Spider Bones

We all watched as Sugarman lowered and locked the coffin lid, then positioned the top of the transfer case. I helped twist the metal fasteners that held the thing shut.

Noticing the words Head and Foot stamped on the aluminum, I thought of the honor guard that would flag-drape the case, and of the respect with which it would be positioned in the plane and hearse.

It was five thirty when I finally washed my hands and signed the transfer paperwork.

We parted under the front portico. I thanked Sugarman. He thanked me. Guipone thanked all of us. If Beasley was appreciative, he kept it to himself.

Heat mirages shimmered above the parking lot. The asphalt felt soft under my sneakers.

Sensing movement, I glanced left. The driver’s door was opening on a blue Ford Ranger five slots down from my Mazda. A tiny alarm sounded, but I kept walking.

A man got out of the pickup and tracked my approach. Though his face was shadowed by the brim of a cap, I recognized the solid body and square shoulders. And the Atlanta Braves tee.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowery.” When I was ten feet out. “Too early in the year for such a hot day.”

“Yes, ma’am. “

“Could be a long summer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Above the coal black eyes, yellow letters double-arced the green silhouette of a landmass. Korean War Veteran Forever Proud. 1950–1953.

Though it was obvious Lowery had been waiting for me, he said nothing further.

Exhausted, dirty, and sweaty, I longed for soap and shampoo. And di

“Have you something to ask me, sir?”

“You go

“I’m sorry. I’m duty bound to keep my observations confidential for now.”

I thought Lowery would leave. Instead he just stood there. Moments passed, then he nodded tautly, as though arriving at a difficult decision.

“I ain’t much for words. Don’t talk ’less I need to. Don’t talk ’less I know who’s on the other end of what I’m saying.”

The old man wiped both palms on his jeans.

“O’Hare’s using my troubles to get his name in the paper. Guipone’s a moron. The army’s got a dog in the fight. I ain’t a churching man, so I can’t ask the Lord who’s upright and who ain’t. I gotta go with my gut.”

Lowery swallowed. His discomfort was painful to watch.

“I listened to what you said back at the cemetery. To what you said just now. My gut’s telling me I can trust you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’d appreciate you listening to what I got to say.”

“Shall we talk in my car?”

As I wheep-wheeped my door locks and cranked the AC, Lowery retrieved something from the dashboard of his truck. When he dropped into my passenger seat, a wave of cheap cologne and stale sweat rolled my way.

Not pleasant, but it beat the odors I’d just left behind.

Lowery pressed a gilt-edged album to his chest. Eyes fixed on something outside the windshield, he drummed callused thumbs on its red leather cover.

Seconds passed. A full minute.

Finally, he spoke.

“My mama give me a cracker of a name. Plato. You can imagine the jokes.”

“I hear you.” I tapped my chest. “Temperance. People think I’m a movement to reinstate prohibition.”

“So I picked good solid names for my boys.”

“Hard to go wrong with John,” I said, wondering at Lowery’s use of the plural.

“John wasn’t but five when he started collecting spiders. Lined ’em up in jars on his windowsill. Red ones, speckled ones, big hairy black ones. Got so his mama dreaded going into his room.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“Soon’s he could read, John took to borrowing at the mobile library.” The i in mobile was pronounced as in spider. “That’s all he talked about. Spiders this and spiders that. What they ate, where they lived, how they made young ’uns. Librarian got him every book she could lay hands on. I wasn’t working much, couldn’t buy.”

Lowery paused, gaze still on something outside the car, perhaps outside that moment in time.

“Folks took to calling him Spider. Nickname stuck like gum on a shoe. Before long, no one remembered nothing about John. Even his schoolteachers called him Spider.”

Again, Lowery fell silent. I didn’t push.

“Wasn’t just spiders. John loved animals. Brought home all kinda strays. His mama let most of ’em stay.”

Lowery turned toward me but kept his eyes lowered.

“Harriet. She passed five years back. Kidneys finally give out. Harriet was always poorly, even after the transplant.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Spider offered his mama one of his very own kidneys. That’s how generous that boy was.” Lowery’s voice dropped. “Didn’t work out.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“Spider had a twin brother, Thomas. John and Tom. Good, solid names. Tom’s passed, too. Killed on a tractor in two thousand three. Losing both her boys just took the wind out of Harriet’s sails.”

“Grief has consequences not fully understood.”

Lowery’s eyes rose to mine. In them I saw the anguish of resurrected pain.

“You find a jar in that coffin, miss?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“I put that there.” He paused, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps regretting his disclosure. “Foolishness.” With a tight shake of his head, Lowery turned away. “I went out and caught a spider and tucked it in with my boy.”

“That was a very kind gesture, Mr. Lowery.”

“My boy.” Lowery thumped his chest so hard I jumped. “And he was growing into a fine young man.” Lowery’s jaw hardened, relaxed. “That’s why I’m going on like this. I want you to think of Spider as a person when you’re cutting him up.”

“Mr. Lowery, I won’t be the one—”

“His mama kept this.”

When Lowery leaned my way, the cloaked BO was almost overwhelming. Opening the album, he slid it toward me.

Each page held four to six pictures. Black-and-whites with scallopy edges. Baby and school portraits. Three-by-five drugstore prints.

I leafed through the pages, asking about people, places, events. Lowery gave short, often single-word explanations. Christmas of 1954. 1961. 1964. A trip to Myrtle Beach. Harriet. Tom. The house on Red Oak. The trailer at the lake. Each image included a younger version of the boy I’d first seen in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.

One snapshot showed Plato and a woman I assumed was Harriet.

“Is this your wife?” I asked.

Plato provided uncharacteristic detail. “Harriet had real pretty eyes. One brown, one green as a loblolly pine. Damnedest thing.”

The next Kodak moment caught Spider, Plato, and Harriet on a pier. All wore shorts and light summer shirts. Harriet looked like she’d seen way too much sun and way too little blocker. A stack of creases V’ed into her substantial cleavage.

The second to last picture captured Spider under a balloon arch with a girl in glasses and hair piled high on her head. He wore a bouto

The album’s last entry was a formal portrait of a baseball team, twelve uniformed boys and two coaches, front row down on one knee, back row standing. A printed date identified the season as 1966–67.

Again, Plato’s answer was unexpectedly long.

“This was took Spider’s senior year, before he went off to the army. He weren’t much for sports, but he give it a shot. Mostly rode the bench. That’s him.”

Lowery jabbed at a kid kneeling in the first row.

I was raising the album when Lowery yanked it sideways.

“Wait.” He held the page out at arm’s length, drew it in, then out again. This time the finger-jab indicated one of the kids standing. “That there’s Spider.”

I understood the source of Lowery’s confusion. Both boys had the same dark hair and eyes, the same heavy brows curving their orbits.