DEAD LEAVES
                         By Robert Mauro

     The summer was over.  Winter would soon follow, and so would
the cold and snow in this rustic, northern New England village
where old Nelson Cheevie lived.  The beautiful, lush, green
leaves, now red, yellow, and gold, had begun to fall and die like
his old friends had one by one.  They were everywhere, dead
leaves and dead friends.  The leaves and memories blew and
swirled across the frozen ground and around old Nelson Cheevie's
feet and thoughts.
     Cheevie walked alone as he did every day.  His old skin was
like the dead leaves, dry and yellow.  Crinkly almost.  Some
might say it resembled ancient parchment with something secret
and dire written upon it. 
     Mrs. Cheevie had died many years before, and Nelson had
never remarried.  He had his cats and dogs.  They were strays
like him.  Unconnected to anything, the flea-bitten, unwashed
animals would gather at his run down house and wait for a
handout.  Cheevie would serve up scraps.  He would not stick
around to talk to the animals.  Instead he'd mumble something to
his long dead wife and wander into town.
     Cheevie lived on the outskirts of a small, northern New
England village.  It was the sort of picturesque place richer,
happier, younger folks would come to when the leaves began to
turn.  Pictures of the village adorned many postcards.
     City folk loved the rustic ambience of the place.  They
sought refuge from the hustle and bustle of urban America in
these rural villages, where poets wrote about roads less traveled
and fences mended.
     In this particular small New England village, which Cheevie
wandered through each day, there were a few craft shops, a small
bed and breakfast, a general store, several gift shops, a
restaurant, a post office, a police station, a small school, and
a church.  Mrs. Cheevie had spent a lot of time in the tiny,
white-clapboard church.  Mr. Cheevie never set foot in it.  Not
once.
     As the old man meandered through the town each day, the
children would laugh at him.  Every day he wore the same old navy
pea coat and black, woolen cap.  His shoes were worn and his
pants were torn.  He needed a shave and a hair cut.  And looked
like he could use two-bits.
     "There goes that old creep," a child would yell.
     Nelson Cheevie would never look up.  He'd watch the ground. 
He'd count the cracks in the sidewalk.  He'd mumble to his long,
dead wife and friends.  But he would never look up.
     There were many stories about old Nelson Cheevie.  Who he
was.  Where he had come from.  What had happened to him.  There
was the story about Cheevie being wounded in the war.  Some said
he was a hero, having saved several men.  Others said he was a
coward, having run from battle.  Others said he had been hit in
the head by a piece of shrapnel.  Another story claimed Cheevie
had murdered someone.  One version said Cheevie had killed a man
in a bar.  Still another story said Cheevie had murdered a little
girl many decades ago, when he was a boy.  As a result, he had
spent years in jail, becoming a drunk and an outcast.
     But probably the most frequently told story about old Nelson
Cheevie was the one about him being extremely rich.  The rumor
was he had made his fortune on Wall Street and then just gone off
the deep end.  Some thought the death of his wife had led to
Cheevie's ultimate crackup.  But no one could be sure of any of
this.  And Nelson Cheevie wasn't talking.
     Cheevie was a man of mystery.  He spoke to no one and no one
spoke to him.
     Cheevie would spend his days roaming the village.  He'd
collect cans and bottles.  He had started out by just picking
them up off Main Street.  Tourists were such slobs.  They'd toss
their trash out of their fancy car windows or just drop it on the
roadside.  Nelson would pick these cans and bottles up.  He would
collect the deposits on them and use the money to buy dog and cat
food for his menagerie.  Occasionally he'd even buy food for
himself.  Cheevie never ate in the town restaurant.  Not anymore. 
As a young man, he and Mrs. Cheevie would often have Sunday
dinners there.  But no more.  Cheevie was never seen eating or
drinking anything anywhere.  He just picked up bottles and cans
and mumbled to his long dead wife and friends.
     Mrs. Cheevie had been a quiet woman.  She seldom spoke to
anyone when she was alive.  She hadn't grown up in the area.  Nor
had Nelson, for that matter.  No one quite knew where she had
come from, or where Nelson had come from.  Some thought she had
been a German war bride.  Others imagined she had survived a
concentration camp.  One rumor had it that Nelson had come from a
rich, aristocratic family.  And then another said Mrs. Cheevie
had met him after he had been set free from prison.
     Whatever the truth of their origins was, the Cheevies had
settled on the outskirts of the village after their wedding some
fifty years ago.  Nelson had often been away on business.  They
had moved down to New York for a time, but had returned after
several years.  And then, suddenly, Mrs. Cheevie died.  There
wasn't much of a funeral, just Nelson, a few friends, and the
minister, Mr. Peabody, attended.
     After the death of his wife, Nelson Cheevie could often be
seen by her grave in the little cemetery, behind the church. 
Other times he'd just sit for hours on the bench outside the
general store.  He'd feed the pigeons with grain he had bought
for them.  He hardly spoke a word.  And when he did speak, it was
to his cats, his dogs, the pigeons, or to his long dead wife and
friends.
     All and all Nelson Cheevie had become such a common sight in
his small village, no one seemed to notice him anymore.  And as
long as he didn't bother anyone, no one bothered him.  The
tourist trade didn't seem to be affected by his presence.  So no
one ever asked Nelson Cheevie to get out of town, not even Bert,
the cop.  And since there were no other cops in town but Bert,
old Nelson Cheevie was never asked to leave.  Not by the law. 
Not by the people.  Mostly, old Nelson Cheevie was just ignored
by everyone.
     Then one day Cheevie didn't show up in town.  Everyone
noticed that immediately.  Bert, the cop, thought Cheevie's
absence was quite unusual.  Cheevie never missed a day in town. 
Not even a holiday.  Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New
Year's, Easter, the Fourth of July, Cheevie was always in town. 
But on this Fall day, there was no Nelson Cheevie.  Not anywhere.
     The following day there was still no Nelson Cheevie.  The
pigeons were there at the general store waiting for him.  But he
never showed up.
     That afternoon, Mr. Peabody, the minister, remarked to Bert,
the cop, that Nelson hadn't visited his wife's grave in the
little cemetery behind the church.
     The next day the children began to make up stories about
Cheevie's mysterious unappearence.  Nelson Cheevie had been taken
to the nut house.  A few old ladies gossiped that Cheevie had
probably run off with his strays, like some wild animal.  But no
one was quite sure exactly what had happened to old Nelson
Cheevie.  One tourist joked that maybe the old coot had gone into
space like John Glenn or had been abduced by aliens.  His yuppie
friends laughed at that as they drank their bottled water.
     After a week and still no Nelson Cheevie, Bert, the cop, and
the minister, Mr. Peabody, decided to take a ride out to
Cheevie's old house.  When they got there, the place was
surrounded by hungry, meowing cats and barking dogs.  Their
dishes were empty and licked clean. 
     "Look at this place," said Bert, the cop.
     "It sure could use a paint job," said Mr. Peabody, the
minister.
     The old house was falling apart.  Years of neglect had taken
their toll on the modest dwelling.
     "Nelson!  Nelson Cheevie!" shouted the minister, knocking on
the warped front door.
     No one answered.
     "We'd better investigate," said Bert, the cop.
     When Bert turned the tarnished, brass knob, he discovered
the door was unlocked.  Cautiously the two men entered. 
Immediate they could detect the smell of death.  Bert and the
minister looked around.  They were astounded.  The house was
spotless.  The furniture was still gleaming from having been
recently polished.  The drapes were neatly ironed.  There wasn't
a speck of dust anywhere.  Flowers, now drooping for lack of
water, were filled the small rooms -- as did pictures of
Cheevie's long dead wife and friends.
     As the minister entered the small bedroom, he had to hold
his nose.
     "Bert, I found him."
     Bert, the cop, entered the bedroom and sure enough, there
was old Nelson Cheevie.  Dead.  He was laid out on his bed as if
ready to be buried.  Cheevie had a big smile on his face.  He
actually looked happy.  Some thought this was just the result of
rigor mortis on his facial muscles.
     Bert found no note.  Just an envelope with money in it.  On
the envelope were the words: MONEY TO BURY ME BY MY WIFE.
     Bert had found no sign of a struggle.  Nothing had been
stolen from the place.  And there wasn't a mark on old Nelson. 
An autopsy revealed no sign of poison or foul play.  Cheevie had
just died.  At least that's what it looked like.  Yet why had he
been so neatly laid out?  Did he know death was coming?  Was he
ready for it?
     No one ever found out what had actually killed old Nelson
Cheevie.  But there were many stories.  There still are.  There's
the one about him using a secret, undetectable poison to do
himself in when life had just become too painful or too
meaningless to him.  Some still swear that it was loneliness that
had killed old Nelson Cheevie.  Others said drink.  Yet there
wasn't a single bottle of liquor or can of beer ever found in or
near his home.
     Even today there are new stories being concocted about old
Nelson Cheevie and how he died.  No one really knows the truth. 
And as the minister, Mr. Peabody, said at the funeral, when they
buried Cheevie by his long, dead wife and friends, "Only God
knows what really happened to the old fellow."
     Bert had nodded in agreement with the minister.
     The only town folk who had shown up at the funeral that
chilly, gray Fall day were Bert and Mr. Peabody.  No one else had
come to say goodbye to Cheevie.
     As Bert and the minister left the small churchyard cemetery
that day, the dead leaves covered the ground -- and blew across
the graves of Nelson Cheevie and his long, dead wife and friends.
     But shortly after Bert and the minister had left, all the
animals that Cheevie had fed all those years came and sat on
Nelson's grave.  Rumor has it that they never left their old
friend.  And they are still sitting there to this day.