the next morning
and take them to the cemetery.
With a fistful of flowers in one hand and a travel mug
of coffee in the other, I went out to the cemetery just after 6:30 the next
morning. Rather than walk along the roadside, I trudged through Bruner’s
field to enter from the far side of the cemetery.
Upon arriving, I quickly realized that Aunt Paula’s
rumor mill was operating at full capacity and that my letters to Beatrice Hart
and Phyllis Ross seemed to have started something of a trend, as there were a
handful of headstones adorned with letters. Some stuck on with masking
tape, others placed gently in the plants and bushes surrounding the graves, one
clipped to the pipes of a wind chime, another placed in the open palms of a
weeping angel. And those were just the ones I could see. Perhaps
there were others more discretely hidden. Perhaps
others that had already been read and removed. What a weird little
phenomenon I had unwittingly instigated. And what a weird little sense of
joy it brought me.
As I approached Katie’s grave, a bird took to flight
from a tree branch above. Wings flapping mightily and it took an arched path downward, spreading its
wings wide across and gliding parallel to both heaven and earth. It
landed atop a headstone about thirty feet from where I stood, facing the
opposite direction. On the ground in front of it, an envelope stuck out
from beneath a small heavy rock.
The bird looked to be a falcon or a hawk of some
sort. I stood silent and marveled at its beauty, the sheer majesty.
Wondered at the curious flight it had taken.
Then, after a moment, that bird did a remarkable
thing. It turned around and it faced me from atop its stony perch. The eyes seemed
human, old and wise. Its white and brown-speckled chest heaved slightly
but steadily. Our eyes locked for a second, maybe two, and then it
suddenly expanded and flapped its wings heavily, flying off in an arched path
upward and away from me. In its wake, a single brown feather floated back
down and landed on the ground on top of the envelope.
Watch for feathers
I walked to the grave and picked up the feather.
Then I looked at the headstone it had fallen in front of. A simple engraving on a small and simple stone.
James Johnson
1953-1982
James Jo hnson?
Did I know that name? And then I realized…this was Slim Jim.
Something about seeing his real name made me sad. Whatever James Johnson
had been at the start of his life, he had wound up something else at the end of
it. From James Johnson to Slim Jim. From love to hate. From a hopeful
beginning to a tragic ending. Just like Katie and Ethan in that
way.
This didn’t make any sense. Who would leave a
letter at Slim Jim’s grave? He had no family or friends here to read
it. Nobody cared about this child killer.
Except maybe for whoever paid for his burial.
I bent down and pulled the letter out from under the
rock. It was unaddressed and unsealed. Feeling a little guilty for
what I was about to do, I looked around and saw that I was still alone in this
death field. Somewhere along the way I had dropped Katie’s flowers,
forgetting the reason I had come here in the first place.
I pulled the letter out of the unsealed envelope and
unfolded it to see a single word on the sheet of paper. A single word
that instantly spawned a million questions about the past.
Innocent
Later that night, I sat alone in the kitchen staring
down at that one-word letter. I flipped it over and turned it upside
down, but there was just that one word. I gently pressed out the creases,
but found no answers in the folds and wrinkles. I held it above me and
let light shine through, but nothing was revealed. It was just that one
word, but it carried the heaviness of certainty. Did Charlie write this? It seemed unlikely. He
had been willing enough to discuss his theories with me at Mustang’s even
though we
and take them to the cemetery.
With a fistful of flowers in one hand and a travel mug
of coffee in the other, I went out to the cemetery just after 6:30 the next
morning. Rather than walk along the roadside, I trudged through Bruner’s
field to enter from the far side of the cemetery.
Upon arriving, I quickly realized that Aunt Paula’s
rumor mill was operating at full capacity and that my letters to Beatrice Hart
and Phyllis Ross seemed to have started something of a trend, as there were a
handful of headstones adorned with letters. Some stuck on with masking
tape, others placed gently in the plants and bushes surrounding the graves, one
clipped to the pipes of a wind chime, another placed in the open palms of a
weeping angel. And those were just the ones I could see. Perhaps
there were others more discretely hidden. Perhaps
others that had already been read and removed. What a weird little
phenomenon I had unwittingly instigated. And what a weird little sense of
joy it brought me.
As I approached Katie’s grave, a bird took to flight
from a tree branch above. Wings flapping mightily and it took an arched path downward, spreading its
wings wide across and gliding parallel to both heaven and earth. It
landed atop a headstone about thirty feet from where I stood, facing the
opposite direction. On the ground in front of it, an envelope stuck out
from beneath a small heavy rock.
The bird looked to be a falcon or a hawk of some
sort. I stood silent and marveled at its beauty, the sheer majesty.
Wondered at the curious flight it had taken.
Then, after a moment, that bird did a remarkable
thing. It turned around and it faced me from atop its stony perch. The eyes seemed
human, old and wise. Its white and brown-speckled chest heaved slightly
but steadily. Our eyes locked for a second, maybe two, and then it
suddenly expanded and flapped its wings heavily, flying off in an arched path
upward and away from me. In its wake, a single brown feather floated back
down and landed on the ground on top of the envelope.
Watch for feathers
I walked to the grave and picked up the feather.
Then I looked at the headstone it had fallen in front of. A simple engraving on a small and simple stone.
James Johnson
1953-1982
James Jo hnson?
Did I know that name? And then I realized…this was Slim Jim.
Something about seeing his real name made me sad. Whatever James Johnson
had been at the start of his life, he had wound up something else at the end of
it. From James Johnson to Slim Jim. From love to hate. From a hopeful
beginning to a tragic ending. Just like Katie and Ethan in that
way.
This didn’t make any sense. Who would leave a
letter at Slim Jim’s grave? He had no family or friends here to read
it. Nobody cared about this child killer.
Except maybe for whoever paid for his burial.
I bent down and pulled the letter out from under the
rock. It was unaddressed and unsealed. Feeling a little guilty for
what I was about to do, I looked around and saw that I was still alone in this
death field. Somewhere along the way I had dropped Katie’s flowers,
forgetting the reason I had come here in the first place.
I pulled the letter out of the unsealed envelope and
unfolded it to see a single word on the sheet of paper. A single word
that instantly spawned a million questions about the past.
Innocent
Later that night, I sat alone in the kitchen staring
down at that one-word letter. I flipped it over and turned it upside
down, but there was just that one word. I gently pressed out the creases,
but found no answers in the folds and wrinkles. I held it above me and
let light shine through, but nothing was revealed. It was just that one
word, but it carried the heaviness of certainty. Did Charlie write this? It seemed unlikely. He
had been willing enough to discuss his theories with me at Mustang’s even
though we
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