Small Tales from the Keep
Helicopters
As the Worm Turns
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My Name is Jo Waloski and It is October 1999
A Piece of Tail
Sex in the Graveyard
Written in Stone
Helicopters
The helicopters were searching to the west. I could hear the whomp, whomp, whomp in the distance. Occasionally the growl of a four-wheel drive would echo across the woods. So many people searching, looking.
I got to the willow tree where I left Sara's body. She was dangling from a fork in the branches 10 feet above the ground. The birds had found her body. They scattered in a flurry of feathers and squawks. As I climbed closer, the wind shifted and the smell came. I finally reached the body. Tugging at her arm, I tried to get her loose from the clutches of the tree. Her arm fell into my hands.
I finally got the rest of her body down from the tree. I spent the remaining hours of the day carrying her pieces back to the hole I dug under the oak tree behind the house. Only one helicopter flew overhead. He didn't see me. I was under the trees.
The next day the helicopters and four-wheel drives were working the woods to the south. I went north. The land looked so different in the light of day. I couldn't find Sam's body. Finally the smell led me to the corpse. The small body lay under a fallen tree in direct sunlight. The rot had already swelled the belly five times its normal size. As I stepped closer my feet sunk into the mixture of ooze and mud surrounding the body. I tried to gently shift the corpse from under the tree but the belly split open. Fumes engulfed me.
I tried to back away. But my boots caught in the mud. When I managed to pull free from the mud's grip, I was missing my right boot. The mud felt warm as it oozed between my toes. I slipped the boot on and tried another grip on the body.
It took another six hours to work Sam's body, through the brush and trees, back to the hole I had dug.
A helicopter finally saw me as I walked back to the house with the shovel. It circled for a short time until I heard the sound of a four-wheel drive coming up the road. The helicopter whomped north leaving me with the mud covered sheriff's SUV and the two deputies coming from the vehicle.
"John, we didn't think you would come back home. We've got to take you back."
"I'm not leaving."
"John, don't make it hard on yourself. You have to come with us."
"I just buried Sara and Sam. I am staying with them."
"You can't stay. The flood took most of your house away. You can't live here in the flood plain without shelter and higher ground. It is suppose to start raining again soon."
"Who said I wanted to live?"
A helicopter flew overhead drowning out all conversation.
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As the Worm Turns
I woke with a splitting headache. Pulling my head off the desk, I tried to open my eyes. I rubbed the crust from the lashes. Finally able to focus, I saw a gaudy stylized fish move across the computer screen. It was George's idea of a screen saver. I preferred my tropical island but when the authorities raided my lab all I was able to get away with was my USB JumpDrive and Sheila, my three year old Himalayan cat.
I opened the email program and loaded the addresses, stopping when the 'send' command came up.
The pre-paid cell-phone was next to me. It took a matter of seconds for the call to go through.
"Hello. This is Bank of..."
Just then Sheila jumped on my lap. Her back leg touched the keyboard. The computer beeped and sent the emails.
"Never mind. It's too late."
I stroked Sheila's fur listening to her rumble from deep inside. I turned on CNN and watched my worm bring the world's banks down.
They shouldn't of bounced my check.
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My Name is Jo Waloski and It is October 1999
The first time I repeated the phrase, "My name is Jo Waloski and it is October," was the fall of my junior year of high school. It was Thursday. We were having a skirmish after school for the big game on Friday. I was running the ball around the weak end of the line when I was blindsided by Tim Bruznokov. The next things I remember were the coaches trying to get me to repeat my name, the day of the week, and the month. That was nearly thirty years ago. That was when I got my bad knee. After two months in a walking cast I thought my leg was as good as new.
The following year I was a senior. It was a cold wet October day. My team was in the Regional playoffs for the Ohio State class AA. I tripped on a helmet left on the ground during practice a week before the big game. I hobbled to the game on crutches only to see us lose. Over the years since high school the pain in the knee got worse. Finally, I had to use a cane. With the start of the fall weather this year, I finally was forced to do something about the pain. My doctor said that with othroscopic surgery most, if not all, of the pain would be eliminated. He gave me the choice of being awake and watching them cut open my knee or being put to sleep during the surgery. I couldn't stand the thought of watching. I made the worst mistake of my life.
I got to the hospital at eight in the morning. With no solids or liquids to eat since the night before my stomach kept growling during the signing of the inevitable forms. I undressed and got into one of those stupid hospital gowns. Holding the back of the gown together I climbed into bed so the waiting nurse could start an IV. The drugs in the IV soon made me groggy but never brought me to unconsciousness. I felt hands lift me onto a gurney and wheel me down the hall. I listened to the orderlies talk about the football game the night before. The Steelers won 10 to 7.
Out of the darkness I heard a female voice say, "The doctors are running late. Just park him next to other one in the hallway."
I drifted in time. I could hear talk and people moving, but all I did was drift in place.
My gurney moved! A voice said, "What does the chart say? I'm looking for Joseph Maloski."
"That's this one," was the hurried reply. As my gurney moved I tried to yell. "My name is Joseph Waloski." Helpless, I was down the hall. I stopped and was lifted onto another table. Music was softly playing in the background. I heard the tinkle of instruments and the beeps of electronics.
An authoritative voice announced, "Okay, People let's make sure we have everything ready."
"Did anyone check with the lab? Good. I want the biopsy results stat. We don't want to wait any longer than we have to. Not with a man's chest cracked open. Do we?"
"Yes doctor. The lab knows we will be sending a sample down."
"Okay, let's get this show on the road. Turn up the volume please."
A Conway Twitty song blasted from the radio as I felt the intense pain as a knife splitting open my chest. I needed to do something about the intense pain. Scream, bite, hit, grab. In my mind I yelled, "My name is Jo Waloski." Paralyzed I just tried to ride out the pain surging out of my chest. Then the whining of a saw and smell of burning bone, smells and sounds half remembered from the dentist office.
"Rib spreader."
A force pressed down, I prayed for oblivion to come.
"Knife"
"What is this? This lung looks healthy."
"Oh my God! We've got the wrong patient!"
I finally fainted. It was hard to come back. I know I was moving again. I heard voices that sounded like whispers of reality. The gurney I was on hit a wall and I awoke. I tried to move but the drugs still paralyzed my body. Finally I understood what the voices were saying.
"Hey, did you hear what happened to this guy."
"No what?"
"Surgery got him mixed up with another guy and wheeled him into the wrong room."
"You're kidding?"
"No fact."
"The funniest thing about it is that they never had a chance to operate. I guess the anesthesia and the lung cancer was too much for him."
"Too bad for Joseph Maloski."
"I hate this place. It gives me the creeps."
"Me too."
"Let's just leave him here."
I tried to yell, "My name is Jo Waloski and I am alive." But nothing moved in my body.
"The morgue attendant can take care of the paperwork tomorrow."
I heard the door lock behind them when they left. Couldn't anyone in this hospital read? Maybe when they found Joseph Maloski's body they would discover their mistake? Unless-he was already here in the morgue with me.
It's been hours, maybe minutes. Time has little meaning when you are paralyzed. I can feel my body coming out from the anesthesia, but I can also feel the cold of the sterile room penetrating my body. One paralysis is being replaced with another. I can't move my arms or legs. But I found out that I can whisper.
"My name is Jo Waloski. It is October 1999 and I am still alive."
I've been trying to keep awake. It is so hard. Everything is so heavy. I can hear the clock ticking and the dripping of water in some steel sink. Occasionally I hear voices and movement in the hallway.
"My name is Jo Waloski."
I somehow know that if I lose consciousness again I will never wake up.
Tick tock drip drop tick tock drip drop tick.
"My name is Jo Waloski and it is October 1999."
Damn it. I am not going to die until I see the new millennium.
"My name is Jo Waloski…"
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A Piece of Tail
She was bugging the hell out of me. Every time I would drift off to sleep, she would give me a nudge. Finally fed up, I rolled over and just touched the skin in her inner thighs with my nails. I could feel the flesh under my nails start to quiver. She got the message and her hands came down on my back with some force. She rubbed the flesh on my back and worked her way to my shoulder. Completely relaxed, I let her dislocate my shoulder from my body and rotate the joint back and forth. With my free paw, I continued to knead her inner thigh. The quivering of her flesh sent thrills up my leg that reminded me of the death throws of a mouse. A rumble started deep within me as I finally got my chance to sleep.
I woke in the air halfway to the doorstep with the cool night breeze hitting me in my face. "Time for you to wake up," her voice said from the doorway. "You can't sleep all day plus all night."
Starting with my nose, I stretched every joint, one joint at a time. By the time I was done, I was fully awake. A quick cleaning to get all my fur in place and I was ready for a night on the town.
I started down the alley. The fresh dirt filled my nose with scents. I padded along ignoring the sounds of the neighborhood. A rustle! My ears panned forward to the noise. My whiskers extended giving me marks to line up on. Without breaking stride, I leaped catching the many-legged thing in my paws. Crunch. I loved the way fat juicy insects first snapped open in my jaws and then filled my mouth with rich ooze. I took my time cleaning the juice from my whiskers so I could enjoy every last bit of ooze.
Twenty yards further down the alley I caught the scent of my favorite spot, the cemetery. I wiggled my head through the brush and weeds growing along the perimeter fence. My body followed my head and I was inside. Fresh turned dirt. I let my paws work into the fresh loam. No worms. So I squatted down and relieved myself. I worked the fresh dirt between the toes. Boy, they were ready. I needed a small rodent. My weapons were begging to be used.
Ah, there was my perch. The rough stone monument made it easy to climb. The stone cooled my fur-clad body through my paws on warm summer nights like this one. I raised my head and started to sing. Two dogs on the south side of the cemetery joined in before I finished the first chorus. Another Tomcat down the street joined a little later. I settled down on my perched and watched my domain.
What was that, a rustle three stones down? Ears rotated while I watch. I felt my tail start to dance. The breeze changed and her scent came to me. She wasn't in heat, but she was very friendly. What! She had a fresh mouse in her teeth. "Yowwwll, Prrrreoh, meeeoh" She joined me with a rumbling purr. Our tails dance to the music we were making.
It was still alive! She let me play with it. Ah, the joy of feeling a small body jerking on the end of your claws. Our tails danced as we played with the little rodent. Finally with a growl, she took the mouse from me. I listened to the exquisite sounds of the tiny skull being crushed and swallowed. A few shoulder drops on each other, a few more twitches with our tails and she left. I went back along the fence line looking for things to kill.
The sun was up. A few scratches and a yeol and she opened the door. She had on the thick heavy robe. She carried me to the kitchen filled with food smells. I watched her eat then curled into her lap. Her rich heavy smell wafted over me from between her legs. A deep rumbling came unbidden from my body. From the corner of my eyes, I watched a piece of my tail dance to the rumbling tune. Life was good and I closed my eyes.
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Sex in the Graveyard
I always liked the quiet walk by the old cemetery. This was my final year in college and the first time I had an interest in anyone of the opposite sex while at the same time having a light enough class load to make romance possible. My girlfriend's name was Sheila. She had caught my eye the first time she walked in the math class I taught as a teaching assistant. Even with my part-time job I was so short on money that I had to live on campus as a floor rep. with all the insanity of trying to supervise twenty college students and still study. Sheila also lived in the dorms with three other roommates. That is why we started to go for late night walks, to be alone. The six blocks from the campus to the cemetery was just the right length for romance to bloom. It was the only time and place for a date that either of us could afford with both our busy schedules and money problems.
Tonight was one of those wonderful warm fall nights. I picked Sheila up outside her dorm at ten o'clock. Two blocks from the college we entered the residential area of town and Sheila leaned into my body as we walked. I closed my eyes for a time so I could feel her body sway against me with no distractions. When we got to the silent streets next to the graveyard we had our first kiss. Every inch of her body pressed against mine as we breathed in the warm night air together. A car full of kids swung past honking their horn and yelling rude remarks at us. We tried walking past but both of us wanted the other's body.
The cemetery gate was only meant to block car traffic. We slid between the gates. The night was perfect. There was enough of a warm breeze to rustle the leaves still on the trees. The quarter moon gave just enough light to see each other's face but left enough dark to hide in.
Two hundred feet into the graveyard we saw three sets of tall family stones nestled between the limbs of a couple of fir trees and the bare branches of an oak. By the lee of a stone we found a bed of leaves. It took only minutes to remove our clothes. With our every movement the leaves crackled. It was the erotic ecstasy of sex in a forbidden place.
We heard voices. Breathless we held still. The voices became louder and we heard footsteps on the gravel access road. I could smell Sheila's sweat, as the voices became clear enough to understand.
"Joey, I want a divorce. We haven't been husband and wife for years. Not since Tina was born."
"You are my wife. I am not going to loose you or Tina."
"You're not going to loose us. You just won't be living with us. We can't continue fighting in front of Tina."
"You are mine."
"But Joey…"
The gagging and struggling sounds started. The hot sweat of our passion chilled against our skin.
"Why…Joey."
"'Cuse you're mine. No bitch is going to take anything of mine away."
They were so close I could smell the blood and fecal matter. There was a sloshing sound followed by a slightly heavier thud as the woman fell. We heard him dragging the corpse down the road. When we felt the dragging sounds had faded enough we grabbed our clothes and ran. Suddenly, I fell flat. Sheila landed on my back knocking my breath away. My face and mouth was filled with dirt. Everything was black as we struggled to our feet. Trapped eight feet in the ground we struggled climbing the crumbling dirt walls. Finally I pushed the still naked Sheila over the lip of the grave. Before I could throw our clothes up, lights framed her against the dark rectangle of the visible night.
"What are you doing?" said a gruff voice.
I then noticed a flashing of red and blue colors across Sheila's muddy bare breasts. "The cops are here," I thought in relief.
We spent the night in jail. We had to each pay a hundred-dollar trespassing fine plus seventy-five dollars in court fees. When we told the police what we had heard their faces turned white. Fifteen years earlier a Joseph Koskii had murdered his wife Nancy. He had gutted her with a knife. He then killed his daughter Tina and dragged both bodies to the graveyard. There he had thrown their bodies in a newly dug grave, covered them with a few inches of dirt, and left. He nearly got away with the murders but a single white hand was sticking above the fresh turned dirt the following morning. No one knew how the hand was left uncovered because when the police went to arrest Joseph he shot himself without telling to anyone about what had happened.
It was three weeks later and in bright daylight when Sheila and I went back to the graveyard. We walked the two hundred feet down the access road and went to the headstone that we were making love next to. The first line on the stone read Nancy Mary Koskii loving mother. The next line said Tina Marie Koskii precious daughter. On the side of the stone where we were making love a faded white lily stood among the crushed leaves. It looked like a gnarled white hand.
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Written in Stone
The old man struggled through the gate. He leaned heavily on his cane with each step. It was quiet in the cemetery. The large oak and pine trees shaded the cool stones from the hot summer sun.
He got to the first stop in his ritual journey. The simple stone read Uno Osterholm March 18, 1912 - November 10, 1919. It was the head stone of the brother he never knew. Uno died during the great Spanish Flu Epidemic. The old man's earliest recollections were of playing by the stone while his mother took care of the family plots. The warm sun had played shadows across the stones while he smelled the fresh turned soil as his mother planted flowers. The brother he never knew always brought contentment.
His next stop was John Stephens 1923. That was the year the old man was born in. The headstone that had seemed so large when he visited the cemetery with his mother was now only slightly above his knees. He looked down on the stone trying to bring his crippled body back to the exuberance of youth when one of his secrets from his mother was climbing the headstone and jumping from stone to stone across the length of the graveyard.
William Osterholm 1934, his father, the half-remembered giant of boyhood. Next to his stone was Hilda Osterholm 1946. Father and Mother. The old man leaned against the stones. Loss dulled by the decades still weighed heavily on the old man.
Henry Osterholm 1945. The plain white marble cross of the World War 2 veteran said all the old man could handle about the death of his brother.
The next stone Mary Elizabeth Johnson September 17, 1918 - April 5, 1948 was the first headstone he cut completely by himself for The Great North Monument Company of Cool Springs, Iowa. He started working at the company one month after leaving the Army, a corporal in supply. '48 was one of the best years he ever remembered and Mary's stone had become a part of it. It was the year he met Gertrude Mary Heinnen, Gerttie. 1950 John Joseph Jones's headstone, the year Gerttie married him. Next came Baby Osterholm November 4th 1953. The small headstone still caused an ache in the old man's heart for what might have been.
The first tears arrived with another white marble cross, John Osterholm 1969. The death of his first son brought more than remembered pained. The Vietnam protestors yelling obscenities at the military honor guard as the lines of coffins were being transferred into the waiting hearses. One protester spit on the windshield of his son's hearse as they slowed at the gates of the airbase.
The old man had to stop. He leaned against a knurled oak he remembered climbing so many years ago when his mother first brought him here. Slowly strength returned, just enough to finish the rounds. 1976 Sara, daughter, and the horrid night when the police came to tell him about the car accident. 1986 Jeremy, son, police officer, shot during a robbery. The sadness of watching your children buried beat down upon the man.
The old man finally made it to the marble bench next to the final stone, Gertrude Mary, May 18, 1926 - August 4, 1996. It was the last headstone the old man ever cut. During the years since her death he had sat twice a month winter or summer on this same marble bench. Every day for the last week he had come here to finish the job. He eased himself to the stone. Both knees popped as he slowly knelt. The pain brought flashes of black red color to his eyes. His hands still held steady the battery operated diamond-grinding stone. The cancer hadn't yet started his hands to shake. Pain ground through his body as the vibrations from the tool traveled through his arms. So little time left. The retirement home only gave him to the end of the week before they would send him to the hospice in Ames.
Finally he was done. He stayed leaning against the stone for at least a half-hour until he could finally make it back to the marble bench. From a small metal flask he took a drink of the 180 proof whiskey before swallowing the first of the 40 pain pills he had saved over the last six months. The burn of the whiskey was the first time in years that pain brought a calm to his body. He looked at the stone, across the top the words 'Passage of time written in Stone', second line 'Osterholm', to the left 'Gertrude Mary, loving wife and mother, May 18, 1926 - August 4, 1996'. Finally on the right the words he had finished today, 'John Patrick, husband and father, March 14, 1923 - August 4, 2003 not alone anymore'.
The old man smiled and finished the pills and whiskey. His eyes closed. For the first time since summer had come he was without pain. The sun felt warm upon his face. His smile deepened.
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