Letters From the Grave

graduated from college and joined their staff. She had done her student teaching classes with Julie. “Hey, Julie. So, you’re leaving us this year, sister?”

  Julie had a special relationship with Sue. She felt like her mentor and would miss her most of anyone on the staff. “Yeah, Sue. Looking around, I don’t think the impact of leaving this behind has really struck yet. I’m so happy, but I will miss it here. I’ll miss you.”

  Sue walked up to her, and they hugged. “So, when’s your final day here?”

  Julie was melancholy answering. “I’ve filed for retirement, so it could be any time. Jake and I agreed that we’d get married here at my house as soon as it’s sold. So, it could be in a month or two, or longer. It just depends.”

  “Well, you just let me know if I can help with anything at school or home. I know the rest of the staff feels the same way. You’re a fixture here, and we all love you. At least you’re not moving thousands of miles away. We’re all so excited for you.”

  That afternoon, her friend Gail stopped by her house to help sort through things to take with her to Louisiana. Gail’s expressions were similar to Sue’s. Julie was loved by dozens of people in Mineral Wells. They were all excited for her and would always be good friends, and she would be missed.

  Lafayette

  The prison van arrived at its destination in a rundown part of town, a couple blocks from the Police Department in South East Lafayette. The driver grabbed a manila envelope before exiting, instructing Ryan to “Stay put.”

  “Whatever you say, Roscoe.”

  A short time later, a heavy man in his early fifties came out to the side door. “Ryan, come inside with me.” He didn’t pretend to be polite and went inside the old building before Ryan stepped onto the broken sidewalk. He stopped momentarily to look up and down the street. The building was a two-floor clapboard-sided structure with faded grey paint and white trim. All of the paint was peeling, and the window frames all showed bleached bare wood. The front stoop had four steps up with rust spikes where the side rails had rotted away.

  Inside, the old wood floors were buckled with wide gaps. Ground-in dirt had long since replaced any natural stain on the floors. It smelled peculiar, but Ryan had never lived anywhere that smelled particularly fresh. The driver passed him on the way out without looking at him or commenting. Down the dark center hallway the man summoned him to a rear bedroom, used as an office.

  “Sit down, Ryan.”

  Ryan smiled through his overgrown facial hair. “Oh, yesser!”

  “What’s with the hair? You look like Charles Manson on his worst day.”

  “It’s part of my new religion. Took me the whole time at Angola to grow it.”

  The man sat behind a severely scarred old wooden desk with numerous ink stains covering the top. “We got some simple rules here, Ryan. Rule one. If you break any of the rules, you go back to Angola and finish your sentence.”

  Ryan smirked, “Yeah. So what’s the other rules?”

  The man pulled a printed form from the top drawer, shoving it towards Ryan. Read those and sign at the bottom.”

  “I don’t read fast.”

  “Sign anyway. The most important rule is, don’t piss me off. You see, Ryan, I’m your babysitter for the next year. You’ll do everything I say, or the nice man in the prison van will come take you away again. From what I understand, some were disappointed to see you go anyway.”

  Ryan sneered.

  The man continued talking, looking at the open file in front of him. “My name is Keats. Remember it. I see here that you’re a cop killer.”

  Ryan got mad, “I got freed on that charge!”

  “Says here it was a hung jury. You wasn’t found innocent boy, and that means you’re guilty in my book -- in any lawman’s book.”

  “Yeah, well they ain’t got nothin’ on me that’ll stick.”

  “Like I said, you piss me off, you’re going back up north to The Farm. You got it?”

  Ryan looked at him and said, “Sure.” He wasn’t going back. If Keats tried to interfere with his plan, he’d be a dead man, too. The guy was about five inches taller, just under six feet, but he was over two hundred pounds with fat in all the wrong places. His complexion said he was an alcoholic. His greying hair had receded from the front to the crown of his skull, making him look like a medieval monk, only this was no holy man. Ryan figured he was as dishonest as anyone at the prison.

  Ryan was getting impatient. “So, where’s my money, my $200 for this week?”

  Keats looked perturbed, upset that someone had told him about his allowance. “You’ll get it when I’m ready to give it to you. Not before you get cleaned up and go out looking for a job.”

  “Well, Keats. I’m headin’ out this afternoon to look, so get it ready.”

  Baton Rouge

  Jake spent the day flying back and forth to CHI station at Port Arthur to swap two helicopters requiring service. It was still daylight when he drove into his carport then walked back toward his mailbox on the street. T.W. Boudreaux was sitting on his porch across the street. He yelled, “Hey, Jake. Come on over for a beer.” T.W. was sitting on his customary folding lawn chair next to a Coleman cooler filled with ice and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Jake never saw him fill it, but figured T.W. went out early each morning for a fresh case.

  Jake smiled and waved and kept walking past the mailbox. “How you doin’, T.W.? I don’t want a beer, but I’d enjoy sitting with you for a bit.”

  T.W. answered, “Far enough, neighbor. Sit a spell and tell me what’s goin’ on now’a days.”

  Jake sat for about half an hour, talking about flying, something T.W. always wanted to hear. Jake also told him about getting married to his girl from Texas.

  T.W. responded, “I married a girl from Texas once. She was number two.” Jake had lived across from T.W. for eight years and had never seen any women around. “She was a fine lady. Kinda high rollin’ with her bible though, if’n you understand me. It’s a problem with them Texas women. I’m not against religion you understand, just not in my bedroom, heh, heh. She was a Democrat too.”

  “Gee, T.W. I can certainly understand why you’d divorce her.”

  “Oh, I didn’t divorce her.” He took a deep pull on his beer, and Jake stared at him. “Well, I didn’t kill her either. She divorced me.” He took another gulp. Jake figured he finished twelve cans per day.

  T.W. went on. “Yep. She divorced me. Left before you got here and cleaned me out. I been single ever sense.”

  “It takes two to divorce, T.W., just like it takes two to marry. Did you sign anything?”

  “Not that I can remember. Oh, no! You don’t think I’m still married, do you?”

  Jake chuckled, and T.W. moaned, “Give me another’n there Jake. I gotta get drunk. Oh, this is a bad day.”

  “Okay, T.W. Forget I said anything.”

  T.W. finished half the can with one swig. “Okay, now you tell me about your lady. I bet she’s real nice.”

  Well, T.W., I’m marrying a reformed Christian. She’s been baptized, but doesn’t preach or quote scripture. She’s really a fine moral person. Goes to church sometimes, but doesn’t own a bible that I know of. Anyway, I could probably use a little religion in my life. As far as politics are concerned, I think we’re compatible.”

  “Suit yourself, Jake.” T.W. took a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face and neck. It often amazed Jake that someone so overweight who sat in the summer heat all day long didn’t boil off some of the fat. He must perspire gallons each day but he keeps in on with beer.

  Jake said, “T.W., why is it that you don’t use air conditioning in your house? Everyone uses it down here. It keeps the mold down as much as anything, but it would sure make things more comfortable, too.”

  “Jake, I’m a southerner, born and raised here in Louisiana. We never had no air conditioner. It ain’t natural. Probab
ly ruin my health.” Jake just chuckled. T.W. was another Louisiana cardiac casualty waiting to happen. He’d seen it for eight years. Too much shrimp and crayfish dipped in melted butter and no exercise. It’s too hot and humid to work vigorously outside ten months of the year. People can’t even swim in the lakes and rivers unless they plan to feed the gators. Someone once told him that Louisiana had the best cardiac surgeons in the world because they got the most practice. If that was true, T.W. lived in the right state.

  T.W. was getting pretty mellow, but he wouldn’t need to move from his chair unless he got hungry or until he went to bed. Jake put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward looking at his own house. “Tell me T.W., what does T.W. stand for?” He’d never thought to ask before.

  “Well, Jake. It stands for my name, I thought that was obvious.”

  “They’re initials T.W., they mean something longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because they do.”

  “Well, as long as anyone can remember all the men folk in the Boudreaux line had two names in front, always one letter each. My first and second name is T. and then W. I was named after my granddaddy. He was named after his granddad who served with dis’stinkshun with President Davis in the Great War of Northern Aggression. They’s probley a record of T.W. Boudreaux in the Confederate history books. You could look it up.”

  Jake smiled. “I’ll do that, T.W.” He slapped his neighbor on the knee, as he stood up. “Well I gotta go, friend. You be