Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

“Let’s give them a few minutes,” Mark said. “That antique pistol looked like it could go off any second.”

“Too bad you had to give up that tape,” Scott said to Ellen. “That would have made some great footage for your story.”

Ellen held up her cell phone. “What do you mean ‘would have’?”

Mark smiled at her for the first time.

“You might make a good reporter, after all,” Mark said.

Mark decided to stay a few extra days after Ellen went back to Chicago. He had a couple of things he wanted to do. First thing, he went back out to the cemetery.

He drove straight back to the little house that served as the caretaker’s quarters. Outside, he passed several men cleaning the grass from around the grave stones. The sound of weed whackers was everywhere. He parked near the house, and knocked on the door.

A diminutive little woman, easily in her seventies, Mark guessed, opened the door. “Can I help you, young man?” she asked.

Mark hadn’t been called ‘young man’ in years. He smiled. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I wondered if someone here could help me find a grave?”

“Of course,” she said, opening the screen door. “Why don’t you come on in and tell me who you’re looking for.”

Mark stepped inside. The furnishings inside were old, on the verge of antiques. But everything looked very comfortable. One room off to the left was a study, and Victorian style sofas and loveseats lined the walls. Plenty of room for a small family gathering. To the right was a large dinner table, at least six chairs on each side and others along the wall.

The woman caught Mark looking at the rooms. She paused for him to follow. “We welcome families to visit during their time of loss,” she said. “Especially if the weather turns bad. I’m Margaret, by the way.” She extended her hand. “My friends call me Maggie.”

Mark shook her hand. “Mark. Mark Wilcox.”

“This way, please.” Maggie led him to an inner room, more of an office. A large map of the cemetery covered most of one wall. An old library style index card cabinet covered most of another wall.

“What is the name of the person you are looking for?” Maggie asked.

“Jackie Wilcox. Jacqueline.”

Maggie wrote the name down on a green bound register.

“Do you know when she passed?”

“It was just last year,” Mark said. “August.”

Maggie wrote that down as well. She closed the register and went over to the card cabinet. She pulled a drawer part of the way out and began thumbing through the cards. “Your sister?” Maggie asked.

“Yes,” Mark said. “I couldn’t make it to her funeral.” Mark wasn’t sure why he said that. He felt he needed to explain why he didn’t even know where his own sister was buried.

Maggie pulled a card part of the way up out of the drawer. “Section 316 East, Plot 18.” She left the card in the drawer, still sticking up, and the drawer open. She went to the map on the wall and stared at the left side. She took a three-foot-long stick that had a rubber tip and pointed at the map. “316 East.” She pointed at a spot near the center of the map. “You’re right here, Mr. Wilcox.” Maggie moved the stick to closer to the center of the map, then moved it along a thick black line to show him the way. “Just go east along the main road, and take the third left. That’s 316 East.”

Mark pulled his notebook out of his jacket pocket and started to take some notes.

“No need for that, Mr. Wilcox.” Maggie opened a drawer in a small filing cabinet. She took out a sheet of paper from one of the folders. She also took a small map from a stack under the register. She pointed at the map, first. “Here,” she said as she drew a line from the center of the map, along the road to section 316 East. She then took the sheet she pulled from the filing cabinet and made a circle around the number ‘18’. “Plot eighteen. You should have no trouble finding it.” She handed both papers to Mark.

“Thank you very much,” Mark said. He turned and headed back toward the front of the house.

Maggie followed. “It was raining that day,” she said.

“What day?” Mark asked.

“The day of her funeral. I remember it. I remember all the funerals.”

“Like I said, I couldn’t make it,” Mark said. Again. Why did he say it again?

“It was a small gathering,” Maggie said. They had the service in the chapel. I didn’t go in, not my business. But they did stop in the salon here for a bit, until the rain eased up. I remember two men and a woman. And that fellow in the wheelchair.”

Mark looked at Maggie. “Wheelchair?”

“Yes. Not to talk about anyone, but there was something wrong with him. Some sort of disability. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t really even move. The others were nice enough. They didn’t say much, either. I had a feeling they were his caregivers.”

“They had a service in the chapel?” Mark asked.

“Yes. It was too wet to go to the gravesite, would have been too difficult with the wheelchair. They sat in the salon for a bit, but when it kept raining they went out to the chapel. Said their goodbyes there, I suppose. Then they left. I expected to see them later, after the weather cleared up, but I don’t think they’ve been out here since. Leastways, I haven’t seen them.”

Mark looked over at the chapel. “Is the chapel open?”

“All day, every day. You’re welcome to go inside.”

Mark looked over, remembering the last time he tried to go in. “Maybe,” he said.

“Go visit your sister,” Maggie said. “Then come on back and sit for a few minutes in the chapel. Do you good.”

Mark smiled. He needed some good for a change. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I will.”

“I’ve seen more than a couple of miracles happen in that little church,” Maggie said. She waved Mark to come in close and gave him a hug.

Mark was humbled. This little woman, who didn’t know him from Adam, seemed to sense his trouble, and had suggested a cure no doctor could ever prescribe.

He did as Maggie suggested. He left his car at the house, and walked. It was cool, but sunny. He passed marker after marker as he made his way to Section 316 East. He was there before he knew it. Section 316 East was one of the newer sections, where all the markers were flush with the ground. Even so, some of the markers were more ornate than the others.

When he got to plot eighteen, he found that the marker for Jackie was of the simplest design. Name and dates. No other inscription. Mark had only intended to check out the grave, then head out. But he stayed. He remembered. Good times. And bad. The memories started to flood back. He cried again, then. Not a sobbing cry, but a steady stream of tears flowing down his face. He thought about speaking out loud, telling Jackie he was sorry he didn’t come to her funeral… that he was sorry he hadn’t been there when she needed him. He couldn’t, though. He just couldn’t. He hoped she would forgive him.

Mark looked around at the other graves, many decorated with artificial flowers. He regretted having not brought some, and vowed to bring some next time. Yes. There would definitely be a next time.

After a while Mark did say something. “Goodbye, Jackie.” He said. After a pause. “I’ll be back soon.”

He turned and walked back to the little house and the chapel. The closer he got to the chapel, the better he began to feel about things. By the time he got there, he had made up his mind. He stepped up to the chapel doors and went inside.

Mark went through the automatic door and up to the receptionist. He thought about just asking to see Bradley, but the receptionist was the same person who was there when Pamela had kicked he and Ellen out just a couple of days before. Mark needed to clear the air with Pamela, first.