M. Hanover - Graveyard Child

I saw her looking at me, I saw her reacting to what she found there, but she did not say what it was.

“The time’s come,” we said, the Black Sun’s daughter and I.

The desert faded but it did not vanish. I was aware of a vast fire all around me. The heat like a furnace, held away only by the will of our mothers. I stooped down and gathered the still form of my brother, cradling him in my arms. He felt as light as a child. Or a memory. Together, we walked, and the fire grew less. I felt other things. Wind. A biting coldness. A vast and angry weight of clouds and an invisible sun beyond them that radiated heat and light instead of purification. I heard sirens and a dog barking furiously, frantically, and filled with delight.

And then we were there, standing on the icy front lawn in a snowstorm while my childhood home went up like a torch. I staggered under Jay’s sudden weight, and Ex appeared at my side, helping me lower the weeping, scorched man to the ground. Ozzie forced her way up to me, licking my face and barking like a puppy. I put my arm around her. She stank of smoke and wet dog. Chogyi Jake came to me too.

“We thought you were dead,” he said.

“It was the safe bet,” I said. “Did we all get out?”

“For some definitions of out, ” Ex said. “The Smith woman got a decent burn along one arm, and she’s not focusing very well. Martinez is alive and breathing, but I’d bet you a week’s paycheck he’s concussed. Rhodes is getting them out before the officers of the law show up.”

“Dad and Curt?” I asked.

“Well, their central nervous systems are fine,” Ex said. “Some nasty scrapes and bruises. Nothing compared to the no doubt intense psychological trauma.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well. That’s not just this. That’s the world.”

“Your coat looks like it got broiled. What was it like in there?”

“Weird,” I said. “Effective, though.”

“Graveyard Child’s banished?”

“More than that,” I said. “I’m pretty sure we killed it.”

“Good,” Ex said.

To my left, my mother stood looking at the burning house. Her spine was straight and her expression beatific. She’d had her angel again. I knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing we’d done would change who she was. Or what any of us were. I didn’t know whether that was wonderful or depressing. Dad came up to her and put his arm around her, offering protection and comfort just in the way he stood. A few seconds later she noticed him. The sirens were getting closer.

Jay coughed and his eyes swam, trying to focus. His face had the too-pink look of a burn. I took his hand.

“Jayné?” he said, and tears filled his eyes.

“Hey, big brother.”

“I think . . .” he began, then stopped. “I think I may have done something very bad.”

“You did,” I said. “But there were some extenuating circumstances. And I still love you regardless.”

“I think I did something bad to Carla?”

My mother put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me gently away, taking my place at Jay’s side.

“You had an angel in you, didn’t you? The glory of it can overwhelm. You can do things that you never imagined that you would. I understand. I know.”

“Mom,” Jay said, taking her hand. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . . . An angel? Was it an angel?”

I felt a flush of rage. The Graveyard Child was no more an angel than a wild dog was a good babysitter. But there was no point making the argument. They were going to have to make whatever sense of all this they could. What I had to offer wasn’t going to be particularly more comforting or useful just because it was true.

I turned away and walked to the SUV. I needed to get someplace warm. And then I needed some new clothes. And then I didn’t know what I needed. Ozzie trotted along beside me. A fire truck pulled up to the curb, and men in fire suits started making everyone get back to a safe distance. Chogyi Jake and Ex guided my mother back from Jay and the fire while paramedics descended on my big brother. While my father talked to the firemen, pointing angrily to the flames, Curt walked over to me, shivering. I opened the front passenger’s door and let him in.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” He swallowed, sighed. Something collapsed on the second floor of the house and a roll of flames poured out of the windows where my room used to be. Curt was crying. I took his hand.

“You gonna be okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. And then a few seconds later: “This family is seriously messed up.”

“You know,” I said, “it really is.”

Whatever I thought about the rest of the church, I had to agree that they were great in a crisis. My family’s house burned to the foundation, the flames shrugging off water and snow and burning with a heat that surprised and confused the fire department. The family albums were destroyed. The Bible with the names of my ancestors turned to ash. All Mom’s dresses, all Dad’s suits. The site of almost all my memories of childhood was just gone. And then Pastor Michael put out the word, and from all around the city, help just came . Curtis went to stay with his best friend, Billy Taft, since they went to the same school and played the same console games. Mom and Dad went to Jay’s new house, and the director at the church day care center dropped off a foldout couch that Jay could keep. Food came in, and sympathy. One of the parishioners was a lawyer and stepped in to help Dad hash things out with the insurance company.

It was like watching a massive family rise up out of nowhere, and I would have been amazed if I hadn’t already known it worked that way. We were an imperfect, broken family made from imperfect, broken people, and our place in the community was the same as everyone else’s. They took care of their own without complaint or debating whether they should have to. It was a good thing to see, and I would have liked to be part of it.

“Your father was very clear about it,” Pastor Michael said. “I can’t take your money.”

“I have a lot of it. I won’t miss it.”

“That isn’t the issue,” he said. In his full-on wedding suit, he looked like a kindly lawyer. “Your father made a decision, and I’ve agreed to it. I know you want to help him, but maybe you can find another way to do that.”

Down the hallway, Carla leaned out of the dressing room and gestured frantically to me. I held up my hand in a just-a-minute gesture.

“Do you have a suggestion?” I asked.

“You can pray for him,” Pastor Michael said.

“I’m a lot better at cutting checks.”

“Then praying for him is probably what you should do for yourself too. Don’t you think?”

He put a hand on my shoulder, then headed off to the chapel. I rolled my eyes and trotted back to the dressing room.

New Year’s had come and gone, and now even the most tenacious of the holiday decor had been put back in its boxes for next year. The wedding had come upon us. I still could barely bring myself to believe they were going through with it, but as Jay pointed out, it wasn’t just a question of the two of them. It was like my father had taken up residence in Jay’s brain, which, in context, was even creepier. And to make it all just that much more awkward, Carla had insisted that I be maid of honor, and I hadn’t had the presence of mind to say no.

“How do I look?” she asked when I came in the room.

Pregnant, I thought.

“You look great, Carla. That’s an amazing dress.”

“I can’t find the shoes. Have you seen them? The ones with the pearls?”

I glanced at the floor and then up, catching myself in the mirror. My black eyes were almost healed up, and the makeup covered the majority of what was left. I told myself that someone who didn’t know wouldn’t see it at all. And then, less charitably, that they wouldn’t be looking at me anyway. Carla was starting to get a panicky look around her eyes.