Free Driving With Dead People by Monica Holloway

a buried person.
    The only problem with playing in the graveyard was Alton Cotterman. His property butted up against the cemetery, and he used to sit in his green-and-white metal glider with a shotgun across his khaki-covered knees, ready to shoot any animal that dared step foot in his yard. During the day, shots could be heard on and off all summer long. All of us kids kept a close eye on Buddy.
    He mostly shot cats, but we were positive he’d shoot a kid one of these days. I always picked out brightly colored T-shirts to wear so as not to be mistaken for a fur-bearing creature, thus improving my chances of survival. With Alton nearby, Dark Side of the Moon was a life or death situation.
     
    One Saturday afternoon JoAnn saw Alton Cotterman walking up the lane, holding a yellow cat by its tail. It was still wiggling, but there was blood all over its side. When he got to the cemetery, he swung the cat over his head and banged it against a headstone until it was a mush of blood and fur. Then he tossed it over the fence and into the field. JoAnn ran and got Becky and me so that poor animal would have a decent funeral.
    We were all in tears looking down at that cat, bones busted and skin split. Bullies chose the smallest and most silent. We were all at risk.
    JoAnn brought over a shovel and we gingerly scooped the goopy, bloody mess with the torn ear into an old striped pillowcase and buried it under a locust tree. We cut peonies out of Etta Mae Shaw’s yard, and the Whitmore kids came, out of respect.
    It wasn’t a classy Kilner and Sons funeral, but I did make small remembrance cards out of white envelopes cut in half. I drew a cat on the front and wrote the date he died on the back.
    As we lowered the pillowcase into the ground, JoAnn recited a poem from our old nursery rhyme book that Granda had read to us many times. It seemed appropriate.
    Dear Father, hear and bless
    The beasts and singing birds,
    And guard with special tenderness
    Small things that have no words.
    One day, while I was sitting on Mammaw’s front porch shelling peas from her garden, I heard this coming from the Zenith clock radio sitting in the window behind the screen: “WMCR is holding its annual Father of the Year contest. Write an essay about why your father is the number-one Father of the Year, mail it to our studio here at 120 South Orchard, Elk Grove, and the winner will be announced July twenty-fifth at three p.m.”
    I knew where the radio station was; it was right next to Dad’s store. I decided to write an essay.
    I wrote about how Dad tried to save his store from the fire, how he cooked steaks for us on Saturday nights and always provided money. When I was at Dad’s store the following week, I walked the essay over to the radio station and handed it to Eugene Fox, who was sitting behind the front desk.
    It was my attempt to enter Dad’s fan club. If he were chosen, people would see that I thought he was a great guy too. It would also convince Dad that I saw what other people saw in him, and maybe things would change.
    I knew from church that he had a soft side, and I knew from the Rotary Club barbecue that he liked to have fun, so it was possible he might include us someday.
    Dad was not chosen on July twenty-fifth at three p.m. I figured whoever was choosing the winner either didn’t buy my story or my letter lacked the passion necessary to win a title as impressive as “Father of the Year.” Whatever the reason, I received a note thanking me for my submission, and life went on as before.

Chapter Seven
    Despite the lack of invitations coming from me, Julie continued to have me sleep over at her house. I managed to stay up and never wet her bed. Each time I stayed awake, the night seemed longer and spookier, but I would rather have been at the Kilners’ than at home.
    One Saturday morning Julie and I were riding around town in Dave’s white station wagon when he said seven magic words: “I have to stop by the mortuary.” I