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.
