“Good evening,” says a cherub-faced man with a beard like Santa Claus’s. “How can I help you kids?”
“Hi,” I begin timidly, trying to find my words. “We’re looking for a grave. My grandmother’s grave, actually. I didn’t know her, and we were wondering whether there’s some sort of directory.”
“A directory, huh? The only directory you’ll find here is locked in my noggin,” the man says with a kind smile and a tap, forefinger to temple. “My mind is like a steel trap: it never lets anything out. What was your grandmother’s name?”
I glance at Luke before turning back to Santa.
“Jo Lane,” I say.
“She died last winter,” Luke offers.
Santa scratches his head, muttering, “Lane… Lane, hmm…” I watch; the caretaker seems familiar to me. Maybe it’s just that he looks like Santa Claus.
Luke and I catch gazes again, and just as I’m wondering whether Santa’s brain isn’t as advertised, his weathered face brightens.
“I’ve got it. Aisle thirteen, plot two hundred forty-seven. Or is it two hundred forty-eight? Follow me, please.” He steps onto the path and leads us in the opposite direction from which we came. We follow, farther away from the safety of the main walkway, right into the thick of death.
As Luke and I gingerly step behind the crunch, crunch, crunch of Santa’s work boots, at least one of us wonders about the sanity of someone who chooses to work at a cemetery. As he moves, Santa mutters under his breath about Jo Lane’s funeral.
“Sad turnout, that one. Only just the man and the priest. Poor woman.”
Blameless, I’m guilty just the same.
I’m preoccupied by the eeriness of the passing graves, now that it’s officially dark outside. Low-hanging trees make it even darker. It feels like the dead of night, even though it’s barely six thirty.
Abruptly, the caretaker stops moving, and Luke grabs my waist to keep me from running into the old man.
“Here she is, two hundred thirty-seven,” Santa says, gesturing to the simple rectangular granite grave marker at his feet. I can’t help but think that he’s standing on my grandmother.
“Thank you,” I whisper, edging closer to the stone.
“No trouble,” Santa says, turning back toward the shed. “Take your time; I’ll close up when you leave.”
I hear his boots crunch away as my eyes lock on the piece of stone like it’s going to grow a mouth and tell me all the answers.
WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER, FRIEND
JOSEPHINE LONDON LANE
JULY 10, 1936—DECEMBER 10, 2009
Tears sting my eyes for a woman I never knew. My namesake, apparently. Luke wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his chest.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. I feel like I’m outside the scene, watching it unfold instead of living it.
We stand there a short while, and when it feels right, I take a step back.
“Let’s go,” I say to Luke.
He quietly leads me back the way we came, through the graves and toward the caretaker’s shed. It’s impossible for me not to picture the darkness: I can see the younger, handsome, and seemingly out of place groundskeeper smoking now, consoling me from afar. In my memory, I’m looking at him from the direction we’re now facing. In my memory, I am standing way over…
My heart leaps and my feet stop as I see it: the green stone angel who cries that day in the future.
Luke turns to face me and asks what’s wrong. Instead of answering, I take off running.