There are some fish that cannot be caught; its not that they’re stronger or smarter than other fish, they’re just touched by something extra. And it was my job to put to rest the fish that aren’t so lucky. Keep in mind, I aint’ talkin’ about fish really, I’m talking about people. Some people seem to escape death every day of their cursed lives, but no doubt there are others who aren’t quite as lucky. In my day, I’ve put down some folk who shoulda’ been puttin’ me down but that’s what I did.
I was a mortician. I started workin’ there when I was only twelve years old because my Pa’ gave me the job. He was also a mortician- but back in my Pa’s day there weren’t many folk dyin’ off quite as quickly as they did when I managed the place. I guess you could say it was a family business. The interestin’ thing about the Morgue that my family owned is that it was placed in the graveyard. The bodies were brought there and it was our job to get them in the casket and bury them. Mind you, they had already been examined by the doctors and what not so we aint’ involved in none of that.
In the morgue, all the windows were covered with stained glass images of Jesus and his death and resurrection. The light that came through the windows made the entire building glow in a golden-yellow tone as to make it feel a tad more welcoming. A golden and red oriental rug extended down the main hallway. On the walls there were beautiful photos and paintings. We had a photo of the past four owners of the morgue – my grandfather, my uncle, my father and then my own - on one wall and the other wall was filled with paintings of bold acrylic colored images of Jesus’ life. My family was very religious – we attended church every Sunday morning; my mother liked to say that’s what kept my father and me sane.
Past the hallway and the oriental rugs, there was a large room; circular and vast in height. The floor was black marble and my assistant, Benjy, did such a swell job cleaning it that as you walked you could look down and see your mirror image looking back at you beneath your feet. The walls were painted an off white shade but most of the walls were covered with a sage green curtain that draped down from the ceiling.
My wife loved the place – she visited frequently for a long time but when she acquired her own job at the church, she didn’t come as often. She was nearly four years older than myself but looked as if she were ten years younger. When we met she had large blond curls, a pale complexion, marvelous blue eyes and she died looking the same way. I was nearly fifty years old when she left and it has been eight years since. I managed her funeral, I dug her grave, and I poured the dirt back in the whole. Sadly to say, she was not the saddest grave that I have dug in my time.
There was once a young boy who was hit by a train, and an infantile girl who was given the wrong medication by her clinically insane mother. Being a mortician is not fun, but it is a job and someone has to do it. Times like that are rare, most of the graves we dig are for old folk who died of natural causes – though we undoubtedly get one sad case every month.
So, I managed funerals and I also assisted in digging the holes, but I did not do this job alone; I worked alongside two people – Ezra and Beatrice. It was just us three and my fair assistant Benjy of course, for a long time but eventually, there came a period that flu was spreading around and there were more deaths than we could handle on our own so I had to hire on a new worker. But there I go jumpin’ ahead of myself.
For starters, Ezra worked with me in the morning because he was a morning person, he liked to work alongside the birds – I guess to him it made the whole business seem a little less depressing. He once told me he liked to work there because he wanted to send people off right – bless them and such as they go. Then there was Beatrice, she’s a real character. She worked with me at night because, well, to be honest it’s because she was one dark young girl. She was the type of girl who thought death was beautiful – the kind that wore all black and kept her skin real pale as to make herself look dead. She was real sweet though, good worker. Though, that is hard to say in all honestly because the night shift is far less demanding than the day shift – mostly all she ever did was wander the graves, checking for unwanted teenage folk who was lookin’ for a good scare. Mostly, all I did was transfer the bodies from the bags into the caskets before we buried them.
Nonetheless, we had to hire on someone new because there were so many people dying of the new flu that was plaguing our town that Beatrice had to start working earlier and Ezra had to start working later. We were all working overtime and within a few days, our work was lackin’ and we weren’t getting’ as many graves dug as people that were dyin’. I put an advertisement in the paper for some extra help and it was a few days before we got a response. The response came from a young boy around the age of thirty. His name was Newman and he wasn’t much for talking when I met him. He was a somewhat dark character, with dark eyes and the defined chin – very tall. Durin’ our meetin’ I don’t think he uttered a word. He merely nodded, acknowledging my presence I s’pose, and lettin’ me know he could do the job at hand. All the same, despite his strange nature, he was my only option so I hired him – partly out of pity for him I imagine – because he was dressed in some raggedy clothes and he looked rather dirty.
The next day, when he started, we dug more holes than I ever expected. He picked up all the slack and then some. When it was time for Beatrice to come on her shift, there was barely anything to be done. For nearly a week all she did on her shift was wander the graveyard for hours on end; and when even that task grew tiresome for her she read in a corner in the Morgue near the fireplace.
The flu stopped spreadin’ quite as rapidly and we weren’t in such harsh need for extra help that I only had young Newman workin’ twice a week. He started off real well, but the second time he came to work he didn’t seem to be himself. I went up to him one night when he was digging a grave for a teenage boy around the age of sixteen who’d died of the new flu. I said to him, “Newman, my boy, is you alright?”
He looked at me and said nothing; he went back to diggin’ the grave. I left him alone for the rest of that night but that was not the end of the few encounters I had with him. A few nights later he was sittin’ under a tree looking at the sky – so I went to him again. “Newman, we have some graves that need diggin’, you want to give me a hand?” I said this as gentle as I could because a part of me feared him but I also wanted to reach out to him. He kept to himself so much that I was kidna’ worried somethin’ may have been wrong.
“What thou inquires tis’ not humanly attainable,” he uttered to me in a hushed tone. What took me aback most though was not his voice – surprisingly – but it was the fact that he didn’t even look up to see it was I who he was speaking to. He did not move, did not help me, did not even say another word after that. It was as if he could sense who it was – perhaps by my voice – and this young boy sent a nasty chill through me. True though, his voice was cold and weak and I admit there was a small bit of fear instilled inside of me that night.
These holidays were comin’ close and we decided to have a quaint party for just us five; Beatrice, Ezra, Newman, Benjy, and myself. It was a cold night, the wind was bitter, and the warmth of the morgue was welcomed. Though, there was a very unnatural smell about the place – a smell I had rarely, if ever, smelled before. It was extremely distinct, and yet I couldn’t figure out what it was. I sent Benjy to find out what it was, and to get rid of it.
Benjy, being the cooperative helper that he was, searched the entire graveyard first – before searching the building. When he came back, his cheeks were rosy pink and his nose was bright red from the cold. Before searching the buildin’ he drank some eggnog with us and shared some casual chit-chat. All the while, Beatrice was off talking with Ezra and Newman was sittin’ alone near the windowsill. After Benjy finished his cup of eggnog, he searched the rest of the morgue. When he came back, he looked thoroughly disgusted. He came straight up to me and whispered in my ear, “Maddock, you gotta’ come see fer yerself.” So, I followed him downstairs and as we went, the smell grew stronger and stronger. I don’t know how to describe it, maybe like a rottin’ bird that been splattered in the street for too long or a gutted fish spent too much time in the sun; sickly sweet perhaps. When I saw what the smell was really coming from I nearly heaved up my dinner. There was a body in a bag half zipped – it was supposed to be put inside the casket almost a week before but someone, being Newman, I guess forgot; or just chose not to.
Benjy helped me put the bag in the casket because I imagine he caught a fair glimpse of how flushed my face was when I saw what we were dealin’ with. After situatin’ the body in the casket and sayin’ a much needed prayer for that body’s soul, Benjy and I went back upstairs to the holiday party. We drank another cup of eggnog together and quietly discussed the matter at hand.
“Maddock, this aint’ right; those two folk, Beatrice and Ezra, they work hard all their workin’ hours and that Newman character, he don’t talk, he don’t listen, and he obviously don’t do his job. Somethin’ gotta’ be done, and fast,” Benjy said to me. He continued, “But it’s up to you, you know. You is the boss, you gotta’ handle this. I’ll do whatever I can to help ya but in the end, it’s all in your hands. Like a fish to the fisherman, I can advise you where to throw the hook but its up to you to listen, catch that fish and wheel ‘em in. Anyway, thanks a lot for the party and the eggnog but I gotta’ be headin off, my family’ll be missin’ me come sundown,” and with that, he left.
Soon after his departure, Beatrice left and that left Ezra and me to talkin’. Ezra came up to me that night and similar to Benjy, he had a few things on his mind about Newman. “Maddock Sir, I don’t like where things are headed. Does it bring you happiness? You wander through the graveyard each night, finishing the holes in which Newman did not do. You cover up his wrong doings, like tonight. I know it was a body; I overheard what you and Benjy were saying. I wasn’t eavesdropping – I was just getting some more eggnog for Beatrice and myself when I heard.”
“Young Ezra, I do much appreciate your concern but I think I have things well under control. Do you remember when he first came? I’ll refresh your memory; he picked up ALL the slack, and then some. He dug holes at night that you were to dig in the mornin’. That was a good break for you. But I do understand, something aint’ quite right,” I concurred to Ezra.
“Sir, you’re a religious man, are you not,” he asked, but I said nothing. Maybe he sensed an unspoken acknowledgement to his vague question, I don’t know, but he continued, though now in a much more hushed voice. “I think in that way, we understand each other. I don’t want this to turn into anything that it’s not, but I think this is rather serious. I know I tend to have a sedate nature about me, but I don’t want to keep my mouth quiet about this one. Sir, the Lord would not have it – such small respect for the dead. And I don’t mind picking up his slack – in fact I’d prefer it because personally, I feel the need to send the dead off right and I can’t be sure that will be done when others do the job. My concern, them, lies in Beatrice and at the risk of a disease spreading. If Newman fails to complete his duty of transferring the bodies to the casket, don’t you think the flu could still be alive in the person and possibly spread to us? Perhaps that is not a possibility, but do you want to take that sort of risk? It’s not a fair trade; Newman to do nothing and us to be diseased for it.”
I s’pose Ezra grew frustrated just talking about it because he did not continue after that. A few moments after our shared conversation, he also left to join his family for the remainder of the night. It was just Newman and I left at the Morgue. Having nothing left to do, I went to him.
“Newman my boy,” I said cheerfully, “are you having a good time?” He said nothing. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything, don’t you like the food? We have ham, corn, bread rolls, potatoes, and we have eggnog, pie, soup, and salad,” but again, he said nothing. I did not want to bring up the situation that had arisen, it was the holidays; I did not want to damper his spirits – though they already seemed rather down in the dumps.
“You got any family to go home to,” I asked, but again, there was no response. And just like the last time, he didn’t even glance my way. “Well,” I said, as I placed a key on the table near the windowsill, “here is the key to place. I’d appreciate if you locked up before you left. I have some relatives to visit tonight so I gotta’ head off. Ezra and Beatrice have the other keys so don’t worry about me being able to get in tomorrow mornin’.” I smiled again, cheerfully, and left him there.
The next morning, the Morgue was still open but Newman was gone. He hadn’t locked up. In fact, he didn’t even shut the door when he left. There was snow blown in for about ten feet of the door. To my good fortune, Benjy was already there with Ezra and they were sweeping – and shoveling – the snow out of the entrance. Within the next few weeks, there was a swift growth in the deaths from the flu and we were in need of many workers again. I had Beatrice workin’ ten hours a night and Ezra workin’ eleven hours in the day. Newman was there most of the day and night now, but he didn’t take to doing much of anything. On this day in particular, Newman was somewhere off in the graveyard. During the hour that Ezra left and Beatrice came, they both took me into a back room and had a few things on their mind that they wanted to get out. Beatrice, having never spoken to me on the topic, was a bit more anxious to get her word in edgewise.
She began, “Maddock,” she paused and continued quickly, “Sir, we have a most large problem on our hands and I rest assured you know what that problem is. All the same, no action has been taken to solve that problem so I feel the need to bring further attention to it – assuming some attention has already been brought up. At that time, Benjy walked in and stood near the door, as if guarding it shut, as Beatrice continued.
“Newman doesn’t do his job – and not only does Newman not do his job, but he gets in the way of mine and causes more work for you. Why do you keep him around?”
Ezra decided against adding anything and just nodded in agreement. When I looked to Benjy he chose, also, not to say anything but he looked up at me for a split second and I knew he agreed. When I said nothing, Beatrice slumped out of the room – almost forcing Benjy to step aside from the door. Ezra looked at me and said, “Sir, you know what has to be done…” and he left quickly. I honestly didn’t know what to do at the time but instead of saying anything about that matter I just left the room also, leaving Benjy alone.
After I left the room, I went out into the graveyard to find Newman – I guess I figured something should at least be said to draw attention to his slackin’. I found him sittin’ in the snow, without a coat, leanin’ against our most extravagant mausoleum. I stood in front of him, shivering slightly from the bitter cold, and looked down at him through fogged over glasses. He didn’t look at me, as usual. “Hey there boy, aren’t you cold,” I began, but no words came from his mouth. I sat next to him and began again. “Listen Newman, I can’t dance around the issue anymore. We have a small problem and I’m sure it’s just a misunderstandin’ – well, I hope it is. But anyway, the problem is that you don’t do your job anymore. If you continue this way, I’m gonna’ have to fire ya’, ya’ here?”
He did not look at me, but said “What thou inquires tis’ not humanly attainable,” in a weak, whispered voice. I stood up, and looked at him, waiting for him to say something else; anything else – but he didn’t. Before I left, I removed my coat from myself and I draped it over the boy. He had come to small shivers every few minutes and I knew he hadn’t eaten in a long time. Since he began working for me, he’d lost nearly twenty pounds, and bein’ so tall there weren’t much weight he had to lose.
The next few days were very tense. Lots of folk were still dyin’ off from that cursed flu and we were one worker short, again. I tried to pick up most of the slack, and Benjy helped every now and again, but there was only so much time between transferring bodies into casket that we could go outside and dig. There’s a time when a man needs to fight and a time when a man needs to accept reality – that the battles over, the ship has sailed, and his path is lost – but I was not ready to accept it as reality yet. On top of everything else, I was receiving calls from a company that wanted to buy the graveyard. This company had already bought off all the local cemeteries and I imagine we were the last one left – or we were, at the very least, one of the last. This flu was labeled a plague and was expected to kill off nearly another half of the community within the next few months. My guess is the’ thought they could somehow gain control of the situation by ownin’ the place that all the unfortunate folk went after they were cursed with the flu. Benjy was supporting whatever decision I wanted to make, and Ezra was good about encouraging me through the decision-makin’ process, but Beatrice was most brutal with her words. I know she meant them out of concern but they sure were brutally honest. She even said to, “Maddock, it is impossible to tell who you are anymore – the man behind the reason or the man behind the fear?” What she said was understandable, but it cut deep.
My next encounter with Newman was very strange – to say the least. He was sitting in the Morgue playing the piano near the fire – I put my piano in the Morgue after the holidays past to make the place feel more welcoming. I believe he was playin’ a piece by Mozart, though I’m not the one to be entirely sure. It was a beautiful piece – it echoed throughout the entire building – and I swear it sounded like he had nearly four hands because he was playin’ so swiftly. I sat on an antiqued white wooden chair with a red suede fabric cushion in front of the piano and waited for him to finish the piece. Newman played for forty minutes or so after I arrived, all the while smiling to himself as he played. It was the first smile I’d seen on him, well, ever.
I clapped lightly when he finished, and he looked at me. The smile, surprisingly, did not fade – at first. A few moments after he looked at me – perhaps after realizing he had finished the piece – the smile faded from his face. At the same time, his brows frowned and he looked away slowly. I continued smilin’, trying to be encouraging and all. “Newman my boy,” I exclaimed, “Who knew you could play so well! That was down right genius, ya’ here?” He, naturally, didn’t say anything. I sipped my coffee and waited a few minutes before saying anythin’ else; I was hopin’ the tactic of not talkin’ for so long that the opposin’ person spills their inner-most thoughts would work but I had no such luck with that. When he didn’t fill the silence, I stood and walked to the piano; I leaned against it and set my coffee mug on its top.
Newman continued to look away but I held my stare on him. “Newman, we still have a problem. You know that,” I questioned, but continued before waiting hopelessly for a response, “I know you do… Listen to me and listen good boy, I need you to work, and the others do too. Ezra and Beatrice are really strugglin’ to pick up the slack you leave behind. This is hard for me, but you’ve left me with little options. I’m going to give you a choice – a choice that I most assuredly never had. If you talk to me, tell me what’s going on, fill me in on your situation, I wont fire you, but without your giving me anything to work off of, I’m sorry to say that my only choice is to let you go.” I waited and he said nothing. For an hour I stood in front of the piano looking at him but he never moved. I sighed and took hold of my now cold coffee. “Newman my boy, I have to let you go,” I told him as I walked away.
I left the room and walked into a room I’d made especially for myself. It was small, probably ten feet by ten feet, and I’d spent the past ten years personalizin’ it. I wrote short prayers on the walls and tacked up pictures of all the workers I’d had work with me and pictures of my family. I went in that room and I prayed for a long time because I was not content with the decision I had made. I spent most of the remaining night in there prayin’. When I was done, I just locked up and went home.
In the morning, I arrived early. I had some business to take care of with the company who wanted to buy the cemetery and I knew it would take a while to sort things out. I went straight to the backroom where the phone was and sat at my oak desk. The only light in the room was the lamp on the table – it was a brass stand with an emerald glass shade and it didn’t give off much light. I soon realized there was a message from the company, they basically said in the message that they were still interested in pursuing my business and were eager to hear back from me. Before calling back, I went and made a pot of coffee. In the main room with the piano I found Newman sleeping by the fireplace.
The fire was very dim and barely lit but it was still going a little. I woke him up and kneeled down by him. “Newman, uh... I fired you yesterday, you gotta’ go,” I said as gentle as the words allowed. He did not say anything though; he did not move. I put my arm on his shoulder and said it again, “Newman, you can’t stay here.”
He looked at me in the eyes and said, “What thou inquires tis’ not humanly attainable,” and he shut his eyes again to go back to sleep. I didn’t know what to do. When Ezra and Benjy arrived they were just as much taken aback as me and they, too, did not know what to do. They both began to strongly encourage me to negotiate a deal with the business seeking to buy us out and I concurred, they’re plan seemed rather sound in essence.
I gave the business a phone call and began to negotiate the logistics of it all. Our idea was that we would sell the Morgue to them if they allowed Beatrice, Benjy, and Ezra to continue working either there or at another Morgue. Through much unwelcome discussion of going back and forth between ideas and options, they agreed and within the next few weeks we began the moving process. I packed up all my belongings – the paintings, the pictures, the piano, some furniture, and other things around the place and brought them to my home. Everyday Newman was still there, for a while I found him playing the piano but once that was moved I only found him lying near the fireplace.
Within only a week we were all moved out; Ezra, Benjy, and Beatrice were working at another Morgue, located in a hospital about ten miles down the road from where my Morgue was. I spent most of my day relaxing in my studies but something was still unsettling to me about Newman; I still knew nothing about the boy. With so much time to spare, and with the curiosity getting the better of me, I took a short visit to the local Police Department where I had a friend who’d done some past investigations on certain deaths and certain situations conveniently circling around the Morgue.
When I arrived, he was sitting at his desk which was located in the front of the building nearest the door. Atop his desk there sat a chrome lamp stand with a green lamp shade – it gave off a golden lambency – given there were windows surroundin’ most of his work area – and there was a black name plate with brass lining on the desks corner; it read: Officer Donald Raghin. I sat in front of him on a thickly cushioned chair and folded my hands on my lap. He was finishing up some paperwork so I allowed myself to be patient enough and wait for his finishing. While waiting, I took a step away from his work space and I assumed the liberty to serve myself a cup of the stations pre-brewed coffee.
When I came back to his desk, he had completed his work and drew his full attention to my, welcomed, though nonetheless unexpected arrival. He smiled slightly, but forcefully as if expecting bad news, and waited impatiently for me to begin – all the while tapping his foot quickly and pushing his finger tips against the desk in an excessively patterned motion.
“I need information,” I said and paused before continuing to check his reaction, “on an old friend. His name is Newman Carcosa.” Without even a word, Donald went to his computer and typed the name in – I imagine he knew that he wasn’t gonna’ get no further explanation from me.
“There’s not much,” Don began, “he grew up in Rhode Island. There’s nothing on his family… nothing about his childhood… Oh, wait something on a family member. I think it’s his father,” he read on and didn’t continue for a few minutes. “His father died of the flu, about three months ago.”
My face fell; he had been diggin’ grave after grave for folk who gone and died by that cursed flu. No wonder he stopped eating and what not. I looked up at Don and nodded in thanks. I stood, leaving my coffee on the table and shook his hand, “Thank you so much Don, can’t tell you how much you’ve helped.” With that, I left quickly. I went back to the place I lived and intended to sleep – too much thinking can grow tiresome.
Unfortunately, when I arrived home there was a letter slid beneath my door. I sat on my faded brown leather sofa and tore the seal of the envelope. There was one sheet of paper inside, folded in three segments, and one sentence on the paper in thick black ink. It read: Newman won’t leave, get your worker off my premises; signed, Erickson Smith. Exhausted, though feeling like I had to take action, I grabbed my coat and left in determination for the graveyard.
Per my arrival, Mr. Erickson was waitin’. I walked past him and straight into the main room of the morgue, where I undoubtedly found Newman lying before the fireplace. Only seconds after I got there, the police arrived to arrest him. Newman was the frailest I’d ever seen him – weak and pale – and he still spoke no words when questioned. The police were forced to hand-cuff him for trespassing on private property and failing to comply. He did not object to their forceful nature – he remained limp.
Having nothing left to do but go back home, I apologized to Mr. Erickson for the trouble and retreated back the way I came. Once I made it to my dwellin’ place, I felt extremely anxious. I rehearsed nearly a thousand ‘if only’ scenarios in my head but none seemed to end in a fitting manner. No matter what I did, there didn’t appear to be any logical solution – well that is besides prayin’ of course. So again, I found myself bowin’ down before the Lord in need of some much needed advice. I had the most potent feeling of melancholy that there was some divine purpose for all this – but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what that purpose was.
Almost a full week went by before I found the nerve in me to visit Newman in jail. But when I got there, I almost wished I hadn’t gone at all. He was slumped in a corned of his cell – he was real pale still and looked as if he’d lost ten more pounds since I’d last seem him. Knowing very well that he wouldn’t talk to me even if he did have the strength to, I passed up talking to him and went straight for the cell guard.
The guard was sitting on a metal chair at the front of the entrance to the cells; I’ll never forget his look. He was rather large in the waist but pure chicken scratch at all other parts of his body; besides his cheeks which were rather rounded. He had very bright green eyes – oddly they didn’t look to be in the least faded through his age. At first glance he looked passably intimidating but to the observing eye he came across as a very friendly individual. Reluctantly I walked over to where he was planted and smiled cheerfully. I said to him, “hello there, my name is Maddock and I was hopin’ to visit young Newman – though I see he isn’t entirely eligible for visitors now, is he?” He looked up at me and stood slowly, shifting his belt imperiously.
“Newman,” he questioned but continued before I had the chance to point him out, “Oh, Carcosa, yeah. What about him?”
I glanced over at Newman, “Well, I guess I was hopin’ you could do me a small favor – well, not a small favor because I know personally that there’s no such thing as a small favor; its practically an oxymoron to suggest it – but it wont take much doin’ on your part really.”
He nodded at me to continue and mumbled out the words hoarsely, “Go on…”
“You see Sir, I was considering to make you a proposal. If I were to give you some money and you could agree to see to it that Newman, excuse me, Carcosa, is taken well care of in the sense of at least eating then I will be on my way.”
He looked at the money and back at me, “I’m sorry, I wish I could – I really do – but it’s not right for the guards to make any sort of special handlings with any of the boys.” The guard took a seat and folded his arms over his protuberant belly. I took another look at Newman, there were a few flies buzzing about his general area.
I nodded at the guard and said, “Well, thank you so much for your time and willingness, good day then.”
That was quite an unsettling trip and it set my mood for about the next week. I did not want to do anything – not even pray. I had grown hopeless; I had such a strong feeling about young Newman but I had no possible idea what to do. I felt as if I had failed my purpose in life – despite the sad attempts of encouragement I received from Benjy on his daily visits to my home. Ezra and Beatrice visited, also, a few times but no deeds were to be shown of these fruitless visits. I read many times that week the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5 of the Bible. Particularly verse five, which read: “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Something about it comforted me, but I did not know what for I never fully understood the verses in Matthew 5.
Exactly several days after my last visit, I went back to the cell to see how Newman was doing – and also in hope of coming across a different guard who would perhaps be more willing to bend his rules for the sake of a mans life. When I arrived I went straight to the back where the cells were – because I had memorized my directions of the prison at my last visit – and I went straight to where the guard was sitting. Fortuitously it was a different guard so I explained my proposal again. Somethin’ stuck me as odd throughout my whole proposal though and I think it was that he never quite caught on to who I was talkin’ about. I referred to him as Newman and as Carcosa but he remained as bewildered as ever. Again, to my fortune, it was time for this guards shift to end and up came the guard who I’d spoken to the week before. I gave him time to situate himself into his metal chair before I spoke again – though this time, instead of offering a proposal, I decided to just ask his assistance in pointing me in the direction at which Newman was.
“Newman,” he questioned, eyebrows raised again – the same as the week before he did not know who I was talking about.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you know him as Carcosa I believe,” I assured him.
His face fell and he stood up. This time, he rubbed his unshaven chin with his pointer finger and thumb and made it an objective not to look me in the eye; that struck me as odd because as far as I was concerned it was the guards job to look people dead in the eye and instill a sort of fear in them. But not this time, he avoided direct eye contact at all costs. He cleared his throat a few times before he began to speak. “I’m terribly sorry Mr. Maddock, was it? Carcosa passed away not even two days ago. Rest assured I did my best to make him eat but he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t even talk or more. That boy was kind of disgusting if you ask me; he went to the bathroom in his very pants and never changed.” The guard realized his words were cutting deep and he stopped talking.
I nodded slowly and walked away without respondin’. I knew I was too late; whatever words I had planned to use to encourage Newman were useless now. Newman was dead and I couldn’t help but feel like it was my fault. I took to myself for the next few months and I moved out of town. I never went back into managing a Morgue like I intended; instead I chose to write a book but I realized that I didn’t have that in me either. No, all I had left to do was write about my life and what’s happened.
I’ve dug many graves in my day, but none quite as sad as the one I dug for Newman. It was the last grave I dug and I imagine it will be the last grave I ever dig. Diggin’ that hole for his casket was harder for me than diggin’ the hole for my wife because in my wife’s case I knew where she was goin’ after her death. In the case of Newman, I had no idea what he believed. All I could do was pray for the Lord’s mercy to be upon him but even that couldn’t change what had already been done.
In telling the story of Newman Carcosa, newest gravedigger per my hiring, it is impossible to separate the man from the soul; the things that are hard to believe and the things that don’t take much believin’ at all. The best I could do is telling the way I saw it. I know it may not make much sense because Newman was the kind of guy you had to meet – or at least – see to really understand where he was comin’ from but I think his life – at least the part of his life that I know of – needs to be recorded in part, if not one day in full. Young Newman Carcosa was a man worth remembering.