Family Reunion

After a seven year absence, a man visits his parents.

         Seconds before the switch was pulled, Paul Menlo let everyone in on his travel planes. Voicing his contempt, he shouted, “Goodbye world… Hello Hell!”
         At one minute past midnight on August 24, 1936, within the death chamber at New York’s Sing Sing prison, 2,000 volts fried the life out of the condemned murderer, kidnapper, and all-around bad man.
         Menlo's slim, thirty-seven-year-old body, stiffened and twitched as his internal organs sizzled and his eyeballs melted. Even though the show lasted less than two minutes, the majority of those seated in the witness gallery did not feel short-changed. It was definitely a good-riddance-to-dangerous-rubbish event.
         After an attending physician declared him dead, Menlo’s body remained for a period of time in the oaken wood chair. The extreme body heat generated by the electric current needed time to dissipate. Only after a mandatory ‘cool-down’ period were the black cloth hood, skull cap, and leg electrode removed; the leather arm, leg, and chest restraints were unbuckled.
         Menlo’s body was lifted from Old Sparky, placed on a gurney, and rolled to an adjoining room where the black and white stripes he wore to his lightening round were removed. Before a complete examination could be performed on Menlo’s body, it was cleansed to remove any excreta, vomit, and blood released or expelled during execution. Old Sparky was scoured to present sterile comfort for its next occupant.
         Menlo’s body was fitted into a blue pinstripe seersucker suit compliments of the surplus bin of inmates left-behinds. He was then laid out in a prison-made pine box.
         Ten hours post execution and looking as spiffy as an electrocuted stiff could, Menlo’s body was released to his parents. Nails and Wanda had their son’s roasted remains transported by rail to Kentucky’s Apple Orchard Cemetery where he was promptly planted in a remote section of the back forty.

*     *     *

         Paul Buris Menlo was born April 8, 1899, in Bowling Green, Kentucky. More a truant than a student, Menlo quit school when he was nine and joined the family business. The Menlos made a decent living housecleaning. They’d break into houses and clean the owners out of anything of value.
         With a ‘couldn’t-care-less’ shrug from his father and a tearful kiss from his mother, who insisted her ‘little boy’ write even though she knew he wouldn’t, Menlo quit the family business when he was sixteen to play second base for a traveling semi-pro baseball team.
         In 1917, after a Saturday game in Danville, first baseman Grit Sangster and Menlo robbed a secondhand furniture store of four hundred and twenty-seven dollars. While leaving the scene, the two were spotted by a minister walking his dog. The minister recognized the two to be baseball players he saw earlier at a game. Sangster and Menlo were arrested the next day. The judge gave the two a choice: ten years on a chain gang or enlist in the army.
         After serving less than a year, Private Menlo, claiming his grandmother had died, was given a three day furlough to attend her funeral. Fearing he would be sent to France to fight in the Great War, Menlo deserted and was later dishonorably discharged.
         For the next several years, Menlo drifted from town to town. In 1920, he landed a job at Ford Motors. Bored with the mundane routine associated with assembly line work, Menlo quit, circling back to what he knew best: housecleaning. In addition to burgling homes, the petty thief stole items from street venders, and robbed small businesses.
         In 1922, Menlo and his old teammate, Sangster, teamed up and began robbing banks and stealing automobiles. Their partnership ended on a rainy afternoon in February of 1924.
         While driving the getaway car to escape capture after a bank heist in Kansas, Sangster lost control of the car and drove off a bridge into a lake. Unable to exit the submerged car, the Sangster half of the bank robbing duo drown; the other half swam to safety.
         Over the next five and a half years, Menlo, on his own, focused on robbing banks. Unfortunately, with the robbing came killing. Menlo shot and killed whoever got in his way, including cops, security guards, a young mother of two, and a dog that chased his car.
         In 1931, Menlo was living in Rochester, New York. It was there that he came up with the bright idea to try his hand at something new: kidnapping for ransom. His victim was the nine-year-old daughter of a bank president. As the little girl was walking home from school, Menlo grabbed and pulled her into his car. Then, as fast as his ‘30 Chevy could roll, Menlo sped out of town.
         Menlo’s hightailin’ caught the attention of a motorcycle cop who promptly gave chase. After two miles and unable to shake the cop, Menlo pulled off to the side of the road and waited for the cop to approach. When asked what the big hurry was all about, Menlo answered by shooting the cop dead. He kicked his hostage out of the car and sped away. The little girl sustained a fatal injury when she was pushed from the car. Her head hit against a tree stump cracking her skull. Doris Hicks will forever be nine-years-old.
         In 1934, Menlo’s murdering and bank robbing days almost ended after being shot in the backside of his right shoulder while heisting a Western Union. He narrowly escaped capture by co-mingling with the maggot-laden load in a garbage truck as it headed out of town.
         Menlo thought it best to lay low for a time and find someone to take care of his bullet wound. An Irish floozy who worked as a tattoo artist removed the bullet for payment of five bucks and a bottle of gin. She and Menlo shacked-up for a few months, but that ended when Menlo caught her pilfering through his stuff. Sarah Feely died in the flophouse she shared with Menlo; her throat was slashed from ear to ear.

*     *     *

         Inside Arnold’s Barber Shop and Shining Parlor, in Kingston, New York, a man sat getting a haircut and shave. Arnold nonchalantly lathered the man’s face, stropped his straight razor, and began removing stubble. When the shave had progressed to the neck area, Arnold pressed his razor tightly against the skin directly above the man’s Adam’s apple and calmly, in a soft hush, whispered, “I suggest you not move, Mr. Menlo. You move, I cut.”
         Menlo moved. Arnold cut. Bleeding, the panicked fugitive ran from the barber shop, but was quickly brought down when he ran into a telephone pole, knocking himself unconscious. He was hustled off to a hospital where his ‘close shave’ wound was stitched up.
         A speedy trial found Menlo guilty of murder and kidnapping. Justice prevailed with a death by electrocution judgement. In sentencing Menlo to death, Judge Neiman spoke with bitter disgust the perfunctory phrase regarding God, mercy, and soul.
         As he was led away, Menlo defiantly blurted, “You, Judge, can kiss my freckled fanny!”

*     *     *

         Seven years to the day after their son’s electrifying departure, Nails and Wanda were sitting at their kitchen table playing checkers. Wanda the undisputed house champ, lifted her attention from the game to gaze at a wanted poster depicting a photo of her son wearing a cheeky grin. The crumpled 9x12 was nailed to a partially painted beige wall. Lamenting her loss, the mother of an executed murderer wistfully asked her husband if he knew what day it was.
         Nails, focused on the game he was surely going to loose, sarcastically harrumphed, “Yeah, I know what today is. For the six-hundredth time, today is the day your sweet precious Paulie found out that murder and electricity don’t mix.”
         Conceding defeat by switching gears, Nails anxiously added, “It’s gettin’ late. Ya think, ‘fore it gets much later, we better go over our plans for tomorrow night?”
         The kitchen table was cleared of checkers and replaced with a wrinkled paper sack with plans scrawled on it to burgle Tully’s Meat Locker. Nails had pretty well memorized the plan when a knock on the front door broke his concentration. A bit antsy when it came to late night visitors, Nails gave the front door a quizzical stare. Wanda suggested he take a gander out the window.
         “Be careful not to let whosever out there see you.”
         “Don’t fret none. Nobody’s gonna see nothin’.”
         The moonless night, coupled with a burned out porch lightbulb, made it impossible to determine little more than the person knocking on the door might be a man.
         Squinting to gain better focus, Nails hoarsely whispered, “It’s too dark. I can’t tell who’s out there.”
          Again, a louder knocking, closer to pounding, hit the door. Curiosity getting the best of her, Wanda butted her cigarette and moseyed toward the window to take a look-see for herself. Before she had an opportunity to see who was doing all the pounding, an angry man’s voice loudly shouted, “Open the door, goddamnit! It’s me, Paul.”
         Nails, confronting the voice, hollered, “Who are you? You ain’t Paul. Paul’s dead!”
         “It’s me, Pa. It’s your son, Paul. Let me in.”
         “Don’t you be openin’ that door, Nails. It’s some kind of trick,” cautioned Wanda.
         “Ya hear that. Yer Ma says it’s a trick you’re tryin’ to pull.”
         “It ain’t no trick, Pa. I can prove it to ya. Ask me a question that only I…I mean, only Paul knows the answer.”
         “Ya hear that, Wanda? He wants me to ask him a question.”
         “Ask him what year my lucky silver dollar is.”
         “I heard ya, Ma. You ain’t got no lucky silver dollar, but ya got a lucky Indian head penny: 1899, the year I was born. ”
         Upon hearing her quiz-question answered correctly, Wanda, giddy with excitement, hollered, “Open the door, Nails! Only Paulie knows about my lucky penny.”
         Coming face to face with the man whose execution and burial he witnessed left Nails standing at the opened door slack-jawed and stunned numb. Wanda, on the other hand, ran to her son and enthusiastically threw her arms around him.
         “Great hoppin’ gophers, Paulie! What are ya doin’ here, and naked as a plucked roster? What happened to that beautiful seersucker suit you were buried in?”
         Before Menlo could explain his nakedness, Wanda jumped subjects.
         “Oh, never mind about your clothes, Paulie. Yer supposed to be dead. You are dead! I was there when they strapped you in the electric…”
         Laughing and at the same time shuddering as he recalled the shocking event, Menlo let his mother know what she saw was, in fact, what she saw.
         “Yeah, Ma, I’m dead. I can’t stay long to visit. I gotta get back before…”
         Wanda cut her son off in mid-sentence. “Would you like something to wear, Paulie? I can get you a blanket.”
         “I’m good.”
         “Can I get you something to drink? A beer, maybe?”
         “Thanks, Ma. Beer sounds good. Come to think of it, ya got a spare blanket?”
         Staggered, but coming to grips with what was happening, Nails quipped, “While you’re handin’ out beer to dead people, grab one for me.”
         Turning his attention to his son, Nails coldly asked, “Tell me, Paul, Ya say ya gotta get back; get back to where, and when can we expect ya to leave?”
         Menlo’s answer was blunt. “Hell, Pa. I’ve been in Hell. I gotta get back there soon, or…”
         Before Menlo could say more, Wanda interrupted. “Hell? You’ve been to Hell? Do tell, Paulie. What’s Hell like?”
         “The honest truth, Ma, Hell ain’t nothing like you think. It’s dark, damp, and freezin’ ice cubes.”
         Nails couldn’t resist heckling. “Are you sure you were in Hell? Sounds more like you were at the bottom of a mine shaft.”
         Menlo knew exactly where his sins had taken him and it wasn’t as his father suggested.
         “Look, Pa, Hell is where I’ve been for the past seven years. Believe what you want, but the Hell I was in, is dark, damp and cold. There are ten-foot tall blue demons with twisted horns stickin’ out of their frozen ugly heads. They have icy-white eyes and spiked frozen tails. The demons strip everyone naked and poke us sinners with ice cold pitchforks and crack whips on our backs to make sure we stay in line as we walk shiverin’ on an endless frozen path to nowhere.”
         “Sounds like a fun place,” mocked Nails “Go on, tell us more.”
         “I ain’t wantin’ to hear more,” moaned Wanda; her voice but a weak whisper. Then, attempting to change the mood, she asked her son if he saw anyone famous while in Hell.
         “Well, Ma, if you consider politicians and religious leaders as famous, yeah, I saw lots of famous people.”
         Wanda was all ears. “Like who, Paulie?”
         Nails leaned forward, “Yeah, Paul. While yer pullin’ our legs, tell us who ya saw.”
         Finishing off his beer and motioning for another, Menlo spoke softly, as if keeping a secret.
         “Well, I ain’t allowed to namedrop, but there are people in Hell who you would never believe would be there.”
         Annoyed he wasn’t going to get any inside dope from his son, Nails impatiently spat, “Okay, don’t tell us. We don’t want to know, no how. But gettin’ down to brass tacks, Paul, what are you doin’ here? It ain’t that I ain’t happy to see ya, but the truth is, I ain’t happy to see ya. What do you want?”
         Wanda came to her son’s defense. “Nails! That’s a no way to talk to our son. You might’ve talked to him like that when he was alive, but Paulie’s dead now, so can it with the rudeness. How’d you like it if I talked to you that way when you’re dead?”
         Nails barked back. “If I came back to visit you from Hell, I sure as Hell, would tell you who I saw. Now, hush-up and let Paul tell us why he’s here. While you’re at it, Paul, tell us how you escaped from Hell. There’s a tale I want to hear.”
         “Well, Pa, I didn’t really escape. I was paroled.”
         “Paroled! You were paroled from Hell?”
         Choking on his beer and laughing, Nails, poked fun.
         “That’s a good one, Paulie. I’d think leavin’ Hell, ya would’ve picked more suitable travelin’ duds, but go on, tell us more.”
         “Knock off the wise cracks, and maybe I will.”
         Slapping her husband’s hand with a fly swatter and directing a glare that would paralyze a whirlwind, Wanda sternly lifted her voice.
         “Go ahead, Paulie, finish your story. I’m certain yer pa’s gonna keep his yap shut.”
         Directing a snarky grin toward his father, Menlo began telling about his journey to Hell and back.
         “Well, I’ll start by goin’ back seven years to my execution. As I sat in the chair, I remember hopin’ somehow the phone would ring and I would be told the whole thing was a mistake and I was free to leave. But we all know that didn’t happen.”
         Barely above a whisper, Nails uttered, “Yeah, we remember.”
         Menlo continued with his date with death tale.
         “Two screws, who I got to know pretty well, Ragus and Snavley, made sure I was properly seated. I think it was Snavley who buckled an electric brace-like-thing to my right leg; Ragus strapped me in. Then a third guy, a bony old-timer, I don’t remember his name, put a wet sponge cap on top my head and secured it in place. He said something about me takin’ a good look at seeing my last as he began slippin’ a black bag over my head. Before my head was completely bagged, the last bit of life I saw was you guys lookin’ at me. Ma, you was cryin’, and you, Pa, I remember you chompin’ a chaw and lookin’ for a spittoon.”
         Nails growled, “Whatever. Go on with yer story.”
         “Yeah, Pa. Here’s the part I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearin’. As the bag was pulled down to cover my eyes, everything went black for a second or two. I began to yell out my final words when, delivered as promised, I felt the electricity stingin’ me like a herd of hornets attackin’ every part of my body. I felt my ears explode as a blindin’ sun-bright lite burst in front of my eyes. The bright light quickly faded to black. Then, the next thing I knew, I was standin’ next to myself, watchin’ myself shakin’ and jitterin’. I saw the smoke escape from under the bag. I smelt the stink of me frying. I…”
         “Enough! No more! I can’t hear no more,” screamed Wanda, resting her head in her folded arms that lay atop the scrawled heist plans.
         “Please, Paulie, I can’t relive that terrible night.”
         Nails was less emotional. “We saw what happened to ya. What we don’t know is what happened when ya got to Hell. How ya got paroled, and why ya chose to come here.”
         Well, Pa, like I told ya. Hell is dark, damp, and cold. And the smell of rotten eggs is everywhere. Hell is a cold pit of everlasting and never ending nothingness that goes on forever.”
         Leaving his son and wife at the table to fetch a beer from the icebox, Nails asked, with a biting degree of sarcasm, “Ya ain’t got no cigarettes? No beer? No checkers? No…”
         “Nothin’ means nothin’, Pa.”
         “Horse phazoo! I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life. Maybe yer ma believes ya, but count me out.”
         “What I tell ya is true, Pa, but that’s not the end of it. There’s a place worse than the Hell where I was. It’ s called Dyzlach.”
         Wanda wearily lifted her head from her folded arms. Tear-streaked mascara mottled her puffy-red checks. Motioning for Nails to slid the pouch of makin’s to her, she bemoaned, “I need a cigarette.”
         In a matter of seconds, Wanda had her smoke rolled and lit.
         “Hearin’ you talk, Paulie, I was just wonderin’ what does Hell or Dyzlach got to do with you? You’re paroled, ain’t ya? Keep yer nose clean and you won’t have to worry about nothin’. Right?”
         “Well, Ma, yeah, I was paroled sure enough, but there’s a catch. In Hell, where I was, there are blue demons, but in Dyzlach there are special red demon fiends. If I break parole, red demon fiends will find me.
         “About an hour ago, one of the nicer blue demons, Hannah, asked since it was my seven year anniversary of being in Hell, if I would like to leave for a short spell. When I told her I would, she said she’d arrange it. She went on to tell me that this was a one-time only favor; a special parole not given to every sinner in Hell. She also told me what would happen if I broke my parole.”
         Thinking this a good way to get rid of his son, Nails questioned, “How do ya break parole and what happens to ya when ya do?”
         Menlo knew, but it was too painful for him to reveal.
         “Let’s hear it, Son. Yer ma and me want to know, so we can make sure you stay clear of breakin’ parole.”
         Taking a deep breath and biting his upper lip, Menlo began to tell his parents what would happen if he broke parole.
         “If I don’t return to the other side of the front door by midnight, red fiend demons will come. Hannah won’t protect me and I’ll be dragged off to Dyzlach.”
         Wanda took a few quick puffs from her cigarette and dropped it in the MJB coffee can she and Nails used as an ashtray. As she began rolling another cigarette she asked, “What’s this Dyzlach yer talkin’ about? I went to Sunday school when I was a kid. Nobody ever talked about Dyzlach.”
         “Well, Ma, unlike Hell, where there is nothing but shiverin’ nothingness, in Dyzlach, everything you’ve been told about Hell is true, but tens times worse. The punishment is like nothing ever written of or preached about. Since I am a murderer of innocent people and a kidnapper, my Dyzlach punishment will be awful. Besides being tortured with barbed-tipped pitchforks and snapping fire whips, I’ll be forced…”
         Menlo pressed his hands to his head and painfully moaned, “It’s too horrible to say.”
         “Go on, Paulie,” Wanda urged. “Tell us. What will you be forced to do in Dyzlach?”
         “I’ll be forced…”
         With his voice cracking, the hardened criminal pried from his throat the words telling that which he feared most.
         “I’ll be forced to listen to… polka music! Nonstop! That’s why I gotta return to the other side of the front door before midnight.”
         “Jesus God! Polka music!” exclaimed Wanda, bursting into a second wave of tears. “Ya got about five minutes before midnight. We better be sayin’ our goodbyes. You bein’ in Hell, I can live with, but the thought of you sufferin’ in Dyzlach would surely end my days.”
         Nails wasn’t as sympathetic, “No need to hurry, Paul. You got plenty of time to get to the other side of the front door, but other than hittin’ us up for a few beers, why are ya here?”
         Menlo, regaining his composure, warily answered.
         “Hannah asked me where I wanted to go. Because you and Ma are my only kin, I told her to put me at yer front door. Now that I’m here, let me tell ya something that might keep you guys from going to Hell when yer life is done.
         “Gettin’ electrocuted is horrible. The pain paralyzed me, and smelling my body fryin’ as millions of volts short-circuited my brain is something I wish for no one, not even you, Pa. But Hell is more worse than gettin’ electrified. I never did no good when I was alive, so maybe I can make up for it with some Hell-avoidin’ advice. Maybe the two of you can keep from goin’ to Hell by givin’ up robbin’ and the like. Start bein’ good and begin doin’ good things. It’s never too late to find… ”
         Before Menlo could express what it was that was never too late to find, a thunderous clap of thunder shook the house followed by three solid raps on the front door.
         Menlo, fearing the worse, whispered, “Tell ‘em to go way.”
         Facing the closed door, Nails hollered, “Nobody’s home!”
         The visitor, not deterred, hit the door again.
         Nails cleared his throat, and not wanting to know, but knew he must, hesitantly asked “Who’s…Who’s there?”
         A voice, soft and soothing, answered.
         “I am Hannah. Your gullible son believed I would be his guardian and protect him during his brief visit with you, but what I told him is what we blue demons say to graduate from Hell to Dyzlach and be promoted to red demon fiends.”
         While she was fixing to roll herself another cigarette, Wanda shouted, “Hell wasn’t punishment enough for my Paulie?”
         “If I could speak to you face to face, Mrs. Menlo, I would, but it is forbidden for the underworld to occupy the same space as the living. So, from this side of your front door I’ll explain. It was my lord, Satan who instructed me to sucker Sinner Paul into believing Hell had a loving side that allowed visitation. Like the fool he is, your loathsome son greedily accepted. And now, according to the sweeping second hand on my trusty Timex wristwatch, Paul has broken his parole by ten-seconds. Open the door, Paulie, and join the party.”
         Wanda argued. “Yer watch is four minutes fast. Paulie has plenty of time to get to the other side of the front door.”
         Hannah let Wanda in on a demon secret.
         “It makes no difference if I’m four minutes early or four hours late. The time is what I say it is. My red demon fiend friends and I are here to escort your son’s worthless soul to Dyzlach. Come with us Paulie. The band is waiting.”
         Upon hearing his name and Dyzlach, Menlo ran out the back door and into the clutches of red demon fiends. Kicking and screaming, the murdering, lowlife was dragged off to Dyzlach.
         Standing at the opened back door, Nails and Wanda watched their despicable son disapparate within a churning black cloud. Flicking her cigarette butt out the door, Wanda, emotionally exhausted, slowly shook her head and in tears, mournfully sighed, “Polka music… Damn!… The poor bastard.

*     *     *

         Despite their son’s plea to amend their ways, Nails and Wanda continued with their routine way of passing through life: stealing, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and playing checkers.
         Sometime around June of 1945, Wanda began to have health issues. Unable to pull-off jobs without having to take a breather, she subsequently spent more time hanging around the house playing checkers by herself, rolling and smoking cigarettes, and talking to her son via his wanted poster she kept nailed on the still partially painted beige wall.
         It was in the fall of ‘46, Wanda began coughing blood. She refused to see a doctor, fearing they’d find something bad. The ‘bad’ Wanda feared was lung cancer. The insidious disease viciously attacked, metastasizing to the brain and eventually leaving her paralyzed, blind, and demented. At sixty-six years and three months, Wanda Menlo came to her death in 1947.
         Wanda’s skin and bones body was cremated. Nails placed her cremains, along with her lucky penny and Paul’s wanted poster, in the MJB coffee can they used as an ashtray. He buried the lot in the back yard. So not to forget the spot, Nails pounded in the ground a wooden cross draped with a shoestring on which he glued black and red checkers.
         Nine months after Wanda passed, Nails was arrested for petnapping a wealthy woman’s dog and was sentenced to ninety days in jail. Having never spent a day behind bars, Nails didn’t take kindly to being locked up. On January 10, 1948, three days short of his seventy-second birthday, Nails was found hanged in his jail cell. He left a note that read: I miss Wanda.
         No one claimed Nails’ body and he was buried in a potter’s field.
         There is one last bit to note: It has been nearly a century since Paul Menlo was planted, and to this day, the faint reverberations of an accordion playing polka music can be heard emanating from his grave.


WC: 4,402