Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

“Listen, Mary,” Greg says, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Shouldn’t have waited this long, really, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Okay?” I don’t know what else to say. My stomach tightens as I think of all the things he might say next, none of which are good. Am I already out of a job? Has someone complained about me?

He shoves his hands into his suit pockets. We’re both dressed in civilian clothes for the funeral. Greg still pinned his badge to his lapel, though. Mine’s in my purse, along with my phone and my service pistol.

He sighs. “Thing is, with everything going on… what the hell’s that sound?”

The change of subject trips me up, and for a few seconds I have no idea what he’s talking about. But then I hear it, too. My first thought is the engine of the tiny bulldozer the cemetery uses to dig and fill graves. It’s an old rusty thing kept in a shed behind some trees on the other side of the parking lot, and at a distance it makes the same sort of low hum I now hear.

But the earthmover finished its work twenty minutes ago. I remember watching it lumber over there as I was waving cars out onto the main road. Still, I say it, because it’s all I can think of. “Bulldozer?”

We both know it doesn’t fit. The sound is too even, yet also somehow not. It has a kind of wavering quality to it. Almost like someone humming. A chill runs up my spine. It’s not what I’d call a good sound. It seems to come from everywhere, though as it grows in volume I get the sense that’s wrong, too. The source is somewhere nearby. I start to look around.

“I know that sound,” Greg says in the same instant that I spot the phone lying in the grass, just a few feet from the fresh grave.

It’s an old model iPhone with a cracked screen, tucked inside one of those rugged cases people up here love. Adds a bit of outdoorsy charm to a dreaded piece of fashionable technology. An alarm icon dances on the screen, with a label just below:

ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER DOLLAR

The chosen tone to go with this is that of an Aboriginal didgeridoo, a wind instrument that sounds a bit like someone chanting in a very low voice.

“I’ve heard that before,” Greg says, studying the screen over my shoulder. “Can’t remember where, though.”

“Somewhere in town?” I suggest.

“That’s some fine detective work,” Greg says, grinning under his thick mustache. “Here, let me take it. Someone must have dropped it during the service. Once they realize, they’ll call it and I’ll sort it out.”

“You were about to say something, before the phone went off…” I prompt.

Greg gives a little shrug. “Know what? Never mind. That can wait until morning. Right now I think some ‘quiet contemplation’ is what the doctor ordered. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mary.”

I’ve lived here only a few months, but it seems to me that on any given issue, Silvertown is a place that always manages to divide itself evenly.

Examples:

Tourism. Brings in heaps of money, but ruins the secluded quiet so many residents cherish. You’ll see small-town neighborly friendliness at one house, and an overly large NO TRESPASSING sign in front of the next. Count them up and I bet it’s nearly fifty-fifty.

Technology is another hot-button topic. Half the town is up in arms over the new cell phone tower on the mountainside, claiming it gives them brain cancer or screws with their chakras or whatever. The other half is overjoyed that we finally have fast, reliable service so they can check their grandkids’ Facebook posts.

I could go on. The biggest wedge, though, relates indirectly to my job. Or rather, to my boss, Greg.

See, up until about ten years ago, Silvertown was a company town. The original silver mine that started it all was built by the Conaty family, who turned the lucrative business into a global corporation. They branched out, aggressively. From minerals to lumber, chemicals, even pharmaceuticals. Through it all they kept their business headquarters right here, and were by far the largest employer in the region as a result.

All that changed about ten years ago.

I’m still learning the gory details. Suffice to say, it was Greg’s efforts that forced the Conaty Corporation to leave town, mired in scandal and disgrace. For every person here who praises him for that, there’s one who would point to the abandoned buildings and shuttered houses and say the price was too high.

My point is, people up here rarely agree on anything. Always split down the middle, like this road that splits the town in two, or the way Keller’s Gorge divides us from the rest of civilization.

A divided place. Today, though, was an exception.

Seeing everyone come together for the funeral of Johnny Rogers has really impressed me. I’ve never experienced anything like it, much less been a part of it. Not during my childhood growing up in a rural part of California, or more recently in Oakland, where my status as a rookie cop had me more often than not at arms’ length with the people there.

Despite the circumstances, today made me feel like part of a family. Corny, I know, but there it is. I loved it.

I rode that strange high of shared grief all afternoon, but it’s twilight now and things have already turned to Silvertown’s special weird brand of “normal.” Just as Greg predicted, most everyone sought out the solace of their own homes after the service ended, looking for the comfort of silence after a day of mourning and remembrances. Greg included.

Me? I may have mentioned already, but solitude isn’t my thing. It makes me itch.

I’m parked on the edge of town. Sitting in the patrol car alone with the engine running, pondering a patrol down the mountain that would just