Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  A dense fog coiled and billowed across the road. It appeared to originate from the swollen creek and vast wetlands which lined the edge of her aunt’s property. Fingers of tree branches curled through the thick mist.

  She blinked, her heart beginning to race, as the dim outline of a figure pushed through the low haze.

  The wind gave a gusty blow, whistling around the side of the house. It knocked the mug from her hands. Hot tea splashed on her legs.

  “Ouch. Shite.” She bolted to her feet, wiping the liquid from her pants. As the black clad figure grew near, sharp prickles of fear frosted her skin. “Feckity feck.” She glared at the person as if he were the cause of the spill. “I can shoot a gun,” she called, not that she had one in her hands.

  “As can I,” a familiar male voice called. His footsteps crunched through the gravel. “But I prefer to perform last rites, tend to the sick and needy, and help young women sell houses.”

  She squinted, putting her hand above her eyes. “Father Ward?”

  “Who did you think it would be?”

  As he came into view, an amused smirk on his face, she relaxed.

  He’d come dressed the same as yesterday, in a clerical black suit and vest, with a white Roman collar. His arms strained the jacket sleeves with hard muscle—something she hadn’t noticed yesterday since she’d been overwhelmed by all the people. His dark hair had been pushed back from his chiseled face. He regarded her with clear, unflinching green eyes, and his full lips curved into a smile. His broad chest led to narrow hips. Even his thighs filled the pants legs of his suit.

  And when he turned to the side, she caught an eyeful of a linebacker-worthy butt. Do priests lift weights?

  She pictured him in handcuffs, naked, writhing on her bed, begging for her to blow him, until her gaze drifted to the huge gold cross dangling from his neck. She shoved away her lusty thoughts with a silent, forgive me father, for I have sinned, adding an extra and I’ll probably do it again so don’t hold your breath. Her adherence to any kind of faith or rules was sadly lacking.

  Her gaze skittered back toward his face.

  His attention seemed glued to her bare legs, perhaps in some Christian priestly concern for her attire.

  She wanted to pull on some sweatpants.

  Casting her gaze at the sparse grass and pebbles lining the walkway, she lowered herself to the front step. “How are you this morning, Father?”

  She hunched around herself, feeling naked.

  “Very well. And you?” He settled his bulk next to her, leaning his elbows on his knees, exuding the kind of warmth she wanted to snuggle into.

  “How’s the cleaning coming?” He stared straight ahead.

  “Ugh. It’s a disaster in there. I need a fumigator and a Haz-Mat suit to get the job done right.” She flipped her head behind her, indicating the house. “You know all those boxes and bags I stacked to make a clear path from one room to the next?”

  “Yes. What about them?”

  “They’re yielding to entropy. When I got up this morning, they’d all fallen.” She nudged her mug with her toe. “Maybe the dead cats were playing in the night.”

  “Dead cats?”

  She afforded him a glance.

  Lines of puzzlement creased his face.

  “Yep. Apparently, besides being a hoarder, Great-Aunt Roberta had a lot of cats at one time. And, she kept them when they died. Maybe they brought her a reminder of happier times.” She shrugged. “If there were any.”

  “I’m sure your aunt had a few happy memories,” he said, without much conviction.

  “I doubt it. You did know her, right? She was a miserable woman.”

  “I knew her, yes. Very well, in fact. People tend to have a good reason for their misery.”

  She turned to give him her full attention.

  He stared into the distance, melancholy shadowing his face. His hands clasped together as if in desperate prayer.

  Her eyebrows drew into a furrow. I wonder what’s bothering him? Can he read minds? Look, Father, I was only kidding about the handcuffs. Sort of...

  Lifting her empty mug, she asked, “Would you like some tea? Or maybe some Irish whiskey? I’m thinking this day could use something strong.”

  He stared at her empty mug. “It’s a sin in certain circles for a priest to drink whiskey.”

  “Which circle do you stand in?” She rose to her feet.

  His eyes lingered at her chest, once more making her feel shivery, but not in an unwelcome way.

  “The one that says I’d love a touch, thank you.” He seemed to jerk upright, as if he were yanked to standing. “Then, again, water will be fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged, grinning at him. “More for me. I’m afraid I indulged in my own separate wake last night.”

  His eyebrows pinched together.

  A lion’s roar of a yawn escaped her throat. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “This whole thing. I can’t wait to be done with it.”

  She stepped inside, heading for the kitchen with Father Ward at her heels.

  “You opened the coffin?” he said.

  “Is that some sort of mistake?” She whirled around to face him.

  He stood stock still in the front room. “Well, it’s not a mistake if you merely wanted to say your goodbyes.” He took a few tentative steps toward the coffin. “But it looks as if you’ve added a few of her deceased pets as companions.” His chin lowered as he clutched the edge of the coffin. He stared hard at the bouquet of cat tail and leg resting in her hands. “She’s holding parts of her dead cat?” He appeared to be torn between repulsion and wanting to laugh aloud. “Miss Finn, I’m afraid you’ve rendered me speechless.”

  He let out a small, nervous chuckle, turning to study her face.

  As their eyes met, the same flush of heat as yesterday spread through her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her stocking-clad feet. “I, uh...Let’s see to that water you requested, shall we?”

  By the time she’d handed him his water, tossed back a shot of breakfast whiskey, and sat at the kitchen table across from him, he seemed to have recovered his calm tranquility.

  “The fellows from the local boneyard will be by shortly to fetch the coffin.” His lips curved in the barest of smiles. “Let’s make sure to close the lid before they arrive. Others might not share your sense of humor.”

  She nodded. “We might wait to see if I find more dead kitties before they get here. I’ll make a quick scan of the closets and such.”

  His face furrowed. “I’ll arrange for a truck to cart off any furniture you don’t want.”

  “Oh, god, I want none of it,” she blurted. “Sorry, I used the Lord’s name in vain,” she added, in case she’d offended him.

  He took a sip of his water. “Just...” He waved his hand in a circle. “Just act yourself around me, please.”

  “Will do.” She nodded vigorously. “Be myself.”

  They sat in silence for a few tortured seconds.

  “You might want to dig through her paperwork to see if there’s anything useful to be found. Sometimes the relatives of the departed are surprised at what they find. Those who have crossed over have been known to look after their living relations in unexpected ways.” He tipped his head back to finish his water.

  She focused on his strong neck and jaw.

  When his head lowered, he caught her stare. He cleared his throat.

  She looked away. “I’m, um...I guess I’m the last of the family name, aren’t I?”

  Her head swiveled back to meet Father Ward’s gaze.

  “You’re right. You’re the last of your line.” All sorts of emotion played in his eyes, and none of it seemed particularly happy.

  She wrapped her hands around her arms and rubbed up and down.

  “Are you cold?” He leaned forward in her direction, looking concerned.

  “No, I... It’s just weird, you know? I never put much thought into it but it makes me kind of sad I’m the last of the Finn wom
en. It seems significant somehow.” She shook her head.

  Deep lines of sorrowful anguish etched his face, as if he carried the weighty sins of the villagers—or, the even weightier sin of what she’d like to explore with him. He worked his mouth around, and then let out a bottomless sigh.

  The nurse in her wanted to comfort—more like swaddle him and rock him, since she worked in OBGYN. That hardly seemed appropriate since he was a grown man and her interest in him was hardly maternal.

  “I’m being stupid. Don’t listen to me. I think this place is getting to me, what with the surprise dead cats and all.” She bolted to her feet. “I’m an idiot.”

  She reached for his glass.

  “Don’t.” His searing fingers wrapped around her wrist.

  Her breath caught, and she stared at his fingers.

  “I can manage my own glass.” He withdrew his hand.

  She huffed out a breath and hurried to the stained sink.

  “I’ll be heading to Dungarvan this afternoon to pick up a few things,” she said, starting to speed-talk. “I’ve got to get some more cleaning supplies. I can’t linger here any longer than necessary. I’ll be needing to get back to the hospital. Babies can’t deliver themselves, you know? I tried to tell the moms to stall until I return but some of them look like bloated cows. I’m sure they want to shove their babies from their loins so they can breathe again. Breathe again. Listen to me. They’re breathing just fine, now.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. Shut up, shut up, shut up. After letting out a long exhale, she said, “Can I give you a lift?”

  He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. In two short steps, he brought his glass to the sink. Standing far too close for comfort, he turned on the tap and rinsed it out. “No, thank you. I love to walk.”

  She winked. “You’re not used to being driven hard by a Dubliner, are you? We like it fast. You probably prefer a slower pace.”

  The double entendre spewing from her lips made her cringe. Her cheeks flushed with fiery heat.

  He seemed amused by her flustered babbling. “Actually, I don’t drive. Hard or otherwise.”

  She blinked and pivoted, tipping her face toward his. “You don’t?”

  “No, Miss Finn. Never have.” His eyes twinkled.

  “How can a red-blooded Irishman not drive?”

  He shrugged. The heat rolling between them warmed her to her bones. “I prefer it that way. I like to savor what’s around me, not blaze through it like a lightning bolt.”

  Oh, good Lord, my path to hell is being paved. She wanted to rip off his clerical garb, wrap her arms and legs around him, and get good and sweaty. Stop it. He’s a priest!

  A mirthful smile danced at the edges of his lips. “Although we each have our preferred speeds. Yours is no better or worse than mine.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d best get on my moseying way. I’ve got a baptism to perform this afternoon.”

  “Right.” Annoyance rumbled through her belly at her reckless desire for him. He was far too attractive, appealing to her refusal to follow rules of any kind. Fecking forbidden fruit. She stormed from the room. As she exited the kitchen, her foot caught on a pile of boxes. One of them fell open, its contents exploding along the linoleum floor. “Gah!” she exclaimed, as three dead parakeets tumbled in her path.

  “Allow me,” Father Ward said. He retrieved a paper towel, crouched, and picked up the dead birds. “Where shall we put them?” He rose to standing, extending them in her direction.

  She glanced at the birds, then at Father Ward. “Follow me.”

  She stepped to the counter and pulled another paper towel from the dispenser. Then, she made haste toward the front room, with Father Ward behind her.

  When she stood before the coffin, she plucked the birds one at a time, arranging them in a fan along her aunt’s breastbone. “There. Pretty, huh?”

  “It’s something,” Father Ward said, bewilderment obvious in his wide-eyed gaze.

  She shrugged. “Look, she was lonely. Maybe they’ll keep her company in the afterlife. Lord knows she could use a few friends. And, I had to do something to dispose of them.”

  He gently closed the coffin lid over Great-Aunt Roberta, her five dead cats, and her three dead parakeets. He made the sign of the cross and mumbled something about resting in peace, dear soul. Then he turned back to her. “You’re a strange one, Lassi Finn.”

  “I could say the same of you, Father.” She side-eyed him. “I mean no disrespect.”

  “None taken. We all have our secrets.” Again, his earlier melancholy tugged at his face. “I’ll be seeing you. Stop by the church later today so we can deal with the house sale arrangements, will you?”

  She nodded.

  Somberly, he turned and picked his way through the front room, leaving Lassi wondering exactly who this priest was, and what were his secrets.

  Chapter 3

  When Lassi marched through the front door several hours later, something furry shot past her legs and rocketed into the house. She yelped, barely managing to keep a grip on the bags of food, cleaning supplies, and house repair tools she’d purchased in Dungarvan.

  A reddish-brown and black tabby cat faced her from a mere meter away, crouching, eyes mere slits. It let out a menacing growl.

  “You’re one to complain. You don’t have to clean this bloody cottage.” She tried to take a step, but the tabby gave another warning growl. “Look. I need to set these things down.” She lifted her packages. She took another step, but the tabby swiped its claws at her calf, drawing blood. “Ouch! You fecking feline beast.”

  Unable to wipe the blood from her leg, as her hands were full, she stomped her foot a few times to distract from the stinging pain. Her gaze slid to the front room.

  The coffin had been carted away. Only the rickety table remained. Broken commemorative plates were scattered around the legs.

  “Good. The boneyard guys came. I thought I saw tire tracks out in the dirt.” She cast her attention around the room, noting the dingy windows, the dust monsters lumbering along the floor—no doubt having eaten the dust bunnies—and the peeling wallpaper.

  It sagged in places, came away from the wall in others, and curled at the corners. She squinted, wondering what color blue it had been, as well as what century it had been applied. It still retained bluish stripes in places, but it was all blotched with brown water stains.

  “That’s where we’ll start. As soon as I can deal with this live version of Mr. Meow.” In the best slow-motion-move she could muster, she leaned to the side and lowered the bags to the floor.

  The cat hissed.

  Slowly, she crouched, reaching into one of the bags. Her fingers closed around a chunk of cheese she’d been nibbling on during the drive back to the cottage.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She pulled the cheddar from the bag and broke a piece off with her fingers.

  Mr. Meow backed away, growling.

  She extended the cheese, being watchful of the cat’s claws.

  Mr. Meow’s ears stayed plastered to its head, but it sniffed the air.

  “You don’t want to end up like your dead friends, do you?” She extended her hand, hoping the cat wouldn’t take another swipe at her.

  The cat stretched its neck in her direction, delicately sniffing.

  She tossed the bit of cheese on the floor.

  Keeping its eyes on her, the cat inched toward the treat, and then snatched it between its teeth. It scurried backward.

  “What’s got you so spooked, puss?” She scanned the room, answering her own question. The whole cottage, inside and out, gave her the creeps. She’d no doubt have nightmares when she returned to Dublin.

  Gripping the cheddar lightly in its fangs, it shook its head, the way cats do with their prey. Then, it swallowed. It looked at her expectantly, ears now forward.

  She broke off another piece and tossed it out the front door.

  The tabby eyed her, studied the cheese on the landing, and sniffed the air. Hunger
won over fear. It bolted past her toward the food.

  She kicked the door shut behind it. “Poor thing. It was probably one of Great-Aunt Roberta’s. And it's fear and growls are the result of the abuse it endured to get fed.”

  She strode into the front room, dumped the contents of her satchels—all except the meager supply of groceries—on the table and took stock. Since she planned to attack the wallpaper first, she picked up the detergent and cellulose paste the hardware guy had recommended. Wallpaper products in one hand, bag of groceries in the other, she headed toward the kitchen.

  After putting the foodstuffs away, she searched for a plastic bin. When she found an old metal bucket, instead, she filled it with water, adding the recommended amount of paste and detergent. Hefting the pail, she shuffled toward the front room.

  The hardware guy had told her to wet the wall, peel the corners away with a utility knife, and tear off the softened pieces after they had soaked for five or ten minutes. She pushed an end table toward the wall, set the bucket on top, grabbed her tools, and readied to do the task. Remembering something about using a fork to poke the wallpaper allowing the liquid to penetrate, she hastened to the kitchen. Returning a moment later, fork in hand, she began stabbing the walls, getting some of her frustration out in the process.

  “This is for dragging me back to Ballynagaul.” Stab, stab, stab. “This is for dying in the first place, Great-Aunt Roberta.” Stab, stab, stab.

  When she finished assaulting the wall, she wet a paintbrush with the gooey mixture and dabbed a few strips of wallpaper.

  The ancient paper covering came off the lime-washed and plastered wall easily, as if it only needed a nudge. After laboring for an hour, however, she’d only managed to scrape six huge panels free. When she began peeling off the seventh strip of wallpaper, she uncovered something strange. A rectangle, approximately twenty by thirty centimeters, had been carved into the rubble stone and earth wall. On one edge, a half-circle had been cut into the rectangle, like some sort of handle. Pushing her finger into the half-moon shape, cool air, instead of solid stone met her skin. She tugged. Nothing budged. She tugged again. It gave almost imperceptibly. She pulled the utility knife from her pocket and picked and pried at the edges, sending plaster and stone dust flying. She scraped and gouged the wall. Finally, the two-centimeter-thick stone slab tumbled free, landing with a thud on the floor and promptly breaking into pieces.