Free Mausoleum by Justin Scott

there’s no sense of purpose to bounce off of. Most of us take purpose for granted. I drive down to the office every day. I do well, or I don’t. I do better every day, or I don’t. I do my work, I fend off the corporate BS, I destroy my enemies, I drive home. I may be tired. I may be frustrated. But I’ve done a day’s work. Georgia never has that. Her old man gave her everything. Left her plenty—you know, we live a lot better than we would on just my salary—not that I’m doing badly. But the one thing he didn’t leave Georgia was a purpose—you know Ben, not just a purpose, but a belief in purpose. I mean I very rarely question when I get up in the morning why am I going to work. I’m going to work because that’s what I do. I mean, hell, at the end of the day it’s fun. And if it’s not fun, it’s more fun that not doing anything. I’m sure you do the same.”
    He looked to me for agreement, and I nodded heartily. Juggling two careers, I was having twice the fun and glad of it.
    But I wondered where Rick was going with this. We had never spoken so intimately. And yet, he wasn’t telling me much I didn’t suspect. Georgia drifted from brief interest to brief interest. She was charming and stylish, but brittle in the sense that no one would be totally surprised to discover her on Main Street in her bathrobe directing traffic with a bourbon bottle.
    Rick took another slug of wine and looked away. His eyes were glistening.
    â€œCharlie?” I asked.
    â€œHe was working at my place. Spring cleanup on a Sunday. His day off from Jay. I had to run down to New Milford to the Depot. When I got back, he comes running out of my house yelling, ‘Mr. Mr. Come quick.’
    â€œGeorgia’s lying on the kitchen floor throwing up.”
    Rick sat there shaking his head.
    â€œIt took a while to figure out what was happening. There were about a hundred pills on the floor, floating in puked up wine. I don’t think she really tried to kill herself. I think she was pretty high, forgot she had already taken some pills, took some more, forgot, took some more. All pretty quick. Then she must have gotten scared and staggered to the door with the wine bottle in one hand and the pill bottle in the other looking for help. Forgetting I was gone. Well Charlie took one look—got the whole scene—and acted so quickly he saved her life.”
    â€œHow?”
    Rick laughed. “I don’t know where he got the smarts. Or the guts. But when Georgia pieced it back together and figured out the sequence of events, she told me that Charlie rammed his fingers down her throat and made her vomit up the pills…
    â€œThink of this twenty-one-year-old kid, with almost no English, no white folk friends except Jay Meadows who wasn’t there, a rich white lady in a big house turning blue in front of his eyes. Instead of running for help, or running for his life, he thinks fast and violates her space, as it were. I mean would you stick your hand down some woman’s throat? I sure as hell wouldn’t even think of it. Point I’m trying to make, Ben, is that everything else aside—fast-thinking, decisive, brave—Charlie Cubrero was compassionate . He saw a human being in trouble and he helped. He is not a man to shoot that asshole Brian in the back. Much less drill two holes in his head.”
    â€œDidn’t Immigration and the troopers say he’s a gang leader?”
    â€œBull. He’s no more a gang leader than I am. Besides, where’s the gang? How come he was living in Newbury and working all winter for six bucks an hour? How come he took the job with Fred Kantor?”
    â€œSteady work.”
    â€œWhy would a gang leader take steady work, Ben?”
    I did wonder. But while “compassionate” was not a word I associated with the gang leaders whose acquaintance I had made, “fast-thinking” was. So was