Train Wreck Girl by Sean Carswell Page B

my mind, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking that maybe it wasn’t all true. Maybe he didn’t really have that heart attack. There was something about that story that I never believed. How does a forty-fouryear-old guy have a heart attack? Especially one that kills him? And what kind of cause of death is a heart attack? Doesn’t everyone’s heart attack at the end? Isn’t saying someone died of a heart attack the same thing as saying someone died of death? It didn’t make sense. Why should I believe it?
    I’d first heard the news back in November. I happened to call Joe the day after it happened. Some broad I’d never met answered the phone. She had this rough, lifetime smoker’s voice. I wondered what bar Joe had picked her up at and how long she’d been around. I asked for Joe and she said, “No, honey, he’s dead.” Just like that.
    She gave me the details, but it all seemed unreal. I didn’t want to believe it. And part of me didn’t believe it.
    But here I was, standing over Brother Joe’s grave marker. Reading it. They even got his name right: Joe Cully McGregor. None of that Joseph shit. He was never a Joseph. Not even on his birth certificate. Just Joe.
    And the marker was here in the cemetery of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. Joe was right there with the rest of my family. My dad’s marker was there. My mom’s. My oldest brother, who died in Vietnam before I could get a chance to know him. My grandparents, who were old memories before I was born. McGregors and Cullys stretching back to the late eighteenth century. All gathered around under these ancient live oaks and the hanging Spanish moss and the shadows of the old chapel. That’s it, I realized. It’s just me and Janie now. There were six of us when I was born. Now there were two.
    I don’t know if it was tougher to see Libra mutilated and dead on the tracks or to see nothing left of Joe but a grave marker. I don’t know which was worse. Or maybe they were equally bad. Just different. I don’t know.
    Bart stood next to me. I wondered if he’d ever brought a forty out here and poured beer on Joe’s grave. That old tribute kinda thing. Probably not. Bart dealt with death all the time at his second job. He probably knew how to deal with it. Better than me, anyway. Better than always running from it and denying it. I don’t know. At least Bart knew not to say anything until I did. Not to make a joke or pat me on the back or anything. He just stood there until I said, “You’re not the one who picked up the body, are you?”
    â€œNah.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYeah. It happened during the day. I work nights.” Bart knelt down and picked off the grass that hung over the marker. “I think Joe made it to the hospital, anyway. I think he died there.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” I said. I don’t know why I said it.
    Bart and I stood there for a little bit, just looking at Joe’s name and “1955-1999.” Too young to die. Too old to die young. Finally, I said, “You think you could hook me up with your night job?”
    â€œReally?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSure,” Bart said. “You could probably start next week.”
    I took one last look at Joe, then walked away. Maybe picking up dead people would help. Maybe it was exactly what I needed.

17
Bart’s Homemade Death Tests
    I’d seen exactly three dead bodies outside of caskets. The first was when I was twelve. My buddy Rick and I were hanging out at his house after school. I went into his garage to grab us a couple of sodas from the refrigerator there. I found his dad’s body hanging from the garage door opener, an orange electric chord around his neck, a puddle of urine at his feet. I added my own puddle of vomit to the garage floor.
    The second was an old man. He’d been driving in front of me when he lost control and slammed