I’d have attended the funeral if I could, if only I could think of a way to explain how Melissa Boatright’s death had been an unavoidable accident.
A child riding a bike where she should not have been. A little thump almost gentle enough to be forgotten. I meant to stop, would have stopped, would have called 911 if not for a glass of wine with dinner. And my previous and totally undeserved DUI.
No one was around, and the damage was done, so I drove on.
Some tragedies have no good explanations, so I parked my injured automobile at the edge of Fairlawn Cemetery, far enough from the graveside service to avoid suspicion but close enough to show respect. I stepped out of my car onto a flat rectangular granite stone that said:
Edward Capehart O’Kelley
Dec. 1858 – Jan. 13, 1904
The Man Who Killed
The Man Who Killed Jesse James.
Oklahoma Outlaws Lawmen History Association
A murderer who killed another murderer was buried here. A symbol of redemption? Something I’d consider later because six sturdy men were lifting Melissa’s coffin onto their shoulders. Nothing to be done but wait and watch.
The child had done minimal damage to my car—a dent in the grill the size of a child’s head, the hood ornament knocked out of plumb, a jumble of scratches in the black paint. With the help of my imagination, I picked out the word Schwinn in the tangle of silver lines where the metal showed through. Once seen, the word wouldn’t go away.
Repairs would come after the community’s suspicion and the family’s tears had time to evaporate.
A group of women—too many to count—walked toward the grave. Each held a cage. Each cage held a white dove to be released as the coffin was lowered. A symbol to ease the pain? Or did the mourners believe the birds would carry Melissa’s spirit to the afterlife? A beautiful idea, except the doves were rented creatures that would fly back to their dovecote like homing pigeons to be used in other funerals.
The birds fluttered into the air—more than I expected. They flew in ever larger circles over the grave. They turned and swooped among the headstones while the mourners tried to find meaning in their aerobatics. They turned away from Melissa’s burial place and circled over my head, over my head.
A sign I was forgiven?
They landed. Some settled on the hood of my car, the rest near the headstone of Edward O’Kelley, and the mourners followed them. Men and women marched in disorderly parade toward the grave of The Man Who Killed The Man Who Killed Jesse James, and the man who’d killed Melissa.
No reasonable explanation came to mind, and it was too late to run.
John Biggs lives and writes in Oklahoma City about things that happen in and around the state. It’s a weird place, so there are plenty of plot opportunities. He’s been published in numerous magazines and anthologies and has won a couple of awards, including Grand Prize in the 80th annual Writers Digest contest and three writer’s conference Crème de la Crème awards. His longer works include Owl Dreams, The Owl of Death Row, Sacred Alarm Clock, Cherokee Ice, Clementine-a song for the end of the world, and Shiners. All with Rowan &Martin Publishing Associates.