4 - going for walk

At 3:00 PM I decided to go for a walk. I wasn’t sure I could get back before the storm but I was getting restless. Every day, I walked eight miles, four in the morning and four in the afternoon. Some days this was the only time I saw anybody, if not to talk to then at least to acknowledge with a nod and smile.

I closed both windows, removing the carved stick which propped up one window and put my book on the table. My faded blue shorts and the tee-shirt with the unraveling Escher head were still on the bed post where I hung them to dry after this morning’s walk. The shorts came from the Salvation Army and the tee shirt was four years old, a gift from my daughter on my 68th birthday. The condition of my clothes didn’t bother me much, although I was careful to wear good shoes. This weekend I would brave the perky boys at the sports shoe store and get another pair of out-of-style New Balance walking shoes.

I stepped into the hall. It was illuminated by a single bulb which was always on. The other doors were closed and there was no noise. None of other three men who had rooms on the second floor seemed to be at home.

I walked down the narrow stairwell. As I pushed open the creaking screen door to the back yard, Linda, the 25 year old elementary school teacher who lived on the first floor pulled into the gravel drive in her old Ford Escort, parking beside my rusted old Nissan Sentra. The smell of the gravel dust mixed with the smell of the coming rain. She walked toward to the stoop. She was wearing red flip-flops and a pink terry cloth robe which opened to reveal a black bikini. I assumed she had been swimming at the city park, near our place. Frowning, she said, “Hi Mr. Hamrick. You aren’t going out in this are you?“

I always liked seeing her. Studiously avoided her body, concentrating on her face, I said. “Oh, I won’t be out that long. I think we have an hour or so before it hits.“

She looked up at the clouds and shook her blonde head, still wet from swimming, “Well, they closed the pool because of the storm. If you get caught, go inside somewhere and give me a call. I’ll come and get you.”

She had insisted that I put her number on speed dial in case something happened while I was out. I answered, “You are a sweetheart.”

She smiled and went past me into the house. Her robe brushed my legs and I could smell the oil that still beaded on her skin. It was a peculiarly summer odor.

Shelby was a good walking town. (Is? I am not sure how to handle tense in a story in which time is not clear.) There were plenty of trees and the sidewalks were set back from the roads. Going down Marion and Warren streets, I could see turn-of-the-century houses that were listed on the Historic Register. Many were still well-kept. All had some connection to me, if only because of long proximity. Circling the square at the center of town I could look at the old courthouse and the statue of the Confederate soldier, facing West, not North as you might imagine. The business district that surrounded the square was somewhere between quaint and run-down. There were a number of boutiques operated by doctor’s and lawyer’s wives. Near the new courthouse many of the lawyers had offices. However, most of the businesses I remembered from my childhood were closed and when I walked by the empty stores I could smell mold and decay.

Today, because of the storm, I decided that I would only walk to the cemetery which wasn’t far from the rooming house. Bill Gold, an acquaintance from high school, had died two days ago and was now going to reside in the cemetery with other members of the class of ’57. I had stopped yesterday to contemplate the red clay hole in which Bill would spend eternity, which meant that the funeral tent ought to be up by today. I could find shelter there if I got caught.

I was going to need it. By the time I turned off Sumpter, past the Boy’s Club and the Episcopal church, entering the cemetery though the main gate, the storm was almost here. West, toward the mountains, lightning lit the clouds and thunder rumbled. The sky had become yellowish purple. It was going to be a good one. I was afraid and excited too. Maybe I would join old Bill today.

The cemetery had expanded in waves as sections were added to accommodate Shelby’s growth. The oldest part was near the entrance, through which I now walked at a fast pace. It contained graves going back to 1850. The very oldest headstones were plain granite slabs with barely legible inscriptions. Some had been pushed over or had just fallen. A line of 10 bronze crosses donated by the United Daughters of the Confederacy marked the graves of Southern soldiers who had died in various battles. Three Yankee graves were graced with stone crosses. None of the Northern boys had names.

The rain began to fall in large splatters and the maples that grew in this part of the cemetery tossed their tops. Suddenly, it was cold. I trotted now, past graves that were first occupied in the 20’s and 30’s. I jogged past two of my favorite markers. One was done in what I assumed to be an art deco style, asymmetrically decorated with three vertical lines of varying widths joined across the top by three horizontal lines. The other was a white granite obelisk, 25 feet tall, surrounded by a iron fence, with the words ‘My Loving Husband’ inscribed on the base. Framing the inscription with the bars of the fence, I once took a picture of the marker and, after adding some appropriately sentimental copy, sold the piece to the Daily Star, where I later worked as a writer, photographer and editor, off and on, for 40 years.

The rain became a wall of water; the wind roared and the lightning strikes were now continuous and nearby. Trees were being hit. Leaves and small limbs whirled by. In the distance, through the murk I could see a faint blue roof billowing against invisible stays. It was Bill’s tent. Running faster, I left the lane to proceed directly across several graves. I was struck by pure clean fear. My brain might joke about joining old Bill, but my body was scared shitless.

Suddenly, my feet stopped, as if grabbed by an invisible hand rising up from the grave below. I fell to my knees in the wet grass. Looking at the marker just a few feet away, barely able to see for the water in my eyes, I made out the words, Thompson Gaines Hamrick, Sr. That was my father’s name, my name. I lifted my arms. Face streaming with water and tears, I screamed, “I am…”. I was transfixed by blinding light. I heard the start of thunder then everything went black.