As soon as the two disappeared into Mr. Cooper's office, Blue slipped down the hall to the room where Mr. Thomas Christian Cavanaugh was. A naked body stretched out on a long, metal table, a flabby, grayish-white and a ragged patch job just above the ribs where the bullets had gone in. Behind the body there was a white marble-topped counter and a scattering of chrome silver instruments, some for prodding, for cutting, slicing, shaping, a few unlabeled bottles filled with red or purple or green liquid, a couple of syringes, and then Blue Henry surveying the entire room, a row of glass-windowed cabinets along the near wall, some more bottles, a few pans for drainage, some linens, a couple of wooden stools along the far wall and a couple of windows open above the stools and a hot breeze blowing in and the smell of dead azaleas and the dust-streaming sunlight. It was almost surreal the way death was all around and him looking at the corpse of Mr. Cavanaugh and this was his first corpse and then Blue Henry blinking with the realization that death was not so remote, which unhinged him a bit, so much so that right there he abandoned his claim to having shot the dead man, or perhaps it abandoned him, and he was just about to leave the funeral parlor altogether and go off in search of a fine serge suit to wear to the funeral when all of a sudden it seemed that he wasn't looking at a corpse, that the men had been right about Mr. Thomas Christian Cavanaugh not being dead, for there was the man himself, sitting on the end of the preparation table, giving Blue the once-over and sort of half-smiling, his legs dangling. "So you were thinking I was dead, is that it son?" Blue Henry said nothing. What could he say? Of course we thought you were dead, least that's what them down at Laughlin's were saying, aint you dead Mr. Cavanaugh, why there was that shot from up in one of them live oaks and what a shot it was why not one man in a million could of made that shot of course I didn't see it I wasn't even there I hope you didn't get the wrong impression I mean I wouldn't do something like that but did it hurt much I mean dying like that or maybe it happened so quick you didn't feel a thing is that what happened Mr. Cavanaugh, but Blue Henry didn't say a word, no, what could he say, why folks would think him crazy, even if they wouldn't say it, him standing there motionless, bewildered, could not could not could, could only continue his unblinking, throbbing, almost painful obeisance. "I was the only one here when they laid me out, but that was a couple of days ago," the strangely undead Mr. Cavanaugh looking around the room, uncautiously, not so much to see what was there but to see what wasn't, and all the while talking on and on and on, "and don't you go thinking it was such a great shot neither, I know what they're saying and damn the lot of them for it, why nobody knows who killed me and nobody knows from where, not exactly, not even me," and then him noticing his burial clothes, a three-piece suit, gray, pin-striped, a red silk handkerchief stuffed into the front pocket of the jacket, the suit stretched out upon the counter top, and also a starched white shirt, stiff for the stiff, and a black, leather belt and a red silk tie, to match the handkerchief, but no shoes, and no socks, but hell, he wasn't going anywhere, and besides, who would look to see, and then Mr. Cavanaugh hopped down from the preparation table and headed for the suit and the rest and began to get dressed, "why the truth is probably nobody killed me, I probably killed myself, probably I just flipped that goddamn I-talian headache of mine and landed in a ditch, that's what it probably was, son, then maybe some son-of-a-bitch came along and saw me lying there dead and he pulled out a gun and plugged me with a couple just for good measure, that's what he probably did, most sons-of-bitches can't resist that kind of temptation, but what the hell, I can't say it bothered me any, I mean I was probably already dead," him buttoning the white shirt, adjusting the cuffs, pulling on the pants, the last of his flabby, grayish-white flesh being covered up and the place in his chest where the bullets went in, and still talking, talking, not so much to Blue Henry any more, or anyone, not even himself, he was just talking, and pretty soon Blue Henry was lost in the memory of those words, no longer the gunman, a spectator now, and whether it was truly his memory or not did not seem to matter, the car in the ditch and the wheels spinning and Mr. Dobbs marching out to see what happened, a Winchester in his hand in case it was trouble and a kerosene lantern because he couldn't see in the fading light, just a little bit of red along the horizon, what's going on out here what's that racket was anybody hurt or you boys just fooling around don't you all know this is private property can't you boys stay on the road, Mr. Dobbs not recognizing just yet, holding up a lantern so he could see, and then he saw, the light from the lantern glinting off the back fender, is that you Mr. Thomas C. Cavanaugh, what in the hell you doing boy, you better have this goddamn infernal I-talian car of yours removed come morning you goddamn bastard, you hear me boy, I'm talking to you, and then Mr. Dobbs not talking, noticing the dead Mr. Cavanaugh now for the first time and chewing some on his bottom lip and then setting the lantern on a smashed-up fender and poking at the body with his gun butt and the yellowish lantern light now splattering across his own face, which was void of any emotion, like the face of one dead man looking at that of another, and then in a single, sweeping, instinctive, motion he raised his Winchester and sent a couple of slugs into Mr. Cavanaugh's chest, the slugs coming out the other side and thudding into the ground. That's how it had happened, Blue Henry was sure of this now, it was Mr. Dobbs, it had to be, but before he could fully contemplate the whys and therefores of this murder of a dead man, he was startled from his thinking by someone shouting. "Hey! You there! Is that you Blue Henry? Say what the hell are you doing in there?" Blue Henry turned towards the sound of the voice, but slowly, awkwardly, a look of bewildered innocence pasted across his face. Two red-faced men were standing in the doorway of the preparation room, one in a white smock, the other a step behind with a still bespectacled head peering up and barely over the shoulder of the first. Blue Henry was standing near one of the open windows, his back to the sun-dusty sunlight streaming in and past him, and the strangely undead Mr. Thomas Christian Cavanaugh was back on the metal preparation table, dead as they come, of course, Blue Henry realized that now, the wax used to bring life to his face once more beginning to melt. Then the voice of the one again, hey Blue, you hear, you hear what I said, what the hell, the two in the doorway stumpumping into the room, their blood thickening, quickening, one on either side of the metal preparation table, do you think you're doing in them clothes, them aint yours, and it was then that Blue looked down and saw that he was the one dressed in the three-piece suit, the white shirt, the red tie, the black belt, though how this had come about he could not exactly say, then the red-faced men rounding the table, the young man rolling up pants legs buttoning the vest, his own clothes in a pile on the floor, what in the world do you think you're doing Blue, him then scooping up his discards, stuffing them into the quite possibly jug-weary arms of the one or the other, then running past the now stationary and bewildered two but turning slightly as he ran, nodding, turning again, smiling, no sirs no sirs my mistake all mine, then turning a third time but bumping into the metal preparation table, catching his reflection in the metal and then moving past, and the corpse of Mr. Thomas Christian Cavanaugh sliding slowly up and over the edge then tumbling to the floor, never you mind sirs it was my mistake my mistake, the two now silent and watching helplessly from the corner of the room, the corpse coming to rest face down chin out on the cold cold tile, a small whitish pool of melting wax beginning to form beneath the lobe of one of the ears. But the young man named Blue Henry did not bother about the wax or the corpse or the two men watching, for he had his funeral suit now, and so he ran instead from the deepening silence of the preparation room into the late afternoon orange of the hall, and then out through the nearly unhinged screen door.

Peter Damian Bellis Peter Damian Bellis lives in Minnesota with his wife and two children. His work has appeared in Spilled Ink, the Blue Moon Review, and In Vivo. His short story collection, One Last Dance with Lawrence Welk, from which this story is taken, has been nominated for a 1997 Minnesota Book Award. If you liked "Blue Henry", point your browser to Amazon Books and order a copy of One Last Dance with Lawrence Welk. Or just drop into your local Barnes and Noble and pick one up. You can also buy this book online right now.

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