by Sarah Jio
“What was his name, Warren?” My heart beat faster.
“Thomas,” he said. “But that wasn’t his given name. I can’t remember what it was. But we called him Thomas. The old house wasn’t ever the same after he died. Aunt Josephine never fully recovered. Children shouldn’t die before their mothers.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” I said, opening up my notebook.
“What was Josephine’s husband’s name?”
“You know,” he said, pausing, “I don’t quite remember. He died, I was told.”
“Died?”
“In any case, he was never around. For as long as I can remember, it was just Thomas and Josephine.”
So, in her grief, she took Daniel and claimed him as her own? But why?
“Warren, do you know where Thomas is buried?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious. I’ve always had a thing for cemeteries.”
“Bryant Park,” he said. “Where all the Kensingtons are buried. It’s the cemetery on the hill by the university.”
I felt a deep pain emanating from my chest, my heart. “I know the cemetery,” I said. “It’s where the baby was…”
“Oh, honey. How insensitive of me. Of course I remember. I—”
“It’s fine,” I said. But it wasn’t. I hadn’t been back to that cemetery since Ethan and I had watched our firstborn, tucked inside a tiny mahogany box—eerily tiny—lowered into a hole in the earth. Our baby was the youngest, and newest, addition to the Kensington grave site, where dozens of deceased family members rested. Glenda had already seen to it that ten feet of earth next to the baby’s grave was reserved for Ethan and me. There was much I didn’t like about my mother-in-law, but I will always appreciate that she arranged for us to one day be reunited in death.
“The only thing I remember about Thomas’s funeral is the big mound of dirt and that little coffin,” Warren said, reminiscing. “It was trimmed in gold, all the way around. I couldn’t understand why they’d put such a pretty thing in the ground. Father had to hold Josephine back. She almost threw herself into the hole after they lowered the coffin down. It was all very strange for a six-year-old boy to watch.”
I sighed. “So if you were six, how old was the little boy? Thomas?”
“He was a little younger than me,” he said, pausing.
I heard commotion on the other end of the line, and a nurse’s voice. “I’ll let you go,” I said. “I promise to come visit soon.”
“Sure, honey. Anytime you like.”
The keys to Ethan’s BMW lay on the kitchen counter. I’d only driven it a time or two, preferring cabs to a vehicle with a manual transmission. Shifting gears on Seattle’s notoriously hilly streets frightened me, especially after the time I’d rolled back so far between first and second gear. I’d vowed never to drive the car again. It was Ethan’s domain, not mine—an unspoken agreement since the accident. Like much of our lives, since last year, a line had divided my world from his. But the keys glistened in the morning light. It would be easier to drive to the cemetery than to hassle with a long cab ride or navigate the bus lines. I hated buses. I nodded, scooping up the keys and dropping them into my bag.
I took the elevator down to the parking garage and stepped into the car, setting my bag on the passenger seat. I took a deep breath. Ethan. The car smelled of his cologne, his skin, and—I picked up a petrified french fry near a cup holder—his secret love of fast food. I smiled to myself, tucking the fry into a plastic trash bag in the backseat.
The tires screeched as I navigated out of the garage, taking a right onto the street. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a car again. I felt in control. I flipped on the radio and the U2 song “With or Without You” drifted from the speakers. I hardly noticed the big hills before turning onto the freeway. I turned the volume up, letting the music soothe me as I drove, taking the exit that led to the cemetery. They’d given me a Valium the morning of the baby’s funeral. It had made me feel drowsy and secure, like being cloaked in a big fluffy comforter, warm and protected. I wished I hadn’t taken the pill, though. I should have felt the emotions in all of their rawness. I should have let myself grieve. I’d needed to grieve. And now, as I drove the car through the gates of the cemetery, I did so fully conscious, feeling every tug at my heart, every dark memory, every regret.
I stepped out of the car, cautiously, locking the doors with a swift click of the button on the keychain. I looked out ahead over the grassy hill. As children, my little brother and I had often played in a cemetery near our home. Dad had cautioned us not to step too close to the headstones. “It’s disrespectful to step on the dead,” he had said. After that, I’d made sure to tread more carefully. But once, my brother had hidden behind a headstone and jumped out, screaming, “Boo!” In a frightened state, I’d leapt back, landing on my feet right in the space beside the headstone of a little girl who’d died in the 1940s. I’d felt terrible about that. Dad had said it wasn’t a big deal, that I hadn’t disturbed the little girl’s grave, but I cried the whole way home, too sad to ride my bike, so Dad pushed it for me.
The sun shone down on my head. I was grateful for its warmth after last week’s snowstorm. I thought about what the cemetery must have looked like with the headstones covered in snow, like cakes piped with white icing.
I stared ahead, recognizing the willow tree in the distance. The baby was buried just beneath it. A breeze blew a blossom from the nearby magnolia against my cheek, and I swiped it away. I shivered, turning back to the car. I don’t have to do this. I could turn back right now. Then I remembered Vera. I was here for her. I could be strong for her. I took a step, and then another, winding my way through the grave sites until I reached the willow tree that presided over the Kensington family plot.
With magnetic pull, the baby’s headstone drew my eyes to it. Ethan had picked it out, with his parents’ help. We’d kept it simple. No name. Few details. It’s how I’d wanted it. Ethan couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to know the child’s gender. He had accused me of being emotionally cold, frozen. Perhaps I was. But it was the only way I knew how not to succumb to my sadness. If I didn’t know, I didn’t have to feel. The hospital grief counselor had advised that while a funeral wasn’t necessary, it could give us closure. A couple who had lost twins recently, he’d explained, had buried the ashes of their children under two plum trees they’d planted in their backyard. Another couple had buried their stillborn daughter under a rose tree in their garden. Ethan had insisted that our child needed a funeral, but to me, it only seemed to add to the pain. I had been distraught, and a nurse had to come in to give me a sedative.
I knelt down beside the grave, running my hand along the edge of the headstone, wiping a bit of moss off the edge with my hand. I pulled a package of tissue from my bag, and used one to rub dust from the shiny granite. BABY KENSINGTON, the first line read. BORN MAY 3; IN THE ARMS OF JESUS 13 MINUTES AFTER BIRTH.
I didn’t bother to wipe away the tear on my cheek. No one was watching. I could let myself grieve. “Mommy misses you,” I whispered, as the wind whistled through the willow tree. I longed to hold my baby, to feel the softness of a cheek against my breast. I remembered the way they’d been engorged with milk, pulsing with pain, the day I came home from the hospital. How cruel, I’d thought, to have milk for a child I could never feed. I stared at the headstone. Every part of me ached for what I had lost. And when the stream of tears came, I did not try to stifle them.
Startled by a rustling noise, I looked behind me, where an older man in overalls with dirt stains at the knees stood with a rake on the hill above. How long has he been watching me?
He set the rake against a tree and walked toward me. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone, but something about his face—friendly, kind—told me not to. “This your child, miss?” he asked, pointing to the headstone.
I nodded.
“The name’s Murphy,” he said, pulling a wrinkled hand out of his work glo
ve. “James Murphy. I’m the caretaker here.”
He gave my hand a squeeze, and I tucked it back in my pocket. “I’m Claire Aldridge,” I said, eyes fixed on the headstone.
“Must be a special one, this child,” he said, kneeling beside me.
I didn’t answer. He probably says this to everyone.
“I’ve been tending these grounds for more than forty years,” he said. “Never seen a blackberry vine grow here, least not in my time. The soil’s too dense. But look.” He paused, pointing to a sprig of light green peeking out from behind the headstone. The crinkly leaves covered a thorny vine with a single white flower, its petals so delicate they might as well have been lace.
I reached down to touch its stem, but pulled my hand back quickly, feeling a sharp prick. Blood dripped from my finger. “Ouch!” I cried.
“Careful,” he said. “Those thorns are sharp.”
I put my finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
“We grave minders have long believed in the legend of the blackberry,” he continued. “Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“They choose souls to protect. The special ones.”
I noticed the way the blackberry leaves lay against the headstone, almost embracing it.
“I’m surprised the storm didn’t kill this little shoot,” he said, touching the tiny flower delicately with his index finger. “Special,” he said again, rising to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Well, I’ll leave you now. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at him with more gratitude than the words could express.
I sat there for a long time, thinking about the child I’d never know, milestones I’d never see. First steps. First words. Kindergarten. Sixth-grade science fairs. Swing sets and sidewalk chalk. Summer camping trips. Spelling bees. I stood up and steadied myself against the trunk of the willow tree. I’d come here to find Daniel, not to sink deeper into my grief. I came for Vera. I took a deep breath and wound my way through the rows of Kensington headstones, most made of marble punctuated with elaborate finials and urns. Headstones for wealthy people. Ruby Kensington. Elias Kensington. Merilee Kensington. Where was Daniel? Eleanor Walsh Kensington. Louis Kensington III. My eyes squinted at a smaller headstone. A child’s rocking horse was etched into the top. My heart beat faster as I read the words. THOMAS KENSINGTON, SON OF JOSEPHINE KENSINGTON. BORN APRIL 21, 1930, DIED JUNE 9, 1936. I wrote the words in my notebook.
The dates figured perfectly. Josephine must have taken him when he was three, and he’d died just a few years later. There he was, little Daniel—well, as Warren had said, they called him Thomas then—resting in the earth beneath my feet. I shook my head. No, he is not resting. Not without his mother.
I drove straight to the office, parking the car in the lot next to the Herald building. I walked quickly to my desk, passing the girls from sales on a cigarette break without stopping to say hi. At my desk, I pulled up the draft of the story on my computer, and I wrote, referring to my notebook for bits and pieces of my research from the previous week. Eva. Café Lavanto. The Kensington family. Press clippings from decades ago. The testimony from Mr. Ivanoff. And now the gravesite that tied it all together. I wrote through lunch, barely noticing my hunger, when I usually felt famished by noon. At two, I sat back in my chair and gazed at the completed story on my screen. I wrote the last sentence, then scrolled to the very top, where the cursor flashed next to the headline. “Blackberry Winter: Late-Season Snowstorm Holds Key to Missing Boy from 1933.” Below the headline, I typed my name with sure fingers. “By Claire Aldridge.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so proud of my byline.
I printed the article, five pages in total. Even though he took me off the story, Frank would want to see it. But I walked to Abby’s office first. She turned away from her computer and I dropped the pages on her desk, then sat in her guest chair while she read in silence. She looked up at me periodically with a shocked face, then turned back to the draft, continuing to read.
“Wow,” she said, handing the pages back to me.
“So what do you think?”
“Just, wow,” she said again. “You realize that you’re incriminating your husband’s entire family with this feature.”
I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
Abby looked doubtful. “Truth or not, you know the Kensingtons are never going to let you print it.”
“They have to,” I said. “It needs to be told.
“It does,” she agreed, looking thoughtful. “But wait, what about Vera? Did you ever find her grave?”
I sighed. “No,” I said, glancing back at the pages in my hand. “And the story doesn’t quite feel complete without that information, at least for me.”
Abby frowned. “What do you think the Kensingtons will think of all of this?”
“I don’t care what they think anymore,” I said. I looked to the window that looked out on the street, where a young mother walked by on the sidewalk holding the hand of her little boy. He wore a yellow raincoat with matching boots. I turned back to Abby. “It’s time the world learned what happened to Daniel Ray.”
She looked at me a long while. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’ve come a long way.”
“Thanks,” I said, turning toward the door.
Frank was on the phone, so I set the pages in front of him at his desk and whispered, “I know you killed the story, but for what it’s worth, here it is. I had to finish it.”
His grin told me he’d forgiven me.
Back at my desk, the red light on my phone blinked, alerting me to a voice message. I dialed the password and listened. “Claire, this is Eva. Sorry, I was out walking when you called. It feels odd leaving this information over a message recorder, but I’ll go ahead anyway so as not to delay your research. You asked where Vera was laid to rest, and you can find her at a little cemetery on First Hill, just north of the city. Ninth plot on the left, right next to the chain-link fence. I used to visit her more, but in my old age, well, I haven’t gotten up there in a long time. I’m glad you’re able to visit her, dear.”
My heart raced. I reached for my bag and jacket, but nearly ran into Frank in the doorway. “This,” he said, motioning me back to my chair, “is a work of art.”
I smiled cautiously. “You really think so?”
“Yes. Your finest research. And the writing”—he shook his head as though marveling at a fine painting—“it’s beautiful. Made me cry.” He looked at me, astonished. “You’re back, Claire.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But all the stuff about the Kensingtons, I—”
He held up his hand. “This is history. It must be printed. Don’t you worry. I’ll smooth it all out with the editorial board.”
“All right,” I said, standing up again.
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Where are you off to?”
“Just following up on another lead,” I said. “I’ll e-mail you the story tonight.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, following me out.
I parked in front of the cemetery later that afternoon. A far cry from the beautifully tended Bryant Park, the First Hill Cemetery, encircled by a rusty chain-link fence, looked all but forgotten. Brown grass and weeds grew up against headstones, many of which had been marked with graffiti. I was careful to lock the BMW before I walked through the gates, where large cedar trees loomed, casting dark shadows on the ground.
Where did Eva say Vera’s grave was? Ninth plot on the left. I walked farther inside the cemetery, counting the headstones as I went. No finials or marble; just simple, unadorned stone. A poor-man’s graveyard. I came to the ninth headstone and crouched down, attempting to read the inscription, but moss obscured the words. I used the edge of the BMW key to scrape off a clump that covered the letters. VERA RAY, it read simply, 1910–1933.
I shook my head. No reference to her being a loving a mother. A dear friend. A sister. A daughter. Just a name and a few un
specific dates. What was wrong with this world? A world where a name like Kensington made you special and a name like Ray rendered you dispensable, forgettable? I stared at her grave intently. I won’t let them forget about you, Vera.
I felt a fluttery feeling inside when I noticed a thorny vine growing along the edge of the small headstone. White flowers burst from its velvety green leaves. I remembered what the man at the graveyard had said, about blackberries being special, choosing souls, protecting them. Of course they’d choose Vera. I felt a shiver come over me as a car sped by on the street beyond the ramshackle fence.
I thought of Ethan on the drive back to the office. Sure, he’d been apprehensive about the story, but once he read it, he’d understand how important it was. My heart told me that. I couldn’t wait to take a draft to him. Of course, Glenda wouldn’t be thrilled, but that didn’t matter to me. Warren’s opinion, however, did. His heart was weak. Could he handle learning about these dark family secrets? Would they cause him too much pain? After all, he hadn’t known that his cousin had not only been kidnapped but was also his half brother.
Frank was waiting for me in my office when I returned. A pencil dangled from his lips.
I dropped my bag to the floor. “What is it?”
“The story’s been killed.”
“What? By whom?”
He shook his head, disappointed. “It’s out of my hands. You’ll have to take it up with your husband.”
My cheeks burned as I charged through the cubicles to Ethan’s office. He’d warned me that he wasn’t comfortable with the story, but I didn’t believe he’d actually kill the piece.
Ethan’s back was turned to the door when I walked into his office. I closed the door behind me. “How could you?” I screamed.
He turned around, holding my article in his hands. “It’s a good story, Claire,” he said. “Really. Bravo.”
“You can’t kill it,” I said. “You just can’t.”
“I can.” His eyes looked distant, vacant. I didn’t know what I hated more at that moment, the death of this story, or the death of our marriage.