More Daydee Again

Daydee spent most of the next day recoating the red letters until finally you had to know where they had been to find any trace of them. In between coats, she showed the apartments and signed one more tenant up. She got a referral from Mark for another lawyer and called and hired him. She made an appointment with the bank to talk about the mortgage and then called the new lawyer back to have him come with her tomorrow to the bank. She finally sat down about four in the afternoon to work on writing the letter she was supposed to be writing that fired Edward and hired the new guy and was supposed to be sent to the guy at the bank as well as the probate judge that had her mother’s estate.

This was the hard part. She had never finished high school. She didn’t know any of the rules.  She found a letter from one of her mother’s credit card companies and decided to use it as a model. She would have to write it out in long hand and then drive to cemetery to type it up there, since the only typewriter was there. This would take a while. She didn’t know how to type either. She was certain that she was going to make a mistake that would make her sound dumb. She was tempted to call Sarah, but already felt obliged to her and she certainly didn’t want to appear stupid in front of the closest thing to a female friend she had ever had.

Why hadn’t she taken night classes or something? Did she really think her looks were going to last forever?  A part of her had thought that maybe there might be some rich old guy that might come along and take a fancy to her.  Well, there had been one guy, but his spindly legs and little pot belly was too off putting. He might have been worth something had she encouraged him. He was some kind of professor as well. He’d write her a letter. She thought of Mark, but it was too late in the afternoon now. He’d be going home soon. The first draft sounded like she was copying the credit card letter. So she started over just trying to write what she wanted to say. That was a little easier.  An hour later, she had a couple of paragraphs that she thought sounded ok. She grabbed her keys and purse and head out to the cemetery.

It was dinner time, so not a soul was out. She parked by the office and noticing the new mound of earth over the new grave, she reminded herself that she still had to order the marker for the grave. She unlocked the office and went in. The typewriter was electric at least and after playing around with discovered it could backspace and erase her mistake. What a wonderful thing. It was still time consuming. Her spelling had never been good, now trying to hunt and peck for the letters on the keyboard and at the same time remember how to spell the word correctly was too much. She had to stop and check the dictionary in the desk a couple of times as well.  She wasn’t able to find any carbon paper, so she was stuck retyping the same letter four times.

It was dark outside by the time she finished the last copy. The cemetery had no outside lighting except for a porch light over the office door, so the windows that had provided such a great view were now all mirrors, reflecting her at work. The dark glass didn’t show any age or wrinkles. Nice, she told herself, as she stretched when she finally got out of the chair. Not bad for an old broad.  She found a folder for the letters and some envelopes to take with and sat down again to look through the family’s file for what kind of marker to order.

A car door slammed loudly outside. She jumped. An engine gunned and skidded out the gravel drive. She hadn’t heard anyone drive up. This was scary. She went to the closet for something to use if she had to protect herself. There was an old rake. And a shotgun. Shit! She grabbed it. She knew nothing about guns.  She had no idea of how to look to see if it was loaded. She ran and flicked the lights off inside and out, and after a moment went out. It was dark and she couldn’t see a thing. Reaching in, she turned the porch light back on. There was no sign of the car she had just heard. She walked out to look around the corner of the building. There were taillights about a block away. What was that all about? She turned toward her truck. There on the side was those letters she had just painted over on her front door. ‘Whore’ in red spray paint again. God damn them! There was a hose coiled in front of a spigot by the office door. She put down the shotgun and turned the water on and dragged the hose over to the truck. She sprayed the hell out of it. The paint was still wet and a lot of it washed off. She scratched at the remainder with her fingernails.   You couldn’t tell what had been written there, thank god. She went around to the shed for a rag or towel to rub it some more and found some dish soap as well and went back to work on it some more. Most of it was coming off.

At this point, she was as wet and soapy as the side of the truck. She checked the other side. They had been quick and not thorough. She worked some more to make sure there was no trace left.

“And it wasn’t over there, it was over here,” someone said behind her.

She turned. There was an old man, in rags, and as dirty as sin, sitting on the front step with the shotgun in his hands. He seemed to be looking at it. He didn’t seem too interested in her or what she was doing.

“Hello,”  she said.

 “It wasn’t much to lookee see,” he was saying to himself.

“That’s my gun.”

He cocked his head as if listening for something. He gently put it down on the stoop and stood up slowly. It was an effort to get to his feet. He looked very old and rickety. He wouldn’t look at her.

“Here is over there,” he said to the night and shambled across the drive and started off toward the back of the cemetery

“Did you see who tagged my truck?” she yelled after him.

He turned but not all the way. He was talking to the mound of earth nearby.

“Just a lookee see, little dede, just a lookee see. No harm no runs no hits.”

He disappeared into the darkness. She picked up the shotgun. She got it open to find it had two shells in it. But they were probably real old. How long had it sat in that closet. She removed them, with the idea of buying new shells. She would need them to figure out what to buy. Were there lessons on how to shoot a gun?  She was sure any one of these guys around here would be willing to show her. Frank, the sharecropper would love it, so he could demonstrate his superiority. She took it back in and replaced it in the closet. There weren’t any other ammunition for it. She threw the shells in her purse and gathered up her paperwork and the folders on the marker. She’s figure it out at home. It was too spooky out here by herself. She found a flashlight in the desk.  She was afraid of turning on the lights again and making herself a sitting duck. She locked up and put walked out with the dim light. It needed new batteries. She put everything in the truck and climbed up.

Something struck her as she was about to start the engine. She pulled the key out. The old man had called her little dede.  She climbed back out and started off across the cemetery on foot, following the direction that the old man had gone in. This is real stupid, she told herself. She found him about fifty yards beyond the back boundary of the grounds. The was a little grove of trees and bushes that was never mowed and the weeds were high. He was sitting on the ground next to a shopping cart full of junk, cardboard and plastic bags filled with god knew what. He had an old smelly blanket on the ground and another wrapped over his shoulders. The flashlight was barely working now. He really reeked. He smelled like roofing tar.

She put the light on his face. He looked away and hid under a hand.

“Just a lookee see, for god’s sake!”

She didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to be wrong or right. She was afraid to say it.

“Father?”

“Oh nooo, No god here, no over there, no god here. Oh nooo.”

She watched him. He hid under the blanket and she moved the light away from where his face had been. She needed to get out of here and think this over. The flashlight would die and she would trip and stumble in getting out of here.

“I’ll come back,” she said and turned to flee.

She wasn’t sure at all. If this was her father then who was buried in the ground with the marker? She hurried back to the truck and left as quick as she could. Part of her was afraid he might follow her back out.  God, she hoped no one tagged the apartment again while she was away. Shit!