“Maybe I don’t.” He nudges me with his elbow. “Maybe I like the blanket.”
I button my lip. My eyes well and I blink furiously to dry them out.
He stops. “Hey, are you okay?”
Nope. “Yeah, of course.”
“What’s the significance? Of the blanket?”
There it is. The point-blank question again, and I have no bathroom to duck into.
“I’d really rather not talk about it.”
He looks at me funny but mercifully leaves it alone. We keep walking. I watch my feet move along the sidewalk, creating shadows in the puddles as they go. I try to think about anything else. I’m glad I bought the rain boots, glad I decided to wear them. But I’m worried about the rain. There was no rain in the cemetery dream. Cars pass and we step to the inside of the sidewalk so the tire splash can’t reach us.
“Did you know John Lennon promised his son, Sean, that he’d bring him here someday? But then he died before he could. Yoko had to bring him.”
Henry glances down at me, expression grim. “No. I didn’t.” It’s like he knows I’m talking about me as much as I’m talking about Sean Lennon. But I don’t know how he could know.
When we turn the corner, the red gates stand out against the bleak background. The wall surrounding it is covered in faded graffiti. It hits me all at once that Pop used to live here. He lived at Strawberry Field when the Salvation Army owned it. He came from the place that inspired the song. Maybe that’s why John was his favorite Beatle. (Paul > John, if you ask me. We used to argue about it.)
My throat burns, but I resist the threatening tears as we approach the gate.
“Pretty anticlimactic, really,” Henry says. “It’s been closed down for awhile, but they’ve plans to turn it into a community center soon.”
I run my fingers along the cool, wet metal. Just beyond it, overgrown weeds and shrubs have swallowed the courtyard. It’s a suburban jungle.
“This gate is a replica. The original is in the museum downtown. They replaced it a couple of years before I came here the first time.”
I drop my hand.
“Sorry to be a buzzkill,” he says. “Liverpool’s a little underwhelming compared to the songs about it.”
Negative Ned strikes again. I clamp my teeth down for a moment before I turn to him.
“I think you’re missing the point. This is the town where they grew up. The place they met their best friends and wrote their first songs and fell in love for the first time. It’s where their fates began. That is the magic of it all.”
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah, I guess I could see—”
“They captured the mundane in a way that made it seem special to the rest of the world. Some people may see a plain red gate that’s been replaced, or a suburban lane with a few little shops and think, this is it? But it’s magical in the song because they let us see it through their eyes. Through the context of what it meant to them. What it meant to my pop, even.” Tears well up again. My emotions wriggle a little further from my weakening grasp. What is wrong with me?
“So, your pop grew up here?”
I nod. “Someone dropped him off on the doorstep of this place when he was two years old. He never even knew his parents. He used to joke that he was a changeling.”
Henry peers past the gate like he’s trying to imagine it himself.
“I think that’s why he related to the Beatles. John Lennon was going to garden parties here twenty years before Pop arrived. He grew up in their literal shadow. As a cover band, sure, but he walked the same lanes. He understood their roots. I think that’s what made Walrus Gumboot such a great cover band.”
Henry doesn’t say anything. I search the names written on the concrete columns in multicolored paints and markers, pens and pencils. I know better than to think I’ll see his actual signature on a wall that’s been scribbled over many times in the years since he died. But I look anyway.
“There’s a piece of him still here,” I say. And I know it’s true.
Henry passes me the umbrella handle and then reaches to get something out of his bag. He comes up with a Sharpie and hands it to me.
I stare up at him. “We’re gonna vandalize the wall?”
He bobs his head side to side, faking indecision, then grins. “Nothing to get hung about.”
Dimpled Henry quoting the Beatles is my new new favorite thing.
He takes the umbrella from me and I pop the top of the marker and look for an empty space. I stoop down close to the sidewalk and write I miss you, Pop. Love, Jojo
Henry squats and ducks under the umbrella beside me. I swallow my sadness and pass him the marker.
“I wanted to write something profound, but it looks like someone’s beaten me to the punch.” He gestures to a phrase a foot or so away from my message. It says Percy is a tosser. A chuckle sneaks around my tears.
I know what he’s doing and I’m grateful. He taps the end of the marker against his bottom lip for a few moments before leaning toward the wall with it.
Next to where I signed, in bold all-caps handwriting, he writes: This place is bloody magical. -Jojo (and Henry)
I laugh for real this time. “I don’t think that was exactly what I said.”
“No?” He looks over at me and grins. “I paraphrased. Hence the and Henry.”
He crouches under the umbrella with me, even though the rain has slowed to a sputter. We stare down at the signatures.
“Why did you call me Jojo the first day you met me?” He hasn’t since, until now.
His eyes meet mine. It feels like we’re in our own little private bubble, beneath the red and blue fabric of the umbrella and all the silver wires that hold it together. There’s a sort of purple mist around us. Maybe it’s the colors of the umbrella bleeding together, or maybe his aura is swimming around us both now.
“I dunno.” I watch the way his lips move when he talks, the delicate way they come together and pull apart, then rest when he pauses. “You just look like a Jojo.”
I stare at his mouth too long. I don’t know if I moved closer or if he did. His breath tickles my mouth before I glance up at his eyes, hazy and unfocused. There was no dream to foreshadow this, nothing to warn me. I scramble backward, out from under the umbrella, and stand up.
“Let’s take a selfie!” I blurt, and dig in my pockets for my phone before I remember I put it in my bag. As I unzip pouches and search, he stands up.
“We can use mine.” He clears his throat and pulls his phone out. “I can text it to you.”
He steps close to me again and holds the camera up at an angle. The red gate fills the background. Our arms press together. We both smile, pretending what almost just happened didn’t
almost just happen.
Chapter 31
: Eleanor Rigby :
WE MAKE THE mile-long walk to St. Peter’s as the clouds finally give way to the evening sun.
An occasional passing car whooshes through the remaining rain puddles. When we turn onto Church Road, I point to a red brick building next to the church.
“That’s it right there. The place where John met Paul.”
We both stop and stare. Me, in reverence; him, far away in his own thoughts.
I wonder if he feels the impact of the history and the mythology of the Beatles the way I do. Seeing this place, knowing what began in this very location, sends sentimental chills racing over my skin.
“I know you aren’t really a fan, but what if John and Paul had never met, and the Beatles never existed? Like in that movie where lightning sends the guy to a parallel universe where the Beatles were never a thing?” His featherweight gaze lands on me, and I continue. “If there had been no Quarrymen, there would’ve been no Beatles. It’s hard to imagine a past, or even a future, where the Beatles never existed. At least for me. That’s why I love them so much. They changed everything.”
He considers this for a few moments. Quiet. Reflective.
“Scientists can’t rule out the possibility o
f a multiverse. But we can only live in one at a time, as far as we know. I don’t think it’s reasonable to consider the absence of things that’ve already happened—here, in this one. Everything happens for a reason, right? You can’t undo it once it’s done, so there’s no use even trying to imagine an alternative present unless you have the ability to travel to one.”
I know he’s talking about the Beatles, but when I apply that to the reason we’re standing right here, right now… it’s uncomfortable. Damp air and unwelcome logic hang thick around us.
He says quietly, “You all right?”
It’s stunning, the way he picks up on my emotions, for someone who barely knows me.
I nod. “It’s just that I came here for an alternative present.” We start walking again. “But the best case scenario is a conversation with a ghost.”
I don’t tell him how much I’m hoping Pop is still alive. That he will somehow warp from some parallel universe and come back to me. Or that I will leave this present and go to one where he’s still alive.
I would give up everything to have Pop back.
We walk until we reach the graveyard gate. A roof rises above the brick pedestals separating it from the sidewalk, and it’s outlined in black. Two white flowers are etched into the point below the pitch. The sun has made its debut, only to begin a descent toward the horizon.
“I need to find the tombstone before sunset.”
“Why sunset?” Henry asks.
“It was sunset in the dream.”
“Ah.”
I finally meet his eyes. They’re sea-glass green in the warm evening light.
“I have to go alone.”
He bites his bottom lip and nods. “So it was just you, then. In the dream.”
“Well, yeah. Me and Pop.”
He dips a hand into his pocket, then reaches out and places the magnets in my hand. He closes it inside my palm—long, sturdy fingers wrapping around mine. I stare down at our joined hands, feeling a sense of connection with him. He knows what I’m feeling right now because he lost someone he cared about, too. Two someones. When he lets go, he takes a step back and hops up onto the brick wall.
“I’ll wait here.”
Before I step inside the gate, he calls out. “Jo?”
I glance over my shoulder. His feet dangle and swing and he smiles down at me. A sad smile, backlit by a melancholy indigo. “Good luck.”
I clutch the magnets tighter in my hand and go inside.
The déjà vu sets in before I find the precise location. Twisting, ancient oaks dot the landscape, and rows of crooked headstones pile in beneath them, huddled together like an anxious crowd.
I wander the path until I somehow know to look up. My eyes fall directly onto the words. The trembling starts at my chin and shimmies all the way down my body. My ability to separate the dream from reality dissolves like a sugar cube in hot tea. I’m in the thick of it. I’m part of it and it’s part of me. I pull out my phone and snap a picture, capturing the way the diminishing daylight frames the moment. Caption: this is it
Greenish-gray moss webs the headstone. In the distance, there are car horns and voices; but here with me, there’s only the whisper of stray sticks skittering across the ground. I read the inscription again, paying special attention to her name in the sea of names on her tomb.
* * *
Eleanor Rigby, beloved wife of Thomas Woods and granddaughter of the above, died October 10, 1939, aged 44 years, asleep.
* * *
I glance down at the ground. She’s here. Below my feet. The evidence of her existence could be unearthed with a few shovelfuls of soft, damp dirt. Pop, though? He has no headstone with a listing of ancestors. No birth date besides the estimate he was given by the Salvation Army.
Panic taps me on the shoulder. When we’re past the part I’ve already seen in the dream, what will happen? What will I say to him? Hi, are you dead? Because there’s no physical evidence of him left. No bones to unearth. Even if he was in that urn, the urn is gone now.
There are also no facts to support what I’m about to do. It’s not what a mentally healthy person would do, and I’m at least self-aware enough to know this. No matter, though. I slowly exhale and center myself, conjure a sense of calm. A sense of assuredness.
When he steps out, I’ll tell him that I love him. That I forgive him for choosing his band and his addictions over Mama and me. I’ll tell him that, even if the insurance company was right, I forgive him. And that I’m going to be okay. Even if I’m not sure how true that last part is.
I set the magnets down in front of me, on the edge of the stone barrier of the grave. The southern ends cut a flip and they meet in the middle. It happens so quickly that I jump. Henry was right. The magnets really do work backwards here. And if that is possible, surely many other things must be.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sensation of fading sunlight on my closed lids, just like in the dream. The warmth slowly passes over them, centimeter by centimeter, like a golden fleece being drawn away. When the light touches my lashes, I open my eyes. No matter what happens, I’ll keep them open. I won’t blink him away again.
I wait.
The sun keeps sinking.
And wait.
Time staggers, uncertain.
And wait.
The graveyard is empty, except for me. Just as it looked in the dream. I’ve dreamed it over and over. It’s so exact that it feels like I’m like walking around inside my own dream at this very moment. The only thing missing is Pop.
Any moment.
I stand up, look around. Turn in a circle.
Maybe I didn’t do it right. Maybe standing messed the whole thing up. Maybe the sunset has to be almost complete. Clinging to hope, I sink to the chilly, wet earth and try again.
I close my eyes and wait. But only the approaching darkness joins me. The sun sinks below the trees until there’s no light on my face.
“We’re finally together,” I say aloud. “That’s your line, Pop. You’re late.” I open my eyes and smile, tears streaming down my cheeks. The warmth is foreign to me. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to cry. “I’m still waiting on you. It won’t be a big deal if you just come out now. The dreams are different than real life sometimes. I know this.” Only a gentle breeze and a sleepy bird call responds.
It’s a shitty ending to an otherwise perfect day.
I know the truth, deep in my bones. A harsh, angry stream flows down my cheeks and neck now. One that has been dammed up for months. Maybe even years. I cry and cry and cry, until I’m a girl-shaped river. Until my face is raw and tender.
I cry for Pop. I cry for Walrus Gumboot. I cry for my mother. But most of all, I cry for me. That I came all this way, that I’ve separated myself from people I care about, only to pursue the impossibility of a conversation it’s too late to have. Because he’s gone. He’s been gone for three years, and I’m only now accepting it.
A little while later, I’m not sure how much later, footsteps crunch gravel behind me. I draw a shaky breath and stuff my face inside the collar of my t-shirt, smearing the wetness with soggy fabric. I sense him without seeing him, smell the peppermint. He stops at my side and sinks to the ground.
We sit for a long time in silence.
When my chest stops heaving and we’re both still, he whispers, “Did he show?”
The hope in his voice is so sincere that it feels vulgar to say the truth aloud. I shake my head and crumple into myself, pressing my lips together. He hands me a handkerchief. In my emotional hysteria, I laugh at this. Maybe all English boys carry handkerchiefs in their pockets. But I somehow doubt it. He’s an old man of a boy.
He leans in close, shoulder touching mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you again.”
I shake my head, trying to form the words without my voice cracking. “It’s not you.”
He doesn’t rush me to talk. The horizon melts into shades of purple, like an extension of his aura. I feel safe because of it.
The moon peeks out, waxing full, before I’m able to say a word.
“When he died, a lot of questions never got answered.” I glance over at him and he looks away. “He died here. Well, in London. In a hotel. I don’t know if you knew.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “You know, we never even had a funeral for him. He had no family but us, so Mama and I spent weeks crying on the couch, while friends and neighbors brought us casseroles.”
I feel guilty saying all of this. I know Mama did the best she could do with the resources available to her at the time. Henry stares at me, patient. So I keep talking.
“It was going to be really expensive to fly his body home. So we had him cremated before the embassy made arrangements. Even that wiped out my mom’s savings completely. Then his life insurance company denied the claim, because the medical examiner thought—” My voice cracks on the end. I take a few deep breaths to compose myself. “The tox screen showed really high levels of opiates and alcohol. He had a history of depression, and a previous suicide attempt. So the medical examiner used that information to rule it an intentional overdose.”
“Jo…” I hate the sympathy I hear in Henry’s voice. The pity.
“He wouldn’t do that,” I say through my teeth. “Not again. When he did try, he ended up in the emergency room in Asheville. They were in town for a show. My mother is the nurse who took care of him. He used to say that she was his angel, that she pulled him back from the brink of death. They fell in love and got married and had me. He was happy, Henry! He hadn’t done drugs in a long time. He’d been clean! He promised us and I believed him, because he was the most honest person I ever knew. I still believe him. He just made a mistake.”
Crickets begin their faraway chirping, like sad mood music in a movie. The streetlights buzz on, but the graveyard darkens. Henry’s eyes glisten as if he may cry, too.
“He wouldn’t have done it.” My heart thuds the next words before I say them. “And I have proof.”
I don’t know what makes me decide, at this moment, to share a secret I’ve kept for three years, but I dig my wallet out of my bag, and then the letter out of my wallet. I hand it to him. The Adams apple in his throat moves up and down as he takes it from me, carefully unfolding it. I watch him as he reads by the light of the moon.
All the Lonely People Page 13