Weston Ochse: Blaze of Glory

Samuel nodded slowly. “I understand.”

"All right. And no ogling. You just concentrate on your counting, Bernie. You get to six and it could mean all of our deaths."

Bennie grinned like the way he’d probably done the first time he’d seen a friend gunned down after a drive-by.

Buckley grabbed one of Bennie's Nines. He propped the butt of the shotgun against his leg and held the pistol eye high, aiming down the barrel.

"All right, Samuel. When I say throw , you hurl the salt. You got that?"

Samuel nodded just as hard and just as fast as Bennie had.

Buckley waited for MacHenry to grab the dead girl under her arms and lift her up. They exchanged looks and everything was ready.

"Go!"

It was a horrific five seconds.

Sally, her face half eaten, her body a colander of maggie holes…Lashawna's body landing at Sally's feet…maggies, noticing Buckley and the fresh meat of the girl turning and moving…pistol firing, a hole appearing in the center of Sally’s forehead, her misery ending…a hundred maggies shifting from her legs in a wave of dedicated death, slithering for the door…shotgun opening with both barrels, salted grape-shot halting the first charge…Sally's eyes convulsing, staring a grotesque come-hither farce.

"Throw!”

A shower of salt hit the body. Putrid steam rose as the maggies melted in a runny gray slime.

"Now!"

And the door slammed shut.

Buckley spun and placed his back against the wall, breathing heavily. Sissy, a lithe blonde who had until recently been at NCCU studying to be a civil engineer, hurried to the door and poured a line of salt along the bottom edge. Buckley smiled through clenched teeth, his black skin shiny with sweat. "There,” he said tossing the shotgun back to Samuel who caught it clumsily. "Is everybody fucking happy, now?"

Buckley stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka from one of the many cases stacked along one wall. He jerked out a chair and sat cowboy style. His hands began to shake as he spun the cap. Buckley concentrated on getting drunk, the image of Sally Struthers’ ravaged body chiseled upon his memory. No one should ever die like that. He drank long and deep.

"Mr. Adamski? Are you okay?"

Buckley opened one eye, the rush of alcohol scouring his system. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided the effort was too much. He nodded and worked his lips into what he hoped was a believable smile.

Little Rashad, wearing a shirt that read Wright Brother’s Band Camp , didn't return the smile. Instead, he bit his lip to keep it from trembling. His eyes swam with unreleased tears. "Sally? Is she dead, mister?"

Buckley left the bottle on the table and held out his arms, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of the kid. The woman had saved the boy and was probably the closest thing he’d had for a mother except the old whore, Gert, or Sissy, who’d probably never changed a diaper.

The boy ran into his arms and sobbed.

"Yeah, she's dead, kid."

"Did you shoot her?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you," the boy said, wiping at an eye. "Did they…did they get her?"

"Just barely, son," Buckley said, remembering his clear view of Sally’s gnashing teeth through the hole her cheek had once filled and Maggies dancing disco where her tongue had been. "She was just real scared is all." He eyed the bottle and squeezed the boy tighter. "Real scared."

The rattle of a lonely sob shook the boy’s chest. Buckley rubbed Little Rashad’s back with his large hands and then pulled him away from his shoulder, holding him at arm's length.

"All right now. That's no way to be. I'm Irish you see? And we don't cry at funerals. We celebrate the person's life.” He shook Rashad gently. “It's called a wake son. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

The boy eyed him suspiciously. "You ain't Irish. You're black like me. And Polish too. Sally told me when I asked about your name."

Buckley grinned. "Sally was right on with her info, little man. I was the only Black Irish Pollack on the entire staff of the Wilmington Public Works Department." He leaned in close and spoke conspiratorially. "What good old Sally didn't know to tell you was that my Daddy's mother was pure Irish. She had red hair if you could imagine, flaming red hair that caught the eye of my grandpa right off. But don't tell no one because people are prejudice against Irish people. Don’t want someone being prejudiced against me, you know."

Little Rashad nodded solemnly, but his lips still quivered.

Buckley grabbed him by his shoulders. "My mother also liked poetry. Do you read poetry? Did your mommy and daddy read you poetry?"

The boy shook his head. At the mention of his mom and dad, a tear sprung in the corner of his eye and welled there.

Buckley ignored it and kept on talking. "Well my mom did, and not just any old poetry, either. She read the greats to me. Wordsworth. Whitman. Blake. Coleridge. Dylan Thomas. My two favorite poems were Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night . Did you ever hear Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night in school?"

The boy shook his head again. His lip had stopped quivering and his whole attention was on Buckley.

"Let me see if I can remember." It had been a while since he'd recited the poem. Somehow he was able to pry it loose from all the recent bad memories. Here you go-

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

"Say it with me, Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Little Rashad said the words.

"Know what they mean?"

The boy shook his head.

"It's easy boy. The trick with poems is that everything is symbolic. What someone says isn't always what they mean. Take light for example. The light is life. Rage means to fight. And night means death. So do not go gentle into that good night , means don't go towards death. Rage against it. Fight it. Fight the dying of the light ."

The boy blinked and nodded slightly.

"Do you get it boy?"

"Rage," he whispered.

"Exactly that, boy. Rage against the dying of the light." Buckley took a swig from his bottle, returned it to the table, then held the boy back so he could look at his shirt. "So, it says here that you're in the band, huh?" Buckley felt his mouth slipping. The bottle was half empty and the dirge was upon him.

Little Rashad brightened up considerably. "Yessir."

"So whaddaya play?"

"The trumpet."

"Like Louis Armstrong trumpet or Chuck Mangione trumpet?"

The boy stared back in confusion.

"That's right. Old Chuck doesn't play the trumpet. He plays that big bell thing. And even if he did, you’re probably too young to remember them. Still, I bet you can play real good, can't ya?"

Little Rashad smiled, "Sure can, wanna hear?"

"Maybe later boy. Maybe later we can scare those damned Maggies away with your playing. Maybe we can scare them right back to where they came from. Right now, though, we got some business to attend to. You and me are part of a wake. So what you drinking?"

The lean boy stared at the bottle of vodka for a moment then searched around the kitchen crowded with boxes from the restaurant and bar below. He spied a case of root beer, walked over, pulled a can out and popped the tab.

Buckley nodded sagely. "Good choice. Nothing like a good beer to toast a wake."

Little Rashad sat down next to Buckley and drank half the can down before pausing. He burped long and loud, looked nervously towards the front door, then slid closer to Buckley.

Stenciled beneath the words KINGMAN INDUSTRIES was a warning to never shut the door while inside. The little girl knew this meant that she couldn't get out once they shut the door, but she was too scared about everything else to concentrate on this one minor detail. Still, as her mother shoved her farther into the walk-in refrigerator, the little girl’s eyes strayed once again to the warning. Then she remembered where she was and what was going on. She didn't want to get out. The safest place for her was inside. Her mother and father had said so.