P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

“Phil, you sure about this?” Louis said quietly as they walked.

“When I was in Korea we got caught in a bad night battle once, the kind of thing where nobody knows what’s going on,” Phillip said. “In the morning, I looked out and there were bodies hanging on the barbed wire and the sarge just said, ‘You, you, and you, go clear the field.’ So we did. I’ve seen dead bodies before, Louis.”

They stopped and Spera threw back the flap of the tent. The smell engulfed them and Louis’s hand flew to his nose. He glanced quickly at Phillip.

“Let’s go,” Phillip said quietly.

There were sixty or seventy tables set up in the tent. Each table held a pile of dirt and wood and one large clear plastic bag. The wood was what was left of the caskets, Louis guessed, the cheap boards now warped or waterlogged, some just in pieces. The bags held the bones and tatters of cloth. The few caskets that were still in one piece were stacked on plywood shelves at the back of the tent.

“How many graves are in the cemetery?” Louis asked.

“Over six thousand,” Spera said.

They followed Spera as he wove his way through the tables. Louis couldn’t help but look down as they passed. Each heap of bones had a tag attached, printed with two sets of numbers, Spera told them: the graveyard identifying number and a new number assigned by Spera. No names on any of them.

Spera finally stopped near the back of the tent next to a screened window. The outside flap was whipping against the canvas, and Louis was grateful for the fresh air.

On the table lay a pile of medium-size rocks, a scattering of dirt, and a few shards of boards dark with age and rot. The tag had the same number as Claudia’s grave marker-1304. Spera had given her the number 51.

Louis looked at Phillip. His skin was ashen as his eyes flicked over the pile of the rocks.

Louis cleared his throat to get Spera’s attention. “The graves next to this one were untouched,” he said. “Can you let us know when you get to them?”

Spera had to pull his eyes from Phillip. “I could do that.”

Louis had asked mainly for Phillip’s sake. He knew that the chances of Claudia’s remains being in a neighboring grave by mistake were almost nil. Even if Claudia’s remains were still in that cemetery somewhere, they could be in any one of those thousands of unnamed graves.

He touched Phillip’s arm. Phillip turned away and started wandering the rows of tables, peering down into each heap.

“Mr. Spera,” Louis said, “what can you tell me about the hospital?”

“Well, it’s been here forever,” Spera said. “It’s just something we’ve all gotten used to over the years. When we were kids we used to hear these stories about-”

Louis shook his head and Spera stopped himself, watching Phillip.

“I do know,” Spera said, “that out of all these graves, only twelve have been claimed by relatives. Seems most have been forgotten or folks just don’t want to acknowledge them.”

“What’s going to happen to those that aren’t claimed?” Louis asked.

“We send ’em over to county and they’ll rebury them somewhere else,” Spera said.

Louis turned back to Phillip. He had stopped at a plastic bag and was fingering the edge. Louis wondered if he had heard what Spera had said. But Phillip just walked away without looking up.

“Look, if you don’t need me anymore,” Spera said.

“Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” Louis said.

Spera left. Louis stayed for a few moments, his eyes on the pile of rocks. Thousands of people buried in that cemetery but only twelve had been claimed. It was beyond sad, almost grotesque.

He looked up and didn’t see Phillip. Then he spotted him over in a far corner of the tent. Louis started toward him and as he neared, he saw the white casket. It was sitting on a table by itself, apart from all the other decrepit wooden boxes. It was pearly white with gleaming silver handles. There was a tag attached to one of the handles on which someone had scribbled HOLD FOR P. LAWRENCE. Phillip was just standing there, staring at it.

“This was for her,” Phillip said. “This is the one I picked out.”

The cold air swirled in from the open tent entrance, the smell of decay eddying around them. Phillip reached out and put a hand on the coffin. He pulled in a deep breath that caught in his throat.

“Come on,” Louis said, taking his arm. “Let’s go home.”

Louis stripped off his jacket, taking a second to stand under the ceiling vent to warm up. When he reached back to take Phillip’s coat to hang it on the peg next to his, Phillip was already heading to the kitchen.

Louis followed him. Still wearing his coat, Phillip veered off into the dark dining room. He opened a breakfront, pulling down a glass. He popped open a lower cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Frances came in from the kitchen just as he was pouring the drink.

Her eyes went to the glass and then to Louis. “I was getting worried about you. How was the trip?” she asked.

Louis waited for Phillip to answer. When he didn’t, Louis gave it a shot. “Fine. It was very cold.” Louis nodded at the bottle still in Phillip’s hand. “Phillip, pour me one. I could use some warming up, too.”

Phillip took out another glass, poured a shot, and handed it to Louis. Louis didn’t like bourbon, but he hid his grimace as he took a drink.

“So where did you go?” Frances asked, her eyes still on her husband.

Phillip took a slow drink.

“Did you go visit your friend?” Frances asked.

“Yes,” Phillip said. “Louis and I were talking about him last night and I thought I’d take him out there.”

Louis looked down into his glass.

“Maybe I should come with you sometime,” Frances said.

“It’s an old army buddy, Frances. You know I don’t talk much about that.”

“You’ve never even told me his name, Phillip.”

Louis took a drink, wishing he was somewhere else. Jesus, this was awkward. Here they were, standing in a dark dining room, not able to look into each other’s eyes, pretending everything was normal.

“Where is this cemetery?” Frances asked.

Phillip turned the glass slowly with his fingers. He wasn’t going to answer.

“Irish Hills,” Louis said.

“Really? I’ve been there,” Frances said. “My parents took me out there once or twice. Is it still nice?”

No answer from Phillip again.

“We didn’t see much of it,” Louis said finally. “What we did see looked, you know, kind of run-down. An old amusement park, some old motels. All closed right now. Not much to see really.”

Frances was watching Phillip. “I would have liked to go anyway,” she said. “It’s been so cold and I’ve been stuck in this house all week. I’d like a nice drive.”

Phillip set the glass down carefully on the polished dining room table. “I better go get cleaned up,” he said quietly.

Frances’s eyes followed him out of the dining room. They heard the close of the bathroom door. Frances looked at Louis, and he saw something register in the bland prettiness of her round face, a slight tightness around her mouth. She picked up the empty glass, wiping the water ring with her sweater sleeve. She went back into the kitchen.

Louis stayed in the dark dining room. She knew. Wives always knew. Maybe Frances didn’t know what was wrong, but she knew something was. And it occurred to him that Phillip was probably oblivious of all the vibrations his wife was putting out.

Thirty-one years. . that was how long they had been married now. Moods and quirks had become second nature, as easy to read as a children’s book. If Phillip had been behaving like this for several weeks, Frances would have to be blind not to know something was wrong.