T'Whom It May Concern

By Gary Sutherland

An abrupt career change resulting in a sudden uprooting from city dwelling to isolated farm life for his brooding, lonely wife Jenny bring on almost overwhelming challenges for Matt Nielsen. But when he lugs home an infant’s tombstone that he stumbles across in a long-lost family cemetery, the problems that haunt Matt make the ones he had seem trivial. Now his job, his home, the woman he dearly loves, and his own life threaten to collapse around him, yet he doesn’t comprehend who his tormentors are or what he’s done to arouse them.
Little did Matt realize that when he stole away the child’s tombstone along with it rose up the ghosts of the baby’s parents who demand revenge for the desecration of their infant’s final resting place. In exchange they must receive the life and soul of Jenny who has become sympathetic to the child’s untimely death particularly since she has remained childless.
Jenny contrives to retain the tombstone, identifying with it as her own while Matt struggles to rid her of it. Meanwhile the attacks from the ghostly parents mount in there fury, threatening to eliminate both Matt and Jenny.
Finally hopeless and in deep despair, Matt cries out that he would sacrifice everything to make the ghosts stop so that he could save Jenny who is on the brink of death. At this point Norris, Matt’s sole, elderly, bachelor employee intercedes. He recovers the tombstone from Jenny’s hiding place and directs the ghosts to precede him to their family plot. They guide him through a raging blizzard during which Norris suffers a critical heart attack. This is his last rescue. He must pass the task of protector on to a younger man, Matt, who keeps his beloved Jenny at the cost of his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Sutherland
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989579612

Gary Sutherland

Writing has always been my passion. Although life has complicated things, I have always written short stories and novels. I taught creative writing and literature for twenty-five years in secondary schools, community college, and adult education. I have attended several writers’ conferences, and each time I won an award for fiction. The contest judges included Guy Owen, William Evans, Becky Weyrich, and Nelle McFather. I have written two other novels besides Nailing the Board. T'Whom it May Concern, and Laughed to Death are also on Smashwords. At present I am working on a fourth novel and gathering research for a fifth one.Writing instructor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison Division, Marshall J. Cook, Murder at Midnight, Twin Killing, The Great Wisconsin Man Manhunt of 1961, said, “Gary, you’re quite the story teller.”I am a former 82 Airborne paratrooper. I live in Sioux City,IA, my home town, with my wife and two cocker spaniels. I am extremely proud of my nephew Jon Beauchaine who has done such a marvelous job on my book covers.

Book preview

T'Whom It May Concern

by

Gary Sutherland

Copyright 2005 by Gary Sutherland

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Many hours, days, weeks, and years went into writing this book. Thank you for respecting Gary's hard work.

Chapter 1

Jenny’s head popped above the honeysuckle hedge when she heard the tires scrunching across the gravel drive circling their house. Hi, hon, she called as the pickup stopped.

Without replying, Matt eased out like a man beyond his years. His pinstriped uniform shirt was pasted to his back with sweat in a perfect outlining of his lungs.

Are you watering again?

Yes.

They still look pretty droopy to me.

They’ll perk up after the sunlight moves off them.

I don’t see why you don’t give up and let them go. They’ll die, no matter what.

Many won’t. Not the perennials. If I lose them now, I won’t have them next year.

I don’t know how you remember what’s what- annuals or perennials.

Familiarity, just like you and your fertilizers.

The water table’s dropping, and they’re talking about eliminating unessential water usage.

I’ll conserve when everyone else does if it comes to that.

She changed the subject hoping his irritability would pass. Are you stopping by on a delivery? I’ve got some sun tea just ready."

Nope.

He slouched toward the back door stoop to sit down. As he prepared to lower himself as though he were settling into a tub of water that was too hot, his hand touched the cement, and he snatched it back causing his buttocks to crack down hard on the concrete. Damn, that’s hot enough to cook on!

Jenny tugged down the bottom of her shorts and perched beside him being careful not to let her bare legs touch the steps. Even outdoors Matt could feel the heat her body gave off.

I thought you’d be in the air conditioning on a day like this.

I get tired of insulating myself against the weather. It’s unnatural. People were meant to adapt to the environment, not adapt it to them.

Wow, philosophy in this heat yet. I think it’s fried your brain, he groused.

Jenny let it lie. His moods ran hot and cold and blew over. He meant nothing personal.

You didn’t say what you were doing home.

Do I need an excuse to be home in the early afternoon?

No, this is your castle.

Matt gave her a sidelong glance with a flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Aha, I got him, she thought.

He tickled the top of her sweaty thigh with a playful scratch.

Yours too, my dear.

I’m glad you stopped. It gets lonely stuck out here all day alone.

He pushed himself up.

Do you have to leave already? Jenny said panicky.

She looked toward the cistern cover. The tea in the clear glass jug was bourbon colored with a golden gem of sunlight shimmering in its center. Have some tea.

I’m not leaving. The concrete makes my backsides ache.

I’ll fix us some tea.

She carried the jar into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open with a sucking pop, then the rasping squeak as she drew the trays out of the freezer compartment. The water came on in the sink as she ran it over the trays. He visualized her quick, efficient movements with no wasted motion. She could always do physical tasks in half the time it took him. There was the twisting rattle as she broke the cubes loose, followed by the hollow clunking as she dropped them into glasses.

Do you want it in the house or outside? It’s kind of close in here, she called through the window screen.

Outside, in the chairs under the tree.

She came out with two big glasses rimed in smoking opal and passed him one. Where her grip had been, the glass shone darkly through. The coldness stung his hand.

Wow, what did you do to this?

I frosted them.

Always some new, surprising little touch, he thought.

He lifted the glass to his mouth, and the clean-bedsheet scent of brewed tea and condensation rose into his sinus cavities. His back teeth throbbed with the first swallow, and his stomach convulsed when the icy liquid hit it.

Mmhh, nothing beats the taste of tea made this way.

A shiver passed over him, jiggling the ice inside his glass.

Somebody walk across you grave?

No, he smiled. I’d nearly forgotten that expression.

The cold drink made his temples throb and momentarily his bones felt leaden.

Busy today?

There hasn’t been a customer in all day, that is to buy anything. Every once in a while a farmer drifts in and has a bottle of pop and chews the fat. The conversation is always the same- whether the heat wave and dry spell will break before it turns into a full-fledged drought.

You don’t regret giving up teaching and going with the co-op, do you?

God, no. It’s just a matter of bad timing. How’d I know it was going to be a stinker of a farming year.

He hunched forward flexing, his shoulder blades. She recognized the sign.

Got a headache again?

Yeah.

She started to get up.

I’ll get you something.

Don’t bother. It’s tension. Aspirin won’t phase it.

He was silent a moment.

"God, it’s hot. He pulled his wilted shirt away from his body, flapping it to let air in. The pungent odor of his own sweat drifted up to his nostrils.

What do you have to do yet this afternoon?

Matt steeled himself giving her a look from beneath a raised eyebrow. I’m not going to go back down there this afternoon.

I think that’s a good idea.

Norris can watch the place.

I’m sure he can.

There’s nothing going on anyway.

You needn’t feel guilty about it. Why don’t you turn on the air conditioner in the bedroom and take a nap?

I’m pooped, but I’m not sleepy.

"He looked toward the garage.

You’re not thinking of tinkering with that old car, are you?

It relaxes me.

Not this afternoon! It’s got to be 120 degrees in there, and there’s no ventilation. You’ll get a heatstroke.

I guess you’re right.

He looked around the yard. Only her flowers appeared healthy. They had given up watering the vegetable garden two weeks ago as a lost cause.

It’s useless to attempt any yard work.

You’re right.

There’s always so much to be done around here, and the more I do, it seems the farther behind I get, and the worse it looks.

It can’t all be done at once. You’ve got to pace yourself. Do a little bit at a time steadily.

It nags at me.

It doesn’t look that bad to me.

Hmmph.

She kept an immaculate house, and she still always had time for relaxing activities. He felt he had to keep up with her in what he considered his chores, but he had to push himself. He made a mental survey of the things he had to do around the place, and his head sagged.

I can’t muster up any enthusiasm to do anything today.

Then don’t do anything this afternoon, Matt. What good is taking time off if you plow into more work? Let’s do something fun together.

What?

Let me think.

She looked toward their two Arabian horses stamping and shivering their skins against the flies.

How about a horseback ride? They could use a workout.

Naw, too hot, and what if my customers saw me in the middle of the work day trotting by their places?

Let on that you’re checking the condition of the crop. That’s practical. You can see better from horseback, and it conserves on gas.

I’d better not break with tradition. The only way to do this is in a pickup driving down the middle of the road at ten miles an hour.

We could take in a matinee at the mall in Mizzou City.

Too risky again.

I need some groceries. You always like to go to the grocery store.

Same problem.

You’re awfully sensitive. You are the co-op manager, after all. That should give you some latitude.

That’s just more reason to set a good image and keep my nose clean until I’m established. You remember these people own an interest in the place.

Well, I’m stumped then. You have any ideas?

Nope.

He tipped up his glass, swallowing the melt-off from the ice cubes and made a face. He dumped the remainder on the grass.

I wish there was something to do that would get me away from the co-op and the house in privacy for awhile.

Jenny bounced forward. I’ve got it!

What?

Let’s go fishing.

Perfect!

She sprang out of the lawn chair. Its webbing left a pink crisscrossing on the backs of her thighs and calves.

And we can take some beer, she added.

Now you’re talking.

You get the tackle together, and I’ll pack the cooler.

What’ll we use for bait?

I still have the nightcrawlers in the refrigerator.

They can’t be any good yet. We got those way back last spring.

You’d be surprised. I’ve changed the bedding a couple of times, but I haven’t checked on them lately since it’s been so hot.

That’s a long time then.

Jenny went through the back door into the kitchen, and Matt headed for the barn. He grunted as he heaved on the drooping door of the machine shed and while holding it up, pushed it along its horizontal track far enough to squeeze through. Another task he had to get done, he thought, re-hanging the door and freeing up and greasing the rollers before winter. Otherwise, it would become frozen and packed into the ground with snow and ice until spring.

The heat from the tin-covered room exploded against him with concussive force nearly searing his lungs. Jenny had been right about it being impossible to work in there in the afternoon. He didn’t dare open the Dutch door on the side to catch a draft, if there was any, or it would fall off its thread-stripped hinges. That was another job that needed to be done. He really should stay home this afternoon.

Damn, he burst out. Inching his way around the Cord, he barked his shin on the mounts for the bumper that he’d removed for re-chroming. The 1937 Phaeton barely fit into the lean-to that was built to store a buggy and later a tractor. Even with the rust-colored primer and its grillwork and the convertible top off, the classic still appeared aerodynamic. After years of searching for parts, hours of rebuilding, and scads of money which Jenny had never mentioned, the end of the restoration was in sight. The car would be worth quadruple what he had put into it.

His eyes adjusted to the dust-speckled shafts of light filtering through the ample cracks in the Dutch door. He took the two fishing rods hanging by their tips off the wall, then opened the purple Seagram’s Crown Royal bags in which he stored the reels. The crisp odor of cleaning solvent made his blood race with the prospect of adventure. Each reel had plenty of line. He picked the tackle box off the floor and carried it to the workbench. The knuckle-buster safety clasps clanked dully like a cracked bell as he sprung them each open. The blue-green metallic box had been passed down to him from his father, and it bore the dents and scars on its surface of hundreds of fishing trips. He checked the tiers of tackle. The stock was complete. A sweet-sour fragrance seeped up from the cork-lined compartments. He lined up the accordion trays, closed the lid, doubled-checked the latches, and clicked and clattered with his load back out the door past the Cord. The outside air felt good.

As he was stowing the gear in the back of the pickup, Jenny came out of the house lugging the cooler in both hands with the worm box stacked on top.

Are we going in that?

Well, sure. Why not?

It hasn’t got air conditioning.

Ah, with the wings turned in and the outside vent up you won’t notice the difference.

Oh, yeah? Then why do you always come home smelling like a soggy armpit?

Because I’ve just been moving fertilizer with the Bobcat in the warehouse.

Let’s take the car.

No, I’d have to break the poles down to carry them; the car’ll get all scuzzy, and the gravel’s hard on the paint job. Besides, it’s bad for the undercarriage.

I thought this was a fishing trip not a safari. Maybe we’d better take the Land Rover, B’wana.

How’d you like a fat lip to match that smart mouth?

Aha, tough guy, huh? She dropped the cooler in the driveway and danced about him flicking out with cupped hands.

Now, you did it. You shook up the beer.

That’s not all that’s getting shook up, buster. She pressed her attack, dropping her shoulders and tucking her chin. Her feet scratched on the gravel raising little clouds of dust.

Oh, no hitting below the belt.

Too bad- can’t reach any higher.

Matt sidestepped her flurry, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted her with flailing legs off the ground.

Panting and laughing, she said, Phew, you stink.

Now, that’s hitting really low.

Clasping her tightly with one arm, he started tickling her. Giggling and squirming, she pried loose one hand, reaching through her legs, and gave his genitals a firm squeeze.

Ouch! he howled.

She wiggled free and darted to the opposite side of the truck.

He doubled over, massaging his pelvis in mock agony.

Where’d you learn to fight like that?

That’s the advantage of growing up with three older brothers.

Whew, too hot.

Scaredy cat.

Breathing hard, they faced each other, leaning their arms on the sides of the pickup box. The metal was almost too hot to touch.

How are the worms?

Changing the subject, eh? Throwing in the towel?

Matt felt a mild surge of adrenaline and anger in his gut like when he used to play Gotcha Last.

I’m gonna make a comeback.

Jenny raised up off the truck, leaving sweat marks, and came warily around to his side. She picked up the worm box from the ground where it had tumbled off the cooler and slid the lid back. The Styrofoam squeaked like cotton being pulled apart. Matt shivered. The worm bedding inside looked like a virgin brick of modeling clay.

That’s what I was afraid of, he complained.

No, watch. She closed the lid and turned the box over, opening the other side.

Wow!

The startled, blood-red night crawlers, bigger around than his little finger, dived and burrowed for cover like vampires from sunlight into the gray bedding.

See. What did I tell you? Jenny grinned.

We won’t catch anything with those.

What do you mean?

Those are attack worms. The fish will be afraid of them.

Oh, go on, she smiled. They’re irresistible.

She picked one out, and it coiled and flipped about her fingers.

Let’s see you eat one if they’re so scrumptious.

She made a face.

I hope we won’t have to, but you’d better check your supper carefully tonight before you take a bite. She dropped the worm back into the box. Probably wouldn’t taste too bad, though. They’re supposed to be high in protein.

Matt watched the crawler disappear into the packing. Awed, he said, I’m not putting one of those things on my hook.

Why not?

I might wind up on the end of the line in the water with it holding the pole.

Phooey. She jabbed the still open box toward the end of his nose. Put the beer in the truck, great white fisherman.

As she turned away, he swatted her fanny.

Ouch, that smarts. She rubbed the spot.

I’m gonna make a comeback.

He hoisted the Coleman ice chest over the side of the truck.

Umph, how much beer we got in there anyway?

About two six packs.

About? We’ve either got two six packs or we don’t. Which is it?

Well, I didn’t count them. She studied him. I didn’t think it was vital to our survival.

Shit. He leaned into the box and yanked the chest toward him.

You don’t have to open it. There are ten bottles.

All right. You’re sure?

Yes, I’m sure. There are ten bottles . . .nine or ten.

God, damn it.

Jenny tried to hide a grin. What’s the big deal, one more or less, one way or the other?

I’m only trying to determine if we should stop some place and get some more.

There’ll be enough. A couple will be plenty for me. That’ll leave eight . . . or seven, the edges of her mouth crinkled, for you. You’re not going to turn it into a binge, are you?

How can I turn it into a binge if I have only eight- or seven- bottles of beer, as you say? It’s just that I’m powerful thirsty, and you know how you can drink beer when it’s hot.

All right, I solemnly swear I won’t drink more than two. It makes me tinkle, and I don’t like to tinkle in the woods. Okay?

As he slid the cooler snugly into the corner behind the cab, he growled, I’m sorry.

What?

Nothing.

I thought you muttered something.

I asked if we had everything.

Oh. She looked over the contents. Tackle, bait, beer. That should cover it. Say how about Spanky? Should we take her?

No, she always gets tangled with burrs, and it takes me a week to get them brushed out.

Okay. She swung up into the passenger side of the cab. Where we going?

I thought to Norris’s old home place.

Oh.

Is something wrong with that?

How about the public area? It’s closer, and it’s kept up.

There are too many people around, and it’s fished out.

But we’ll have to lug all this stuff in from the road.

Norris gave me a key. We drive right up to the edge of the pond.

Jenny sat with her hand shading her eyes looking down at the floorboards.

What’s really bugging you?

It’s eerie back there.

For Christ’s sake, you act as if we were going to another planet. I thought we wanted to get away from things for a few hours. He banged his door open. Let’s forget the whole thing, and I’ll go back to the co-op.

No, let’s go.

Slamming his door shut, he punched the truck into gear, spewing gravel, and spun onto the highway looking neither way, laying rubber. A ways down the road he slowed to the speed limit.

Jenny, hesitating, after awhile said, I forgot to lockup the house.

It’ll be okay. We don’t have to worry in the daytime, I’m sure.

His reaction surprised her, and she began to relax. Ahead of them heat waves shimmered off the road giving the impression that they would part into another dimension if they reached it, but the warp always stayed an even distance beyond them.

The corn in the fields looked poor for August with stunted stalks and runty ears. The leaves drooped dry and brown instead of standing up crisp and silky green. Another cutting of alfalfa was hopeless. The plants were ragged, and daylight gaped through the scraggly branches. Even the soybeans were wilted and uneven and could barely support their shriveled up pods.

After several miles they turned off onto gravel.

I can never remember the exact way to his place, she said. I know I couldn’t drive to it.

I get a little hazy about it too. I don’t have many customers over in this part of the country.

They were among hills now, either climbing along a crest or passing through a cut. At every mile corner they wound a different direction. Wherever the road crossed over a hilltop, it was graded high at the center and angled off sharply toward the ditches. Matt straddled the middle while Jenny hugged the door for security and braced her feet against the floorboard, jamming herself into the seat.

I’m always nervous about meeting somebody else at the top of the hill who is driving down the middle, Jenny said.

There’s that chance, I guess. Everybody drives as though they were the only one on it. You never seem to hear about accidents.

It’s a wonder. Especially during planting or harvest season, but a person needs to be cautious at any time.

Matt didn’t catch the hint and barreled along at close to highway speed with the back end shimmying on the turns. Dense trees were packed right up to the barbed wire that was almost hidden by high, brown grass and sumac. The air blowing in from the wings and vents was dry enough for kindling.

Why do you suppose there aren’t more houses back in here?

There were once, they tell me, in the low areas when farms were smaller, but it’s too hilly for anything but pasture, and it’s not even good grazing ground. It’s too clayey, and the closer you get to the river the sandier it becomes.

It sure is desolate. I wouldn’t want to live back in here.

The remoteness appeals to me. There are some really pretty spots that I thought would be nice to build on.

You’d have to live alone then.

That’s when it would have been really nice.

Well, I like that!

No, I mean living out here alone away from people like a hundred years ago or more. When you could hunt and trap and fish for a living. Game would have been abundant then. I bet you could bag a deer in your own front yard. And with the river at your back door, you could probably catch a catfish on a piece of twine. With a little garden plot you could live like a king.

I don’t know how you could shoot one of those animals. They have such pretty eyes.

Huh?

A deer.

Oh. When it’s a matter of survival, it’s different. Besides, you’d only take what you’d need for food. That would only be a few a year.

What would you do for love?

Love is a universal language. You don’t need words for that. There’d be plenty of nooky at night under the buffalo robes.

That’s not love. That’s lust.

A hole’s a hole.

Matthew Nielsen! She scooted across the seat grabbing his biceps in both hands, squeezing and digging her nails with calculated pressure.

Ouch, that hurts, he howled, laughing and attempting to fend her off and steer at the same time.

You smut mouth. Is that what you think of me? Where’d you learn language like that?

In the paratroopers.

You say you’re sorry. She pinched her nails deeper. Matt laughed louder. Say you’re sorry. She leaned her head downward and gripped a chunk of his upper arm in her teeth and wiggled her head playfully like a pup. Thay you’re thorry. Her hair fell forward tickling his skin.

Cut it out. That hurts. You’re going to get us in a wreck.

She bit harder, shaking with more ferocity.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he yelled with tears of laughter streaming from his eyes.

She raised up, flashing a grin, but it faded fast as her eyes widened in fear. Matt, watch out! she yelled.

He caught a flash of sunlight from a windshield through the trees before the next bend in the road, and then a truck careened around the corner head-on. Framed in a whirlwind of dust was a 4x4, metallic blue Silverado with chrome stuck on every place. It slid around the curve on its jacked up frame and roared toward them with its grillwork looming larger than a locomotive. Matt hammered on the horn. He couldn’t see a hint of the opposing driver through the thickly tinted glass, but he showed no sign of wavering.

Matt, get out of its way!

He swerved in the nick of time and bounced across the ditch. Bushes and brome grass scratched and swished against their hurtling sides. Finally they creaked to a stop after plowing down a fence post and bowing its wire against their front end.

Are you okay?

Jenny fanned the dust swirling into the cab and coughed.

Yeah, I guess I’m all right. How about you?

She could barely make him out in the settling dust.

I’m still in one piece as far as I can see.

She looked down the road at the dwindling cloud. Jesus, it didn’t even stop.

Hell, it didn’t even slow down.

Did you recognize it?

No.

Ouch!

What’s the matter?

My knee hit the dash when we jumped the ditch.

Can you bend it?

She flexed it gingerly. Yes. A greenish, purple bruise was already