by Susan Vaught
“The funeral homes do all the sales stuff and handle the funerals,” I say. “Harper’s job is Rock Hill, and I think it’s a lot more complicated. Mowing, digging, pruning, trimming, cleaning, polishing, chasing off weirdos, helping all the sad people—he stays busy.”
“You stay busy, Del. Harper mostly stays passed out. The whole funeral thing, that’s a racket, man. Cremation’s the best way for the planet.”
“Harper says that until World War II, people mostly handled their dead at home, themselves. They’d clean them up, keep them around for a couple of days while the pine box got made by family members, then bring them to his father to be buried here, or just plant them in the backyard. Then the whole funeral industry started and everything changed. Maybe death made more sense before that, or felt more real.”
Marvin’s face is totally straight when he says, “Or a lot more gross and creepy. Two more to dig?”
“Yeah. I got the turf cut off over there, third from the road. The tarp for the dirt’s already down.” I climb out of the grave and catch myself staring at the section of the cemetery where Fairy Girl usually visits.
Stop.
I look back at Marvin and try to sound casual when I ask, “You still following your dating rules?”
“Of course. No dating. I don’t date.” He sounds smug, like he’s got it all under control, like his body never bothers to react to girls like mine does. I use music and digging to block it all out, make it go away—but Marvin doesn’t seem to have that problem.
The way Marvin figures it, if he’s eighteen, and he cards the girl (and probably makes a copy of her ID) and she’s eighteen, nobody can say anything to them about doing anything. If he waits until he’s an adult and his life is nobody’s business, he won’t have any trouble like we had before.
I’m not sure that logic works, but it’s a big deal to him, and with Marvin, it’s better not to mess with his big deals.
Marvin’s smug expression fades, and I realize he’s starting to stare at me. “Why’d you ask about dating?”
I shrug. It’s what I do best. “No reason.”
The lines of Marvin’s body get tense. I can tell he’s thinking about standing and facing me. Maybe even getting in my face. “You interested in somebody?”
Dangerous ground. Definitely entering Marvin-thinks-this-is-a-big-deal territory. “No.”
He does stand, but he doesn’t get in my face. “You wouldn’t lie to me, right? Not about something like that.”
“I’m not lying to you about anything.” My calm tone usually works with Marvin. He blinks at me like he’s weighing the words, maybe measuring my tone.
“Fred,” Fred says.
And Marvin says, “Okay.”
He’s easy like that. It’s why he’s still my best friend. Anybody hard would have ditched me a long time ago.
Marvin glances at the sky as he sits down again. “What if it rains tonight? Will the graves fill up?”
“Nah, I’d use a gazebo tent to cover them—we’ve got ten of those—but it’s not supposed to rain until Wednesday.” After we finish digging, I’ll need to cover the dirt and turf with more tarps, and before Sunday, I have to mow, then put up gazebo tents and arrange foldout chairs under them for the first services. The funeral home will cover the chairs with their velvet drapes, to make the mourners more comfortable and to make sure everybody sees their logo. That’s it. Rain’s no big deal.
“Fall’s usually dry,” Marvin mumbles, as much to himself as me.
See? Talking about the weather. He’s easy. We move on to the next grave.
I start digging. After the graves get filled and covered, I won’t have to hurry putting the turf back in place, then moving the extra dirt to the back of the fifty acres Harper tends. The ten acres farthest to the west hasn’t been divided into plots and sold because the land is still too rough. We’re using the fill dirt and Harper’s ancient red Ford tractor with its barely functioning spreader to smooth out the ground. Eventually, Harper will be able to lay turf and make a profit off those acres, too.
“Harper should get a backhoe,” Marvin says as he digs up a shovelful from the bare patch third from the road while I stop long enough to move Fred’s cage to a shady spot on the branch of a maple tree.
“Even if he could afford a piece of machinery like that, he’d blow it off.” I give Fred’s beak a quick stroke through the cage bars, then head toward Marvin and grab my shovel again. “He says it’s disrespectful, and his father and grandfather who started this place would haunt him.”
“Maybe his family wouldn’t haunt him if he drank less skanky beer.”
“None of my business.” I start digging near Marvin, but I have to nudge Gertrude with the shovel so she’ll move enough to let me drop my first load on the tarp. Harper leaves us alone to do our work. He knows his drinking is a problem, so it’s up to him to fix it, or not. He pays me to do the crap he blows off and he never shorts me a dime.
Fred amuses herself by singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” off-key, mostly in Mom’s voice.
“Well, when it’s my turn to get planted,” Marvin says without even looking in Fred’s direction, “I’m putting in my will that I want a lot more than eighteen inches of dirt over me if I don’t get cremated.” Then, “Hope you gotta piss, because Branson’s here.”
I dig out another chunk before I glance at the road. Branson’s black Jeep is slowing to a stop at the top of the small hill on the way to the entrance, and a few seconds later, he gets out. He’s got silver hair cut close to his dark skin, he’s wearing jeans and a University of Indiana sweatshirt, and he’s carrying a shoulder bag in one hand and a white sample bag in the other. Branson’s dedicated. Ex-military, now a retired cop who does juvenile probation. He makes random checks on me to do drug tests, but never at school. He’s good about keeping the humiliation to a minimum.
“I’ll go start on the third grave if the turf’s cut,” Marvin says.
I point to a spot in front of where we’re standing, three rows up, first from the road, with the turf cut and stacked and the tarp spread to receive the dirt. Marvin takes his shovel and heads off with Gertrude walking every step beside him.
Branson reaches the second grave and hands me a sample cup while Fred greets him with a burp, a fart, and the sound of a telephone ringing.
“What’s up, Fred,” Branson says as I get clear of the grave, drop my shovel, turn my back, and oblige him with the sample he’s wanting. “And hello to you, too, Del.”
“Hello,” I say back, but not until I’ve got my pants zipped and the plastic lid twisted tight. It’s hard to be conversational while pissing in a cup. I just hope I didn’t get any dirt in the sample.
“Marvin looks busy. Do you pay him to help out?”
I hand Branson the sample cup and go for my shovel. “I keep him in burritos so he can stink up the place.”
“Is that the stench? I was afraid it was—you know. The dead guys.”
“Or girls,” I point out. “But no. Embalming and coffins and caskets and vaults and dirt take care of the dead-guy-smell problem.”
“Fred,” Fred says, eyeing Branson with her feathers poofed out, which is parrot for, Maybe I like you and maybe I’ll bite off your face. Want to take your chances?
Branson keeps his distance from Fred’s cage as he seals my sample into the white bag. “I’m assuming this will be clean. And assuming you’re working on your applications and letters. Did you keep your appointments with Dr. Mote?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” The shovel bites into the dirt as I push it hard, trying to get a good start on this section.
“One, two … four,” Fred says.
I correct her automatically. “One, two, three, four.”
Fred starts beeping like an answering machine, or a bulldozer about to back right over Branson.
Branson puts the sealed white sample into his shoulder pouch and pulls out a packet of brochures bound up with rubber bands. He hands these to
me, but I lay them down beside the grave and keep digging. I know what they are. I know they won’t make any difference and so does he, but he wants me to keep “making an effort.”
“Those are mostly community colleges,” Branson says. “Ones that don’t turn away felons on the front end. You’ll still have to tell them and write your explanation letter, but you’ll have better luck starting there than a four-year.”
I stare at my shovel and keep digging. There’s a smile on my face and I feel like laughing, but not because I’m thinking any of this is funny or bright or a real possibility.
“You’ve got good grades and a good record of community service,” Branson tries again. “It’s not hopeless, if you’d just put a little feeling into those letters. A little bit of the real Del. You can win people over if you try.”
Here we go. He’s about to get to wanting me to testify at the juvenile sex offender laws hearings, and I don’t want to hear it.
Keep digging.
That’s to myself, not him. He’s trying. I know that.
“Fred,” Fred says, and she’s trying, too, probably feeling the waves of tense and wary coming off me all of a sudden.
“Del, if you really make an effort tell your story—especially if you tell it at the hearings—somebody will look past the felony convictions and see you as a person. Somebody will give you a chance.”
“I’m not testifying,” I tell him.
Branson’s rolling now, so he won’t stop even though I’ve said no—again. “The press is all over this, accusing senators who support the bill of going soft on the worst types of crimes and criminals. If we don’t put a human face on this nightmare, if they can’t see the real cost to real people, I’m not sure the law has a chance of passing.” His eyes have a gleam when he gets all wrapped up in this, and I’m not bothering to say anything to him now because he won’t hear it, and my opinion doesn’t matter. “You could help a lot of people by doing this, a lot of kids just like you. This could be a new start. The moment where you move forward again instead of just treading water. Maybe the moment where you convince a college or even a university to give you the opportunity to prove yourself.”
Before he finishes getting out the prove yourself part, Marvin says to Branson, “You’re a nice guy and all, but you’re dreaming about schools giving him a chance.” He’s back with his shovel and Gertrude, maybe figuring I need extra support. “Kaison took away all of Del’s chances.”
“His record will be sealed at eighteen.” Branson frowns at Marvin, who steps into the grave rectangle and starts to dig beside me. “That’s a first step.”
Marvin doesn’t smile at bad times like I do. When he gets tense and wary, he looks it. “Wherever he goes, he still has to register as a criminal. He’ll still get shut out of everything. Why are you setting him up for shit by asking him to go public all over again? Wasn’t it hell enough the first time?”
Branson comes back with “Yeah” a little too loud, when he’s usually in control. “That’s—that’s why I brought those.” He points to the brochures. “And I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about the hearings, Del.”
I’m not smiling anymore, but in my case, that’s probably good, like the digging and digging and digging that’s keeping my hands busy. Branson’s a good guy. He doesn’t want it to be over for me, even though really, it is.
When I was little I wanted to be a doctor, or maybe a vet (parental obsessions can be contagious). Now I think off and on about being an avian vet. There are never enough of those. But even if I get into school and graduate with perfect scores, manage to get residencies and fellowships and pass those with perfect scores, too—even if I turn out to be the Messiah of Avian Medicine, I still can’t get licensed in any state I’ve researched. So I’d have the skills and the degree, but I wouldn’t be allowed to practice. At least I’d be able to keep Fred healthy, and if Dad ends up with a broken rooster farm, I wouldn’t be useless.
“The hearings—well, if they pass the Romeo and Juliet law, things could get a lot better for you.” Branson brings this up like it’s new, but we’ve covered it before.
“I’ll be fifty before all that’s settled,” I remind him. “There isn’t any miracle do-over for poor Romeo, dead before the laws take effect.”
Branson lets out a breath, half sigh and half grumble. “Kaison’s long gone and you can’t make a living digging graves.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“What?” he asks, like he and Dr. Mote have been comparing notes, which come to think of it, they probably do. “And when?”
You’ve got ten months before you’re through with all this.
He doesn’t say that because he knows he doesn’t have to, but you never know about people. That’s one lesson I’ve learned, and I’ll never forget it. Branson might sell me down the river at the final hearing to close out my probation, but I hope not.
And …
And …
I stop hoping. Stop thinking. Stop existing in the same reality as everyone else.
She’s drifting past Branson, behind him, about a hundred yards from where we were standing.
Fairy Girl.
Can’t breathe.
Her dark hair’s down, sleek and shining in the bright sunlight as it hides her face. She’s wearing a light blue skirt with a matching shirt and light-looking sweater, more angel than fairy today, and every nerve ending in my body reacts to her existence.
Not normal. I’m not okay. Harper’s right, something’s definitely wrong with me.
I realize I’m blinking at Branson, and since I can’t fire up my music to make my brain and body act right, I think about ice cubes, my great-grandmother, Mom, dad’s one-eyed rooster, and the time I did real damage falling straddle-legged on a sawhorse. Fresh sweat breaks across my forehead, streaking the dirt on my cheeks and neck as it trickles slowly downward.
Marvin’s not digging, either. He’s just leaning forward watching the girl go by, because really, when she’s in the universe, what else can you do?
Branson glances from me to Marvin, turns, and goes very still when he sees her. It’s like the three of us, me, Marvin, and Branson, are caught in some web-spell of silence, wrapped up tight and glued in place, unable to speak or move or do anything to save ourselves.
Fred, always aware of the exact wrong thing to do, cuts loose with a whistle that would put any construction worker to shame. Then she follows it with the loud “HEY!” I use to warn the dogs off dad’s chicken lot if the gate’s open.
I jump so hard I almost slip into the grave. Gertrude hisses, and Marvin pitches forward, hitting himself in the teeth with the shovel handle. Branson jumps, too, swearing to himself, then glares at me and realizes I didn’t do it.
“Parrot,” I mutter.
Branson rolls his eyes.
I’m burning hot from top to bottom as the girl pauses and turns her head to where the three of us are just standing like giant, grave-digging idiots.
She studies each of us for a few seconds, too far away for me to make out the details of her face. Marvin points back toward Branson, who points at me, so I point at Fred’s cage. I can’t say anything. It’s Marvin who forces out a quick, “Sorry. That was Del’s parrot. Her name is Fred, and he takes her everywhere even though she doesn’t know how to behave.”
Fairy Girl seems to appraise Fred, squinting toward the tree where the cage is hanging. Then she looks from Marvin to Gertrude, who’s bathing her front paw and drooling into the dirt piled next to the second grave.
“Gertrude,” Marvin calls to her. “That’s the cat’s name.” Then he says “Sorry” again, like that’ll help anything.
The girl waits another few seconds, like she might be wondering if Branson is going to speak, or maybe me.
Fred says, “Fred,” then counts to four, making three the loudest, just like I do when I correct her.
The girl laughs.
It’s a sound like all the music I enjoy, rolled in
to a few bright, happy notes. Then she gives us a wave and heads on toward her usual destination, in the Oak Section, one of Rock Hill’s more recently dug areas.
It’s Branson who talks first, and all he can say is, “She’s—uh.”
I get the shovel moving again. “Yeah.”
Branson’s not finished. “She’s probably a bad idea, Del.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, there’s nothing saying you can’t have girlfriends, but if I were you, I’d wait until all this is over.”
“Yeah.”
Marvin and I dig. He’s giving me a half-ticked look now and then, and I can tell he’s wondering if this is why I asked him about dating.
Branson stands there, staring in the direction the girl went. Then he looks at the college brochures I still haven’t touched. “Then again, on second thought, it might be good for you. Give you a little something to look forward to, maybe a little motivation. If I talk to your parents—wait, I could talk to her parents, and—”
“No.” I choke the shovel. God, that would make me want to die. “Thanks, though.”
Keep digging. Just keep digging, and burn off the steam, and maybe Branson won’t get back to the stupid hearings and the laws that’ll come way too late to help me.
Branson looks disappointed, but also like he probably understands. For a while, he doesn’t say anything. Then he gives us a nod, and a few minutes later, he leaves. His Jeep engine makes a growly noise when it starts up, but it’s smooth and quiet as he guides it out of Rock Hill.
“My lip’s bleeding from where I hit it on the shovel,” Marvin complains, then fouls the air with a new round of burrito farts.
I’m trying to dig, to pay attention to squaring my corners, but I’m thinking about Fairy Girl. If Marvin weren’t here, I might slip over to the Oak Section, just to look at her again for a few seconds.
“She doesn’t go to G. W.,” Marvin says over Fred’s flurry of whistles, clicks, and other bird noises, the crow sound being her best. “She’s got to be new to Duke’s Ridge. I would have noticed her before if she’d been anywhere in town.”
Duh.
I mess up my corner and have to back off, glare at it awhile, and start over fresh.