Buster's Bones: The Greenborough Chronicles

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It all began when Janie Rodger’s dog, from Number 51 Greenborough Circle, dug up the bones in Sy Torino’s backyard. Five 60-ish, suburban ranchboxes hid in this quiet enclave. A city bylaw insisted that dogs be penned up, but since Buster couldn’t read, he slipped his chain that morning without the least sense of guilt for what he was doing or for the trouble he was about to cause. He visited his neighbours, the Sanders, at Number 53, crossed the circle and sniffed, snuffled and scented his way to numbers 59 — Sorensons had a cute poodle — and 57, where the Jacksons lived, ending his inspection tour in the middle, at 55 Greenborough Circle. Ignorance was both excuse and bliss for man and beast, at least up until this moment.

Buster knew that there was no dog at Number 55. He was no bloodhound, but he had a good nose nonetheless. No cat at 55 either, which was a pity. He longed to stretch his legs farther than his chain usually allowed him. Buster sauntered up the gravel driveway, swung right toward the front door, pausing to water the begonias in the flower bed. The welcome mat was out, hedgehog brown and bristly. Buster gave himself a well-earned massage from snout to backside and continued on his way, still heading to the right around the side of the house.

Mr. Torino had been busy. The scent of freshly cut grass tickled the dog’s nose. He paused for a roll and a brief sun bath then headed for the cool of the lilac bush at the back of the yard. Too much sun could kill, so he’d heard. Buster raised his snout, then lowered it. There was something here. In the air? Lilacs? No, spring had passed, and even though Sy had the best and most spectacular lilacs on the circle, there was nothing left but leaves at this time of the year. But there was something, a subtle hint of the forbidden, the prohibited. The dog rested his head once more and realized that the smell was slightly stronger on the ground. Leaving his nose glued to the dirt, he got up, circled to the left and determined that there was something buried under the lilac bush.

When Janie Rodgers got home from work, she found Buster unchained, lounging in the chaise on her back patio contentedly chewing on a bone. That was astonishing enough, but surprise turned to horror when Janie realized that there was a piece of cloth stuck to one bulbous end. She called the police.

It didn’t take long for the authorities to discover the hole under the lilac tree and the remains of Buster’s delicious find. The quiet community of Greenborough Circle was gone, overwhelmed by the comings and goings of police cars, ambulances, the forensic examiner’s SUV, reporters connected to camera crews from local newspapers and television stations and finally, the black van from the city morgue. Yellow crime scene tape stained the pristine orderliness of Sy’s manicured backyard. The reporters were herded to the end of the driveway, the neighbours watched from a more discrete distance and speculated.

“I wondered who it was …?”

“… and how it got in Sy’s back yard …”

“… under the lilac bush. Maybe that’s why Sy has such great lilacs in the spring!”

“That’s rude and not funny!”

“We’ve all been here for years. How is it that no one ever knew there was a body buried there?”

“The police have been inside with Sy for a long time. I wonder what they are asking him. I mean, it shouldn’t take this long, should it?”

“ … they must be grilling him.”

“Grilling him? Why? What would that old man know about the body buried in his back yard?

“Surely they can’t suspect Sy!”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Sy’s been our friend and neighbour for years. He was the first one here on the Circle. He played with our kids when they were small. I borrowed his lawnmower more times than I care to remember.”

“ … well, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“What’s it?”

“Sy was the first one here. He was a widower when we all moved to Greenborough Circle. And in all these years, he has never talked much about his wife.”

“You can’t seriously think that he offed his wife and buried her under the lilac bush!”

“ … I’m only saying …”

“They never found Jackson’s little girl …”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You remember, Sarah Jackson. She disappeared from the front yard over there at 57. No one ever found her.”

“So?”

“Well, you were the one that said that Sy used to play with all our kids. Maybe he played …”

“From a wife killer to a kidnapper, child molester and murderer? You’re crazy! Sy was our friend and neighbour for years. You even go to the same church with him”

“Was.”

“What?”

“You said ‘was’ so you think it’s possible too.”

“No, of course not. But …”

The discussion went on for hours around the Circle called Greenborough. In fact, it went on for days, weeks and months. The reporters went back to juicier stories, the police cars stopped pulling into Torino’s driveway, and the yellow tape was rolled up and trashed. Under the lilac bush, the earth settled once again, covering the hole that had been Cindy Masterson’s second-to-final resting place. She turned out to be a police cold case now resolved, buried in Torino’s backyard long before it was a backyard. It was only by chance that Sy hadn’t dug her up when he planted the lilac bush in memory of his wife the year after the house at 55 Greenborough Circle was built. Her boyfriend never imagined that Buster would uncover his crime so many years later.

The Jacksons, Sanders, Rodgers and Sorensons still live on Greenborough Circle. But two years after Buster’s adventure Sy Torino moved away. The body under the lilac bush accused him of nothing. But the awkward silences and curious, speculative stares from former friends and neighbours, the new coolness that descended into coldness frozen by the “buts”, “what if’s” “I wonders” and the “maybes” that hung over the enclave, continued to accuse him of everything long after Cindy Masterson’s death was solved.

None of Sy’s neighbours ever asked him about why the police spent so much time at his house that day. So they never knew that the detective was a old friend from high school who had decided to do a little reminiscing about old times while he was in the neighbourhood. No one asked what had happened to Sy’s wife. He could have told them where he went every Thursday afternoon. The gardener at the cemetery set his watch by Sy. And Sarah Jackson? Five years after Buster dug up Sy’s backyard the body of a little girl was discovered in the woods fifty miles from Greenborough Circle, her resting place revealed by a serial rapist in exchange for a deal that would save him from death row. By then it was too late for a reprieve for Sy Torino. He too was gone.

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” (Matthew 7:1 NIV)


Author's Note: I had always thought to develop this into a series, but somehow it has never happened. Maybe someday....

Fatherland, Socialism, or Death

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“Do you understand me? Not one tanker. Not one barrel. Not one drop. Nothing.”

Even for a big man further weighted and broadened by a Kevlar vest, he could move pretty quickly. His minister of mines and energy hardly had a chance to draw his breath and open his mouth, before his president was away from his desk and literally in his subordinate’s face.

“Do you understand me?”

“Ye-e-e-s, my commander. Perfectly, I understand perfectly. But …”

“But? There are no ‘buts.’ You will not, under any circumstances, sell one drop of our oil to those fascists. You will tell that to the president of the National Assembly. I want a motion on the floor, voted on, approved, and printed in our official newspaper before the end of the week.”

“Sir, you understand that …”

“What I understand is this: my people will not be trampled on by these imperialist scum. We will see who bends the knee when those mama’s boys have to spend the winter shivering in their cold homes; when gas prices rise to five dollars a gallon, or better yet, when they can’t find any gas to buy.”

“But …”

The minister could smell the coffee on the man’s breath as his commander-in-chief pushed his face closer to that of his own. The blood began to drain from his head, leaving the official feeling slightly faint. That deepening scowl before him radiated ill will. Others had disappeared for lesser offenses than trying to reason with the president.

“Go, and do it now.”

He went.

The international court has just ordered a freeze of all of the national oil company’s assets. Money could go in, but nothing could come out. In retaliation for what he saw as a conspiracy on the part of foreign interests to bring down his government, the president was determined to play the one card he had that his enemies didn’t—the richest oil reserves in the world.

There was one not-so-minor problem. The country ran on the money from that oil.

Much as he feared the consequences, the hapless functionary returned to the president’s office to try again. Surely, for the good of those he so easily named his compatriots, he would be magnanimous.

“Mr. President, I have carried out your orders. The National Assembly will discuss your proposal and you should have your approval by tomorrow night. But, I’m asking you to reconsider.”

The president, sitting behind his gilded mahogany desk and flanked by paintings of his preferred revolutionaries, looked up. The physical force from the look in his eyes pushed his minister of energy one step back.

“Reconsider?”

The man was never more dangerous than he was when he spoke quietly. But it was too late to retreat.

“If we just agree to negotiate with the multinationals and pay them for what we expropriated, I’m sure the court will reconsider and release our assets. Without the money from the oil, we have no purchasing power abroad. We can’t support our programs.”

He didn’t dare remind his leader that his “revolution” and its policies had already brought the country to its knees. There were already shortages of food and medicines. The protests in the streets were more numerous and violent every day. Many of those who had faithfully supported this regime since its inception were tired of waiting for the delivery of what had been promised them. How had the flood of money, so generously granted to them from on high, become a trickle by the time it got down to them? The richest country on the continent, violated by its own, was slowly dying for lack of just about everything.

“What is the theme of this revolution?”

“Wh-a-a— Excuse me, Sir?”

“What is the theme of this revolution? Have you forgotten?”

“No, Mr. President, of course not.”

“Well, then?”

“Fatherland, Socialism, or Death.”

“I will not submit to a court I do not recognize, to foreign companies, or to the governments that control them. I will not allow them to bring me down. I would die a martyr to my cause before I would bow.”

The words slipped out of their own free will.

“But, Sir. It’s not about you.”

A second of silence became an eternity of time.

“What did you say?”

The minister straightened. It would be the third choice. Perhaps not his, probably not that of the man whose gaze now held him crucified. But out there, beyond the walls, wire, and weapons…?

Yes, it would be death.

Author's Note: I wrote this in 2008. Today, the man depicted in this fictional piece is being buried today after more than 20 years in power. 

The Conditioning

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Friday, August 1

At exactly fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia, startled from a sound sleep, rolled over, struggled to untangle her arms from the duvet cover, and made a grab for the phone. On her first attempt, she missed, sending the book she had been reading just before turning off the light, tumbling to the floor.

“Hello?”

Nothing, not even a breath, or a whisper answered her.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Cynthia boasted about her ability to sleep through anything. During the years of the cold war, the accidental triggering of an air raid siren had sent the entire town into panic mode. She blissfully slept through it all. Storms, parties, and street races, never affected her beauty rest. It was odd that the ringing phone should do what nothing else could.

Calls at midnight usually signaled a family crisis, a drunk whose fingers did the walking in all the wrong directions, or a legitimate wrong number. The latter was usually followed by an apology or sometimes with the hasty “clink” of a receiver into its cradle and the sound of the dial tone.

There was nothing but silence this time.

Cynthia hung up and went back to sleep muttering about the rudeness of some people.

Saturday, August 2

At precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, the phone rang.

This time, Cynthia’s reflexes responded with more accuracy. Her hand grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Look, who is this?”

Empty air answered her.

The receiver returned to its cradle just a little more violently than it had the previous night.

Cynthia was scheduled to have Saturday morning brunch with some friends. Over orange juice and scrambled eggs, she recounted the experience of the last few nights.

“I don’t know what to do. Should I report it to the phone company? It doesn’t seem serious enough to call the police. There isn’t even any heavy breathing.”

Her friends commiserated with her. Maybe she should consider taking her phone off the hook at night, or getting an unlisted number.

Sunday, August 3

The clock in the living room struck 12:15 a.m. just as the phone beside Cynthia’s bed began to ring. For a second it seemed part of the dream haunting her at that moment. She had been walking along a road. Fog lay heavy and wet around her, preventing her from seeing much beyond the end of her nose. Branches hung from the trees—dripping telephone receivers, which she kept banging into. The sound of the phone pulled Cynthia off the path. The sheets were damp, her pajamas bathed in sweat.

“What do you want?” This time, politeness fled with sleep.

Again, there was nothing but silence.

Cynthia flung the phone down. She considered unplugging it, but resisted. Her father wasn’t well, and the family could call if something were to happen to him.

Later that morning, the now bleary-eyed woman, shared her experience with the other members of her Sunday School class.

“If whoever is on the other end of the line would just say something, then at least I would have some idea of how to respond. But this silence, and the clockwork timing is so frustrating.”

Cynthia felt better after the others prayed with her asking that the Lord would intervene in the situation. She went to sleep that night hanging on to those prayers, plus a few of her own.

Monday, August 4

The sound jerked her out of a peaceful slumber. This time, precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia didn’t even bother to ask who was calling. She pulled the phone from its cradle, listened to the silence for thirty seconds, and then put the receiver back.

The routine chores of the day were carried out on automatic pilot as Cynthia chewed on the dilemma of the midnight caller. There was so much to do as a first-time homeowner. The hours in the day never seemed enough.

Tuesday, August 5

Cynthia woke up at precisely fifteen minutes after midnight—to absolute silence. There was an odd smell in the room and a light haze. Her mind, now conditioned to respond at this hour, kicked into high gear. She recognized smoke and the odor of something burning.

On her list of things to do in the new house had been a revision of the smoke alarms.

Later, as the firefighters checked the house for any further signs of overheated wiring, she thanked God for His midnight caller who had saved her life and her home.

A Better Alternative

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“Hi, Val.”

Valerie tossed her dishtowel toward the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she wrestled with the bowl she had been drying.

“Hi, Chris. How are you?”

“I’m not sure. I’m fine—I think, but I just did something totally wild,” came a voice at once nervous and exultant.

“What’s up?” Valerie put the bowl down on the counter and, pulling a kitchen chair out, sat down. This sounded like it could take a while.

“I just locked Sarah and Bonnie in the shed.”

For a second, the world held its breath.

“You did what?”

Sitting was a good idea, thought Valerie. Otherwise, she might have fallen over. Sarah and Bonnie barely exchanged pleasantries when they met. They tried not to meet, but in a small church, it was hard to avoid the occasional contact.

“I locked …”

“Yes, I heard that, but what on earth did you do that for?”

“They need to talk to each other and sort out their issues, and since they wouldn’t do it on their own, I decided to help facilitate their reconciliation.”

“Facilitate their reconciliation? By locking them in the shed?”

“It will force them to face their problems and communicate with each other.”

That theory had some holes, but Valerie’s curiosity about the shed won out over logical, or illogical, conclusions.

“How did you get them both into the same shed at the same time?” Valerie asked.

“Well, you know how they both admire those old gardening tools that I have out there. They are both into shabby chic. So I invited them to come out and have a look.”

“They came together?”

If they had, that would have been a small crack in the ice wall that existed between the two women. Maybe there was some chance Chris’s crazy plan would work.

“No, I roped my darling daughter, Mitzy, into meeting Bonnie at the gate and bringing her in the back way. I took Sarah in the front, and then we both scooted out and barred both doors behind us. They’ll have to sort out the problem before I let them out.”

Valerie took a deep breath. “Chris, I think there is a law against kidnapping and holding people against their will. Besides, you left Bonnie and Sarah within grabbing distance of sharp instruments? You’d better pray that those weapons of grass destruction don’t turn into anything more dangerous.”

“Oh, come on, Val. They are Christians, after all. They surely won’t do each other injury. You don’t really think they would, do you?”

Chris was beginning to wonder if her plan had not only been ill-advised, but dangerous. The exasperation in Valerie’s voice caused her “facilitating” friend some doubts.

“Why not?” chided Val, “They have already done injury to themselves and to the rest of the church by not resolving whatever this problem is that they have between them. There aren’t too many more steps to take before the cold war heats up. Besides, how do you know they are even sorting things out? Do they know what it is they are supposed to be doing in the shed? They could be hatching a plot on how to escape, or planning how to freeze you out of their world when they do get out. Instead of Bonnie and Sarah not talking, it will be Bonnie, Sarah, and Chris not talking. How will that have helped the situation?”

Dead air reigned once more as Chris chewed on Valerie’s words.

“But I was only trying to help, honest. It never occurred to me that they might not even know why I had locked them in the shed. It seemed obvious to me.”

However, you’re not the one with the unforgiving spirit clouding your vision, thought Valerie.

“Chris, have ever actually talked to Bonnie and Sarah about how this problem is affecting them and damaging the church?”

“Well, no.”

“Well, neither have I, so I don’t have much room to criticize. I’m going to hang up now. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes. We will go into the shed together, you will explain why you suffered this momentary lapse of judgment and we will, Lord willing, sit down at your kitchen table, have a nice cup of coffee together and talk this out. Hopefully, Bonnie and Sarah will be so mad at you that they will look at each other more favourably.”

“What should I do while I’m waiting?” asked Chris.

“Pray, sister, pray.”

Would The Real Devil Please Stand Up

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“Listen to this! ‘These little cannibals have bad-tempers and will fly into a maniacal rage if threatened by a predator, fighting for a mate, or defending their dinner.’ They gotta have a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock to publish this stuff. Gross exaggeration, that’s what it is.”

A sharp flick of the rat-eared magazine added emphasis to Tom’s words.

“Easy on, Tom, your ears are turning red and you’re scaring the ankle biters.” Trixie pushed one of her remaining young into her pouch with a not too gentle shove. “It’s not as if it isn’t true, is it? You’re grouchy most of time."

“And you’re not grouchy? Who are they to point their useless, wimpy appendages at us. Humans fly into rages ‘if threatened by a predator’ too. We got driven off the North Island—and it wasn’t chauffeured in any Yank tank either, was it? Mark my words; it won’t be long before we go the way of the tigers…”

Trixie could tell that Tom was just warming up. His ears were the colour of ripe cherries and their tree hollow began to fill with an unpleasant smell—and it wasn’t from the rotting carcass her mate had uncovered and eaten last night. The devil was in the “Devil.”

“ …As far as fighting for a mate is concerned, those drongos do that too.”

It had been a big mistake to go through the garbage at the campsite. The magazine had been wrapped around a rather tasty bit of dog’s eye. Unfortunately, the grease had not soiled the article on Tasmanian wildlife.

Trixie admitted that hers was a violent community, though she kept herself to herself, as did most of her kind. Then again, humans killed their own young too. Maybe Tom had a point—those people had no business criticizing. Personally, she resented being called a "devil." Trixie wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but the fear and disgust that lent emotion to the word spoke volumes. Lost in her thoughts, Trixie hadn’t realized that Tom was silent. She looked over to his corner of the hollow. Her mate had fallen into a state of tupor. She kept still, knowing that the slightest movement would instantly rouse him to full alertness. He appeared dead but appearances were deceiving.

If people left us alone we wouldn’t…

A sharp sneeze sounded from outside the hollow. Immediately, Tom’s mouth stretched wide showing 42 lethal weapons ready for action. Fear? Uncertainly? They couldn’t see, but they could hear growling, the sure signal of a fight about to take place. Tom, taking the lead, poked his nose out into the night. In the shadows cast by a full moon glowing through the trees, he saw two forms locked in deadly combat. The snarling, snapping, and growling grew fierce and Tom drew back into the safety of the hollow.

“Who is it?” asked Trixie.

“Buzz. He’s finishing off old Charlie.”

“Isn’t he the one with all those lumps around his mouth? Poor old duffer hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“That’s the one. Some kind of disease.* I hope Buzz doesn’t get more than indigestion from old Charlie.”

Trixie paused, lost in the thought of the carnage outside her door.

“I guess that magazine is right, then.”

“What?” said Tom.

“Buzz just killed Charlie and is probably feasting on his bones. I’d guess that makes us cannibals just like they say.”

“Trixie,” Tom shouted, ears suddenly darkening to the colour of old blood. “I’m getting fed up to the back teeth with you. We’re supposed to be violent, mean, and without conscience—we’re the animals. They, on the other hand, are supposed to be improving into something better. We’ve got an excuse—which is more than can be said for them.”

Tom’s mate shook her head in solemn assent.

“Now that’s the duck’s guts. I guess the devil is in the details.”



Kangaroos loose in the top paddock = the lights are on but nobody’s home, a few bricks short of a load, not all there
Ankle-bi = meat pie
Drongo = stupid, dimwit, a fool
North Island = mainland Australia
Yank Tank = an American car
Tigers = the extinct Tasmanian tiger, a relative of the Tasmanian devil
Duffer = silly person
Fed up to the back teeth = losing patience
Duck’s guts = the heart of the matter

*Devil Facial Tumor Disease (DFTD), which threatens the survival of the Tasmanian devil population

---

Illusions, Delusions and Conclusions

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“Don’t just lie there; talk to me.”

“Go away, can’t you see I’m crushed. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late. Here, I found this big chunk and …” the man paused as he carefully placed the piece he had picked up near the base of the wall, “…I think it goes right here.”
The speaker gingerly bent down in an effort to get closer to the ground without crunching any more of the myriad of shell pieces scattered around him.

“Forget it,” moaned the object of his compassion.

“Not until you tell me which one of the stories about you is true. I’m not going to let you ooze away until you do.” The soldier, for that’s what he was, put another piece in place.

“What stories?”

“Well, there’s the one about the cannon. They say the Roundheads were giving the Royals a really rough time of it…”

“I know about Kansas City, but who do the Roundheads play for?” came the feeble interjection.

“Save your strength and let me finish.” Not waiting for a reply, the man continued to talk and to look for pieces that fit the broken puzzle lying on the ground.

“Anyway, the Roundheads had laid siege to Colchester and the Royals had mounted this huge cannon on the wall beside the church bell tower. Course the wall couldn’t stand up to the constant battering. The Roundheads took out the tower and the wall—down came the cannon. The Royals couldn’t put it back together no matter what they did.”

“Nope, that’s not the story I grew up with.” The shattered shell on the ground took a ragged breath. Keeping himself together, what little there was left of him, was getting harder.

“Then you were the one-eyed gunner who was up there firing the cannon?”

“Nope, not him either.”

The soldier scooped up some yellow matter and gently placed it inside a cup-like bit of skull.

“At least this stuff is prettier than what I usually have to collect,” he said to himself, thinking of all the grey matter he had been exposed to during his military career.

“What was that?” said the dying orb.

Embarrassed that he’d been heard, the man quickly moved to the next question.

“Okay if it isn’t that one, how about the one about this Cardinal Wolsey who couldn’t manage to get King Henry a divorce, so he lost his job at court and got sent down to his country home in disgrace.”

The disaster lying on the ground, grunted. “Do I look like a prince of the church to you?”

“Well,” admitted the soldier, “not now. But you did fall from a high place and end your career badly.” He carefully applied a bit of spit to his repair job.

“Yuk, be careful where you put that,” exclaimed the victim.

“Then you have to be Prince Humperdinck, right?” his helper continued.

“Now that’s a yoke,” came a weak laugh. “I told you I wasn’t a Cardinal, and now you want to make me a prince?”

“Well, the story fits, doesn’t it? They say there was this prince from some obscure country in Europe who liked to walk along the walls of his father’s castle. Trouble was, he must have been given to daydreaming or something. Anyway, one day he fell off. Broke every bone in his body. Does that sound familiar?” For a moment, the man thought the poor creature beside him had finally passed. There was no sound, certainly no movement, from the mangled mess before him.

“Hey, Humpty, answer me. You can’t quit yet,” the soldier urged.

“Why not?” came back the answer. “You know how the story ends, so why bother with the futile repair job. Just let me go.”

“Because I don’t know how the story started. My mother always said I had a curious streak. You know; taking clocks apart to find out how they ticked …”

Humpty laughed. “Now I know why you’re insisting on fixing me. Tell me, how many pieces were left over after you got your clocks back together?”

“Ah, Humpty, come on, tell me. We’re running out of time here.”

“Alright, alright. Then maybe you’ll let me die in peace. It’s the bar story.”

“Bar story?”

“Yeah, a Humpty Dumpty was a drink made of brandy boiled in ale.”

“No cannon or cannoneer?”

“Nope.”

No cardinal?”

“Nope.”

“No prince?”

“Nope, just falling down drunk.”

“I’m shattered,” sighed the soldier.

“No, I’M shattered. Now will you go away and let this story finish?” replied the egg.

Broken Dreams

Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.

Return once more to memory’s cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evil’s touch and gambler’s bid.
Protected by a Father’s hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.

Some will die, and others live.
It is the Father’s grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into life’s broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.

Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Father’s gift, as always, best.

Lynda Schultz, © January 2006