Nightsweepers

“One… two… three… oh yeah that one, too, four. I was leaving that one out. That should be enough for one day. Seven months old—how sad. Gone too soon. I do this for you, little guy.” These stories never get old. No one is like the other. You never see the same exact dates. The names are never duplicated. No one’s story ends the same because no one’s journey is remotely similar. “Thank you for your service, sir,” he says as he salutes.

“A soft-bristle brush. Dawn dishwashing soap. Sturdy shop towels. Ratchet straps,” he mulled over, “and I already put the shovel in the cargo trailer—wait, did I? No, yeah, I did. I remember now.”

Beep

Beep.

Beep.

“Got a mess to clean up?”

Beep.

“Something like that… just some cleaning around town. Freshen things up a bit. Gotta keep things looking respectable around Marion so we don’t scare people away! You know how people usually don’t accept what they refuse to understand.

“Sounds like a busy day ahead of you.”

“It always is. It always is… but it’s good work. Someone doesn’t have to do it, but I get to do it.”

“Well, have a nice day. Be safe out there.”

His family never expected him to be gone so quickly. He was always such a fighter—cliché but this time it was true. Some would even call him stubborn or onery. No one could cut the grass like he could. No college football coach knew a winning play better than he did. And don’t even think about giving him attention by buying him a Christmas present. The grass grew taller. He barely made it through an entire game. He was thrilled with any quality time family and friends sought to give him. The disease ended up being the most stubborn of all. The suffering was almost unbearable for his family to watch. Who wants to watch their loved one waste away at such a quick intensity? Just. Gone. That’s all there was: gone. Taken. Removed. Void. Absent. Hallow. Lacking. No more dad, no more husband, no more friend. No fanfare or grand exit. There never is any of that. Gone.

“Mom, look how shiny dad’s headstone is. It looks different. Doesn’t it? That factory-fresh glisten. Why does it look different?”

“No, honey. It’s always looked like that.”

“No. I don’t think so. Something happened to it.”

“I know what your father’s headstone looks like. I was there when we picked it out, remember,” her mom briskly shot back.

“Of course, I remember, mom. I was there too, remembered,” she ricocheted back to her mother. “That’s why I’m telling you it looks different.”

“Let’s go home, honey.”

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

“Will this rain ever quit?” he asked as he tossed Georgy another treat. Poor little pup had been so sad these last few years, but the treats help. “Georgy, we’ve got to get out and get to work, don’t we, boy! Who’s going to clean them if we don’t? Who is going to think they look so beautiful when they go to visit their loved ones, if we don’t do it? Yeah, that’s a good boy, c’mon now” he said as he rubbed his shaggy ears. “Yeah, I miss momma, too,” he added as he patted the seat for Georgy to jump into the pickup’s cab and tossed him another treat.

Everyone talks about it and its five steps: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But no one ever tells you how long these steps last. Which one is the worst? Which one is the least worst because let’s face it, there’s no one step that’s the “best.” Which one lasts the longest amount of time? Which one lasts the shortest amount of time? Then when you think one step has passed and you’re headed forward, the universe pushes you two steps back. Back and forth, back and forth. Never-ending cycle. The only solace is that some steps in the cycle become a little less heavy at god-knows what time in the rotation. It’s still so unfair he had to leave so quickly. It wasn’t his choice but damn. The wave hit quickly. It came in like a tsunami. Practically no warning. Just BAM! Here you go! Good luck! “I hate it here,” she shot out as she kicked another pinecone.

“AHH! You startled me!” he shouted.

“You’re startled?! What are YOU doing?! Wait… you’re the man from—I sold you—the ratchet straps—what are you actually doing here? You bought—why did you buy all of those supplies earlier today? Why would you—what exactly do you consider cleaning to beautify Marion?”

As she shined her flashlight straight into his eyes, she could see it was, in fact, him. He’s the man who claimed he had cleaning to do today. So, why was he outside in the dirt and boggy ground if he wanted to clean something? Surely this has to be the worst possible place to get anything clean.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she dared.

“Really? And why should I try that?”

“I’ve been through more than most my age—or so I’m told. Like I said… try me,” she challenged.

Through the darkness, he told the his story of Clara. Their love wasn’t that 50-year-old high school sweetheart love, but those seven years, those years meant something. They meant something big. Those years held a deeper connection than some 70-year stretch can hold for some people. She taught him to do that thing that may not be socially acceptable, yet it could set his soul on fire. Maybe a supposed small act of kindness could be something meaningful and far bigger to someone else regardless of who misconstrued the action from the outside-looking-in. The person who mattered would notice, and those who only acted like they noticed never really mattered at all. So, when there was no more Clara, that’s what Richard went on to do. He chose something that most don’t understand or try to understand, but to those who matter, they know. They see. They may not know the full story, but they understand.

The shovel. The ratchet straps. The soap. The soft-bristled brush. The shop towels. Each played their part in beautifying Marion. These tools in the right hands kept the town beautiful and gave a small dose of peace and appeasement to those who came to visit. As hard as the work was, he had it down to a system now. He could even add a few more to his system if the weather held out on the right days. His weekly workload was getting heavier and heavier, but he loved this work. He could stay connected to Clara. He could put purpose back out into the world. Hopefully, she’d be proud of him.

“So, here I am at this witching hour just me and the ole barn owl up in that tree most nights. His company isn’t too bad, ya know. Honestly, his calls can be quite soothing.”

“Wow,” replied Maylyn. “That’s such… that’s quite a story there, sir.”

“Your turn. Tell me why your story if you aren’t here to clean headstones for their owners and visitors.”

“My dad. He’s over there. Well, he was here; he’s there now—wherever “there” happens to be I guess. Leukemia. It’s been three years, but the grief… you know how that goes. I’ve been busy lately. I’m usually out here visiting him more often than I have been lately. But, yeah, life… whatever. I told my mom I’d come check on him tonight once I got off work from the hardware store. We had noticed his headstone was looking newer—well I had noticed, and she argued with me—that is all your doing?”

“I suppose it is—unless the barn owl is up to something I don’t know about,” he joked.

“Well, that’s interesting. It’s not considered vandalism? I mean, can’t they charge you with vandalism or some kind of disrespect to the dead coming out here and disrupting the environment? Isn’t that a thing?”

“Not if you don’t get caught,” he joked as she kept her straight, inquisitive expression. “If it is, I haven’t encountered it yet. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

“We? Ha! What makes you think I’m hanging around for this delinquent nonsense?”

“Because you’ve been searching for that thing to bring you back to life, and now you’ve found it.”

“Maybe…”

“Georgy, let’s see what the paper says today, ole boy.” He breaks open the police blotter which is always too ready and willing to print those catchy one-liners. “Caller reports seeing a confused, elderly man wandering around the cemetery again last night.” It quickly gets old when you can’t explain yourself. People make up whatever story they want to repeat back to themselves. But then again, you kinda get used to it. Let people think what they want, and you keep going and doing your own thing.

Newspaper.

News station.

Police blotter.

“Rick, they’re going to catch us. You hear this story? They’re onto us. I just know it. People are noticing. This small town will talk about anything. You’re getting too bold with your work. You can’t be out there longer just to get more done. You need to stick to your original plan that you started with and keep the numbers low—high turnover, not large numbers in one swoop. I’m telling you, Rick, they’re going to figure it out sooner or later.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Walking home from the police station, Maylyn felt somewhat defeated. Exhausted. What if all this work wasn’t as good as they intended? What if it was causing more harm than good? And how could she ever break that kind of news to Rick? He’d already lost his wife; could he cope with losing this last good thing in his life? Being so young doesn’t help my case either. Who is going to listen to me? The cops in there barely did. They’re always trying to pin this supposed graverobbing on someone. Gotta catch the bad guy! They are dying to catch the person in the act and make that small-town headline. It’ll be the case that Marion is forever known for and nothing else.

“You have got to get better at this, Rick. You’re slipping. They’re asking me more questions. They’re getting more and more relentless. They almost know, and they want us to think that they know, so we’ll tell them what we know,” argued Maylyn over their next set of plans. “I signed up, but I didn’t sign up for this danger.”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, May!”

“I want you to be more careful! I want to stop being so risky. You’ve got this method down, but now you’re out there too late, and people are starting to see you. They’re starting to report you—report someone. You’re going to get caught and then what good is that going to do for the town? Sure. They’ll get to finally ‘catch their man’ but then there goes your good deed for everyone. No one else is going to keep up with it.”

“Really? No one? NO one?”

“That’s not what I mea—”

“I heard exactly what you said, May! I can do this on my own. Get your stuff and go. Let me get to it before it gets too late. You know, before they get to ‘catch their man’.”

“Rick—,” Maylyn begged, “Come back! Can we calmly talk about this and figure out a plan?”

“You heard me,” he shouted with the slam of the screen door.

On her way out, she reluctantly grabbed an extra blanket, water, and snacks. It was a full moon tonight so Richard would be especially easy to spot in this coming bright moonlight. She couldn’t talk him into being safer, but she could monitor his safety from a distance. “C’mon, Georgy, let’s go.”

The local police never did “catch their guy.” After hitting his peak, things slowed down. Time took its usual toll. Citizens quit calling in complaints about him, and the police never spotted him. Life trickled off.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

“The stages never get any easier,” she thought to herself as she scrubbed the last bit of dirt from his monument and tossed Georgy another treat as she lay there listening to the hoots and watching him look down into the night for his next prey.