D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“‘Gets a little tricky now,’ said Vaughn. ‘Just do what I tell you. Here.’ He handed me the flashlight. ‘Go. I’ll be right behind you.’”

“‘Okay.’”

“In a few seconds I’d reached a huge weeping willow tree, then as I passed it I raised the flashlight and, as if it were a camera, panned the area in front of me. That’s when I saw it. Christine Framingham’s grave. But it wasn’t so much a gravesite, as a flower garden.

I moved closer, following the flashlight beam and realized it was actually more like a shrine.

I looked at the inscription on the headstone:

But what made the grave stand out were the flowers on it and surrounding it. It was Fall and they weren’t in full bloom, but I could see that there were hundreds of them and they were engulfed by a white picket fence that stood about a foot high. And it didn’t only surround Christine’s grave. It went around what amounted to the area of four graves, but it was obvious that only one person was buried there. Because it was so dark I couldn’t make out what kinds of flowers were there, but I could tell that they were planted with care because there was a pattern.

It was really like a tiny garden that somebody might have in their back yard, only it wasn’t in a back yard, it was in a cemetery. I had a pretty good idea of who was responsible for it.”

“‘Whattya think?’” asked Vaughn.”

“‘I don’t know what to say. You don’t expect to see something like this in a cemetery.’”

“‘Damn right. And you won’t find nothing like it anywhere else in this bone yard either. Probably won’t find one in any other cemetery anywhere.’”

“‘Why is her grave so big? I mean, she’s taking the space of four graves.’”

“‘Family plot,’ said Vaughn.”

“‘I don’t see any markers for the rest of the family.’”

“‘They aren’t buried here. Not even in this cemetery.’”

“With what struck me as great sadness, he looked down at Christine’s headstone. ‘She’s all by herself. And she’s been all by herself since about two years after she died when her family moved away. Only one she’s got is me. She’s been alone in the ground for a long time and if I wouldn’t have been coming here and tending to her grave, she wouldn’t have had a single soul pay respects in all these years.’”

“‘How come you planted all these flowers?’ I asked. ‘I thought people brought flowers to a grave.’”

“‘There was a time when coming to visit a loved one’s grave was a regular family ritual. Two or three times a year. Usually on a Sunday. It’s different now. In Chrissie’s case, she didn’t have anybody to visit her after her family left. Until I was old enough to think for myself and have opinions and feelings on things, she never had so much as a dandelion put on her grave. But then I got into the habit of bringin’ flowers to her, like on the anniversary of her death and Memorial Day and her birthday. I’d ride my bicycle all the way out here when I was a boy, then when I got my first automobile I’d drive out, then when I started working here after I got out of the Navy, I could tend to her on a more regular basis.’ He looked at me. ‘That what you’re gonna do with your father’s ashes? Tend to them? Put ’em on a shelf in your room? Dig a hole in the back yard and put ’em in there? Plant posies around it? Huh?’”

“‘I don’t know.’”

“‘I bet you don’t. Didn’t bother to think about that part of your plan.’ He looked at the grave, lost in his thoughts, then turned back to me. ‘Until they made me retire a year ago, I was Head Groundskeeper here, working days, supervising burials. Now I’m the night watchman. Come the dark it’s just me and all the permanent residents. I like it here. Always did. Even as a young man. You wondering what makes a man willingly take a job at a cemetery?’”

“‘It’s crossed my mind.’”

“‘You probably think I’m crazy or some rummy who can’t find anything else. Not so. I had my reason.’”

“‘Christine?’”

“‘Her family abandoned her. Bastards just left her alone. She was only thirteen. How could they leave her?’”

“‘That’s how I feel about my father being here.’”

“‘Figured as much. For some reason I took it upon myself to look after her grave and make sure she wouldn’t be forgotten like most of these poor souls planted here. And she hasn’t been.’ He looked at the grave. ‘Of course, once I bite the dust, that’s it. Won’t be nobody to visit her. I’m gonna be buried next to her. Right here.’”

“He aimed the flashlight beam to the immediate right of Christine’s plot.”

“‘It’s all taken care of. That’s why I put in this little flower garden. They’re perennials. All they need is a little sunshine and water. Of course, when I’m in the ground there won’t be anyone to tend to my grave or Chrissie’s, so it won’t look as nice as it does now, but… that’s life.’”

“‘How come you’re gonna be buried next to her?’ I asked. “’What about your wife?’”

“‘She’s long gone and long dead. We got divorced in a time when couples stuck it out no matter how miserable they were. Not that we were miserable. She couldn’t take my working here. She couldn’t stand the fact that I was handling coffins day in and day out, setting up gravestones, being around sad, grieving people. About a year after our boy was born she gave me an ultimatum: find a new job or she was taking our son and leaving. And that’s what she did. Emily.’”

“‘Emily?’”

“‘That was her name. And little Vaughn. Died in the jungle in Nam. Never found his body. Can’t say I blamed her for leaving. Takes a certain kind of person to be in a profession like this. Sometimes you look at people and they seem to be leading such pathetic lives. You wonder how it happened. How did the girl who was pretty and innocent when she was a teenager grow into the middle-aged drunk? How did the football hero become the slimy used car salesman who picks his teeth in public with a matchbook? Or me ? How did little Vaughn Larkin who wanted to be an engineer on a train wind up doing night security in a cemetery when other men my age are home drinkin’ hot milk thinking about their grandchildren’s visit on Sunday? There are people who wonder about me. And I’ve been stared at down through the years.” He suddenly pointed the flashlight beam in my face.

“‘You ever been stared at, son?’”

“‘Since I moved to Dankworth. At school. Word got around that my father died in a plane crash and… people look.’”

“‘You like it?’”

“‘I hate it.’”

“‘Too bad. If you think people are staring at you now , think how bad it would be if word got out that you dug up your father’s grave and stole his ashes.’”

“‘Word wouldn’t get out.’”

“’Some secrets are hard to keep. Sometimes the truth has a way of leaking out. You believe in destiny, son?’”

“‘I don’t think about it that much.’”

“‘I believe there’s a reason for all the stuff that happens to us — good or bad — whether it’s little Chrissie dyin’ so young and me spending my life taking care of her grave or my own boy not ever being found during the War or even me coming upon you in this old cemetery tonight. Maybe my true destiny was to stop you. Maybe my stopping you tonight will change your life… push you in a direction you never thought about. Either way, tonight’s one of the most important nights of your life. And maybe our meeting each other in this sad way will mean something to me too.’”