David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

The bird returned, flying close enough to Becker to make him flinch, then flapping off, disoriented.

They weren’t that bad, Becker thought now, granting his parents a half-hearted absolution. They weren’t bad enough to make me the way I am. The rest of it has to come from me, some element uniquely my own.

Then, without thinking or knowing why he did it, Becker stepped forward and stood directly atop his father’s grave. He stomped one foot on the soil, hard enough to leave a mark, then, in a confusion of feelings, he looked around to see if he had been observed before returning to the gravel pathway.

Gold will love it, he thought. His neck and ears were warm with the flush of embarrassment. Gold will have a field day… If I tell him. There is so much I haven’t told him, why start now?

It was not until he had walked for several minutes through the cemetery that Becker realized he had been practically running, trying to escape the shame of his action.

The bird seemed to be following Becker, swooping in erratic, confused figures around him wherever he went. Drunk, thought Becker. It must have eaten some rotting fruit. Drunk-or dying. The symbolism of that was a little too pat and he laughed at himself I am regressing, he thought. I came here to find Dyce, some piece of Dyce, some part of the fiend that I can identify as part of me, and instead I am turning into a sentimental, angry child stomping on my father’s grave, seeking portents like a superstitious mystic.

The bird landed on another headstone, then flew off again, but Becker’s attention was suddenly alerted. Atop the grave marker was a single stone, identical to those on the pathway. The name on the stone was Rosen, a woman who had died five years earlier. Looking about, Becker saw three more stones resting atop monuments, two of them also in the Rosen family, another several yards away in a plot belonging to a Martin Aaron who had died four months ago. Within five minutes Becker had located another ten headstones adorned with rocks from the path.

The caretaker looked at him in puzzlement, trying to figure out what Becker was so excited about. He was an old man, past retirement age, who still spoke with the accent of his native Italy.

“Jews,” he said with a shrug.

“What do you mean?” Becker asked.

“You ask who puts the stones on the graves? I tell you. The Jews.”

“I know the graves are Jewish, but how do you know the people who put the stones on the monuments are Jews?”

“Who else?”

“Have you seen them? Do you know if it’s a man? A woman? More than one?”

“Seen them? What do you mean, have I seen them? Sometimes I see them if I happen to be there. Most times, I don’t see them, but it’s Jews. That’s what they do.”

“What they do?”

The caretaker wondered if it was his English that was the problem. What he was describing was an everyday occurrence for him.

“They visit the grave, they put a stone, a pebble, a little rock on the headstone as a sign that they visit. It’s like a mark, hello, I been here. Somebody else comes by, he sees the stone, he knows Uncle Seymour’s been looked after.”

“Only Jews do this? Leave these stones for markers?”

“Only ones I know about, but hey, there’s no law. Anybody wants to can do it.”

“But it’s a Jewish tradition?”

“Tradition? I don’t know. I’m a good Catholic. They do it, that’s all I know. Every month or so, I go by, I take the stones off. You let them pile up, it looks sloppy, people think nobody’s taking care.”

The car skittered along the shoulder, the wheels spinning over stones and sand, until it veered back onto the road. Dyce’s father put the pint of rye whiskey between his legs and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve.

“Burns like a bugger going down,” he said, turning his half-crazed eyes toward Dyce and grinning. A blast of horn from a startled motorist in the oncoming lane made Dyce’s father swerve back from the center line.

“Assholes on the road,” said Dysen. “But you got to expect that. We’re in asshole territory now. That’s why your grandpa lives here. They named the place for him.” Dysen paused, waiting to be asked. As usual his son disappointed him. “Assholeville. Named after your grandpa.” Dysen laughed.

The boy continued to watch the road with riveted attention, his hands gripping the dashboard, his feet pressed to the floor as if he could control the car from the passenger’s seat.

“Relax. Will you relax? Sit back in your seat. I’m watching the goddamned road. That’s my job, not yours.”

Dyce acted as if he didn’t hear his father. He stared straight ahead, trying to keep the car on the road by strength of will. Mr. Dysen looked over at the boy, ignoring him as usual, trying to thwart him, and felt his anger rising sharply.

“I said relax,” he said, and struck the boy with a straight, sharp punch on the shoulder.

Dyce looked at his father, startled but not surprised.

“That was just to get your attention. Now relax.”

The boy sat back, rubbing his shoulder.

“I am relaxed,” Dyce said.

“You’re about as relaxed as your grandpa’s ass muscle. Boy, that came down in a straight line, didn’t it? From old Nate through your mother straight to you. Ass muscles tight as a fist. A fart couldn’t get out of any one of you. Especially your mother.”

Dyce turned away and looked out the side window. Christ, now he’ll sulk, thought Dysen. Can’t say a damned thing about his mother without him acting like that, all teared up and defiant. What the hell does he know about her? I was the poor bastard who married her. He only had to deal with her for four years before she died. What the hell does he know?

Dysen lifted the bottle to his lips again, just a sip this time. He didn’t want to be drunk when he dealt with asshole Nate-but he sure as hell didn’t want to be cold sober, either… God, it felt good. Not going down; it never stopped burning going down, but when it hit bottom and spread out like warm fingers, it was as good as coming. Get to come in your pants a dozen times or more for the price of a pint. Can’t beat that.

When he looked, Dyce was trying to steer the car from the dashboard again. Dysen relented. It couldn’t be easy, having no mother, and he had to admit that sometimes he was a little tough on the kid himself. It was good he’d only tapped him on the shoulder, Nate got on his high horse if he found bruises on the boy. Especially on the face-that drove him crazy. As if any normal eight-year-old boy wouldn’t have bruises. He had gotten banged up worse than his son ever had, just running around, getting into fights on the playground, whatever. Still, he couldn’t afford to alienate old Nate any more than normal, not as long as the old bastard still had control of his checkbook.

Dysen rumpled Dyce’s hair. “Old Rodger, old Rodger-Dodger, old Rodger-Codger-Lodger-Dodger.”

The boy tipped his head away from his father’s hand, waited a tactful moment, then smoothed his hair.

The little son of a bitch hates me, Dysen thought, furiously. He wanted to smack him across the face, he wanted to pull the car to the side, get out, and kick his ass properly. He clung to the steering wheel until his fingers hurt, steadying himself before he took another drink, which he deserved as a reward for self-control. The warmth of the whiskey brought with it a wave of sentiment and suddenly Dysen was close to tears. My son hates me, he thought. I love the little shit and he hates me. I took care of him all his life, and he can’t stand to have me touch him. But he loves his goddamned grandfather. That old fart could paw the boy all he wanted, pet him like he was a fucking dog, stroke him until it looked unhealthy to Dysen. The little shit never pulled away from that. Stroking and cuddling and kissing like two women. It didn’t look right for men to carry on like that. And whispering to him about Jesus. Christ, that old fart and his Jesus.