How about a story, for starters?

It may be against the ethos of a conventional newsletter to include short stories, especially one that was written a number of years ago, but, to quote Rhett Butler, "Frankly [newsletter traditionalists], I don't give a damn." I will be writing plenty of new stuff, too, most of which I imagine will be nonfiction (media criticisms, sports and culture "takes," etc.).

I cleaned this story up a bit for a fiction workshop I took last semester, and I'd like to give a special thanks to my classmates from that workshop (a few of whom I believe are subscribed to this newsletter; sorry to send you something you've already seen!) for the immensely helpful feedback.

A lot of writers don't like to self-publish their otherwise unpublished work, in hopes that it will eventually get picked up by a literary mag or journal. I don't really have such hopes. Fiction isn't my primary genre, and I'm far from a master technician, so I'm just gonna paste that shit right here. Just havin' fun. Let me know what you think.

Zoltan Cemeteries, Inc.

Spencer Creal

Plymouth was a sleepy rural town—a “village,” technically, according to the ordinance papers; its population only recently reached 500—that sat between a dried-up tributary and a scarcely used state highway. Alongside the creek sat the schoolhouse, town hall, church, and both of the town’s restaurants: a greasy diner and a Mexican restaurant whose menu included not a single accent mark or tilde. Plymouth’s residents lived across the thin, rocky chasm of the former waterway in similar shack-like houses, many of which had rusted-out Chevrolets and pieces of foregone roofing projects as yard fixtures. Plymouthans who weren’t retired—of those there were few—tended farms along the outskirts of town or worked for one of the few retail establishments lining Plymouth’s two paved roads.

As the small-town compendium dictates, everybody knew everybody in Plymouth. Just the same, everybody knew when somebody died. So when Bob Whitehead, the town mechanic, passed in his sleep, the news passed through residents like contagion. It was far from unexpected—he’d been dealing with a defective heart valve for years—yet his death made residents all the more aware of their own mortality. They drove a little slower and hugged a little tighter; they looked each other in the eyes, even when no words were uttered. As the small-town compendium further dictates, losing someone in such a community is like losing a member of the family. In Bob’s case, the sentiment is a little more literal: he was related, in one way or another, to more than half the town. As it were, his death was on the mind of every man, woman, and child in Plymouth that day, including the stranger who’d just arrived on Main Street.

The man was young, though his youth was surely exaggerated by the staggering difference between his own age and that of the average Plymouth resident. That is, he was young, relatively speaking. He walked in precise, identical steps, as if the ground beneath him were a treadmill. His left hand gripped a tablet computer while the other swung metronomically at his side, occasionally rising up to brush his thick brown hair back into place. He wore trim black pants, black shoes whose shine matched the paint on his sedan, and a grey, skin-tight polo with a red “Z” on the left breast. His appearance, paired with the way he walked, never looking down, tablet gripped at his side, made residents uneasy on the day of Bob Whitehead’s death. The man covered a lot of ground, wandering around and between every building on Plymouth’s main drag without ever actually going into any of them. In fact, he seemed to barely notice them at all. He just moved in that curious way, sometimes glancing left and right, never down, until he’d traced the town with his footsteps.

Despite the memorial service being held the very next day—yet another small-town dictum—the pews were packed with adults and children alike. It was a Friday, and the students were let out of school, shops closed, farmers left their fields unattended. In the far back, next to the main doors, sat the man with the tablet computer. He’d traded his skin-tight grey polo for a skin-tight black one, still adorned with a red “Z.” He blended in well enough, partly because he was wearing black, and partly because he was no longer walking in that committed, disconcerting way. Those who did notice him did their best to keep it to themselves.

The service was long and unremittingly religious. The pastor spoke first, offering somber words and more than a sufficient number of prayers. Next was Mary, Bob’s wife, who paused every third word to keep from breaking down. Mikey, Bob’s young apprentice in the auto-shop, spoke next of Bob’s eagerness to show him how to fix blown piston rods and ignition coils. Then came Mitchell, Bob’s longtime childhood friend, and Scott, the town physician. Finally, when the room was humid with tears, Bob’s brother Chuck strode to the pulpit. Chuck Whitehead was Plymouth’s mayor, as he had been for nearly fifteen years. He moved gracefully, his head held high, despite the occasion. If those crowding the church pews had not coexisted with Bob and Chuck—if they hadn’t known, for instance, that Bob’s eyes had a touch of green, or that his nose never fully realigned after a work accident—they might not have been able to tell them apart. The brothers were both tall and thin with white, wiry hair that grew mostly around the ears and nape of the neck. They shared a wide, toothy smile. In their younger years, Bob and Chuck were often mistaken as twins, and now, a lifetime later, the resemblance between the man at the podium and the powdered corpse gave the sorrow in the church an uncanny flavor.

Chuck recounted roughhousing with Bob and their father, competing over the same girls in high school (“There were only four to choose from, so you must understand our predicament”), arguing over whose turn it was to mow the lawn. Chuck spoke of Bob’s dedication to Plymouth: his consecutive unpaid terms on the Plymouth City Council; his willingness to put others before himself; his embodiment of the town’s values and ethics. In essence, his speech was what you would imagine a eulogy of a deceased mechanic, given by his brother, who is not terribly far from death himself, and who is the mayor of the only town for sixty miles, might sound like. But to those crowding the pews, it was beautiful. It was genuine, unscripted—not unlike dozens of speeches that Chuck made at the Town Hall just a few hundred yards away.

The stranger remained in the back until the church was emptied. Outside, the service continued with ceremonial singing. He waited until the voices and footsteps faded before stepping out onto the steps and inhaling deeply through his nose.

---

A few hours after the service, as Mayor Chuck Whitehead sat alone with his thoughts and a cup of tea, there was a knock at his front door. He got up without hesitation, sure that it was someone to offer their condolences. Through the panel window he saw an unfamiliar hand gripping a tablet computer.

“Hello,” Chuck said, trying to maintain his mayoral agreeableness. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hello, Mayor,” the man said. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I never met Bob, but he sounds like a fine man. I was at the service today.”

“Yes, thank you. It was a difficult day for all of us in Plymouth. I’m sorry to be direct, but…who are you? I can’t say I’ve seen you around town before.”

“Yes, you’re right: I’m not from around here. I’m Marcus. Marcus Davenport,” the man said, extending his hand. “I arrived yesterday afternoon. I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”

“Not at all,” the mayor lied, offering a tenuous handshake. “It’s just that we don’t get many visitors here in Plymouth. Plus, you know, the circumstances of the day.”

Over Marcus’s shoulder, Chuck saw a young girl he recognized from the service. She was kicking a soccer ball down the street, dirt covering the bottom of her black dress.

“Well, trust me, I don’t want to upset anyone,” Marcus said. “Actually, I came here to help. To help you, all of you. Everybody in Plymouth.”

Chuck’s first impulse was to expedite the conversation as much as possible, perhaps even slamming the door in Marcus’s face. He had no interest in hearing how a stranger planned to help his town on the day of his brother’s funeral. However, he had, through his work, become conditioned to endure situations like these. He nodded his head and halfway listened, his mind mostly fixed on other things: the fast-approaching Farmers’ Parade and how he planned to pull it off without  his brother, the event’s sole organizer for the past fifteen years; breaking the news to his wife that their long-planned vacation may need to be put on hold; just how hungry he’d become.

“Today, after Bob’s funeral,” Marcus continued, “where did they take his body?”

“Excuse me?” the mayor asked, suddenly very attentive now.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to touch on a painful subject. In fact, I already know the answer. I’m merely trying to make a point.”

The mayor let out a confused sigh. “They took his body over to Baldwin County. Both of our parents are buried there. Grandparents, too.”

“And if someone else in Plymouth were to die, where would their body be taken?”

“Well, all over the place. Fairfax, Douglas, Plainview. Sometimes over state lines. A lot of folks ask to be cremated.”

“So no one gets buried here in Plymouth?”

Chuck became agitated once again, but not visibly. He felt as though Marcus were taking up more of the doorframe now than when he’d arrived. He glanced at the red “Z” on his shirt and swore he’d seen it somewhere before.

“I reckon you already know this, but Plymouth doesn’t have a cemetery.”

“Bingo!” Marcus said, as if the mayor had solved a riddle. “That’s exactly why I’m here. I want to bring Plymouth its very own cemetery.”

The mayor stared. Marcus went on: “No more shipping off loved ones to other counties or other states, never to be seen again—never to be felt again. No more disconnect. Bob’s body belongs here. All of Plymouth deserves to stay right here,” he said, apparent passion in his voice.

Chuck was speechless—a rarity for someone required to do as much talking as he was. And as the mayor stood there, thinking of what to say, Marcus just smiled, as he had been since arriving at his front door.

“A cemetery?” Chuck finally asked. “I...we...it’s just been this way for so long. I guess we never really thought about it.”

“Well now you can! I happen to be a representative from Zoltan Cemeteries, and we’ve helped hundreds of communities just like yours set up their very first burial site.” His tablet was out now, and Chuck noticed that it, too, bore a “Z.” Marcus tapped manically on the screen, the blue light illuminating his deep-set eyes. “We’ll help you every step of the way, and we guarantee you will be happy with the services provided by Zoltan.”

The sky didn’t have much sun left to give, causing Chuck to realize just how long he’d been standing on the porch with this stranger. He could hear the nattering of a squirrel, likely making a meal of the Whitehead vegetable garden. But in that moment he didn’t so much care. He was tired and sad, and he so badly wanted the man to leave. Yet, he had to admit, the idea was compelling: Mayor Whitehead brings Plymouth its first cemetery.

“I’m a little lost here,” the mayor said, shaking his head. “When you say you will ‘bring’ a cemetery to Plymouth, what exactly does that mean?”

“It means you sign a couple dotted lines and we do the rest, Mr. Mayor,” Marcus replied, very excited now. “We pick a location—with your approval, of course—mark out the plots, build the gate, erect the sign, the parlor. Everything. We offer an array of hand-crafted tombstones and grave plaques. And every Zoltan Cemetery comes with complimentary grave-digging service, an on-site mortician, and a cemetery manager.”

By this point, Marcus was practically pounding on the screen, punctuating his excitement as he spoke.

“That all sound good and well, Marcus. But how much would something like that cost? I have a city to run, and I don’t want to put us in a bad spot for something we’ve gotten on fine without.”

“Mr. Mayor,” Marcus’s voice dropped a pitch or two, a tone either a little too patronizing or a little too amiable. “Zoltan Cemeteries doesn’t want to bankrupt your lovely town just to make a sale. We want to show you and your people the peace, the happiness that comes with having your own place to bury your loved ones. We’ll work on a price that meets Plymouth’s financial needs, but let’s save all that money talk for later. For now, what do you say? Are you intrigued?”

---

That night, Chuck slept hardly at all. He was at once piqued at Marcus for hijacking his attention on such a day, and yet slightly gleeful by his proposal. Plymouth Memorial Cemetery. Plymouth Burial Grounds. A Place of Rest. Chuck sat up in his bed, careful not to wake Caroline, his wife, who’d just entered her third bout of snoring in what was shaping up to be, even by her standards, a thunderous night of sleep. He walked out to the porch where he and Marcus had stood just a few hours before. He kept thinking about the “Z”: the blood-red letter on Marcus’s shirt that felt like an extension of his skin. When he closed his eyes, its outline flashed on his eyelids.

When he awoke the next morning, Caroline had already left to prepare for the early church service. His interaction with Marcus on the porch felt somehow uncertain, as if it came to him in a dream. There was no physical proof of their conversation: no pamphlets, brochures, or business cards. And over the course of his morning routine, Chuck became increasingly unsure whether Marcus Davenport or the Zoltan Corporation existed at all.

He strode the four blocks to the church, passing by the garage-like police station, waving at the deputy who was on a cigarette break. He walked underneath a stretch of sprawling elm trees before pausing in front of a small blue cottage with white trim and a worn picket fence. It was Bob’s house, and though it looked the same as it always had, there was a sense of gloom that seemed to creep from its orifices. Knowing that Bob would never again emerge from the front door, that Chuck would never be greeted with a face so animated and familiar, brought him a brand of grief he didn’t feel in the church, or at the burial, or even when he answered the phone call that broke the news. He waited for Mary to make her way down the front walk, offered her his arm, and continued on.

The first thing Chuck saw as he entered the chapel was the man from his porch, sitting in the same seat near the door. He nodded at the mayor, and the mayor reluctantly reciprocated before finding his seat next to his wife.

A residual sadness lingered in the pews, and the pastor read slowly from the book of Matthew. The mayor had a hard time concentrating on the sermon, painfully aware that Marcus Davenport sat just a few rows behind him, likely for reasons other than pious reflection.

“Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’” the pastor said. “Anything more than this comes from evil.”

After the service, the mayor stuck around to shake hands and accept sympathies. All the while, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marcus, waiting patiently in his seat, wearing his ubiquitous Zoltan regalia. Chuck chatted quietly with a few more churchgoers before making his way toward the exit. He held the door open for others until he and Marcus were the only people left in the chapel.

“Good morning, mayor. Beautiful service,” Marcus said.

“Yes, it certainly was,” the mayor replied, though he wasn’t sure if it was or it wasn’t.

“Have you given any more thought to our conversation?” Marcus asked.

The mayor considered his words.

“Yes, I have. A bit.”

“Can we talk?” Marcus asked.

Chuck glanced around to confirm that they were alone. “Yes,” he replied. “Please.”

Marcus reached under his seat and retrieved his tablet, already loaded with cemetery plot sizes, pricing breakdowns, and payment options. The mayor was transfixed. The arrangements were beautiful: some classically ornate, others sleek and modern. Limestone, brick, bronze, copper, marble. And the prices were lower than he could have imagined: a fully equipped cemetery with all the bells and whistles for less than the annual salary of a Plymouth sanitation worker.

“See anything you like?” Marcus asked. The mayor tried to suppress his macabre excitement over the purchase of a graveyard. He ran his damp hands down his thighs, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them.

“These prices,” Chuck began, his voice uneven. “Are these flat rates? This is what you charge everybody?”

“Our prices fluctuate from area to area. But like I said, mayor, we aren’t trying to bankrupt you. We just want to give you peace of mind.” The mayor’s gaze was fixed on the screen, making hypothetical combinations of plots, tombstones, fences and parlor architecture in his mind. He thought of locations—the field by the church, the empty lot next to the cafe, the hill just beyond the water tower—and how each of the options on Marcus’s tablet would look.

Of course, he was getting ahead of himself, and before he made any decision he needed to consult the City Council. But then he remembered that, since Bob was gone (he was the council’s secretary), there were only four other sitting members, one of whom was visiting family in the next county over. They didn’t have quorum. He stared at the tablet.

“Mayor?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” the mayor shook his head. “I just have a lot on my mind. There are a few people I should speak with before making anything official.”

“Well,” Marcus exhaled as he said it, “that is unfortunate. I’m set to leave in just a few hours. And I’m not sure when I, or anyone from Zoltan, will be able to make it back out here. It’s quite the trip for us.” The mayor, having done a fair amount of travel himself, could empathize: Plymouth was sixty miles from the nearest gas station, and nearly three-hundred from any real metropolis. He didn’t know where Marcus had come from, or where the Zoltan Corporation was located, but he did know that anyone visiting Plymouth had to suffer through hours of toneless travel.

“Is this a matter we could handle over the phone?” the mayor asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Marcus replied. “There are specifics that need to be worked through, and some sensitive information that is best exchanged face to face.”

Chuck paused. Certainly his town’s residents would be overjoyed the news of a cemetery. And the city council members—he was sure of it—would share in their delight. He thought of the few words he’d picked up from the day’s sermon, something about submitting to the word of God, and while it didn’t specifically address the purchase of a cemetery per se, it stuck with him. Chuck may not be quite as religious as the average Plymouth churchgoer, but he did try to take lessons away from the sermons he heard. And so in that moment, standing in the empty chapel with Marcus Davenport of Zoltan Cemeteries, Inc., he made an executive mayoral decision.

---

The dump-trucks, pick-ups, and excavators showed up a couple of weeks later, all flaunting the Zoltan “Z.” The mayor hadn’t told anyone in town, including his wife. It seemed to be the right thing to do, in his mind. He didn’t want residents to think he’d forgotten about the rest of the town’s needs, and he certainly didn’t want them to think he’d moved on from his brother’s death in a matter of hours. But when he saw the bulldozers and cranes trudging down Main Street, he wondered if he shouldn’t have sought a second opinion.

Zoltan Cemeteries worked at a breakneck pace. Before the end of their second day in Plymouth they’d erected the facade of the parlor and the perimeter wall, precisely as the mayor had instructed. The plot of land they’d chosen was clearly visible through Chuck’s kitchen window, allowing him a safe vantage point as part of his town was ripped up and put back together again. His phone rang incessantly and he chose not to answer.

The finishing touches were put on the new cemetery not 72 hours after the crews arrived. Chuck Whitehead had just woken up, and he could hear the engines growing quieter as they returned to wherever they’d come from. For the other residents, it was as if a violent storm had just passed: they began opening their doors slowly, peeking their heads out before taking the first steps onto their porches and lawns. Waiting for them outside were not splintered tree trunks, broken glass, or overturned cars, but a stone wall over which nothing but an illuminated “Z” could be seen. It towered over every structure in Plymouth, its light reflecting off the street puddles, windows, seemingly the sky itself. When the sun hit it just right, the cross sitting atop the steeple was stained red. Meanwhile, Mayor Whitehead let his phone ring as he sat in the kitchen, fully dressed, waiting for the morning paper to arrive.