The Jeweler

by Anderson, Beck

  It was Fender’s dad. She couldn’t believe it. She looked at the ground, unsure of herself.

  He broke the moment’s silence. “Were you looking for someone?”

  “Yes, I was. His name is Brad Janson. He’s supposed to be in the east section. He’s buried there, I mean.”

  He nodded. “Oh, well, you’re very close. You’ve just gotten too far to the left. That’s the baby section. Here, come out here, and I’ll show you where you need to be.” He gestured to her, extending his hand.

  She stepped carefully toward him. Then he took her hand, and she was out on the safe asphalt of the road.

  “That’s sad, isn’t it?” He looked into her eyes with a large, warm smile on his face.

  “Hmm?” Ginger felt lightheaded. She tried to snap herself out of it, focusing on his friendly eyes.

  “The baby section. It’s sad to see so many little babies.” He turned her around, guiding her with a hand at her elbow. “It’s easy to get lost here. Unfortunately, by the time you’re my age, you’ll know your way around.”

  He stopped in front of a granite block engraved with the words “East Section.” Ginger felt her mind clear. The sun now climbed to the sky, and the air was turning warmer. “Thanks. I haven’t been here since the funeral. I guess I didn’t remember it very well.”

  Fender’s father nodded. “Fender told me you had a special person in your life who you lost. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m here to see my wife.”

  “Fender and I aren’t really in touch right now.” Ginger wasn’t sure why that came out of her mouth.

  “I did hear that.”

  Ginger looked at the green lawn, marked by dips in the grass where the bronze markers lay.

  Fender’s father took a step onto the lawn. “If you’d like, I’ll help you find his marker. Walk this way, between the rows.” Ginger followed him. “My wife is over on the other side, in the older part of the cemetery. The graves all have headstones over there. It’s a lot easier to find someone.”

  “Do you visit her a lot?” Ginger followed him, watching him look at the names on each marker.

  “I try to come when I think of it. I usually end up here once a month or so. I’m embarrassed to say I like to come and talk to her. I tell her what’s going on in my life, or how Fender is doing.”

  Ginger felt something in her chest—something melting, warming up, tightening maybe. She liked to hear Fender’s father say “Fender.” There was a molasses note in his voice. “Do you have other children?”

  “No, we had just the one. But he was plenty—a handful, I’ll tell you that. Kept my wife and me running from day one.” He paused. “Did you say Brad Janson?”

  Ginger’s breath came up short. She hadn’t been bracing herself, readying herself. “Yes.”

  “Here he is. Handsome marker.” He stood next to her, and she hoped she wasn’t leaning on him. But it did feel nice to have his shoulder next to hers. Safer. “Would you like one of my carnations?” He held up the cellophane-wrapped bundle he’d been carrying. He already had a peach carnation out of the bunch and handed it to her.

  “Thank you. I didn’t think to bring anything.”

  He chuckled. “It’s another hazard of getting old. I have a little bucket of supplies I bring when I come here. Too many friends in this place now. It makes me efficient. I even have clippers to prune away the bushes if they start to overgrow someone’s marker or headstone. Pathetic, I tell you.”

  “I think it’s thoughtful. I’ve never been good at being thoughtful.” Ginger was afraid to stop talking to him. She hadn’t even looked down yet.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your thoughts for a moment.” He stepped lightly out of the row and walked toward the older section of the cemetery.

  Without his shoulder up against hers, Ginger swayed slightly, just for a minute. Then she took a deep breath and looked down.

  Set in concrete was a bronze plaque engraved with Brad’s name and his birth and death dates. At the top of the marker, the words “Loving Son and Friend” curved over his name.

  She let the air out of her lungs, deflated. She didn’t cry, but tears clung to her eyelashes. She felt quiet inside. She’d cried about Brad so much this year. Maybe she could be quiet inside about it now. She knelt.

  And waited, searching to see what emotions came. The marker had grass clippings on it, and some needles from a fir tree a few rows away. She tried to brush them off. Slivers caught in her ring finger and thumb. Fingers stinging, she sat back on her heels. “Next time I’ll bring a brush and clean those off.” She said it out loud, talking to Brad. But hearing her own voice was comforting.

  Ginger looked up, over his marker. At the edge of the section stood a row of fir trees. A large foothill silhouetted them. The summer sun had baked the hill for more than three months. It was almost blond now, the wild grasses bleached of all their moisture. The hill was wild, flatly contrasting the manicured green of the cemetery.

  “You have a nice view.” She talked to Brad again. No one was near. Fender’s father was somewhere behind her now, in another section. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit before.” She put the peach carnation next to his name on the marker. Son and Friend. Not a husband, not a father. It made her sad to think his would be the only Janson marker in the cemetery. He wouldn’t have a family plot. But he’d wanted to be in the country, in the wild state he loved. Brad wouldn’t have liked being buried back east, where his family was from. She was sure they had a plot in some ancient city graveyard somewhere.

  Not a father, not a husband. That was the truth of it. Brad had been a good man. A good son. A good friend to many. He’d been a good friend to her. “Anyway, next time I’ll bring some other stuff for you.” Something about the talking felt right. As words came from her mouth, her insides smoothed out. “Zoë’s fine. She missed you a lot at the beginning. I did, too. Molly has a new boyfriend. She’s nuts like always. She wants me to burn some sage for you. I forgot to bring it. I will next time.”

  Next time. It felt good to say that. Like she was doing the right thing for him. Doing her job.

  “Well, I should go. I should go before it gets too hot.” She stood up. Across the drive at the crest of the hill, the trees grew larger, and instead of flat markers, tall headstones and monuments stood in the shade. Ginger looked for Fender’s father. She saw his small head, bent over the top of a headstone. She left Brad and walked to him.

  He heard her and looked up. “All done?”

  “Yes. Thanks for helping me find him. And for the carnation. Next time I’ll bring something.”

  She came up next to him as he stood in front of a white marble headstone. Engraved in it were the words “Augusta Barnes.” A simple stone, only the pearly white of the marble stood against the green lawn.

  “This is my wife, Augusta.”

  Ginger nodded.

  He pointed to the top of the headstone. On it were several small stones. They were perched in a row. Each looked a bit different. “That’s what I really like to bring to her, if I can. She was always picking up rocks on our hikes. Used to drive me crazy because she never had pockets, so I ended up hauling the rocks around for her. Must have been what kept me so fit, all that extra poundage. If I see a neat one, I pick it up and bring it to her.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Oh, she died when Fender was little. He was six, so he and I have been alone for a long time.” He stepped back from the grave, still rolling one of the rocks around in the palm of his hand. He turned and sat on a little wrought-iron bench, next to a rose bush. “Fender and I really did have a tough go of it. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t easy. He never quite believed anyone else would ever stick by him. He always had one foot out of the door when he was a teenager. I got the impression he wanted to leave before I could. I don’t know if he’s gotten past that yet. He likes to mess things up before anyone else ruins them for him.”

  He stood again, walking around to the ba
ck of Augusta’s grave. “But don’t tell him I told you that. He’d be mad if he knew I was talking about him. Here, come look at this.” He motioned for Ginger to come around to the opposite side of the headstone.

  “This is my favorite part of Augusta’s marker. She always teased me about my thing for music. She just about died when I told her what I wanted to name Fender. You know, after the guitar. But it amused her. She secretly liked it. I think that’s what she liked about me. So, I had the marbleworks put this on the back—like I was always humming in her ear.”

  Ginger looked. On the back of the ivory stone were words. Again colorless, but the sun cast a shadow in their grooves.

  “‘Rest you easy, dream you light,’” Fender’s father said. “I can’t even remember what song they’re from, but they just came to me when she died. Like someone wanted me to remember them.”

  Ginger looked at the letters. The words seemed soft, casual, spoken gently. “I like those very much.”

  Fender’s father smiled. “I thought you might.” They walked in front of the grave again. He placed the rock in his hand back on top of the gravestone. “Well, I better get going. I want to eat lunch at the Rendezvous today, and they’ll be out of the bean and bacon soup if I don’t hustle. It was good to see you again.”

  “It was very nice to see you, too.” She didn’t want him to leave. “Mr. Barnes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell your son hello for me.”

  His white smile bloomed from under the thin whiskers of his mustache. “I will.” He turned around and headed for his burgundy station wagon, parked in the shade of a fir tree.

  Ginger walked around to the back of Augusta’s marker again. She said the words herself: “Rest you easy, dream you light.”

  She walked to the little bench and sat down. The needles of the trees formed a soft cushion under her feet. She felt like talking again and looked around self-consciously. No one in sight. She sat alone with the past of a thousand families. The wives of thousands of husbands, sons and daughters of thousands of mothers. But no one here was her husband. She had a good friend here. She looked at Augusta’s marker. Maybe two friends here.

  “I’ll tell him hello for you, Augusta.” The ground swallowed her words in the needles. She turned to walk back to the car.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “FENDER!” SAM BELLOWED. Labor Day weekend was not known as a big jewelry-shopping occasion, and the shop was dead quiet.

  “Back here! And stop yelling, for crying out loud!” Fender thought for a minute about hiding what he was working on, but gave up when Sam strolled in the office.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Sam stood behind him.

  Fender pushed away from the workbench. “Right now, trying not to smack you for breathing down my neck.” He turned around to face his friend, putting himself between his project and Sam.

  “Oh, now I know you’re up to something. You never hide shit from me. You never work, either. What gives?” Sam tried to step to the left for a better view.

  Fender scooted his chair to the left. “That’s not true. And no.”

  “Aww, c’mon, man. Best friend here. Show me!” Sam sounded young. Like toddler-style lemme see young.

  This is pointless. The more I resist, the bigger deal he’ll make it. “Fine. Jesus, you’re nosy.”

  Fender got up from his chair and let Sam see what was on the workbench in front of him. It was a delicate gold setting, the prongs curving up around a deep, clear emerald.

  Sam nodded. “Fender, I’m impressed. When was the last time you made something custom?”

  “I don’t know. It’s no big deal.” He shrugged and shuffled some papers on the desk around.

  “I’m always surprised that you’ve got the skills, but you’ve definitely got ’em. Your pop would dig this. You should show him.”

  Fender pushed Sam away from the bench. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d be mad. He wouldn’t understand.” Fender felt his pulse quicken, and it reminded him of a whole lot of times when he’d been in trouble.

  “I don’t get it. Illuminate me. He’d love to see you actually taking an interest in his trade.”

  “The emerald was Mom’s. This is special. He wouldn’t get it.”

  Sam tilted his head. “You’re redoing an old setting of your mom’s? For what?” And then, as usual, Fender saw the idea dawn on Sam—his eyes always got wide in this certain way.

  Here we go. He’s never going to let this one rest. Fender winced and waited for Sam to make fun of him. But he patted Fender on the back instead.

  “It’s for her, isn’t it?” Sam said softly.

  Fender felt his heart warm and expand, blooming at the thought of her. Ginger. “Yeah. Please don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t. Is it going to be a ring?”

  “No. Mom wore it as a necklace. I’m just re-crafting it a bit. Plus the setting was loose.”

  Sam smiled. “I still remember your mom’s chicken pot pies. Man, they were the best. If I could make them like that, I’d open my own restaurant.” He edged a little closer to the bench and peeked at the emerald through the lens perched above it. “This Ginger, it’s different with her, isn’t it?”

  Fender couldn’t explain. “I think so. But she hates me.”

  Sam looked him in the eyes, put a hand on his shoulder. “So, make it right, then. The path of least resistance is the path with the least payback sometimes. Sometimes it’s worth the struggle.” He paused for a moment. “But it seems you know that, because you’re here making jewelry for her.”

  “I just need a little time to figure it out. Just a little time.”

  Sam sighed. “Everybody wants more time. It’s not our luxury to waste.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All righty, then. I need to eat. You coming?”

  Fender looked back at the necklace. “Go on without me. I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Yes, my friend, that you do.” Sam slapped him on the back and left.

  Fender felt mired by his thoughts and his project and his problem to fix. It all hung heavy on him, an albatross on a fine golden chain. He’d returned to his work with the emerald when he heard the phone—a couple times, actually—but he let it go to voice mail.

  When he finally got around to checking, the first message was from Pop, and then the second message was from Sam, calling to let him know Pop had called him, too. Pop never called around town looking for him anymore, not since high school, so this messaging worried Fender for a minute. What if Pop was sick? He could’ve fallen and broken something. It occurred to him that, yes, his pop was getting old, kind of.

  Fender thought about this and decided to drive over to the house to check on him. Whatever the message is must be a big deal. I can’t believe it. Pop’s going to get sick and die, and I’ve never thought about it before. I’m an evil son. He sighed, closed up the shop, and went to the car.

  “What’s new, right?” he said, either to the steering wheel or to the lady in the SUV on his right at the stoplight. Yes, ever the prodigal son. Thank God I didn’t have siblings. I’m a disappointment, and my parents never even had a normal child to compare me to.

  When he pulled up to Pop’s house, there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway. That’s it, now I know he’s dead. Someone missed him at the Rendezvous, and they’ve found his poor lifeless body. Fender felt a twinge of worry. And he’s been so nice to me lately…

  He still had the key from his temporary “vacation” at Pop’s house, so he let himself in the front door. “Please let him be all right,” he said to himself as he walked into the house.

  Music came from the den, Fender’s old room. It was one of Pop’s old scratched-up records. Pop had eclectic taste in music. Jazz was his first love, all kinds. But he was also partial to the Steve Miller Band. In fact, Fender thought he could hear Pop singing, something about peaches and shaking someone’s tree.

  Fender wal
ked in the door of the den. “You’re in a really good mood.”

  He saw why. Pop had his arms wrapped around a much younger woman. She had dyed black hair with white-platinum streaks through it. The bangs were held out of her eyes with—

  “Barrettes!” Fender said loudly. He basically yelled this, and he felt his face flush crimson in embarrassment. Lo, the owner of the barrette Sam had discovered in the couch was not Amy Rasmussen from the fifth grade, but the lovely vixen currently in Pop’s arms.

  Who yelled, in turn, when Fender yelled at her. She and Pop turned around to face him. They untangled themselves and stood shoulder to shoulder, like elementary kids in trouble. I can’t believe it—everybody is getting laid but me. Even my ancient father is getting a piece. Fender turned off the music and had a vision of what it would be like to be the parent of an adolescent.

  Pop spoke up, regaining his composure. “Sonny! We were listening to records. This is Fiona.” Pop’s hand went to his chest to smooth a nonexistent tie. Old habit, probably. Nervous gesture from Pop’s days as the consummate salesman.

  She stepped forward and shook Fender’s hand in a lively sort of way. She had a big, happy grin on her face, like a contented dog or little kid. “Jerry’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to meet the man named after a guitar. Very cool.”

  Yay. Bonding over stories about the kid, who in this case would be me. And I appear to be older than the bonding prospect. “So, how’d you meet?” Fender tried to keep sarcasm out of his voice. Be nice.

  Pop smiled. “Fiona works at the library. In the periodicals section.”

  Fender nodded. “Of course.” All the time at the library made so much more sense now. Women. There was nothing Pop loved more than women.

  Fiona picked up a shiny, patent leather handbag off one of the recliners. She wore those funky black cotton Mary Janes from China. Wow. My father has a cool girlfriend. Who would’ve thought?

  Cool Girl spoke up. “Jerry, I’m going to go. I’ve got practice in an hour. Are you coming by later?” Fender detected a pinkish blush to her cheeks when she asked the last question. She gave Pop a peck on the lips and squeezed past Fender, breezing through the living room and out of the door.