The Dead Don't Speak

THE DEAD DON’T SPEAK

by

KENDALL BAILEY

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2015 by Kendall Bailey
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2015

ISBN 978-0-9963658-3-3

Kendall Bailey Media
www.kendallbailey.net

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Joyce Christianson and Jon Melander for your input and quick turnaround times. A ginormous thanks to Jessi Kruk for the awesome cover! A second thanks to Jessi and Emily for convincing me to go with the title
The Dead Don't Speak
. Big thanks to Linda Fausnet, beta reader extraordinaire. A very detailed thanks to Donna Myhrer for the editing and proofreading. Thanks to Craig Kruse for the medical info. An ongoing thanks to Kayti Nika Raet and Deina Furth for helping me get the word out about this novel.

"Beth! Bethany! Wait!" A man called from far off. A set of feet in women's footwear stopped near the edge of the tent. Zach stared at them beneath the tent flap. His ears tingled at the sudden intrusion to his preshow jitters. "You can't leave me now. She'll never find out," the man said. His feet arrived next to the woman's a moment later, kicking up a tuft of dust.

The woman replied in a hushed, yet angry, tone, "How could you bring my sister here when you knew you'd be meeting me? What if she sees us?"

"Gloria won't see us and you're over reacting. I couldn't just leave her at home. She's my fiancée. She wanted to come with me."

"My mama was right about you. Wish she was still alive so I had someone to talk to."

Jackpot!

"Don't go bringing Wini into this," the man huffed. "And Gloria's going to that psychic show, anyway. Now come on, let's find a private spot. That dress of yours is givin' me a hard-on."

Zach listened to the exchange as he waited behind the curtain. His lips twisted into a sly grin. He watched the man's feet depart. The woman lingered a moment.

She's deciding if he's worth it. Go with him, lady, I want to talk to your sister.

A moment later, the woman's feet followed in the same direction as the man. Zach's grin spread.

With the man and woman gone, he could hear people bustling and shuffling on the other side of the curtain. Zach ran a hand through the thick blond curls atop his head. He hated doing shows in the tent. It was hot as blazes and stunk like old beer and sweat. He'd much rather work outside where you could feel the breeze and the air didn't feel quite so heavy. Sweat beaded at his temples and upper lip. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then transferred the moisture to his cargo shorts.

Walter had wanted him to wear a costume, something to make people take notice. He'd gone as far as buying a magician's get-up, in purple, from a costume shop. Zach wore it on stage once. The midsummer swelter combined with so much polyester made him faint on stage. Now Zach always wore a t-shirt and shorts. It wasn't flashy but it kept him conscious.  Zach had other ways to make people notice him. He didn't need all that violet and shine. Sure, he may cause some problems in that Gloria lady's life, but, in the long run, she was better off without a cheating fiancé. Especially since he was cheating with her sister.
That
is what people would notice.

Zach looked to his right where his dad sat on an upside down milk crate, taking a long pull off a small bottle of off-brand whiskey. He, too, wiped his mouth and transferred the moisture to his stained work pants.

Walter Hepson was a short bald man with a full beard that, when kept trimmed, looked dignified, but when left to grow, turned scraggly. His pot belly and constantly red nose made him look like Santa, but his temperament wasn't the least bit Claus-like.

"Don't fuck this up," he said to Zach.

"Don't worry."

"'Don't worry,' he says. Wouldn't even wear a good outfit. Some kid this is." Walter had a habit of complaining to people who weren't there.

Zach looked straight ahead at the curtain. He stared until it was whisked aside and he faced a writhing mass of people. Some were seated and others stood. They were packed into the tent like sardines. Many held small, white fans that looked like bidding paddles at an upscale auction. Zach looked around, noticing where the sun peeked through holes and gaps in the canvas.

"Ladies and gentleman," Zach shouted over the crowd noise, "do you fear death?"

The people mumbled but no one answered.

Zach closed his eyes, took a deep breath and shouted, "Is there a Gloria here?"

A petite, dark-skinned lady raised her hand, as did a puffier white woman.

"Which of you had a mother named Winifred?"

The white lady's hand went down as the black lady's rose.

"My mother was Winifred," she said in a small voice with a soft southern drawl.

Zach nodded and closed his eyes again. "I am getting something about a male, someone parallel to her. It could be a brother or maybe a cousin? It would be a man who's passed on."

There's always a dead man in the family.

"My uncle Nathan passed away when they were children," Gloria said.

"She wants you to know that Nathan's all right. She is with him now. They're together and they're happy." Zach paused a moment, getting a message from the great beyond.

Go for the kill. If I emotionally gut this lady now the crowd will be eating out of the palm of my hand.

He asked, "Are you engaged, Gloria?"

"I am, yes."

A couple crowd members gasped. Zach concentrated on not cracking a smile.

"Did your mother not approve of your fiancé?"

"She surely didn't. She hated him terribly." The lady's soft southern voice flowed from her mouth like the scent of peach cobbler, warm and smooth.

There were a few snickers in the tent, including Gloria, who laughed nervously.

"Winifred doesn't want you to marry him."

"Why not? If I may ask. May I ask?"

Zach smiled, "You may ask."

Might as well save her finding out on her own. I'm actually doing her a favor.

"She says he's no good."

A wide smile broke out over Gloria's face. "She was always sayin' that."

"Do you have a sister named Bethany?" Zach asked.

"My goodness, yes!"

Zach took a deep breath. A warm feeling swam in his belly and his skin vibrated with elation. He said, "Your mother says he’s been cheating on you with your sister."

More gasps and muffled voices. No one expected a twelve-year-old boy to say things like this. They thought the show would be cute, a little amateur psychic. There was nothing amateur about this.

"How dare you!" Gloria cried out and stormed out of the tent, pushing her way through the incredulous crowd of on-lookers.

As the audience’s attention focused back on Zach, he proceeded with his show applying his well-honed craft, as he tantalized them with other tidbits he'd picked up around the Sharkey County Fair. A superior smile lit his features, as he called out, “Is there anyone here named Mary Ann?”

Zach did two shows per day. Gloria had been at the early show, so he recognized her when he saw her again in the crowd at the late show. She was sitting beside a large, very angry-looking, man. The man's steely glare was a distraction and the second performance was less than brilliant. Zach was happy when it finally ended.

When the show was over, Walter, who had also noticed the lack of brilliance, pulled Zach aside and barked in his face, "What's the matter with you? You trying to ruin what we got goin' here? You're gonna be famous one day! I was talking to people from the Texas State Fair a couple weeks back. They're interested in our show. Don't you ruin this for me!" This charming pep talk was accompanied by a slap to the back of the head, a love tap for Walter.

After the quick confrontation Zach's bladder felt full so he found a port-a-john. It stunk inside, as port-a-johns invariably do. However, Zach needed to relieve himself so he dealt with the odor. It was dark in there. Zach liked the dark. He could think in the dark and no one could see him. There was a practical utility about it, too. He listened to conversations passing the tiny commode. Little snippets of other people's lives. Sometimes he wished they were his own. Not always, but sometimes. But they nearly always gave him ammunition for his show.

Zach pushed on the door to leave and, as it swung outward, he found himself face to face with Gloria's angry fiancé. The man pushed him backward into the little toilet and stepped inside with him. The door sprang shut with a loud, plastic
CLAP
and Zach fell backward onto the seat. The man reeked of alcohol. The scent was so strong Zach could smell it over the stink in the plastic toilet.

"What do you think you’re doin', huh? You tellin' my lady lies about me? You don't even know me."

"I just say what…" Zach words were cut off by the man's open hand striking his left cheek.

"Shut your mouth, boy. You're comin' with me to tell my Gloria I didn't fuck her sister, you hear?"

Zach nodded. Arguing would only result in more pain. He needed a way out of this crap closet.

"Good!"

The man lifted Zach by one elbow and jerked him up, turned, and exited the port-a-john. Zach found it odd that the man held the door open for him. Zach scrambled out and tried to run but the man caught him by the collar of his shirt.

"Dad!" Zach yelled. He knew Walter couldn't have gone far. He was mean sometimes, but both Zach and Walter knew that Zach was their meal ticket. Without him Walter would be shoveling shit on a farm somewhere.

Passers-by assumed the big angry man was Zach's dad and looked away. It was none of their business how a man disciplined his child, not in rural Mississippi.

But Walter Hepson heard his son's shout and craned his neck to find him. It took a few seconds but his eyes, blurry with booze, found his son. Some big son of a bitch had hold of him, he saw. Best to sneak up and take the big guy down before he knew what hit him.

"Boy, you be quiet," the man shouted.

Zach was shoved hard in the back and he skidded across the packed dirt thoroughfare. He barely had time to turn his head to see his father approaching.

Walter sprinted through the throng. He was short which worked to his advantage because Gloria's fiancé never saw him coming. Walter took one swing at the man and suddenly the guy was on his back, eyes closed. Walter knelt by the man, one leg over him, pulled him up by a fistful of t-shirt, and gave him one more good wallop.

"You all right, Zach?" Walter asked.

Zach's chin was bleeding from the skid and he had red dirt smeared all over his shirt, but he nodded. He touched his chin. It stung beneath his fingers. His throat swelled and white hot tears sprang to his eyes.

This is my life?

Zach turned and ran away.

"Go on to the camper," Walter shouted after him. "Get cleaned up."

Zach ran past the happy families. He ran past the bright lights and flighty music. He ran past the smell of deep-fried everything. Zach ran past all he hated about the world. In a flash, he saw himself as an adult for the first time.

Things won't get better unless I make them better.

*****

A couple thousand miles away, a thin film of smoke hung above a Las Vegas crowd. The darkened theater still smelled of the incense the stagehands had burnt before the show. They pumped the scent, along with the smoke, through the air conditioning system, to make people feel spiritual.

Simon, a forty-something man in glitzy clothing commanded the stage and the breathless attention of the large crowd.

"All right,” he intoned, in his practiced way, “Is there someone here with an older relative whose name is Michael? Could be first, middle, or last name but it's definitely Michael," he shook his head and chuckled. "He's made that very clear."

The crowd laughed. A middle-aged woman's hand slowly rose among those seated in the crescent section. The crescent, or "reading", section of the theater was for people who'd bought tickets early and paid a little extra.

"You, ma'am? You have a Michael in your family?"

An attendant arrived at the woman's elbow as Simon finished his question. The attendant handed the lady a microphone so everyone could hear her speak.

"I had an Uncle Michael," she said.

"And he has passed?"

"He did, last April."

"Did Michael have a thing for," Simon paused, waiting for the message to fully come to him, "clocks?"

"Yes! Yes, he did. He had a large collection." The woman smiled as her eyes welled up with tears at the memory of Uncle Mike's clock collection.

"Are you currently trying to sell them?"

"I am..." She didn't want to but there just wasn't room to store them. Michael would understand. Hopefully.

Simon looked at the lady, "What's your name, dear?"

"Shirley Swift."

"Another double S," Simon said, his last name being Simmons.

The crowd chuckled again.

"Yes," Shirley said with a smile.

"He is very specific," Simon began, "about a particular clock. It's brown, made of wood, and has roman numerals on the face. It's a smaller clock," he held his hands about eight inches apart. Simon paused again, letting the message flow, "He kept it on his bedside table."

"Oh my god!" Shirley breathed into the microphone. "I know the exact one. I just put it up for sale on eBay a few days ago."

"You need to take that clock off eBay," Simon told her, "Michael doesn't like that you're trying to sell it. The others he says you can part with, but not his old bedside clock. He says you should keep it in the family."

That was all the information Simon had on Michael, whose niece Shirley was staring at her feet now, ashamed of trying to sell her uncle's much-loved collection. Simon made a mental note to high-five Chris for this one. The crowd was eating it up. Specifics is where the money was made.