Songs Of The Dead

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Songs Of The Dead - book excerpt

The Dead Man's Lullaby

The young man from the pharmacy delivered Betty's medications early in the afternoon. Betty liked him very much. He reminded her of her nephew, Darryl, whom she rarely saw these days. It was a warm May day, and Betty sat out on the front porch talking with the young man for several minutes. She didn't know how old he was, as age was something that had become extremely difficult for her to gauge in her later years. But she figured he was probably in his twenties, as he was old enough to drive and old enough to have respect for his elders. The two of them talked about the weather mostly, and then Betty gave him a quarter tip before he left.

After sitting on the porch, enjoying the warmth of the day for another few minutes, Betty finally went back into the drab, dreary old house. She took her medications into her bedroom, setting them and her pill counter out on the bed so she could divide them up for the coming week. As she did, she glanced at the old dusty radio sitting on the dresser. She hadn't played it in years, but now thought a little soft music might be nice as she prepared her meds. She switched on the radio, a loud buzz drowning out the tinny, distant sound of music. She turned the knob, searching for something soft that would come in a little clearer. There was mostly just static on the old radio, and she briefly wondered if it would work at all. As she was turning, she heard a frail voice emerge from within the static.

“Betty,” the voice said.

It took her a moment to register what she'd heard, and by the time she did, she'd already passed the station where she'd heard it. She knew it wasn't possible that the radio was speaking directly to her, but she turned the knob back slowly, finally settling on the channel once again.

It was faint, but it was there.

“Betty.”

The voice was familiar, but she couldn't immediately identify it.

“Betty,” the voice said again. “Betty, my dear, is that you?”

Now Betty recognized it.

It was her dead husband, Bill. It couldn't possibly be, but she knew it was.

“Betty, my dear …”

“Yes?” she managed.

“That is you, isn't it?” the voice said.

She gulped. “Yes, it's me.”

“It's Bill.”

“I know who you are,” said Betty. “We were married for sixty-one years.”

“I love you, Betty.”

She felt herself tearing up. “I love you, too, Bill.”

“How are you? How have you been, my dear?”

“Alone,” she said. “I've been alone.”

“I'm sorry, Betty,” he said, sadness filling his frail voice.

“I've missed you these last few years.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Betty.

“Anything, my dear.”

“Where are you?”

Bill laughed happily. “I guess this is heaven. I don't know for sure. Nobody tells you. But it's beautiful here; bright, stunning colors like a Van Gogh painting. It's so relaxed. And best of all, there's no pain.”

“You're not in pain anymore?”

“Oh, no,” said Bill. “I feel wonderful.”

“But you're dead.”

“I am, aren't I?” He chuckled again.

“Can you see me?” Betty asked. “Do you watch over me?”

“No, dear, I can't see you.”

“How are we speaking now? How does this work?”

“I don't know,” said Bill. “They don't tell you anything here.”

“Are there others there?”

“Oh, yes, lots of others.”

“Are they happy, too?”

“Everyone is happy here.”

“Are there people there that you know—from before?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Like who? Who's there?”

“Michael's here, Betty.”

Betty’s mind turned to her dead son, drowned at the age of ten, and she started to cry.

“He … is?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes, Betty. He's here and he's wonderful.”

“Is he still ten?”

“No,” Bill said. “Everyone here is an adult. You should see the man he's become.”

“Really?”

“My brother Sam is here, and…”

“My sister, Theresa?”

“She's here, too, Betty. We're all just waiting for you.”

“You are?”

She felt her heart soar just a bit.

“We think about you all the time.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” said Bill. “You're my baby girl.”

Betty was choked up and couldn't speak.

“You okay, Betty, my dear?”

“It's just a lot for me to take in,” she said.

Bill said, “I'm sure it is. Give it some time, old girl. Give it time.”

“It's so good to hear your voice.”

“It's terrific hearing your voice, too.”

“I miss you so much.”

“I miss you, too.”

There was a long silence, and Betty tried to regain her composure. She tried to look at this objectively. Was she losing her mind? She was talking to her long-dead husband through an AM radio. It just wasn't possible.

But it was.

“Betty?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“I've got to go.”

“But you just got here. I've waited so long to talk to you.”

“It's gonna be okay, Betty.”

“Will you be back?”

“Oh, yes,” Bill said. “Now that I've got you again, I'll never let you go.”

Betty said, “I love you, Bill.” Saying the words felt so familiar on her tongue.

“I love you, too.”

“Goodbye.”

“Until next time, my love.”

And Bill was gone, leaving only static behind.

Betty didn't know how to process all this. She felt she had to be losing her mind. Every minute that passed without her hearing Bill's voice, she became more and more certain she was having a nervous breakdown.

She knelt down next to her bed and she prayed to God for answers.

Finally, she arose and went to the phone. She dialed it, the radio static still crackling behind her.

“Hello?” answered Terry, her minister.

“Terry?”

“Yes?”

“Terry, this is Betty Buckley. I have a problem.”

“Okay, I'll help in any way I can, Sister Betty.”

“Thank you in advance.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Betty said, “It's Bill.”

“Bill?” Terry asked, weighing the name. “Your husband, Bill?”

“One and the same.”

“What about him, Betty?”

“He's talking to me.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone and then Terry said, “Our loved ones speak to us in a variety of ways from beyond the gates of heaven. How exactly is Bill speaking to you, Betty?”

“I know how this is gonna sound,” Betty said. “But I'm hearing his voice.”

“His voice?”

“On my radio.”

“Uh,” said Terry. “How so?”

“He speaks to me.”

“What does he say?”

“He tells me he loves me,” said Betty. “And that he's in heaven with our son, Michael. And my sister. And his brother.”

Silence again. “I'll tell you what: how about I come over there and listen to the radio with you? Do you think he'll talk to me?”

“I don't see why not,” Betty said. “But he's not there all the time.”

“How many times have you heard him?”

“Only once so far.”

“How do you know he'll be back?”

Betty said, “Because he told me so..”

Betty waited thirty-five minutes for Terry to arrive at her house. She led him into her dreary old bedroom and asked him to sit on the bed. She walked over and switched on the radio, hunkering down over it.

All they heard was static.

Terry looked at her, trying to conceal the expression which said she was pathetic.

“Maybe if we wait for a few minutes he'll show up,” said Betty.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“I wonder if it's the right station.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn't say if he would always be on the same station. I mean, he was on that one then, but who knows about next time?”

Terry looked concerned. “So, they have a radio station in heaven?”

“I don't think so. I mean, I don't know.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don't think he was at a radio station or anything. I think he was just talking to me from heaven, and it was coming out of my radio.”

“Could he hear you?” asked Terry. “Did you try to talk back?”

“Oh, yes, we had quite a conversation.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he missed me. And he said that he loved me.”

“Of course.”

“And like I said, he told me Michael was there, too.”

“Right.”

“He said heaven was bright with pretty colors, like a Vincent Van Gogh painting.”

“Van Gogh, huh?”

“And he said there's no pain where he's at.”

“Why, that does sound nice,” he said, clearly humoring her.

“I promise you Bill was here, on this radio.”

“I believe you.”

She made a face. “You do?”

He said he did, but she saw through it.

“Do you still think he's gonna come and talk to me?” asked Terry.

“I don't know. I promise you, he was here.”

“I believe you.”

“He said he loved me.” She started to sob again.

Terry put his arm around her shoulder. “Why don't you and I pray about this?”

They prayed, the sound of radio static still filling the room. Terry's prayer sounded simultaneously concerned and condescending, but Betty thought maybe she was reading too much into it. When Terry was finished with the prayer, he looked at her, holding her frail hands in his own.

“What do you think happened here?” she asked.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Do you honestly believe Bill was here, talking through my radio?”

“I don't know what exactly I believe,” said Terry. “But I do believe that you believe it, and that's enough for me. It sounds like it was a very sweet conversation. Real or imagined, do you know what most people would give to have one last conversation with their dearly departed?”

Betty frowned. She hoped it wouldn't be her last conversation with Bill.

Later that evening, as Betty was watching Wheel of Fortune, the phone rang. She answered it, and it was her daughter, Kelly.

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I, uh, talked with your minister.”

Betty didn't like that one bit. She had trusted Terry, and he had betrayed that trust.

“He called you, did he?” asked Betty.

“He's worried about you.”

Betty said nothing.

“I'm worried about you, Mom.”

“There's no need for anyone to worry about me.”

“He said you're talking to Dad. On an AM radio.”

“This is none of your business, Kelly. If I had wanted to share this with you, I would have called you myself.”

“This isn't normal, Mom.”

Betty questioned her sanity again. Was she losing her mind? Was everyone else correct? She didn't know the answer, but she wasn't about to just give in and let them lock her away in some damned old folks home.

“I'm telling you, I'm fine,” Betty said.

“I don't know what to think about this.”

“What does Terry think?”

“He's worried.”

“He thinks I'm crazy, doesn't he?”

“He's just worried about you,” Kelly said. “We're all worried about you.”

“No need to worry about me. You need to worry about yourself.”

Kelly sighed. “What does that mean?”

“You and Ted split up every six months. That's what it means. Maybe you need to worry more about your own problems and less about mine.”

“That's not fair, Mom.”

“Then don't you call me, trying to figure out if I'm crazy,” said Betty. “I'm still the mother here, not you. You don't get to question me.”

“But, Mom.”

“What?”

“Dad's dead.”

“Don't you think I know that?” Betty asked. “I'm the one who has to live here day in and day out, alone, without him. I'm fully aware that your father is dead.”

“But Terry said you're talking to him.”

“And he talks to me,” said Betty. “So what? What business is it of yours?”

“Dead people don't talk, Mom. They don't. Dad can't talk to anyone.”

Betty became flustered. “You think I'm crazy, don't you?”

“I don't think you're crazy, but I am worried,” Kelly said. “It's just… It's not normal.”

“Let me ask you something. Do you realize what nerve you and Terry have for doubting this? Both of you believe in God, you believe in heaven, you believe that anything is possible. But this…”

“It's not possible.”

“Why?” Betty said. “Terry said that with God all things are possible. So why can't he wrap his mind around this? He won't even entertain the possibility that I'm telling the truth. This is…”

“What?”

“Bullshit,” blurted Betty.

Betty never cursed, and the colorful language surprised them both.

“I taught high school for nearly forty years,” Betty said. “I was above reproach. No one ever questioned my mental state. I was teaching before you were born. I was teaching before that twit Terry was born.”

“He's just worried, Mom.”

“He's a hypocrite.”

“He didn't mean—”

Betty prepared her next words carefully. “He's a hypocrite, and so are you, my dear.” And she hung up the telephone and unplugged its cord from the wall.

That night, Betty lay in bed in the darkness, listening to the empty static on the radio. She thought about how Terry had betrayed her, had possibly even betrayed his own faith in God, and about how Kelly had the nerve to question her mental faculties.

And finally, late that night, Betty drifted off to sleep.

She was awakened just after three by the sound of Bill talking to her through the static.

“Betty,” he said.

She sat up, startled. Had she heard something? She tried to clear her mind, to figure out where she was.

“Betty,” said Bill again. “Are you there, my dear?”

“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I'm here, Bill.”

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes, Bill.”

“Fine. I've got some time. Just lay back and we can talk in bed like we used to—back when I was still alive … before I got sick.”

Betty felt simultaneously overcome with joy and sorrow, and she started to cry again.

“Are you crying, Betty?”

She sniffled, but said nothing.

“You are, aren't you?” asked Bill. “Don't cry, old girl. I'm here now.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean? Of course I'm here.”

“But are you really here?”

“Of course I'm really here, my dear.”

“But Terry … I … I told Terry …”

“The preacher man?”

“Yes, Terry the preacher.”

“You told him about talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn't have done that, old girl.”

“Why?” asked Betty.

“Because he won't be able to hear me,” said Bill. “And he won't believe you.”

“It's a shame.”

“What?”

“A man of God who doesn't believe in miracles.”

“Betty, it isn't just that preacher. No one is gonna believe you, dear.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“Kelly knows.”

“Our Kelly?” asked Bill.

“Yeah.”

“And what does she say?”

“She thinks I'm a crazy old nut. She thinks I need to be locked away in a nursing home.”

“She said that?” asked Bill, irritation in his voice.

“No, she didn't come right out and say it, but I know her. That's what's coming next.”

Bill said, “No girl of mine is ever gonna be locked away in one of those places. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Betty didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“I can help you.”

“How?”

“Do as I say, old girl.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Unplug the radio.”

“Unplug the radio?”

“Yes.”

“But how will I talk to you?” Betty asked.

“Don't worry about it. We'll still be able to talk.”

“How?”

“I don't know how it works, but we will. That's all I know.”

“Okay.”

Betty stood up, switched on the lamp next to the bed, and walked over to the radio. She unplugged it.

“You still there, Bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, now what?” asked Betty.

“Wrap the cord around the radio and carry it out into the garage.”

“Into the garage?”

“Just do it, my dear.”

Betty wrapped up the cord and carried the radio through the dark house, through the kitchen, and out into the hot garage.

“Now what, Bill?”

“Get into the car and sit the radio down in the passenger's seat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” Bill said. “I'm here now, and everything's gonna be okay.”

Betty sobbed again. “You promise?”

“I promise, old girl.”

“Okay.”

Betty climbed into the old car and sat the radio in the passenger's seat.

She asked, “Now what?”

“Close the door.”

She pulled the car door closed.

“Now start the car and roll down the windows,” said Bill.

“Start the car?” Betty asked. “Bill, it's the middle of the night.”

“I know what time it is.”

Betty looked at the keys dangling from the ignition. “Start the car?”

“Right.”

Betty turned the key and started the car. The radio came on, country music spilling out, and she switched it off.

“Roll down the windows,” said Bill.

She looked at the radio, unsure.

“You trust me, don't you?”

“Of course I trust you,” said Betty.

She rolled down the electric windows.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Recline your seat.”

“What for?”

“We're just gonna sit here and talk while the car runs.”

Betty thought about it for a moment. “Are you saying what I think you're saying, Bill?”

“I miss you, my dear,” he said. “We all miss you.”

Betty reclined the seat and laid back, her eyelids feeling heavy.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“You just close your eyes, pretty girl,” Bill said. “I'll sing you to sleep, like I did when we first married.”

She looked at the radio with momentary unease. She thought about what Bill was asking, and finally gave in. She laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Bill started to sing her a lullaby.

She clenched her eyes shut and listened.

And she went to sleep to the sound of her husband's soothing voice.