his jeans. The door opened just as he was about to open it. He looked at the maid. She was Hispanic, maybe from Central America somewhere. “Excuse me, sir,” she said apologetically. “No, excuse me. I was just leaving to go get some breakfast.” “Sir, would you like me to turn down the bed before I leave?” “No, thank you.” “Yes sir. Enjoy your meal.” “Don’t work to hard Senorita.” “No sir, I won’t.” She looked down as he passed. She was young for a motel maid. How old was she, seventeen, eighteen? She was attractive, to say the least. But she was too young to have to work this hard. It wasn’t fair to say the least, that she should have to work this hard. At this point though, nothing was fair. He shut the door behind him, leaving her to clean and him to sadness in his food. He was hungry after all, and pancakes would taste very good in this state of depression. Very good indeed. When he got back to the room after eating pancakes and drinking coffee, he realized something about the conversation he remembered he’d had with Mary the night he proposed to Mary. That he was laying in a bed with a headboard, and that she was dead with a grave or a tombstone. Life was about headboards for them, lying in bed after making love and enjoying the conversation afterwards. And death was about the eternal sleep, lying in a grave with a tombstone. The dead didn’t talk after they died though, and that was the important difference between the living and the dead— the conversation. And now Mary had neither a headboard or a tombstone. Nothing to be remembered by. Their bed had been burned, and her body could not be buried. This made him sad and angry. Very, very angry. So he looked at his watch and thought for a while. Where was Joe Castalino? If anyone needed to be punished for what he did, it was Joe. He would have to die. He would be lucky to have a tombstone if it was up to him. Very, very lucky.
Copyright © 2004 Kevin Myrick |