'Salem's Lot(50)

'Danny, you come outta there!' he bawled.

'Oh, my,' Mabel Werts said, and pressed her black silk funeral hankie to her lips. Her eyes were bright and avid, storing this the way a squirrel stores nuts for the winter.

'Danny, goddammit, you stop this f**king around!'

Father Callahan nodded at two of the pallbearers and they stepped forward, but three other men, including Parkins Gillespie and Nolly Gardener, had to step in before Glick could be gotten out of the grave, kicking and screaming and howling.

'Danny, you stop it now! You got your Momma scared! I'm gonna whip your butt for you! Lemme go! Lemme go . . . I want m'boy . . . let me go, you pricks . . . ahhh, God - '

'Our Father who art in heaven - ' Callahan began again, and other voices joined him, lifting the words toward the indifferent shield of the sky.

' - hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done - '

'Danny, you come to me, hear? You hear me?'

' - on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us - '

'Dannneeee - '

' - our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us - '

'He ain't dead, he ain't dead, let go a me you miserable shitpokes

' - and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Through Christ our Lord, amen.'

'He ain't dead,' Tony Glick sobbed. 'He can't be. He's only twelve f**king years old.' He began to weep heavily and staggered forward in spite of the men who held him, his face ravaged and streaming with tears. He fell on his knees at Callahan's feet and grasped his trousers with muddy hands. 'Please give me my boy back. Please don't fool me no more.'

Callahan took his head gently with both hands. 'Let us pray,' he said. He could feel Glick's wracking sobs in his thighs.

'Lord, comfort this man and his wife in their sorrow. You cleansed this child in the waters of baptism and gave him new life. May we one day join him and share heaven's joys forever. We ask this in Jesus' name, amen.'

He raised his head and saw that Marjorie Glick had fainted.

4

When they were all gone, Mike Ryerson came back and sat down on the edge of the open grave to eat his last half sandwich and wait for Royal Snow to come back.

The funeral had been at four, and it was now almost five o'clock. The shadows were long and the sun was already slanting through the tall western oaks. That frigging Royal had promised to be back by quarter of five at the latest; now where was he?

The sandwich was bologna and cheese, his favorite. All the sandwiches he made were his favorites; that was one of the advantages to being single. He finished up and dusted his hands, spraying a few bread crumbs down on the coffin.

Someone was watching him.

He felt it suddenly and surely. He stared around at the cemetery with wide, startled eyes.

'Royal? You there, Royal?'

No answer. The wind sighed through the trees, making them rustle mysteriously. In the waving shadows of the elms beyond the stone wall, he could see Hubert Marsten's marker, and suddenly he thought of Win's dog, hanging impaled on the iron front gate.

Eyes. Flat and emotionless. Watching.

Dark, don't catch me here.  

He started to his feet as if someone had spoken aloud.

'Goddamn you, Royal.' He spoke the words aloud, but quietly. He no longer thought Royal was around, or even coming back. He would have to do it by himself, and it would take a long time alone.

Maybe until dark.

He set to work, not trying to understand the dread that had fallen over him, not wondering why this job that had never bothered him before was bothering him terribly now.

Moving with quick, economical gestures, he pulled the strips of fake grass away from the raw earth and folded them neatly. He laid them over his arm and took them out to his truck, parked beyond the gate, and once out of the graveyard, that nasty feeling of being watched slipped away.

He put the grass in the back of the -pickup and took out a spade. He started back, then hesitated. He stared at the open grave and it seemed to mock him.

It occurred to him that the feeling of being watched had stopped as soon as he could no longer see the coffin nestled at the bottom of its hole. He had a sudden mental image of Danny Glick lying on that little satin pillow with his eyes open, No - that was stupid. They closed the eyes. He had watched Carl Foreman do it enough times. Course we gum 'em, Carl had said once. Wouldn't want the corpse winkin' at the congregation, would we?

He loaded his shovel with dirt and threw it in. It made a heavy, solid thump on the polished mahogany box, and Mike winced. The sound made him feel a little sick. He straightened up and looked around distractedly at the floral displays. A damn waste. Tomorrow the petals would be scattered all over in red and yellow flakes. Why anybody bothered was beyond him. If you were going to spend money, why not give it to the Cancer Society or the March of Dimes or even the Ladies' Aid? Then it went to some good, at least.

He threw in another shovelful and rested again

That coffin was another waste. Nice mahogany coffin, worth a thousand bucks at least, and here he was shoveling dirt over it. The Glicks didn't have no more money than anyone else, and who puts burial insurance on kids? They were probably six miles in hock, all for a box to shovel in the ground.

He bent down, got another spadeful of earth, and reluc?tantly threw it in. Again that horrid, final thump. The top of the coffin was sprayed with dirt now, but the polished mahogany gleamed through, almost reproachfully.