Category: Santiago Holmes

“I couldn’t stand it. The air crackled with the silent electricity of the room’s tension. I knew whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good, so I told Kenny Briggs – who was working the bar with me – I was heading out back to take a break.

“When I left, all eyes were still on Santiago. Everyone was still waiting. I pushed out through the back door and sat on a couple of empty kegs and stared at the moon. It was beautiful, hanging there large as life in the cloudless sky. If it hadn’t been so hot, or there’d been any sort of breeze, it would have been a perfect night.

“I’d just lit a cigarette when I heard the back door creak open. I assumed it was one of the servers coming out to escape the tension inside, so I kept looking at the moon.

“I was surprised when a voice slurred my name from the dark. I looked toward the door and saw an unfamiliar shape backlit in the doorway. It stumbled out towards me and I saw it was Billy Braithwaite.

“’Hey Linda,’ he drooled at me, ‘it’s my birthday.’

“Happy birthday Billy,’ I said. At the time, I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with plenty of drunks over the years and figured that was all this was, just another drunk. And it was just Billy Braithwaite, a punk, but not a bad kid on the whole. 

“They’d been packing it away at Billy’s table, so I figured he’d missed the men’s room and gone through the backdoor instead. They were right next to each other, so it was a common enough mistake.

“He came a little closer, so that now he stood in front of me and said, ‘did you get me a present?’ I’d turned away when I realized who it was and was looking back at the moon, but there was something in his voice when he asked this question that caused me to look back at him.

“’I’ll buy you a drink,’ I said, hoping to placate him, ‘let’s go back inside and I’ll get you a shot and a Bud.’

“’I’ve already got plenty of those,’ he slurred, ‘I want something else.’

“At this, my heart started pounding in my chest and I couldn’t get air in my lungs. I knew without him saying another word what he wanted, so I began trying to think of a way to distract him so I could get away, or slow down whatever was to come next in hopes someone would come out for a break or make the same mistake with the doors that Billy had, so I asked, ‘what do you want?’

“’A kiss.’

“’I don’t think so Billy.’ I can still hear the quiver in my voice as I replied. God, the fear I felt…

“I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. He was standing over me, a massive shadow blocking out the sky. I tried to stand up, but he pushed me back down.

“’Now, give me my present,’ he said as he leaned in toward my face. He stank of onions, beer and sweat. His breath came in heavy gasps. I turned my head away at the last instant and his nose ended up crunching into the side of my head. Not hard enough to do damage, but hard enough to get his attention.

“’Playing hard to get,’ he smiled, a drunken shine in his eye, ‘I like that.’ He moved his hands to my arms, shoving me from where I sat to a position pinned against the wall.

“’Not a sound,’ he breathed at me, ‘not a single word,’ and he moved in to kiss me again. I was so afraid. I didn’t turn my head this time.”

At this, she stopped and stared off toward the Melanski. I didn’t push, though I was desperate for her to continue. I could see the telling of this story was a catharsis despite the pain the memories were causing.

“That night it was hot and a full moon. When the moon was full, Santiago would go out ‘howlin’,’ as he called it. He’d take the same path up from the Tortoise, through town, past the Tavern and up the hill.

“He’d be shouting about how his father loved Berwick and how it was wrong for all of us to blame him – his father – for the mills’ failing. He’d shout about his father having given his last dime for the town and died trying to find more.

“There wasn’t a head in the front of the Tavern that wouldn’t sink to its chest or find something else to look at when he came by. I didn’t know then, but they did. They all felt the guilt. They knew what they hadn’t done.

“And then it was over. His voice would become a distant echo that was easier to ignore as he moved further up the hill. By the time he reached the top, everyone in the bar had ordered another round of drinks and forgotten they’d felt any discomfort at all. A toast would be called for when the flashing blue lights went by outside on their way to retrieve him.

“Pap had cut a deal with Judge Duval, so when the cops went up to get him, they’d take him straight back to the cemetery. They’d call Pap first so he could be there to make sure Santiago didn’t get out and cause any further trouble. 

“I don’t know why Pap looked out for him. I miss Pap. He was always himself.”

Ma paused, going away to some distant place in her mind. I watched as a bird of prey swooped down from one of the pines in the distance, cutting through the shimmering light on the Melanski, then rose with something wriggling in its talons.

“Santiago had been living and working at the cemetery for about three years by the time that night rolled around. He was pleasant enough; never said anything too crass around me or your Gram. Pap had him over every Sunday for dinner and he was the picture of politeness, if a bit dirty – the mess from the week’s work never seemed to wash off him. 

“We knew his reputation around town. It didn’t hold up with who we saw each Sunday, but at the same time, it wasn’t surprising either. I think what I’m trying to say is we were used to his comings and goings. We were used to him. The full moon ‘howlin’’ became just another part of this odd character who worked for Pap.

“What was different on that August night was that as his voice became clearer it stopped. It didn’t carry on past the Tavern, it went quiet outside. Everyone in the room had begun to look down at the sound of the voice. When it stopped they kept their heads down, looking up only when the door slammed open and Santiago burst in with a bottle of Coop’s homemade in his hand.

“I had a sip once. It was like white fire the way it jolted through your system. God. It was like a hammer in the veins. And that was just a sip. Santiago had finished close to three-quarters of the bottle in his hand when he stumbled into the bar.

“The breath in the room went out with the closing of the door as everyone looked up from the beverages and realized who it was. Even the young Braithwaite party in the back went quiet. No one looked down, all eyes stayed locked on him as he took a swig from his bottle and surveyed the room, bleary distain masked his face as he swayed left to right. I don’t think he new where he was, but he knew he loathed every person in that room.

Ma and I stood in silence on top of the hill at Mt. Hope looking west toward the setting sun. The Melanski glistened through the distant trees. In my opinion, it is the best view in the cemetery.

“He was a complicated man,” Ma began, after we’d stood for ten minutes. “No one took the time to try and understand him. I know I didn’t. I didn’t appreciate who and what he was until the end, and then it was too late.”

I didn’t have anything to add, so we stood in silence looking out over the place that had been central to our lives for so long.

“I knew there was more to him. I didn’t stop at his name like the rest of the town. So he was a Holmes, so what? I didn’t realize the depth of him, and I didn’t try to explore it.”

“Ma, tell me.”

“I don’t know that there’s all that much to tell,” she said, trying to brush her whimsy aside.

Most times I wouldn’t have pushed, but she had promised to tell me about the man, and I had cared enough to come home despite my confused feelings for the man who had at times been like an older brother, a father, an uncle, a boss and a deranged co-worker towards me. I persisted, “No, there’s a story. Please, tell me.”

Ma heard the note of pleading in my voice, the need. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders as she said, “okay. There is a story, but I just need to tell it, so please, let me.”

We sat down in the grass next to Santiago’s stone. Ma was quiet for a little while, content to let the early autumn sun fall upon us. Its warmth was not unwelcome. I turned to Ma and saw a single tear trace a path down her cheek.

“Now is as good a time as any,” she said to herself, then to me, “it was a blistering hot day in August. Scorching hot, with humidity you bit into every time you took a breath. I was 22, 23 at the time. You were just a little thing at the time. 

“I’d worked at the bank all day and shot over to the Tavern as soon as I was done there. I knew we’d be busy with the heat on and all. I was hoping to get on early to make a little extra.

“When I got there, it was hopping. All the regulars were there and anyone else who could stand to rub elbows with the Berwick ‘elite’. You know how the place was, most of the regulars had their usual tables out in front so they could be seen.

“Others who were there often, but didn’t have the same status, like Big Mike Tatum, packed in on stools and high tables around the bar.

“Then there were the folks just passing through town, or the locals who didn’t come out much, just looking for a drink or a meal, or the kids of the ‘elite’ who were of age, or close-ish, but weren’t allowed to sit in the front where they might associate with their parents. It was a stupid, but that was how it worked.

“Pap would also come in a few times a week. He didn’t much care for the seating rules, but still had a stool he took at the back of the bar where he could survey the place.

“I think he preferred the rougher company and more relaxed atmosphere of the Tortoise. I don’t think he liked seeing me behind the bar either, but he always said when it got hot he preferred ‘the smell of money to the smell of the man sitting next to me.’ So along with the regulars he was there that night. 

“At a table in the back Billy Braithwaite was celebrating his 21^stbirthday with a group of lackeys. I think they were also celebrating the end of summer and the start of his senior year of college.

“His father was sitting up front and had said to bring Billy and his crew whatever they wanted, but to make sure they kept to the back. That was typical of the Berwick aristocracy; wanting their children to be seen but not heard.

“Billy’d been a punk in high school. He was a rich kid who let everyone know about it. He had a mean comment or a dig to cut every person he came into contact with. He and Santiago were a couple years behind me, and thick as thieves in those days. 

“Santiago had been a rich punk too, but nowhere near as bad as Billy. He was no angel, but no one was Billy Braithwaite. I didn’t have a problem with either of them. I think I was old enough and plain enough that I stayed off their radar.

“It wasn’t until the mills closed and Santiago’s father died that Billy turned on Santiago. Just like the rest of the town, he rode upon the tidal wave of hatred that crashed down on him. I still don’t understand how they could all turn on a boy 17, 18. It was like a switch flipped when the mills closed. 

“They didn’t even take a day to think about where else to place their animosity. They just switched from one Holmes to the next. It was awful to see.”