

THE GRAVEDIGGERS OF

CHAMPAGNE

COUNTY

## ELIZABETH EVANS KIRK

To the only boy I've ever loved.

And the only one worth dedicating a book to.

Andy. Always.

CHAPTER ONE

The graveyard. A place I can catch my breath and collect my thoughts. Because no one else is. Breathing or thinking, I mean. I've been coming here for a while now. Since I got out of the hospital. Sometimes I walk between the headstones, noticing first names, birth and death dates, inscriptions. Especially inscriptions— someone's life whittled down to a single sentence. And someone else's sentence, for that matter. It just seems like so much can be learned from someone's grave. Almost everything, really. In my opinion, anyway.

There is a grave for Sam, and I wonder what he had at 17. His inscription simply reads he had it all. Or Norah, who was our darling. I wonder whose darling she was.

I spend a lot of time writing under this oak tree. The Mulhollands, Vernon and Minnie, keep me company. I wonder what their lives must've been like. They died a few days apart. Lived 144 years between the both of them. A long life, by any account.

I prefer the stillness of the cemetery to just about any other place in the world. Except on Tuesdays when the gardeners weed-eat around the headstones, or on days when there's a fresh body to find space for, and then I look forward to my conversations with Albert. Albert is the gravedigger. We met a few weeks ago. Of course, I had to be forceful and strike up a conversation. Albert isn't one for small talk. Or anything with a pulse, really. Neither am I.

I watched him for several hours, forearms bulging as he heaved the shovel up over his shoulders and then jammed it back into the dirt. His grey uniform unzipped and tied around his waist, exposing a damp undershirt stained with the remains of the day's work on it, his black skin glistening in the sun. I noticed the beads of sweat that swung violently off the tip of his nose. And I noticed that he hummed the same tune whenever he was digging – nothing I could name, but eerily familiar. I wondered what it must be like to dig graves for a living. Even more, I envied him. To be able to spend your life amongst the dead, there's a certain poetic appeal to it. I waited patiently for my time to strike, and then when he was finished, packing up his tools and pulling up his work bib, I walked over and introduced myself.

"I'm Violet." I stuck out my hand with urgency. He wiped his brow with his forearm and continued passed me.

"I know," he said, his voice had a rumble to it. He kept his eyes low, and he staggered a bit when he walked. But he walked with purpose, and humility. The kind that comes with working in close proximity to the dead, or dirt, or both.

I didn't say anything, but a weird noise rose from the back of my throat. A combination of nerves and shock, I guess. I mean, the man digs graves for a living and somehow he knows my name. Seemed a little too Poe-ish for my comfort.

"I seen you around sometimes. Ain't that hard to figure out if you pay attention." He said, answering my gurgle-question.

He sort of smirked, maybe at his own cleverness, or maybe at me, but kept his brisk pace.

I followed closely behind him. Frantic for a conversation, I blurted out the only thing I could think of that wasn't a gurgle.

"You dig good graves!"

You dig good graves, Violet? Really?

He stopped and turned. I noticed the scar on his neck before I noticed the name on his uniform. It gave him a menacing look that I wasn't sure matched the softness behind his eyes, but it was enough to make me take a step back.

"What'd you say?" his eyes squinted with interest.

"Uh, heh, I said, you dig good graves, AL-BERT." Reading the name off the patch embroidered on the left side of his burly chest.

He grunted as he turned back around and continued his hurried pace. I skipped a little to keep up.

"Where you headed?" I begged.

"Lyle Richardson."

Lyle was the town's favorite barber. He was 91, and still working. Until the morning before when his wife couldn't wake him for his daily eggs and coffee.

I walked beside him to his next assignment, even though I could feel the draft from his cold shoulder. That might bother some people, but I just figured Albert didn't know enough about me yet. I'm a little rough around the edges, sure. But I don't spend a lot of time worrying about that. One of the perks of spending a lot of time around dead people. You learn to accept yourself, because we're all just going to be 6-feet under and boiled down to a few shitty words, eventually. And it won't say anything about your crippling insecurities or how brilliant you were at small talk or anything of any real significance anyway.

We walked for a bit, only the rattling of Albert's pickax and shovel between us, until we reached Lyle's plot. I waited for him to say something, but he never did. So I just sat and watched as he precisely measured the blocks of grass, and one by one stacked them on the tarp pulled taut over the neighboring space. When he was finished prepping for his dig, he looked over and nodded. I knew then that Albert and I would be friends.

That day seemed different than others.

I spend most of my days down in the hollow of the cemetery, where the oldest graves are. Also known as Section X. For the most part, that means I'm left alone more. No one visiting graves that are more than 100 years old. Lucky to find a soul that even has any distant relations to these people. A lot of civil war soldiers, young infants that died of some preventable disease, young women I can only assume were taken by child birth, and lots and lots of old people. Their names are of particular interest to me. Names like Constance Helm, F. H. Plaistridge, June Waters, John Cricket, Curtis Thimble, Elmer Bean. You get the picture. There's loads of material for the timidest of imaginations. Lucky for me, I'm blessed with more curiosity than my mother (and my biology teacher) know what to do with. Just skimming the stones for a few minutes creates a menagerie of characters that will entertain me for the rest of the afternoon. June Waters, for instance, birthdate 1843, no death date, and her inscription reads "A beautiful flower." I imagine she sips mint juleps and says things like "Oh, Rhett, you ah a devil, ahren't you?" Or Elmer Bean. He takes his whiskey in the study. He puffs his pipe and lets the smoke curl from both sides of his mouth as he pensively concludes that Dickens latest chapters might just be his best.

Each of them unique, and just as much my friends as the few I have in real life.

I didn't see Albert again for a few days. He doesn't do much digging in the hollow. Sometimes there is the random new plot that will pop up, someone unrelated to everyone, decides they'd rather spend the rest of forever at the bottom of a hollow surrounded by complete strangers that never saw an automobile or made a telephone call. I don't blame them. I'd do the same. The less I know, the more removed from people and family and society, the better. Why do you think I spend so much time in the cemetery? The dead are the best listeners.

I haven't met very many people here. I mean, I come across a few stragglers. People who have wondered down from a grave they've been visiting. A few have even made small talk with me. And by small talk, I mean, they tell me more about themselves and their life stories than I'd ever care to know and I just cross my arms, squint my eyes, and nod my head. Other than the dead, I am the best listener I know. And finally, they ask me about myself. To be polite, mind you. Not because they actually care to know. Doesn't really matter, I don't tell them anything anyway. Nothing true, at least. Sometimes I take on the persona of one of the dead. One time I was Ofelia Oaram. Born and raised in Leon, West Virginia, on the banks of the Kanawha River. My father just sold a screenplay to Paramount for a significant amount of money. That was the most interesting I could come up with on the spot. The stories have gotten better, and more elaborate with time.

Albert is the only one who knows my real name. I guess I like it that way. I can only assume that what he tells me is true about himself, as well. I've never seen him outside the cemetery. In fact, I don't ever ask him about his home life. I like to think of him as Albert, the gravedigger. That outside of this cemetery he just sort of evaporates and then reappears when another hole needs dug. Does that make me a bad person? Couldn't tell ya. Like I said, I don't spend much time critiquing myself. I don't think any of us have much use for it. Either way, me and Albert like each other. And we find that stories are the most interesting part of anyone's life. But unlike me, Albert doesn't make up stories about the people in these graves. He actually knows the real stories. It took a while before he had warmed up enough to tell me one. But boy, was it worth it.
CHAPTER TWO

It was raining that day. As I held an umbrella over him while he dug from 4 feet below, he told me the story of a boy that's stuck with him for nearly 40 years. If you must know, that's how long Albert has been working at God's Acre. That's what they call this place. He was a young man when he began, 18, summer of 1958. He said he needed the money and he passed a sign that said that the undertaker was hiring. He was the only one to apply, so they gave him the job on the spot. I guess being ok around dead people has its perks.

Things seem like they've worked out for him. At least from what I can see. Loners, people who work on the periphery of society, they get a bad rap. But it's only because they don't understand the benefits. No one understands what it's like to never have to ask permission to stay out late, or have no one to call and check in with. For those that think that's a miserable existence don't understand the essence of what I'm talking about. I'm talking about freedom. Other than being dead, it's the ultimate sense of carelessness. Now, that doesn't mean that you don't care. About people, or things, or your job. Quite the opposite, actually. Small talk and ass-kissing can take up so much of your time that you rarely have time to really care about anything. Or feel anything. Like the deep emotions of what it's like to hear a crow croak in the early fog here, from atop a dead fern. Or the feeling of flying when your windows are rolled down, going 90, listening to The Drifters on repeat for hours. (Yeah, I'm 16 and like The Drifters. Sue me.) No one to tell you that's annoying, or redundant, or weird. It's a freedom from caring about anything other than what you want to care about.

And often times, it's the stuff that no one else pays attention to that we, the outliers, care about the most. Now, I won't be as dramatic as to call us the underlings or the misfits or any other term that makes us seem lowly and insignificant. If I could, I'd come up with superhero names for us. Because, essentially, that's what we are. Feeling and hearing and seeing are super powers. If you don't believe me, pay attention the next time someone passes you in the hallway, or checks you out at the grocery store, or sits beside you on the bus. Make eye contact? Rarely. Asks probing questions that aren't canned niceties that have never served a purpose? Not likely. Remember you or anything about you the next time you see them? Never. See what I mean? If you have a skill that is a commodity in society, well, that, my friends, is a special power. Add super to it if it makes you feel good.

Anyway, back to that story Albert told me. The quality of which only an outlier could truly harness. Because it wasn't what Albert said that made it remarkable. It's what he didn't say that left your head spinning. He said it with such subtlety and poise that you didn't really understand what he was saying at first. Another power of the outlier. They don't ask to be heard or seen. You know the saying, takes one to know one? Well, that's true with Albert. If you aren't one, you would miss all of the clues that make his story great. Like the way his head would sort of twitch to one side when he would say the boy's name. Or the way he would lean on his shovel and look up with his eyes closed in between remembering and telling. Even when he was talking, in the middle of the tale, the corner of his mouth would seem to wince with pain at the very memory of it. Now, it could all be for effect, you know. But, something about it seemed genuine. One of my super powers is my sensitive bullshit meter. I can sense it from a mile away. Another reason I spend so much time in the cemetery. Death, the one thing you can't bullshit your way through. Or out of.

The boy was young, 12. And he loved baseball. Not that it matters, but so does Albert. Love baseball, I mean. If there is a Dodgers game on, he's listening (and cussing) to it. Anyway, back to the boy. He would practice for hours every day. Alone in the back of his house, which coincidentally was made out of concrete blocks. Not the nice kind, the kind that's painted chalky white and chips when you hit it. He would throw a baseball at the same spot, until that one spot was rubbed smooth and even the concrete beneath it had given way to his discipline. Or boredom. Either way, he'd bent matter at his will. Another super power.

I don't know how Albert came to know the story, but he told it with such conviction that you just sort of thought it'd always been there. Inside him, just below the surface. Carrying it with him in his pocket like a stone. It was always suspicious to me if someone told a story and didn't have some semblance of empathy for the situation in which he's telling about. For me, I don't have to live it to know what it's like to have a dream and have to stare at the shittiness of reality while holding the magnitude of your dream within the same thought. Two opposing thoughts within the same mind. Hello, super power, anyone? Ok, I'm done, I promise. Anyway, you can't ask Albert to finish the story, or pick up where he left off. You just kind of have to show up, and patiently wait it out. For weeks after that first story, which left me seriously hanging, he didn't say another word about it. That first telling must've taken a lot out of him. He needed some time to recover from it.

But the thing is, I was dying to know more. I even resorted to bribing him. I started bringing him sodas and pb&js with extra jelly and one time I even showed up with a coffee from work in hand. When I explained to him it was a caramel Machiatto, he just sort of stared at it like it was going to grow legs and walk off. Didn't touch the thing. Worked out better for me anyway. The only thing better than a single shot of espresso is a double. I don't know if Albert felt that way. I'm pretty sure between my jitters, you know when your leg won't stop bouncing up and down, and my motor mouth, he desperately tried to finish his job so he could just get away from me. Apparently a double shot of espresso turns me into an annoying little sister who wants to have a turn at the shovel. Who knew?

Finally, one day when I'd stop trying to bribe him and provoke him. I just came to keep him company, no strings attached, he decided he would tell me a little more of his story. The boy had no brothers or sisters and his parents were the poor, unhappy type. The kind that work shitty jobs for shitty pay and can't seem to find a single thing to be grateful for between the two of them. They didn't pay much attention to the boy or his love of baseball. The father was a slug of a man, with very little substance about him, and even less ambition. Sometimes his mother, if she wasn't ranting about some unpaid bill or the unfairness of having been forced to live with a man who barely moves, would come out in the yard and play catch with him. This was his very favorite thing. When someone would, even for a moment, acknowledge him and the very audacious dream he kept hidden from most people. Not that you couldn't see it if you looked hard enough. You'd find him out in the yard, every day, no matter what, throwing that same dusty ball against the same chipped spot on the side of his house. And when I say every day, no matter what, he would even do it in the rain and snow. Like the damn post office.

Now, show me a 12-year-old with that kind of unsupervised persistence and I'll show you a superhero of the grandest kind. Albert lifted himself up out of the grave and sat down beside me. I don't know if it was the story or the work that made him weary, but I was happy to have him beside me, captive audience, you know. I don't like the attention of most people. But the attention of an outlier is like being seen for the first time. There's a rush to it. You walk away with some new piece of something that you'd never known of yourself before. And you walk straighter because of it.

That day I watched his brown hands, veiny and calloused, braid a few strands of grass together while he told me more of the story about the boy. I hadn't had any espressos that day, so I was happy to just be with him as he'd remember a few things, details that made you just come out of your skin with anticipation, and then stop for a few minutes. A skill gained through years of knowing what it was like to not get what you wanted. That was the tone in which Albert told you anything. Pieces at a time. Sometimes you'd know their importance, other times you'd have to infer. I suppose working around the dead gave you a sense that you can't be in a hurry for anything. That the only thing that comes too soon is death. But the anticipation was driving me mad. I'm pretty sure at one point I had to actually sit on my hands to keep from scaring him off.

It's not that Albert is skittish. It's just that he doesn't like to be prodded. He has his own pace of things. One that he's worked hard at. And, I guess, if I dug graves alone every day, and went home to myself, I'd want things a particular way, too. Hell, I am that way now. I just felt like the payoff was worth it. So will you. Whenever you know what I know.
CHAPTER THREE

"Violet, you don't ask many questions."

He said it like he wasn't surprised by it, more like he was pleased by it. And that's the trick. I had a million questions to ask. But I just played it cool, like any good listener does. You have to let the story play out, you see. A good listener lets it become what it was always meant to. True, there's always the perception. Your perception is your reality, type thing. Sure. I won't argue that what I'm hearing is based a lot off of what my experience has been up until that point. That the neurons that are firing in my brain at the time I'm receiving the information is how the story takes shape in my mind's eye. In my mind, I pictured him to look a lot like my younger brother, Jack. Jack liked baseball, too. He would go out in the yard and play catch with my dad. I did too, for a while. Until Jack hit me in the face with a fastball and I went inside and refused to play again. I think I was 11, at the time. It didn't do any permanent damage, minus a slight scar above my left eye. Most people don't notice, but if you look closely you'll see my eyebrow has a little space in it where the hair doesn't grow. Sort of like a lightning bolt. But not nearly as cool as Harry Potter. Although, at 11, I convinced myself the scar was a sign I was destined for greatness.

You know, like you do at 11. And then by 13, you start to pencil it in. And by 15, you ask your mom if she would be willing to take you to the tattoo parlor to have it filled in. And then by 16, you, once again, believe it is the key to your own destiny.

Anyway, it took Albert only a few days to comment on my eyebrow. Perceptive as hell. He also noticed the scars on my left arm. Now, there was a time when those scars would've caused me great pain. Because that's what scars are good for. To remind you of the pain you once endured. But, for some reason, they didn't hurt as much under his gaze. I started to see them as battle wounds. And I knew that's how he viewed them, too. He had a few of his own. The biggest of which rose up from his chest and crawled all the way up to his right ear lobe. Looked too jagged to be surgical. Not ugly, per se. At least not ugly enough to make a child cry. But rough. It bypassed his esophagus with a sharp right angle and then went straight up the side of his neck. Just another piece of Albert that made him a puzzle I was desperate to solve. But patience is key with him, I think.

Speaking of puzzles, the hollow has a solitary statue of an angel with flames for wings holding a note. The note is gold and so are its wings. It's a grave marker. Must've been expensive. It's the type of thing that'll make you pay attention in a place like this. When I die, I'm not sure I would want all the fuss of a statue. Although, by the time I get around to it, I very well may feel like I deserve the attention. I'm not showy, but I can see the appeal. The marker is for a man by the name of Fitz Figgins. I'm telling you, I can't make this stuff up. If you need a reason to visit a cemetery, the names alone are worth the trip. His inscription is kind of odd. Not trivial odd, just sort of...off. It doesn't say anything bland like "From Mother" or "Rest in His unfailing arms" or anything like that. It's just that sometimes an inscription crawls into your head and eats away at your brain like a worm until you give it the attention it deserves.

Misfortune followed you down that day. That's all it said. Misfortune followed him down where, exactly? Just the type of inscription that will drive you mad. Now, I don't usually go on any sort of investigative hunt to solve the mysteries of the graveyard. I like to let them simmer and bake inside myself and then I sort of come to my own conclusions about things. That's part of the appeal. Not having to know the truth. Cause it doesn't matter one way or the other. These people are long gone. And their value fades with time, too. Unless you're one of us. And then the value never fades. In fact, it gets more valuable with time.

Nostalgists. Recycled. Reincarnated. Multi-lifes. I've heard just about every name in the book for the people who seem to be more drawn to moments of the past than they are to their own place in time. I'm a hybrid of sorts. I can live in the moment. But I just prefer to be surrounded by old things, old people, old places, just anything that predates me. I swear I was a detective in another life. Or maybe I'll be one in this life, yet. I guess I sort of am. All things considered.

I asked Albert about Fitz once. He's my Encyclopedia Brittanica on all things in this place. And if he doesn't know, he knows how to find out. I don't ask him about his sources or how he could possibly know what happened to a man that died in 1893. But just like magic, you ask him the question and he'll return some semblance of an answer. Whether it's what you want to hear, that's another story.

When I asked about Fitz, Albert had been on an extended dry spell with his story about the boy. And I thought, maybe, it was a good way to prime the pump. Keep things moving along. Or to get the worm out of my brain.

I didn't have high hopes about what he would be able to come up with. Again, these are people who haven't known anyone related to anyone for quite some time. The lead has long dried up and vanished. Each one their own enigma. Left to the lone grave walker to find out for themselves, and only then, if their interests are peeked. For Fitz, he was lucky that none of his pieces seemed to speak for themselves. They all added up to an odd unsolvable equation. Like relativity. In order to know the sum, you had to know the value of the pieces.

But what Albert told me about him seemed even more bizarre than I could've hoped. He said he was killed when the mine shaft he was working in collapsed. He was with five other men, all of whom survived. They each wrote their own goodbye notes to their families on napkins they pulled from their lunch pails. Each of them expected the same fate that Fitz met. One even wrote out his note as a last will and testament for his four sons. I don't know what of worth a miner might have to even require a will, but he did it, nonetheless. But Fitz, well, his letter was peculiar. It was addressed to his mother and it said he said he was never meant to make it out alive. That he'd known about this accident since the night the angel visited him. And told him he was meant to sacrifice himself for the others. He told his mother that he loved her. And at the bottom he drew an angel with flames for wings.

Sure, all of that seems pretty amazing. But bizarre? Not so much. Except, the thing you don't know about Fitz is that it was his first day on the job.

CHAPTER FOUR

I live at 752 Levi Street. Or I used to anyway. Now my mom and I live in an apartment above Mack's Auto Body on McNarry street. Which just happens to be within walking distance to God's Acre. It's also within walking distance to my job at the Celia's Café. I make 5.50 an hour. Enough to help Mom with the groceries, and save for a car, and buy as many books at Kip's Used Books as I can afford. I find books hypnotize the mind, and for someone like me, that's about the best thing you can hope for. My mom thinks medication is the best thing for me. She's a very confused and weak person, if you ask me. Of course, if you'd been through what my mom has been through, maybe confused is the best thing you could hope for.

Blessed Are The Dead... REV 14:13

That verse is scrawled above the lifeless iron gates that lead into the cemetery. I just happen to agree. I think Albert does too. I ride my bike here most days after work or school. It's been a tough school year, so I'm taking an extra month of summer school to catch up on my school work. Usually by this time in June I'd be well on my way to a nice, even summer tan and have already finished my summer reading list. Instead, I'm going to school and trying to save up the last $200 to buy a car from my uncle Roy. A yellow 1968 VW bug if you must know. He works in salvage. He says he's cutting me a deal. I don't believe him. But Mom insists Roy knows cars, and wouldn't try and screw me over. My mom also believes Monica Lewinsky is a liar. It's called delusion. But I'm only 16 and my options for cars are slim.

Of course, my mom has been a poor judge of character since I can remember. Starting with my dad and moving down the list. Uncle Roy is another mom-tolerable, Violet-dreaded person on the list.

Today I brought Albert a left-over scone, in hopes of coaxing the rest of the story out of him. I had to explain to him that it was like a biscuit but with fruit. He let in lay there for a few hours, until finally I ate it from pity. Before that though, while reading under the Mulholland's oak tree, I noticed an interesting site. Three enormous buck came and laid beside a new grave Albert had just dug. They didn't graze, or play around. They just all walked across the hollow and made a bed on top of the tarp that covered the hill of dirt by the opening. Serene, peaceful animals. But it was almost like they were sending me a message. Of what, I'm not sure.

I sat and watched them observe their surroundings, observe me. Never taking much notice. Apparently a girl with frizzy hair and red-rimmed glasses doesn't seem too intimidating to their breed. Not exactly what I see when I look in the mirror in the morning, but I was happy to have some non-human company for once. I put my headphones on and turned up Van Morrison. Into the Mystic, if you must know. Not some obscure bullshit that would make me feel superior in my taste in music. No, I just like good music. Don't really care what it is. Something about that song really speaks to me. Makes me feel less alone, while at the same time making me feel small. Sort of like when you travel. Turns everything, including your problems, into a tiny thing that could fit your pocket if you tried. I don't know. I just like good music, man.

"Violet.

Violet.

VIOLET."

The third one finally took. I pulled one headphone back and looked up to see Albert's giant body blocking the sun. I squinted one eye and smiled.

"Hey! I brought you a scone! It's blueberry," he took the scone and inspected it for edibleness, "Are you seeing this? These deer are amazing, aren't they?"

"What deer?"

I looked over and the three buck had vanished.

"I swear, there were three giant buck laying on the tarp of your new grave. Like pets or something. It was beautiful."

"You saw three buck?" His face sort of squinched at the forehead and his big lips tucked into to his teeth. He removed his blue Dodgers cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. He wore the cap back a little off his forehead, constantly perched like he was in the middle of taking it off. It was filthy, but in the way you knew he worked with his hands for a living. Not because he didn't care. Quite the opposite. Like it meant so much to he couldn't bear to wash it. Or didn't see any reason to. One or the other.

"Why don't you show me exactly where you saw 'em." Albert stuck out his rough hand, which swallowed mine, and pulled me to my feet. I dusted the grass from my butt. That's the thing about sitting in a cemetery, you can walk around all day with grave grass on your ass and no one bothers to tell you.

We walked politely between the graves and I pointed at the line of pine trees to the west to pinpoint where they came from.

"Well, they came from over there, and then they all three just sort of slowly, almost knowingly, walked over, stood over the grave for a moment and then just, sat down. Odd thing was how perceptive they were of everything. Not scared. But more, I don't know, protective?"

"Protective, huh? And how many points were they?"

"Points? I don't know points. What does that mean?"

"Points, like how many points on the antlers? Never went huntin or nothin growin up?"

"Quail hunting once, with the old man and my brother. Made me too sad. The sweet little feathers on their heads and everything. I wouldn't say I'm the hunting type."

"Quail huntin, huh? That takes some patience and skill. So you couldn't say how many points on the antlers?"

"I don't know." I looked up and counted the remembered points in my head. I stopped around ten. Unsure, but shrugged like it made sense. "Ten on the biggest, probably. If I had to guess."

"That ain't no small buck. And you say they just waltzed over, looked in the grave and then just, sat down. They all had antlers?"

Alberts form of inquisition made my palms start to sweat. He wasn't telling me what he was looking for. But he wasn't telling me what he wasn't looking for either. He was struck, like something I said didn't seem right. He's about as easy to read as my fourth grade teacher Mr. Billings, who's face didn't change if you made an A or an F on your test. If he'd have shaved his mustache, his mouth would have been a thin straight line that never moved. Not saying that Albert's lips never moved. He had more expression than that. It's just that you never know if you're getting the A or F. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'd like not to get an F on Life from Albert. Just a personal goal of mine.

"You must see them all the time, in the mornings and stuff?" I said, hoping to get a clear Pass or Fail from him.

"Not since 1985, when the fire burned most of the woods back there." He clicked the inside of his cheek, and looked back at the line of pine trees. Like he was trying to figure out what I might've seen.

"Well, but that doesn't mean they couldn't be there. They might just be shy. My mom always tells me I have a way with animals, you know." I sort of crossed my arms to mimic Albert's stance. He noticed and let his arms drop to his sides.

"I mean, they were just here. I'm sure if you went looking for them, you'd find something. Droppings or something."

"I reckon." He looked at his watch, silver and worn like his hat. In fact, everything about Albert had a sheen of wear to it. But in the way that made you want to be near him. Like all the bad had been knocked off, and what was left seemed purer. I wondered who had given him his watch. Was it a gift? God, I wish I had been given a watch as a gift. Timepieces don't mean what they used to for our generation. I don't think I've ever been given a watch in my life. My brother Jack got a watch once, from a family friend. It was a Mickey Mouse watch with a black, leather strap. You know, the one with Mickey standing in the middle of the face, and his fingers point to the hour and minute. He got it for winning a baseball tournament. He used to be great at baseball. Star quality, my dad used to say. That was the summer before it all fell apart.

"Billy." Albert said suddenly.

"What?"

"Billy was the boy's name."

"I'm sorry, Billy is the boy you've been talking about? The boy that loved baseball?"

"Yeah, his momma used to wear him out, yellin that name from the porch when he was in trouble or needed to come home. You don't forget a name when you hear a woman like that yell it."

I wasn't sure if he was going to say more, then he just walked over to the big maple hanging over the open grave and leaned against it. He removed his hat again, this time hanging it from a small branch. He laid the scone he'd clearly decided was poison beside it. I stood next to him, pretending to be cool with whatever choice he made. But secretly hoping he would tell me everything. Then he reached in his front pocket, and pulled out a leather pouch with hand rolled cigarettes inside. At first, forgetting exactly who I was standing next to, I assumed they were the other kind of rolled cigarettes.

"Ah, so this is how you unwind from a long day at the office?"

"Child, I can only assume you talking about grass. But no, not my taste. I just prefer a certain kind of tobacco they only sell loose. Kind we used to grow when I was little. I'd pick a couple of rows for 5 cents. Then take em up to the barn to be dried."

The fact that Albert was offering this much information into his past made me hold my breath. Almost like the deer, I didn't dare move or even breathe, for fear I would somehow ruin it by scaring him off.

"Momma would tell me, boy, you got to pick five rows fore you can play. And, oh man, I'd pick those thangs so fast, like a bullet. Fastest kid at picking tobacco in three counties." He sort of stared off past the graves, smitten with the boy he used to be. The one without the burden of life on his shoulders. He put the cigarette in his mouth and pulled his Zippo lighter to his face, using his other hand to shield the flame. He inhaled and pulled it from his mouth, waiting a minute to exhale. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he exhales smoke. Albert exhaled through both nostrils and a little out the left side of his mouth. He offered the leather pouch to me and asked me if I wanted to know what good tobacco tasted like without the filter. Not one to back down from a challenge, I accepted. He lifted the lighter to my face now and flicked, shielding the flame again. I had stolen a few packs of cigarettes from my dad in 6th grade and hung out my bedroom window to smoke them. I thought that my lungs would never recover.

I inhaled and immediately exhaled with a coughing fit to follow. I tried to keep a straight face, but my lungs weren't having it. If anyone tells you smoking filterless cigarettes are just like the other ones, well, it's true, if you add a blow torch to the end. Now you've got the idea.

Albert howled with laughter. I'd never heard him laugh like that before. In fact, I don't think I'd ever even heard him laugh at all. Maybe once, a little chuckle. But he was nearly bent over laughing at me.

"That's genuine North Carolina tobacco right there. Straight off the backs of the poor folks who work the land." He says, still giggling while he took another puff.

"Well, that's good to know. So I don't make an ass of myself the next time some old, withered character decides to offer me something that he thinks might make me appreciate the lost flavor of life or something."

Albert continued on through the night, smoking and laughing at things about his life, places and times that were easier on him. That, and other things too.

He told me another story about a woman whose grave stood not too far from where we sat. Like a lot of the headstones in Section X, hers was so worn you could only read it by tracing over the letters with a pencil, or when it rains and the raindrops fill the grooves. But Albert knew. The name on the headstone was Lila Lemmings. And her death date read 1899. The inscription said:

Here lies the body of Lila Lemmings.

She departed this life Sept. 17th 1899

Aged 22 years 5 months & 17 days

She Never Knew Love Except Christ's

Albert said Lila worked at the opera. Back when there was an opera in Champagne County. That she would take tickets at the window, and as pay was allowed to watch the show from the catwalk, high atop the theater, secured only by a giant curtain rope her tiny hand would hold. She was in love with Francesco Caruso, the acclaimed Italian tenor known for his powerful and rare high C, and she would listen achingly as he would belt the tragic melodies of Lucia di Lammermoor. Entranced and love-struck, she would weep every show, dreaming about the day when Francesco would notice her, take her in his arms and whisper softly all the things she didn't know he loved about her. This unrequited affair lasted for several months, with Lila's feelings only growing stronger. And Francesco only growing more famous.

On the final night of the Champagne Lyric Company's production, Lila took extra care with her hair, her dress, and even stole a puff of her aunt's Paris perfume and lipstick. With red lips and pounds of curls piled high on top of her head, she climbed the ladder to her typical seat on the catwalk. All the while thinking of the moment when she would sneak into Francesco's dressing room and tell him about her love for him, and how his voice made her knees tremble and her body vibrate. During the final act, as Francesco's character carries his dead lover's body in a casket, Lila leaned closely to the edge, fingers wrapped tightly around the rope, completely engulfed in the dramatic moment. And as Francesco lifted his voice to project the violent note that would express his devastation, Lila lost her grip. And from more than 30 feet above, tumbled onto the wooden stage below. Unsure of what had happened and worried, Francesco ran and swept Lila into his arms. Her bloody head and nose, her lifeless body, sealed the dramatic operatic moment as the entire opera house roared between fright and delight. As Francesco leaned in to her chest to try and hear a heartbeat, he smelled the perfume, and witnessed the beauty of Lila's tiny body. He was entangled in this moment with Lila forever.

Francesco came to Lila's funeral, and placed a single red rose on her casket. Knowing that during every final act for the rest of his life, he would think of her. The girl who watched him from the catwalk.

CHAPTER FIVE

I found a gift from Albert on Vernon's grave a few days after our late night. A handful of violets tied together with tweed. Had to be from him. Being who Albert is makes it easy to figure out my routines, and places of preference. I don't know if it's the big oak or the seemingly normal and predictable relationship between the Mulhollands that keeps me coming back to the same spot. I wander sometimes, sure, but I always come back here. It's like home. And no one bothers me. Most days anyway. Except yesterday, a straggler came down from the other graves, and I made the mistake of trying to avoid small talk with him. Those that are most desperate for it are the hardest to shake.

He had a tiny spiral notebook and was furiously jotting notes down, intently searching the names and dates on the headstones. Every once and a while he would flip back some pages, like he was cross referencing some other information he was trying to verify. Ancestry.com.

That's what I called him, anyway. Damn that new internet website. It has the potential of ruining every moment of solitude I've found down here in the hollow. You want to know who comes looking for 100+ year old graves? Folks who seem to have come to a point in their lives when their immediate family history just isn't enough for them. They must track down some distant relative to validate their boring life, like by having a great-great-uncle twice removed die in the civil war somehow makes eating lunch at their desk in a dead-end job less pitiful and bland.

"NAMES RON!" he yelled from 20 yards. Even pretending to be deep in thought with earphones placed intentionally on my ears while tracing repetitively the same flower in my notebook like I was Van Gogh didn't seem to scare him away. He walked a few feet closer and cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his name. This guy's not giving up. "MISS! Do you come here often?!"

I was forced to look up and remove one headphone. I waited for him to repeat his statement, even though I heard him clearly the first time. He moved to the row in front of me, under the same oak. My oak. I would consider this trespassing at this point, but some people are just relentless.

"Looking for someone in particular," I inquired with a fake grin, as to throw him off the scent of my clear annoyance for being imposed upon.

"How'd you know?" he laughed, his round stomach jiggled a little under his short sleeve button up and starched, pleated khakis. Beads of sweat gathered at his temples, and pasted several hairs to his forehead, which he continued to nervously wipe while talking. Before he could continue his cellphone rang from the holster on his belt. "Wild Thing." The entire first verse played loudly. He held up one finger toward me and undid the clasp at the same time. Then pulled it to his ear. "Hey BABE! Going great, just great! YEAH! Found the spot here, just gotta track her down, is all. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I know. He just faxed it over before I left the office. JUDGE RANDALL PETERS. She's related to a JUDGE, well, I guess I AM TOO."

Loud talkers. Hate their kind. Not only do they have the nerve to interrupt your moment of solitude, but then, as if the whole goddamn world revolves around them, they hold up one finger, as to say, you must wait for me while I take a phone call in the middle of our conversation. I could feel my cheeks getting red, and the anger starting to thump in my eyeballs. This guy.

"Alright, alright. Call you back, I'm talking to a nice young lady here. I think I can get her to help me. Love you! Ok, ok, ok, I will. Love you too!" He clicked a button, and slid the phone back into the case. He yanked at the other side of his pants, pulling them up from the belt.

"Sorry bout that. My wife, Linda." I nodded like I understood. Or that I cared.

"Look at you, down here, writing. Takes a certain type of person to be able to find inspiration around the dead. You ever get scared or anything? I mean, just seems sort of creepy. Young lady, hanging out in a cemetery." He laughed again and looked around to see if there was anyone else down here.

"Especially down here. I mean, these graves are so old. You know any of these folks?"

I scanned the list of characters in my mind. Sarah Divelbliss, poet? She's got a lot of hutzpah and a thick New York accent, but I'm not sure Ancestry.com could handle her preference for F bombs. Maggie Montgomery, artist? Not wearing dark enough clothes or lip liner today to pull her off. Cherry Sinclair, great niece of Upton Sinclair? She's got some great stories, but Ron would probably ask too many questions and try and research me. I finally landed on one. Untraceable.

"Charity Watson. I'm most comfortable around dead people. I read their auras, sometimes they visit me. I get the best reception for them under this oak tree. It acts as a satellite of sorts for their spirits."

I spoke barely above a whisper, and gently tucked my hair behind my ear. Mousy and flighty, with a hint of despair.

"Oh Lord. Auras, huh? Ha! No. No. I don't mess with that crap. Cause that's all it is. Just a load of bull. Psychics or mind readers or whatever you call it and crystal balls and the whole lot. Ooooh. Now, why would a nice young girl like you waste your sweet little brains on something so dumb? No offense, but it's just stupid, to me."

Ancestry took the bait. More hostile than I had pictured, but the red state in him was coming out in full force. Hopefully our conversation would be brief.

"Well, I didn't choose this. They chose me, if you will." I looked down at the ground and picked up a handful of soil. "Like this dirt, you see. Most days you walk on it, or over it. Never noticing it's power. But, if you were say, a farmer. Well, this dirt would probably say a lot to you. Say a lot about this place." I spread my fingers out and let the dirt pour through them. And then I just stared out over the graves, longingly. "Same thing with me. You pass by these graves and only see what the headstones say. But, I walk by them and hear their voices, see pictures of their lives, feel their energy." I held my hand out into the air and waved it around, then shrugged my shoulders and looked up at his face.

"I'd like to believe you, really, I would. Seem like a nice girl and all. I just have a hard time with all the woo-woo, mumbo-jumbo, the-earth-has-feelings, this-tree-talks, stuff. Just don't set right with me. God gave man dominion over all things, earth and sky. And if we were supposed to talk to it, He would've left directions, don't you think? Besides, I think we should leave all dealings of the soul up to the Almighty. People who believe that stuff are just looking for something to hold on to, personally."

He looked down at his notepad, licked his fingers and started skimming the pages again. He wasn't interested in a reply. But Ron, like so many people, had it all figured out and you weren't going to convince him otherwise. Those types of people never wait for you to answer. Because it's not a conversation.

"It was nice meeting you, but I've got some stuff I just have to do while I'm here."

"Oh right, sure. You're looking for someone."

"Yeah, and I just have to get back to it. Nice meetin you!"

"You'll have better luck up near the chapel. If you're looking for Mary Peters, I mean."

Ron whipped his head around and lost his footing for a second. "How would you know that?"

"I know a lot about a lot of folks in this place. Part of my purpose." I smiled and slowly lifted my palm to my lips and blew him a kiss.

"I, I, I gotta go." He stumbled backward, and then landed bottom first on Chester Lloyd's headstone. His phone rang again. Pink Panther theme song this time. He stood up and turned, taking small quick steps toward the foot path. He slid his phone out of his holster and held it to his ear.

"JIM! So glad you called, buddy. I need you to LOOK SOMETHING UP FOR ME." He turned his head to glance back at me. Or to make sure a ghost wasn't chasing him. I couldn't be sure.

I laughed to myself. I had to have beat my fastest-time-to-freak-someone-out record by at least 10 minutes. I was almost giddy by how well my Charity Watson choice had worked out. You can never tell, fully, how well a character will do in any situation. I assumed he probably went to church every week, maybe was on the finance board, probably owns a little business judging from the pleats and the phone holster. And the fact that he had the freedom to be in the cemetery in the middle of the day on a Wednesday. But I couldn't have hoped for a better response.

Just about that time I saw Albert out of the corner of my eye. He had parked his red pickup truck under the weeping willow on the far south side of Section X. He was leaned against it, smoking. He had a smirk on his face. Seemed pleased with something. I wondered how long he had been standing there. If he had seen Ancestry and Charity's interaction in its entirety.

I waited until Ron's loud conversation with Jim had crested the hill and faded into the background before crossing the lawn toward Albert.

"Thanks for the flowers." I said, holding them up as I approached.

"Found those growing up next to Steel Helm's plot. The weed-wacker boys were about to do away with em. Thought I'd save em from their demise."

"I appreciate the gesture."

"How was Loud Talker?" He nodded toward the hill.

"Oh, I was wondering if you saw that. Well, he was no match for Charity Watson. Nearly beat my record by almost 15 minutes."

"Charity, huh. The mind reader?"

"She prefers medium, if you must label her." I snorted a little and leaned up against the pickup. "I brought you a present too." I pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my denim shirt pocket, and handed them to him.

"Lucky Strike." He read the front of the pack. "Genuine Roll Cut Tobacco."

"They're filtered. Pure North Carolina tobacco. My dad smoked them. He doesn't anymore so I lifted a pack. I thought maybe you might like them." I smiled. "And even if you don't, at least you'll have something we can both smoke next time." I elbowed his side a little, hoping the prodding might help us talk about the other night. I hadn't processed everything we'd talked about. And everything we hadn't.

I wasn't prepared for how much he talked about his childhood, and the things that kept him up at night. Like the death of his first wife, or the time he spent the night in jail for sleeping with another man's wife. Or how he came to know the story of the boy Billy Wilkins, and how he'd dug his grave and was one of only two people at his funeral.

I shared some things about myself, too. More than I'd ever shared with anyone. I guess I'd never felt the need. No one listened anyway. And when they did, there was a look of pity that I couldn't forget. I didn't need their pity. No one ever needs your pity. What people need is to not feel alone. To not be the only ones, castaway on the island of life without another soul to understand them.

Albert made me feel less alone. And there was no pity in his eyes. He'd done and seen a lot. More than I have. And what he heard when I told him about myself wasn't a girl who needed pity. It was someone who was trying to do their best to be ok, despite all the reasons not to be.

The reason he picked up a shovel everyday was the same reason I spent my days around people who couldn't talk back. It was just easier that way.

And Billy. Well, that's a little more complicated. Billy's momma disappeared one day, went to work and just never came home. His daddy put out a missing person's report, they even put her picture up on the local news. A few weeks later they found her, living a few towns over with a man by the name of Rodney. She worked as a cleaning lady for a local motel not far from where they lived. She met Rodney one day, cleaning his room. He was everything her husband wasn't. Mainly, ambitious and talked nicely to her. She never thought about Billy. Or how it might affect him. She just left and never came back.

That meant that Billy was stuck living with his good-for-nothing father, and was even more alone than before. His father fell into a depression of sorts. Just went inside himself. He didn't buy groceries. The dishes piled up for months. The house was filthy. And Billy's only companion, his cat Chubby, died of anemia from fleas. His father eventually lost his job, and lost the house made of concrete blocks. He never apologized. Or even acknowledged Billy. He just stopped trying. Stopped living.

The state came and took Billy away not long after that. His aunt offered to take him in, but she had stayed for a time in the mental hospital and was found unfit to be his legal guardian. The family that eventually took Billy in was a middle-class family with 2 other children, both of whom played sports. The older boy loved playing catch with Billy and even took him to try out for the local little league. Of course, he made the team and the family spent the next few months going to every game Billy ever played. Like a fairytale, Billy had the family he'd always wanted. Long gone were the days playing by himself with the dusty baseball and the concrete blocks. He had people to play catch with him, and who cared about his skills. They believed in his dream of becoming a major league baseball player. His new brother even made him a promise one night that he would help him get there.

Just kidding.

That's how we all want Billy's story to go, right? Well, life isn't always that pretty. A family with two children did end up taking Billy in, but they treated Billy terribly. They only wanted the state money that came with being a foster family, and like many foster kids, Billy was shell shocked from the events of losing his entire life within a matter of months. He still played catch with himself in their backyard. The family had an old well that had been sealed over with a square block, about the size of a pitcher's mound. And Billy used it as that. It was so perfect that Billy didn't notice the cracks on the edges, or the way it sort of shifted under his weight. He just pictured the bases loaded, and heard the roar of the crowd.

No one heard his screams from the bottom of the well. The family didn't even report him missing for almost 48 hours. Nearly a week later, when his foster sister was taking the trash out, she finally noticed the top of the well was missing. She mentioned in it passing to her father, who said they should get that replaced soon. A few days after that, two police officers stopped by, walked the perimeter of the yard, and shined a flashlight down the well. Billy's body was a crinkled mess at the bottom of it. When they pulled him up, he was still holding the baseball in his hand.

The foster family didn't attend the funeral. Neither did his real family. In fact, no one did except Billy's 6th grade teacher. And Albert, who said he was buried with that dusty baseball and his headstone read

He could've been great.

CHAPTER SIX

Something about Billy's story didn't add up. But in the same way that something about my little brother Jack's story didn't either. Like most of the stories I make up about the people in this place, I just sort of let Billy's story be what it was supposed to, not what I needed it to be. There was one thing Albert said that kept ringing in my head. I didn't ask him about his father. After a while of him not mentioning it, I just assumed he didn't have one. Not one that mattered, anyway. But towards the end of his night of stories, he rubbed his neck a little. The spot where the jagged scar meets his collar bone. He just said. "Daddy sure did like to drink a lot. Fact is, he liked to drink a helluva lot more than he liked me."

He didn't say anything else after that. He put out his cigarette in the nape of the tree we were sitting under and returned his hat to the in-between-off-and-on position and then started walking toward his red pickup truck. I didn't want to push him about any of it. I followed him for a few yards and then I realized he just wanted to be left alone. So I did.

The next time I saw him was when he left me violets. I think it was an apology of sorts. Or maybe a thank you. A thank you for not following after him that night. Or asking too many questions. Or being too curious about his dad that drank too much or the scar that crawled up from his chest and stopped at his ear lobe. I'd learned as a kid not to ask too many questions. Questions would get you hurt in my house. Questions about where someone had been or who they'd been with. Those types of questions never ended well. In fact, they'd usually start something that would end with someone being hurt, normally no more than hurt feelings. A few words that would slice you nearly to the bone. Meant to keep you at bay, hurt you so bad you won't come knocking again. Until one day you'd learn your lesson for good and just stop asking.

The questions that would end in the worst ways were always from Mom.

"Rex, you never showed up last night. We all waited for you after Jack's game. He was really hoping you'd make it this time. Where were you?"

Or

"Rex, were you with her again? I smell her on you."

Or

"Rex, where's all the money from your bonus check? We were going to use that to take the kids somewhere nice."

My dad kept an office. It butted up to my bedroom. Thins walls. Generally, the questions wouldn't start until after midnight, when my mom was sure we were asleep. The questions I could sleep through sometimes. Just the sound of muffled voices, no words. But if I didn't wake up for the questions, I would wake after my dad's fist would hit something — hit the desk, or the wall, or her face.

When you're little, it's easy to learn when something hurts you stop doing it. That was the one thing I could never understand about my mother. We'd all learned to stop asking questions. We knew it made him mad. So mad he couldn't be reasoned with. So mad he would throw things, chase you down stairs, push you. But not Mom. She just kept going back. Kept asking questions. Kept getting the same answers.

As we got older, it became more and more apparent that my mother needed to leave my father. On the outside looking in, we were the all-American family. My father would have stretches of good days, all strung together. Sometimes he'd go weeks without acting up. He'd come to church with us, and even wear a tie. Throw catch with my brother Jack in the yard. And those times made the bad times even harder. Because as a kid you can't reconcile this person, this kindness, with the monster looking back at you when he decided he'd had enough of your back talk. Or when he wished you'd never been born. Those times, his eyes were pupiless, he was so full of rage that you were desperate to find the man who'd worn the neck tie at church a few hours before. But he wasn't there. Only his shell. And what was inside was black and gnarly and mean.

My 8th grade year was the year that he started to try out more than just hurtful words on us. I guess his resentment of my mother had bled over into resentment of us, too. My grandpa told me once that my father was a good student and a great football player, and he had played a year of college ball at Kansas State. Not long after being there, his knees started giving him problems and pretty soon he was in surgery, then in two leg casts and was eventually off the team and had to drop out of school altogether. I always wondered if something about Jack brought out the worst in my father. Like what was looking at when he watched Jack hit a home run was like a dagger to the heart.

Either way, I don't think about it much. Or ever. Not since we buried them. Jack and Dad, that is.

I don't visit them. Hardly even go to that part of the graveyard. I wasn't at their funerals. They were buried separately, a little over a week apart. My mother had to be put on pretty serious nerve medicine to get through them. Neighbors, church friends, hell, even our mail lady all stopped by with food, cards, more food. At one point, my grandmother's entire house, every empty counter and table space, was filled with every casserole dish on the planet. Did you know that you can turn any food you want into a casserole? Tacos? Taco casserole. Cheeseburger? Cheeseburger casserole. Cornbread? Cornbread casserole. It's like the minute someone dies, every adult woman thinks, I know just what they need. A casserole. There's nothing death can break, that a simple casserole can't fix. At least in the mind of every woman in America. When I grow up, and reach the age when it's appropriate to have to bring a covered dish to a grieving person, I'm definitely going to make a donut casserole. Who wouldn't want that? In fact, might make you even look forward to having someone keel over.

I was in the hospital for Jack's funeral. For a few days after that, too. My arm healed nicely, all things considered. Hospitals aren't that bad. The regular ones, anyway. Soap operas on all day, Wheel of Fortune on at night. All the shitty food and Jell-O you can stuff down your throat. Other than the beeping and the iv's, and the random old person screaming about an enema gone wrong, hospitals are the next best thing to real life. No one bothers you, really. I mean, not in the way that they should. The nurses come by, ask you really simple questions. They make it easy to lie to them. And then they don't ask again. Like, does this hurt? No. Good.

And you never ever see the doctor. When you do they can't be bothered with any complications, and they're so preoccupied that you can even sneak in some weird side effects and they never seem to catch it. Like, well, my arm feels fine, it's my ass that's giving me fits now. It itches, and smells terrible. They don't even laugh. They look at you, note it on their clipboard and then hand it off to the nurse and say they're increasing your morphine drip. I'm serious. You should try it sometime, next time you're in the hospital. Just come up with some off the wall bullshit, and the doctor will take you seriously, and then write you a prescription for it. It's an excellent system we've created to avoid taking responsibility for our health, don't you think? You take a pill for it, and never have to think about it again. Until you die of complications from your blood pressure medicine, and your family says you were perfectly healthy and your death came as "such a shock."

You think I'm making light of it, don't you? Their deaths. That I'm pussy footing around what happened so I don't have to deal with the truth. Or ever talk about it again.

Maybe. Or maybe I just don't think there's any point on dwelling in the past. When I do, nothing good comes of it. Like the one time I tried to ask my neighbor about his time as a World War II pilot for a school project. I spent two days interviewing him on tape, asking him all kinds of personal questions about what it was like. Like what it was like to fly a plane, and if he ever killed someone.

David was his name, but everyone called him Hutch. He was missing the fingernail on his thumb. A carpentry accident, he said. When I asked him what it was like to fly a plane, he would rub his hands together and rub the skin where his thumbnail should've been. It made a scratchy sound, like sandpaper. His hands were calloused and his skin looked more like the skin of a turtle than a man, and he held his cigarette like a joint. When I asked him serious questions he would take a drag of the cigarette and his answer would come out at the same time as the smoke. He told me he lied about his age to get into the Navy. He said he was 18 when, in fact, he was only 16. Can you imagine? Being 16 and flying a plane in an actual war? I couldn't. He said the first time he had to land on an aircraft carrier out in the Pacific it was pitch black, and he shit his pants while he was landing. Like actually shit himself. I guess that's what it's like to fly a plane at 16.

He said he shot down several planes. Watched as they dove into the ocean. Sometimes the men would parachute out of the cockpit, and then they would be captured, or shot before drifting off to sea. The way he spoke about the men he killed, and his time in service, so matter of fact. No emotion on his face, that I could see. Just a part of life back then. I don't feel much different about what I experienced when they both died. Just a part of life.

Anyway, like I said. I don't think much good comes from dwelling in the past. A few days after I interviewed Hutch, we got a knock on our door. His wife Netty said that he had died of a massive heart attack in his sleep. And despite all the reasons why a 70-year-old man could die in his sleep, the only one I could come up with was that he died of remembering. Died from the weight of it. That the responsibility of life at that age had been too much, and when I brought it up, it killed him. Plain and simple. My mother tried to console me by telling me that his story would live on through me. That my project was a way for other folks to know what a hero Hutch had been, and that he was in a better place. But I knew that was horse shit. I knew I'd killed him with my pointless interview for ninth grade history class.

I got an A on my project. Hutch died, and I got an A. It's fucked up, isn't it? Life is fucked up.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sometimes I bring a book to the graveyard, but mostly I just bring a notepad. I write down my thoughts. My stories. Their stories. My therapist told me a few months after they died that it might help me, and I've carried a small spiral bound steno pad ever since. On this particular day I'm scanning my brain for anything of worth to write down. Can't find much. I could always write about food. I love food. I'm a sucker for pizza and hot dogs. A hot dog is just about the best food on the planet, if you ask me. Don't get fancy with it. Like Chicago-style or anything. Just the essentials, ketchup, mustard, maybe a dash or two of dill relish. But that might be pushing it. Depends on my mood. Today, no relish.

I don't feel like writing about hot dogs right this instant, so I put the notebook back in my bag and decide to go to a stranger's funeral. I do this a lot, too. Graveside funerals are the best kind, in my opinion. Something about mourning someone while watching their body be lowered into the ground. It's just, it gets real for people then. Not that seeing their casket on display in a cold room with a cheap PA system and Take My Hand, Precious Lord playing on CD isn't real. But a graveside service normally catches people off-guard. They're not prepared for it. The proximity to the grave, surrounded by graves. Most times it's the men that have the most intense emotional reactions to it. Men, we tell them to bottle it up, don't show their true feelings, and, for Christ's sake, don't cry. And then when they're face to face with it, they just lose it.

Tiny casket today in Section Peaceful Valley. I linger a few feet behind the family. No one ever knows everyone that comes to a funeral. Unlike weddings or christenings, people hope more folks than they realize will show up. Like the life they're mourning meant more to people then even they knew. I see Albert sitting on a stump by the foot path. A few yards from the service, but still within earshot. His tools beside him. Tiny graves are the hardest to dig. Even though the graves are smaller. It's the hardest on your mind, I think.

"Dear Lord, we don't understand all your ways. Why sweet Bennett was taken from us so soon. But we trust that he is resting in your everlasting arms, and you are holding him close to you right now. I have a poem here the family would like me to read. It's written by his sister Emma. She couldn't be here today, she's in the hospital. But she wrote this for him to be read today."

The mother buries her face even farther into a Kleenex, she sobs from her shoulders and her knees nearly give way. I wonder if this is what my mother looked like at Jack's funeral. I wonder if any one of the women who dropped off those casseroles handed her another tissue or put an arm around her. Death does peculiar things to people. Especially parents who have to bury their babies. Something happens to the heart that can never be undone. My mother told me once that burying a child is like ripping your own heart out of your chest, putting it in a box, and burying it six feet under. But it never stops beating.

Suddenly I'm keenly aware of a presence beside me. A few feet taller than me. Black hair, black hoodie, black pants. Appropriate for the occasion, except that his hood is up. And from here he looks more like the grim reaper than someone mourning a child. He pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds from his hoodie pocket, smacks the pack against his wrist and pulls one from the rest.

Wow. Classy. Funeral smoker. Takes balls.

Not as bad as a loud talker, or loud cryer. But still. I can't help but think that he's supposed to be closer to the body than he is. And that he isn't supposed to be wearing that. The rebel types. I imagine he probably listened to Jeff Buckley on the way over here. The only thing worse would be if he had earphones in. And then he'd be a bonafide freak. For now, he's one step removed from freak status. Could be worse.

He glances at me a few times. In between puffs. The poem was nice. She's a decent writer, that Emma. She was probably going places too. Until someone put her in a hospital and her brother died. Now she's fucked. For the rest of her life, probably. And whatever promise she has as a writer will be overshadowed by this thing. This event. That the family will have a hard time talking about. But will join them on every family vacation, every single happy event of their lives will now be less happy. And it will take years for them to even notice. That their happy meters never went back to normal.

That's the real sadness here. That he couldn't have waited to die. Until they were at least 30, and then she'd have some semblance of coping skills developed enough to not let it ruin her life. But at this age, she'll be going along, thinking she's just fine. And then bam, she's in the office of some therapist with skinny hands and high cheekbones who keeps telling her to say "And it makes me feel this way when this happens." And then hands her some books called How to Let Go Of Your Mad Baggage and Get Your Angries Out and sends her on her way.

Jeff Buckley is moving toward me now. Great. This is going to be fun.

Hmmm. Character selection is key with this guy. Can't be too cutesy or he'll notice.

Flossie Pressfield, lunch lady. That might work, but I don't know where the kid went to school. If he asks, I can probably throw him off the scent pretty easily. There are only two elementary schools within 20 miles of here. And it looks like they have several plots. So they're probably close to home, and plan to visit regularly.

"Booth. Rothschild." He holds out his hand for me to shake it. The one that isn't holding a cigarette.

"Flossie. Pressfield. Nice to meet you."

"How do you know the family?"

"Uh, I was Bennett's lunch lady. Thought I'd come pay my respects."

"Oh wow. Kinda young for a lunch lady, aren't you? I don't know, I always picture lunch ladies to have more moles than they have teeth and they're at least 50. I'd've loved to have had you as my lunch lady."

"Yeah, well, I love food. And I love kids. Just kinda made sense. Plus, who can resist shoveling troughs of mashed potatoes and green beans all day?" I semi-snort at myself. That one came out funnier than I'd expected. "What about you? How do you know the family?"

"Related." He finishes his cigarette and stuffs his hands inside his hoodie pocket. "Hate these things. Not a funeral guy. Don't really see the point. I mean, who are they for anyway? The dead doesn't know you're here. And the living are out of their mind with grief and won't remember it anyway. Just seems, I don't know, masochistic. These people are torturing themselves."

"That's an interesting theory. I don't disagree. Especially these kinds of funerals. Children are so innocent. And a parent should never have to bury a child. His mother is clearly devastated." I let the words hang for a moment and shook my head with pity as I gesture in the mother's direction.

"Oh, the lady dramatically crying into her hands? That's not his mother. That's his step mother. And she doesn't like children. Especially her husband's. Not really sure why she's crying. Attention whore, I guess. Or because to not be seen crying at the funeral of a child would just say too much about what a cold-hearted bitch she is." He catches himself from a rant I feel would explain a lot more. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I just really hate fake people. And she's the most fake people I know."

"Wow, don't hold back or anything! Ha."

I mean, I get the wicked step mom story. A little cliché, sure. But only if you're the kids. I don't have any experience with the kind, other than watching Cinderella a bajillion times when I was little. I feel like I related most to Lucifer the cat. But there were no caskets in that, or weird hooded stragglers smoking at the graveside filling me in on all the dirt. Not that I'm complaining. Just trying to put the pieces together, is all.

"Bennett's my brother. Well, step brother, if you want to get technical. But who wants to get technical when you're staring at his corpse. And that fucking terrible actress up there is my fucking mom. Full-blooded mom. Can't get more technical than that."

He laughs ironically and pulls the hood off his head. He is more human looking than I anticipated, less Grim Reaper. And a strong jawline that he clenches, making all the veins in his neck stand at attention.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" I ask as he is giving me a once over.

"Depends."

"Why the getup? I mean, I get it. Black, it's a funeral. But just seems a little too, I don't know, angsty for your age. What are you 20?'

"Angsty huh? Well, I'm not 20. Yet. And this is my uniform. If you must know. "

"Ah, uniform. For work. Got it. Fast food? Gardener? Serial killer?"

"Much more dramatic than that. Gravedigger, actually."

"What?" I am taken off guard by this response, even taken off balance, a little.

"You can't be. A gravedigger, I mean. Well," I clear my throat to throw away my initial reaction. "That seems very odd." I look behind me and Albert is still sitting on the stump with his tools beside him. He is looking at me, something like pleasure on his face.

"Gravedigger, huh? Here? And how on earth did you get that job?"

"I prefer the dead. And I like to use my hands. Just kinda made sense." He grins, mockingly emphasizing my lunch lady explanation.

This guy. This GUY. What is he doing? Am I in the twilight zone? What is happening here that I don't know about. And why is Albert grinning at my expense?

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Booth. I have to go. Work and all. But good luck with your grave digging—gig thingy. Sounds very, I don't know, weird. But interesting."

"Wait, that scared you off? It's not like I kill people or play with dead bodies. I just dig holes. And I just started. This is my first week. The gravedigger's apprentice, actually. Here," he pulls out his cellular phone, "what's your number? You seem like an interesting girl. I don't meet many interesting girls. Especially in graveyards."

Worst pick-up line ever. And I hate cellular phones. And I hate the way this guy's lip sort of rises on one side, like a permanent sneer.

"I don't have one of those fancy phones, actually. Brain cancer. Studies on mice prove the radioactivity from the signal does permanent damage. And they have no idea the long-term effects of it on the human brain. But you seem like a nice guy, and I appreciate the offer. Of you...asking me...for my number. And finding a young lunch lady interesting. At your step brother's funeral. Very chivalrous."

He laughs. Then turns his whole body toward me.

"Then, can I at least get your real name?"

My heart starts to beat in my ears, I am becoming acutely aware of his chest, and it moving closer to me. And the muffled sound of the strangers from the funeral. The service is over. I don't want to be stuck having to tell Flossie's story to everyone. Especially since this guy seems to know my secret.

"What are you talking about? Flossie Pressfield is my real name." I stubbornly defend.

"Well, I dug my first grave yesterday. Want to guess whose grave it was next to? A Flossie Pressfield and her husband John. Plus, I've seen you around here. And the café. On your bike. I don't know many lunch ladies riding to work on bikes."

"Well, is Booth your real name? I mean, seems a little odd. You start working here the same week your step brother dies? That's just a little too convenient."

"Actually, I started two days after he died. Because it seemed like a good way to stay close to him. And take my mind off of other things."

"Fine. Violet."

"What?"

"My real name. Violet."

I make a quick stride to the footpath. I feel exposed, like I am suffocating. Like someone has their hands around my neck, while simultaneously opening the photo album of my life, going through the pictures without my permission.

I have never told anyone here my real name before. Well, besides Albert. But Albert is safe. He was one of us. This guy, he doesn't feel safe to me. He feels like an imposter. Like someone who pretends to be safe only to pull the rug out from under you later. And I hate people. Have I mentioned that? Like, I have a serious problem with new people. And I don't like to get to know people. New people. Because it always means they must get to know me. And we both know that that can't happen. Too much to lose. And it always ends the same way. You give an inch, they take ten miles.

People are relentless, and they always want more than you can give. And it's never enough. They're trying to fill some hole in their life, in themselves, that you, even on your best day, could never fill. So then, after they've sucked every ounce of new and fun and interesting from you, they toss you aside. And all the good that you've come to know of yourself. The stuff you've picked out and started to approve of and even admire about yourself, well, that seems stupid now. And you're left feeling more fucking empty and alone and worthless than before you started. So what the FUCK IS THE POINT OF GETTING TO KNOW PEOPLE? Because, in the end, they aren't worth it.

People suck.

I learned that a long time ago. To never expect too much from people. Or from life. Because you're bound to be disappointed.

I run to get my bike and then make a mad dash for home. I reach in my back pocket and pull out a tiny white pill. My therapist made me promise whenever I felt the overwhelming need to run, to get away from people, that I would take this. It was one of the deals I made to get out of the hospital. Not the first hospital. The second one. The one my mother thought I should be in after what I'd seen. This little white pill and keeping a journal of all my crazy thoughts for my therapist to read. Those are the two deals I made for my freedom. At this point, I haven't taken this pill in a few weeks. I keep telling my mother I'm taking it, and the pills disappear from the little orange bottle, but mostly I hide them. In my pockets, under my tongue, in my backpack. Anywhere I know my mother won't check. And she doesn't much. Check. On me. Or ask about me. She's busy with her own shit. I get it.

The thing is, up until a few days ago, not taking the pill hasn't bothered me. But the night after my night with Albert, I stayed in Section X late. And something strange happened. There was a loud buzzing in my ears, the kind that makes all other sounds obsolete. And then a flash of light, palms sweating, heart pounding. I felt like I was dying. And then suddenly I saw them again. The three deer that had visited me that day by the grave Albert was digging. Walk over and lay on top of a grave. I wasn't sure what to do, but something in me decided to go greet them.

You're going to think I'm crazy. And now that I've told you I sort of already am, you're probably not going to believe me. But something happened. To me. Or to them. I can't be sure. I heard music. Calliope music. Like from the circus. And the deer were gone and in their place was this spirit. Ghost. Woman. Whatever you want to call it. There, sitting on her headstone. Smoking a cigarette. In red sequins and nylon.

Here lies the body of

Adelaide Lettie Walsh

Do not weep for me, for I am not dead.

1898-1920

She was one of the first characters I'd inhabited a few months ago. I'd made up some story about her, and played the part perfectly. Because why live your own boring life, when you can live many. And be whomever you want. With no limitations except the ones you choose. It's a rush. Much like the one God gets, I'm sure. When he sews together the facts and figures of a life, and he pricks his thumb. Does he suck his blood or just laugh at the irony that he's God and he hurt himself creating?

But the story she told me about herself was much more fascinating. A circus trapeze artist, she was 22 when she died, plunged to her death from the highest trapeze under the great white tent while the fire breather and the lion tamer looked on in tragic astonishment. She fascinated me terribly. The way she spoke, the tilt of her head, the funny way she rolled her r's when she said three. I was hooked on her every word.

Adelaide said she grew up outside of Pittsburg with a father that couldn't stand the sight of her and a mother that wasn't much better. So she set off when she was 16 with just the clothes on her back and road the rails until it brought her to St. Louis, where she fell into the arms of a man by the name of Levi Walsh. And they married a few days later. She tried her hand at homemaking and marriage but it didn't take. And just as quickly as she came, she left one night, hoping to find a better life.

One where she could soar in the sky, where the limitations of the earth didn't bind her. Where she could bend the laws of gravity and touch the stars. And then she saw it. Walking down Main Street, the girls in red sequins and nylon atop the elephants on parade, bending this way and that, doing flips and loops and splits. She saw the way the onlookers were just mesmerized by their tiny bodies and curious as to how something so magnanimous could come from something so small.

She followed the elephants and the tiny sequined dancers to the big top and watched the whole thing in captive delight. Paradise in all its glory, she thought. And as she was leaving she saw a bearded man with a pipe and a top hat, and she asked who she needed to talk to for a job with the circus. He chuckled as he puffed the smoke in pleasure at her question. You're lookin' at him, kid. He said in reply. He agreed to train her on the trapeze if she'd look after him in private. Not in the way you think. Get your mind out of the gutter. Simpler. Read to him, be kind to him, give him the joy of being in the presence of a woman after so many years of being alone. They shook hands on it and she spent the next 6 years balancing on a wire 40 feet in the air to the sound of oohs and ahhs and cheering from the sold-out stands.

The ringmaster never knew how much he cared for her until he watched her fall to her death. He enjoyed her voice, yes, and the way she'd come to care about the small things about him. The way she would always be waiting for him in his room after the show each night, talking in loud and boisterous gestures about one thing or the other that had happened that night that was different than the night before. And how she smelled of honeysuckle, and sweat, and chalk when she would go to hug him each evening.

But it wasn't until after her death that he realized he'd loved her in a way that only men can who've never been loved themselves. That it had creeped up on him and overtaken him, and now the grief was so strong he felt as if someone was squeezing his lungs with their fists. And everywhere he looked he was reminded of her delicateness and determination. And he felt lost and alone. And every night in his room, he would follow each whiskey with another until he couldn't feel her anymore. And he would drift off to a dreamless state that wasn't quite sleeping. And then he would wake up in the early dawn light, empty bottles at his feet and there she was again.

He couldn't escape her, no matter how hard he tried. Every night under the big white tent became harder to stomach. Like trudging-through-mud-up-to-your-knees hard. And every night he'd have to have more to drink in order to numb the pain.

Until finally, after months of this, and no one noticing because he'd lost the only person who would, he picked up a gun and put it to his temple. He'd wanted so much to be with her again, so he pulled the trigger.

Only he didn't die. The gun didn't have any bullets. In fact, it shot a flower into his head. Which made him laugh. He'd picked up the clown cowboys' gun, by mistake. He knew it was her. And that she was still watching out for him, noticing the things about him that no one else did. Finding the good things in life and making sure he saw them, too.

When they finally laid the ringmaster to rest, years later, they laid him beside sweet Adelaide beneath the weeping willow. And his inscription simply reads:

Linden Bolt Holloway

Lover of Adelaide who flew too high

Before I could even respond to the beauty of her story, or ask her questions, she was gone. Just as quickly as she'd come. And I was left there alone. In the darkness of the graveyard, only the loud, intoxicating roar of the cicadas to keep me company. And the thing is, I'm not sure what's real about that night and what isn't at this point. If it wasn't for the rose-kissed cigarette filter left on her grave, I might think I made it all up.

Maybe I am crazy after all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

To the reader of this journal—Dr. Salford July 19th, 1998

I know what you're thinking. And how you're one eyebrow rose slightly with these revelations. And I'm not going to spend time explaining to you what exactly has happened. Or how it came about. Because all of those things will be revealed, eventually. If you can pick up on clues and have a mind to think for yourself. But I won't kid myself. You may never figure it out. Because it takes one to know one, like I've said before.

And to over-explain is such an injustice to the perceptive. Why ruin the mystery for all, when a select few are just too lazy to connect the dots themselves. Or too dumb. And in that case, they don't deserve to know anyway because they'll never understand no matter how many times you explain it or in what ways you tell it differently.

Imagine you were 16, and life was different. A good many things had been taken from you. The best of things, actually. You would be different. You might never be ok again. Yeah, it's that type of thing. You just have to accept that some people will never understand why a young girl would prefer a graveyard to any other place.

But to know why it's my preference, you'd have to know me personally. You know what's happened to me sure. But you don't know me. I just don't share that information with anyone. I think it was Hemingway that said 'Be careful who you open up to. Only a few people actually care, the rest are just curious.' I find that true. And I refuse to open myself up like a book to be read by you, when I don't know and can't tell from this distance whether or not you can be trusted. Or that you really care about me, and aren't just a curious looky-loo who wants to stare at me through the window of my words and judge me without ever knowing me.

Of course, I'll tell you things. I'll tell you the whole thing. But I won't say it in the straight forward way that will make reading this diary just another thing on your list of things to do today. Because what is the fun in that? I'm making all the effort here. And you are just sitting somewhere, consuming me like a latte. With nothing on the line. No sacrifice being made on my behalf. And I find that the most disheartening part of writing this. That the storyteller must take all the blows, while the reader just sits safely from a distance. Faceless and cowardly. Able to come and go as he pleases. No real care for me or my life. I can't stop and start my life as you have this diary.

It's a travesty. My life, our relationship, Doc. How much I've given and how little has been given in return. And you will act as if what I have done isn't significant. And that it can be put down and walked away from whenever you are bored, or busy or something else more interesting comes into your life to hijack your attention. But then, if I were to end this, let's say. Right now. And never write another word. You'll start to pay more attention. You'll ask other people about me. About what happened to me. Maybe even try to put me back there, in that hospital. Just to figure out what I saw that day.

See. I know you're paying attention. But I can't handle this bullshit act of yours, the one you put on from behind your safe little wall, that judges me, diagnoses me. Makes notes about my behavior, but never tells me what they are. I get it, you're the doctor. I'm the patient. I'm the storyteller, you are the reader. But I think our relationship is a little one-sided. You should have to pay a price to continue reading. I don't want your name in blood, or your first born, although that's not a bad idea. I do, however, think that confessing something, a secret, is a good way to start. I give you something, you give me something in return. So I'm going to ask for a confession. Something you've never told anyone before. And you can send it to me here. VioletChance82@hotmail.com.

That's the only way to do it, I think. That evens the playing field and makes you put a little more skin in the game, Dr. Salford. Until then, I just don't think I can keep writing in this diary. It just doesn't seem fair.

So. That's that. On to other things.

Yours Neurotically,

Violet Chance

CHAPTER NINE

When I was little, I had a great-aunt lying on her death bed. I'd never met her, only heard stories about how she was fiery and temperamental. My kind of woman. She lived a few states over and my mother was convinced that we needed to go see her. My mother isn't the sentimental type with her family unless someone is dying. Then she'd just about walk through brimstone to get to you. Like it was a part of her earthly duty to escort you into another life. I don't know. I think she thought the great-aunt had some money and a nice armoire she was looking to "inherit."

It was just her and I as we set out on this long road trip in the middle of summer in our blue station wagon. I was going through a Beach Boys phase at the time, and had brought along the "Be True to Your School" record on cassette tape. The car was missing the rewind button, so you had to play the b-side in its entirety. She didn't mind, and let me play "In My Room" more times than any person should ever have to listen to that song consecutively. My mother was always a great sport about those types of things.

When we arrived, I met a middle-aged man by the name of Franky. He was sitting on the porch swing on the white washed wrap around, with a pile of cigarette butts by his feet. His hair was slicked back with grease and his skin was tanned the color of toasted almonds. He was swinging so hard that the hook on one side of the swing was coming lose. He was mumbling to himself, maniacally. My mother introduced us, and as we stepped inside the house she whispered in my ear that that was my great-aunt's son and he'd suffered a nervous breakdown a few years back. Now, I'd never seen a person have an actual nervous breakdown. In fact, I'd only heard it used ironically in our house after a stressful situation or my mother was fed up with asking us to clean our rooms. I didn't even know it was a real thing. But as my mother climbed the huge staircase to her aunt's bed, I stayed by the window and watched this creature and wondered what on earth could've happened that would've made someone lose their mind like that. And how do you go about losing your mind in the first place.

It was September of last year when I finally learned the answer to that question. And soon after, I realized that you don't ever get it back. You can only take medicine and hope to God that at some point the person that you once were will start to look back at you in the mirror. I'm lucky, I know. I can still function, and keep a level head about myself when it's important. I'm not chain-smoking in the corner of a room somewhere, talking to myself incomprehensibly.

Of course, if you'd have seen and done the things I had then you'd probably be in the same boat. I'd like to think the average person would be worse off than me. I've got superpowers and all. So I'm more equipped to handle trauma. Trauma. That's an interesting word, isn't it? Webster defines trauma as this:

trauma |ˈtrouməˈtrômə| noun

a deeply distressing or disturbing experience: a personal trauma like the death of a child. Emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may be associated with physical shock and sometimes leads to long-term neurosis.

"Sometimes leads to long-term neurosis." Neurosis. That's an even more interesting word.

neurosis |n(y)o͝oˈrōsəs| noun

a relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behavior, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality. Compare with psychosis.

"Relatively mild mental illness." Makes it sound so small it's almost flippant, doesn't it? Like you could just dust it off if you wanted. Oh, but I've tried. Dusting it off. Ignoring it. Pretending like it never happened. One time I even tried cutting it out. Thinking somewhere in my chest was something I could remove, like a cancer. They thought it was a suicide attempt. That I had stabbed myself to try and die. I wouldn't have complained if that was a result, but it definitely wasn't the goal. I just wanted it out of me. So I could be free.

I would sit and stare at other people, at the traffic light, in school, at church and wonder if they had the same troubles. I watched a couple in line at the grocery store, he was rubbing her back and she turned to peck him on the cheek. I didn't sigh at this quaint picture of true love. Instead, I thought about the worst fight they'd ever had. I wondered how red his face could get, and how loud she could scream at him. What names they would use. My therapist asked me what I thought that meant. Asked if I hated love. I didn't think so. I just wondered what everyone else's ugly looked like. If everyone else carried around this crushing weight in their chest. Or if I was the only one.

Turns out, I think I am.

Albert makes me feel normal. The only person who hides more than me is him. The only one with more secrets. But he's so poised about it. Like he's gotten used to the weight.

Honestly, I was an island before I met him. I know what they say. No man is an island. But I was.

I remember once Albert stopped suddenly in the middle of digging, looked up at me and said "I like having you around." That's it. May not seem like much to you, but it was the single nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. Pierced me like a needle. Cracked me open a little, even. And the weight, in my chest, it lessened. Permanently. It never went back, even though I waited for it to.

Funny how the truth, in its simplest form, can change a person.

I've tried to return the favor several times. Like last week, for instance, I packed a lunch for him. A few of his favorite things —a tomato sandwich, mustard potato salad, and a bottle of Makers Mark. I imagined those were his favorites, at least. He never mentioned them specifically, just things I've picked up on. Odds and ends from stories he's told, pieces of conversations and moments. I once saw an empty bottle of Makers Mark in the back of his truck. I assumed it's his favorite because he drank it all. So he must like it. Anyway, my dad had a full bottle at home. Not like he's using it. The dead don't drink. Thank God.

Another time he told me his momma made the best mustard potato salad. Her secret ingredient was malt vinegar.

I've realized that people like it when you pay attention when they're not looking. When you notice little things without them having to point it out. Because, sometimes, they don't even recognize it about themselves.

I don't know if he liked his lunch, I only got a little nod and a grin from him the next time I saw him. He asked me how I got the whiskey. I told him my dad gave up drinking. He didn't say anything after that. I think he drank it. But digging those graves are no small feat, mind you. Takes a lot out of you, physically. A typical grave can take you somewhere around 5 hours, and that's on a perfect day with good weather. Any complications, like hitting rock, or getting rain, sometimes it can take you 8 hours, or even a few days. It's a dangerous job, too. Graves can collapse, even on top of you. Albert told me once about a friend who was buried alive while digging. They didn't find him until the next day, and by then it was too late. And if a grave collapses, often times it's into the adjacent grave, and that coffin is exposed. Then you have to deal with the cleanup, and keeping loved ones from seeing it, or smelling it, at the funeral. It's a whole thing.

But Albert is proud of his work. And I don't blame him. He's one of the only diggers left that still dig graves by hand. It's more of an art form to him, than anything. He feels called to do it. He's told me that himself. That he knows he's doing the work of the Almighty. He says machinery like back hoes are impersonal, and disconnect you from the work you're doing. And they're less exact, they're messy, and he doesn't like it. He believes there is honor and dignity in burying the dead, and he has a deep reverence for it.

Makes me proud to know him, to be honest. I know there are so few of his type left. Not just in his line of work, but in the way he views the world. The kind of person that will do just about anything to make sure the job is done right. Even if it means standing in the freezing cold or the rain. He feels obligated to them, even though they aren't living anymore. Imagine, if your boss was dead, would you still feel compelled to be meticulous with your work? I don't know a lot of people who would. I'm not even sure I would.

I guess it's the commitment that attracted a certain Booth Rothschild to shadow him. Just being close to someone who cares so deeply about their work makes you better. More attuned to the true nature of things.

CHAPTER TEN

I've gotten used to having Booth around now. It's been a few weeks and he keeps to himself mostly. Sometimes I'll catch him leaned up against a tree or sitting on rock, smoking and looking intently in my direction. Like he's studying me. Albert told me he's a good kid and that I should give him a chance. But Albert's like me and doesn't take quickly to new people. So he understands my apprehension.

We haven't spoken much since the funeral. I'm still not sure he's safe. One of us, I mean. Like I've said before, my bullshit meter is pretty sensitive, and it's hard to fake being an outlier. You have to be committed to your carelessness, you can't just half-ass it. Because if you're not, you'll quit. You'll give in. To people and opinions and the hardness of being alone. And trust me when I say that whatever you commit to, life will test you on. Drag you around a bit, just to see if you mean business. That's when the bullshitters let go. "Right when the skin on your backside is raw" as Albert would say. Most importantly, you can't be weak. I'm not saying Booth seems weak. It's just, there's no room for it. Not in grave digging, and especially not in death.

He's taller than Albert, more broad in the shoulders. Makes it harder on his back when he digs because he's further from the ground, he says. So he takes more breaks. Which Albert says is lazy. And there's no time for it when you're preparing for someone's burial. Strict time line on certain days, and strict funeral directors. The old funeral director, Zora, recently retired. She was almost 80 and just couldn't handle the stress of it anymore. I think her replacement makes Albert nervous. She's young and buttoned up. Wants things just so and wants it done quickly. She's completely opposed to the inefficiency of digging by hand. Which means she's basically completely opposed to Albert.

"All a man's got is his work. And when he cain't do it with pride, then you've robbed him of himself. It's the worst kind of sin. To sin against yourself."

Albert talks about sins a lot. And his relationship with God. He isn't preachy with it. He just has a sense that we all have a purpose, and that it is our job in this life to find it and do it to the best of our ability. He asked me once what I thought my purpose was. I told him I didn't know. I hadn't found it yet.

I think that's why Booth is here. He's hoping to find his purpose, and looking for it just about anywhere he can. I don't blame him. Some people can go their whole lives and never find it. And then some people, like my brother Jack and Albert and even Billy just know. Like they always knew.

Something Albert said the night we talked about Billy didn't seem right. Not like he was lying, but more like he was moving some things around. I couldn't help but be intrigued by the idea that a boy could lay at the bottom of a well for days in someone's backyard and no one notices. I'm not saying it's not possible. It just seems odd. But more than that, it was the fact that Albert had mentioned that he'd heard Billy's mother say his name before. But then he said he heard the story from his teacher the day of his funeral.

I'm not one to go and try and connect the dots. Not that I'm not a curious enough person to, because I'm definitely curious. But when you go looking to try and makes sense of something, it can change things. Start trouble.

I don't think he was intentional in his efforts to deceive, but when you move things around the facts can leak out. You can hurt yourself with the loose ends. You get tangled up in them.

I wasn't going to question him about it. I was going to do the only thing I ever knew to do. Listen. Well. And hope that it just appears. And if it doesn't, then I wasn't meant to know the truth. May seem like the cowardly way to go about it. And you may be right about that. But sometimes life isn't about proving yourself right. It's about letting that truth come to you.

  *

"You always sit down here?"

My pretend music is playing through my headphones, so I don't have to answer him if I don't want to. I am staring at his feet. Black work boots with mud caked on the bottoms. He's been working today. I pull the headphones from my ears and place them around my neck

"You know the answer to that. You've been watching me for weeks. And if you don't, then you're not as good at this as I thought."

Violet, take a breath. No need to unleash the Hulk on this guy. Remember Joey from fifth grade? You punched him on the playground and made his nose bleed and you really just wanted to be friends.

"Ha. You're right. I know the answer. Should've been more like, you always sit down here. But I thought that would seem brusk and pretentious. I should've known you'd like that type of guy."

"What type of guy?"

"The brusk and pretentious type."

"Strike 2. I'm not interested...in guys. And even if I were, brusk and pretentious, or dark and broody wouldn't be on the list."

"Damn, Violet. I wondered if you were."

"Wondered if I was what?" I was consciously trying to calm myself down. Nothing good ever comes of asking questions.

"In the words of T. S. Eliot, a prickly pear type. Or a lesbian. Think you might be both. Which means I have no shot. Because I don't have the skin for it. Or the right anatomic parts." He sat down beside me and pushed one leg out, holding onto the other at the knee.

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Your perception of me."

"Why?"

"Perceptions are always interesting. Because they are the truth from the other side. And I find your truth about me fascinating. Between the reality and perception falls the shadow."

"Eliot didn't say that."

"No, he didn't. Violet did. With a pinch of Eliot. I felt it appropriate with your prickly pear reference."

"Interesting."

"What?"

"The way your mind works. And how you choose a response. I call you a prickly pear and you find it interesting."

"So technically, you find me interesting. Which I can appreciate. Because I find myself extremely interesting. Almost the most interesting person I know."

"Ha! Well, aren't we a conceited little thing. If you're almost the most interesting, who would be at the top of your list?"

"Living, Albert. Dead, every person buried down here."

"Hmm." He sighs with disappointment.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just sad I'm not at the top of your list. Or even on it, it would seem." He looks off dramatically, hoping for a response.

"Do me a favor." I want to put him on his toes.

"I don't think so. Uninteresting people don't do favors." His brow creases in the middle and there is a playful flatness to his voice.

"Take your shirt off."

"Ha! You're kidding."

"What? Issues with taking your clothes off in a cemetery or with being asked by someone you consider a lesbian?"

"No, not that. I have no problem with a woman telling me to take my clothes off. Just an odd request coming from you. What are you going to do? Judge me by my physique? Look and see if I have hair on my chest or if my body is enough to convince you to come play for the other team?"

"Well, I suppose you'll never know will you? I don't think you'll do it anyway."

"It's blazing out here, so I'll do it. But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you tell me what you're looking for. Or what you find."

"I don't know if I can."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Yet."

"Somehow I feel like an experiment with you."

"Here we go round the prickly pear. The prickly pear." I smile at my own brilliant timing. Eliot would be proud.

"Fine." He unbuttons his collar first and then follows his buttons down the front. I'm not going to lie. It's fun watching a guy undress. The way they choose to take off a shirt, for instance. Sometimes it's calm and collected, and other times they rip it off over their heads like it's on fire. Booth is somewhere in the middle. Eager but not clumsy. He is confident. At least enough to allow him to strip in front of an almost stranger in the middle of a graveyard. I can admire the courage.

"I wish I'd brought some cards. Strip poker would be fun with you, I think." I smile coyly, hoping to get a laugh out of him. He takes his work shirt off, exposing a white undershirt that's thin from wear. The words Love Machine in bubbly 60s font scrawled across his chest and the picture of a faded Pac Man head beneath it.

"Oh you're making this too easy on me."

"I feel like one of those monkeys in a lab cage and the scientist is just furiously noting every single move. Assessing the behavior. Hoping for information that would unlock the age-old questions about our species."

"That's not a bad analogy, actually."

"So comforting."

He removes his undershirt in a swift, fluid motion. He makes a joking gesture by puffing up his chest and posing.

"Well, here I am. The roadmap to my soul can be deciphered with my chest hairs. Who knew?"

I am silent for a few minutes. I say nothing and make no expression. Because that is the point, after all. To see how long it takes to make him squirm. How long I can hold the microscope over him without him flinching.

At first he tries to fill the silence. Clear the air with silly remarks. But eventually, he settles into just standing there. Watching me watch him. And after a minute, it is so quiet I can only hear the buzzing of the silence in my ears, no birds, no noise. And then I see it. Just above his heart. A tiny square embedded under his skin, with a wire that leads into his neck. Like someone has taken a matchbox and implanted it.

I stand up and slowly move closer to him to get a better view of what I am even looking at. I hold my hand out, hoping to touch it, and understand what it is. Booth shifts his weight, but doesn't move away or say anything.

As I get closer, he relaxes and smiles tamely at me until finally I'd closed the gap between us to almost nothing.

"Now you know where I keep all my secrets. Locked away in a tiny box inside my chest."

I let my fingers hover just above it, hoping to feel it vibrate or move.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

I finally lay my hand on it, tracing the tiny box with my finger. I am transfixed by it. Booth takes a hand from one of his pockets and grabs my wrist.

"Please don't. You're making it tough for me."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." I hesitate. "It's just so..."

"So what? So bizarre? So inhuman? It's just so what..."

"So...beautiful."

He pulls my hand toward him, pulling me in until his lips are so close I can feel his breath on me.

"Goddamn it, Violet," he whispers as he puts his forehead on mine. "There aren't supposed to be people out there like you. They swore there weren't any like you." And then he moves his mouth to mine, but I pull away hard enough to make him stumble backward.

I hold my lips with my hand. I'm not sure how I feel about Booth. Or the attempted kiss. Most of me hates it, hates him for forcing it. But when I am done kicking and screaming about the unfairness of it, there is a part of my feelings I can't account for. And I can't help but think that in a distant corner of myself, a small, quiet girl liked it.

"What the hell was that?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I've never done that before. I was just, overcome. By the moment." He quickly throws his shirt back over his head and pulls it down to cover his chest.

"But to be fair, you were the one who asked me to take my clothes off."

"Yeah, for fun. Not so we could make out."

"Oh God. We aren't in front of the Supreme Court right now, no one is watching you argue this and approving or disapproving of your reasoning. You don't have to be so guarded. Sometimes talking can ruin a thing, you know." He fumbles with the buttons of his over shirt, torn between making a point and getting dressed. "I did it because in that moment I was so moved by you, something inside of me...I don't know. It was like the very essence of me wanted you."

My cheeks are starting to feel warm. His honesty is a little too much, even for me. I don't want to be the recipient of any boy's attention. Or their soul.

"Never mind. It's stupid. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it."

"What did you mean, the thing you said? Right before...the other thing."

"What?"

"You said "They" told you that I didn't exist. Who is they?"

He pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lights it. Occupying his hands to keep from revealing his clear discomfort with my question.

"You come here, and you don't have to deal with people. With anything. You can just lock yourself away in this cemetery and think that life won't come find you." He flicks his cigarette and takes another drag. "I should ask you about those scars on your arm. Or why a young girl with clearly little, to no ambition wants to wile her life away here. Among the dead."

"I see."

"You see what?"

I turn to walk away before any more dangerous things can be discussed. But leave him with one last thought.

"You aren't as perceptive as you think. I'm not wiling away my life here. I'm looking after someone. Someone who needs my protection. And you and me? We're not that different. I'm just a little more fucked up inside. That's all. And sorry if my scars bother you. Just another part of me I can't change."

"Wait. Hold on. Violet. I'm sorry, that all came out...wrong. Fuck. I'm bad at this."

I can't bear to hear his voice one more second. I hop on my bike and get the hell out of there. Booth Rothschild can't be trusted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Today I am alone in the cemetery, no one around to bother me. For an hour or so, at least. I've realized this place has become more crowded since Booth appeared. He makes it hard for me to find the same space I once enjoyed. I'm happy to see Albert. He makes me feel safe again. Like all is right with the world and I can find joy in the simple things in life, once more. I find Albert as he digs the last bit of Milton Redford's grave.

"Violet. I need a favor." He says with a sort of forced sincerity, a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth as he spoke.

"Anything. Whatever it is, I will do it."

He smiles and pulls something out of his front shirt pocket. "I need you to listen to this."

He hands me a cassette tape and on the outside is "Roadmap to my soul" scribbled on it. Oh my god, what is he handing me?

"Now, don't get any crazy ideas. It's not from me. It's from Booth."

I immediately drop it inside the hole Albert is currently digging. Dusting my hands in good riddance.

"Gross. And I mean that from a very pure place. That guy is incessant. But just know, Albert, if you ever made me a mix tape to your soul, I would cherish it with everything inside me."

"The boy is just trying. Gotta give him credit for that." He laughs to himself as he pushes the shovel with his feet, forcing it farther beneath the earth.

"Albert, can I ask you something?"

"Depends. What's the somethin?"

I make a seat on the tarp by the grave and try to temper my flair for the dramatic by pretending like I am talking about someone else. I don't want to bore Albert with my personal crisis.

"There's this thing someone I know is currently dealing with. And the thing is a rather complex situation that can't be explained easily. And someone is asking for an easy explanation. And my friend doesn't feel like giving one. Should she have to?"

He straightens himself out for a moment and perches himself on his shovel handle like he is focusing on a response. Even if he can't be bothered with my life's woes, I appreciate the gesture of having someone like him take someone like me seriously. Always means a great deal when an adult will entertain you like you're one of them. Nothing more flattering than that, in my opinion.

"I don't reckon anybody ought to have to explain themselves to anybody else less they feel moved to. Matter of choice, never obligation."

I like how Albert speaks about things of life. He isn't trying to impress anyone. He is just living his life, honest and simply. A man like him never does much of anything that he doesn't feel compelled to do. Including talking to me. And whatever he said, you could count on the truth in it. That's all you want in life—the truth minus all the bells and whistles and flowery shit.

"Violet, there's gonna be a lot that happens to you over the course of your life that isn't going to make much sense until years later. When time's created enough space for you to look at things from a certain distance. And even then, you'll probably still scratch your head and wonder if it could've been different. But that's for you to figure out on your own terms, not on anyone else's. You job is to make sure you don't close yourself off. People don't have to hurt you, but they can't love you either if you keep em out."

I pick up fistfuls of the coffee-colored dirt off the tarp and pour them into the cuff of my jean pant leg, letting the grains pop wildly inside the trench of denim. They are my favorite pair of jeans, with holes in both knees and a fly that sticks. Even my mother has tried to throw them out a few times, but I salvage them out of the trash every time. Good pants are hard to find, the wear and give has to be just so. People always throw things away right about the time you can really make use of them.

A few years ago, for instance, I found a perfectly good transistor radio on the side of the road. I brought it home, works just fine in all the ways I need it to. Mainly to listen to music and sometimes talk radio on Sundays. Albert has one too, but mostly he just fills the air with his own songs while he works. Today, he's got it out and is listening to the Dodgers game. I like to listen too, but I don't talk when the game is on. I don't want to disturb him. I just like to figure out which players he likes most by which ones make him cuss the loudest. Kind of a funny game, especially when you're the only one that plays.

Despite the surprise gift from Booth, I haven't seen him around in a few days. Most of me doesn't care. But a part of me wonders if he's alright. I don't ask Albert about it because if something was terribly wrong, I think he would tell me. Now I have his incorrigible mix tape to listen to. Of course, I'm going to listen to it. Even if for no other reason than to get to know my enemy. Ever read The Art of War? "Best way to get inside someone's head is to befriend them. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Appear weak when you are strong. Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake."

I keep a copy of it under my bed. I used to read it when I was bored, or when my mother had decided to visit my dad's office late at night with questions to which answers never came. I guess violence is an answer, in some form. It was my dad's favorite answer, anyway. Eventually the transistor radio became a friend, I could listen to just about anything. And just about anything was better than the sound of raised voices and yelling coming from the next room.

I sit with Albert for a while not saying anything else. The space between us doesn't ever feel heavy. He just keeps right on doing what he came to do, and there's no need to fill anything with pointless conversation. Makes the moments when we do speak even more meaningful.

It's August now. Which means the heat is stifling and relentless most days, and makes Albert's work harder. It also means school just started again. I take out my notepad to draw. A picture of the oak I sit under. The leaves are the hardest to capture. Takes the most patience. And that's where the real talent lies. In the small details, deciding where the shadows fall and shading in the right places. I'm by no means a savant at drawing. I just like how you get into a flow of things and the picture can mesmerize your mind long enough to calm it down. I wish I were a prodigy of some sort. It would make things so much easier. Prodigies are the types of kids that have a reason for being weird. Something to hide behind. And you don't have to live within the norms of society. You can embark on an entirely new journey because you are one of a kind, and you show promise. So folks just stand back and let you become. And hope that you reach your full potential.

At one time, my brother Jack was a prodigy. I guess there wasn't as much freedom for him in it. He definitely came alive when he was playing. But there were also expectations that came with it. Mainly from my father. But expectations are a form of hoping someone else will make up for your own mistakes. It's a trap. I felt like he was always doomed for the fate he ultimately met. Even though I wish to God I could've saved him from it. I always felt that was my fate. To save him. And I fucked it up.

I look up at Albert. His face is at rest when he works. I decide I'm going to try and draw him. The lines around his face will be the most difficult to capture. He has freckles, but they're wasted on his black skin. You can't see them except when you get up close. The shading of his skin will be difficult, too. The way his biceps jump as he lifts the shovel, or the way his shirt hugs them so tightly the fabric nearly rips from the pressure. For a man of his age, he's handsome in a kind way. The way he holds himself. Not like a boy. Like someone who's got his mind set on something. All things that girls like me find attractive.

Do I have a crush on Albert, you ask? Maybe. There's a lot about him worth liking. I will admit that.

I think I only draw things I like. The oak tree. Albert. Jack. The deer I keep seeing. My anatomy teacher, Mr. Freedman. I like him because he always finds a way to incorporate art into science. He says they're interchangeable. That science is the study of God, and so is art. Just from two different perspectives. The other day we were studying the heart, and he read Edgar Allen Poe's Tell Tale Heart to the class. Only he had placed a cow's heart in the sink and no one knew it. Right at the end when the narrator rips the beating heart from beneath the floor planks,

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Mr. Freedman pulled the bloody heart from the sink and lifted it above his head as he furiously read the last lines. The blood dripped down his arms, seeping into the sleeves that were rolled and cuffed above his elbows. His eyes peered wildly from behind his thick glasses. I found that one of the most riveting experiences of my life. And solidified my love of science as it relates to literature. And madness.

Of course, Mr. Freedman doesn't particularly like me. He finds my opinions annoying. And the fact that I have a hard time keeping them to myself. So much so, actually, that he moved my desk behind the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. I block the fire exit, but no one seems to care. When he teaches from the board, I have to climb on top of the cabinet to see. I don't mind. It's a unique perspective. He has a sort of nasally voice, like someone is pinching both sides of his nose while he talks. And he has beady little eyes, only made smaller by the bottle-like frames of his glasses. It's unfortunate, really. I think he would be a nice catch, otherwise. If you don't have to look him in the eyes or listen to the sound of his voice. But that's sort of miserable. So, he's a bit of a lost cause. As am I, behind the cabinet most days.

School is school. Meant to tame us, knock all the disobedience off us so we can function more easily in society once we graduate. There's no room for disagreement. I used to disagree more than I do now. In 6th grade, I felt that my science teacher was starting to incorporate evolution too heavily into our curriculum, so I went to the principal and filed a formal complaint. I regret that decision now. Especially since Mr. Freedman presented the sheer size of the universe, and how much time it takes for the natural progression of things to occur. Evolution is inevitable. I never apologized to my sixth grade science teacher, but I found it hard to make eye contact with her in the halls. The complaint was eventually presented to the school board who found her not-guilty of teaching outside the guidelines of their approved curriculum. I could've appealed. I'm glad I didn't. Still sort of haunts me, to be honest with you. Why hadn't I realized how wrong I was? I guess that's a part of growing up. You learn things and your opinions change accordingly. You only get in trouble when you don't allow the truth to change you.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After Albert and I are finished, he packs up his tools and heads out for the night. I stay around, partly to listen to Booth's mixtape uninterrupted. And partly to see if anything will happen. If the deer and the ghosts and the music were only a figment of my imagination. I reach in my back pocket, fingering the little white pill. An escape hatch if I need one.

I am midway through the a-side of the tape, a Springsteen track playing in my ears. I get up to dust myself off, gathering my things to go, when I think I hear a crack of brush in the distance. I remove one headphone to listen. The sun is glistening through the trees as it sinks behind their curtain of leaves. A warm late summer breeze hits my face. And then a loud buzzing starts in my head, a flash of light from behind my eyelids, a rush of heat to my stomach and legs, and they are here. A few yards from me. Walking, gliding, through the headstones until they make a nice pallet on a gravestone that from where I stand looks to have two names on it.

And with the breeze and rustle of leaves, I hear the distinct sound of fife and drums music rising through the cemetery. The pop and snare of a march that is heard on the grounds of a battlefield from a century past. Maybe even the thunder of a canon in the distance. I can't be sure.

I reluctantly make my way over to the three placid buck that lay on the grave.

Catalina W. Lamb and Baby Jean

April 17, 1843 - December 8, 1862

My Whole Life Rests Here

Two people, same grave marker. I wonder if Baby Jean was still in Catalina's stomach when they were buried, or if they placed her tiny body beside her mother's in the casket. It's hard to imagine being 19 with a child, but it's even harder to imagine being buried at 19 with that child. Seems tragic and senseless, if you ask me.

Before I can even beg the question, in a blast of what smelled like gunpowder, appears an old man in a civil war soldier's uniform. With a flask in his hand, J. L. inscribed on it.

"Aren't all these poor souls here so sad to behold?" he asks, seeming tired and confused. And it is several minutes before he says anything else.

"It was 1862 when God took them from me. During that period of our country, our troops were still storming the hills of Gettysburg as the North or the South, and going months without eating. So hungry in the woods at night, listening to the screams of other men who were missing legs and arms, they could think of little else. They were only a small footnote in my world."

"Is it unfortunate that your young bride and unborn baby have died and been buried while you point muskets at complete strangers and fire away in the name of liberty?" His question is lost on me, but he seems angry now, maybe at himself.

I don't know which tragedy deserves more attention. But science has proven that the human brain can only process so much tragedy at once before it starts to engage a defense mechanism against it, to protect itself. Some call it shell shock, specifically when referring to soldiers and war. Others say they just went numb. Either way, John Lamb never felt their deaths at all. In fact, it was just a giant black scar in his life, like a black hole, and everything in that period was sucked into it and never escaped. Unless he went to years of therapy, which definitely wasn't a thing, there's no way he was processing through those layers. Not even a single tear can be recalled. Because, according to him, he never shed any.

He goes on to say he never came home to mourn them, he just kept fighting, because that seemed easier. They were laid to rest properly, together. And one day after decades of avoiding it, when he was well into his fifties and spent most days drinking alone, he decided to bring some honey to their graves and place it on their single headstone. And he whispered a prayer into the silence. Not for their souls. But for the family he could've had. For the daughter that would've ridden his back and clomped around the kitchen in his boots. For the grandson that might've kept him company on the porch even then. For the wife whose apple pies he could smell cooking from the kitchen for their weekly Sunday dinner.

"I never remarried. I never really saw the point. The good Lord had a reason for taking them away. He hadn't found me to be fit for a wife and children. I didn't deserve them then, and I couldn't find a reason why I ever would again. What a fool I'd been. For believing that men could have it all. For thinking that war would never come to my doorstep, and the days I'd envisioned sitting around a table saying grace and being together. How foolish to even believe those things for a moment about my own life. I was always destined to spend my days on earth alone. Mourning the empty space, feeling the loneliness that is man's curse."

It was his fault, he says. He had chosen to marry Catalina even at the disapproval of her father. Even though she took sick easy and her lily-white skin had never seen a day's work. Even though he'd heard rumblings of a war breaking out, and knew he'd want to join up if it did. It was he who had decided to have a baby even though he'd already signed his papers and had to meet them in Roanoke within the month.

"All because I believed that God protected the weak and the small." He runs a regretful hand through his beard. "That He would look out for my family even when I wasn't there to do it myself. What a bunch of shit. I know now that God isn't gentle and warm like that. Not after what I've seen. When men on both sides are forced to do merciless things to each other, there is no God among them. I know now that you can reach a quota for the amount of good things in life before God starts to take them away one by one, like tick marks on a long check list."

He believed that so fully that at his age he rarely believed any good news when it was given. He believed the worst of people and events. He never attempted to strive for happiness again after Catalina. Because he knew it would just create a new list full of things that could be taken. And, oh boy, did God like to take them.

"To remind you of His sovereignty and to keep you dependent upon Him!" He raises a fist as he yells it into the sky.

He didn't go to church on Sundays. In fact, he hadn't set foot in a church sanctuary since the day of his wedding. Sometimes a town boy named Wiley, who had added John to his list of needed salvations for his apprenticeship under the local Reverend, would come by and ask John if he'd join him at church. John, seeing a twinkle in Wiley's eye that he couldn't bear to snuff out, would oblige, but he would stop a few yards from the doors, and only listen to the sermon through the open windows. He would bring a flask with him. The same flask he sips from now. Somehow the gospel went down smoother with a little bourbon.

"Bare ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ," he heard the Reverend say with emphatic disdain.

It made him think of his mates in war. About Abe Bleaks, who stood at over 6 feet tall, and weighed more than 200 pounds. He knew because he'd carried that burden on his back a day and a half, through rising water and humidity that soaked the wool in their uniforms. He couldn't leave Abe behind, not with the wound to his chest. He wanted someone to be with him when he took his last breaths, not alone in the middle of a battlefield. He wondered if that's what the preacher meant with that verse. Just the thought made him feel less like a son of a bitch, but also made him take longer swallows from his flask.

Eventually Wiley worked himself all the way up to Reverend of the little church. He never stopped coming by John's door on Sundays, never stopped inviting him to attend. John didn't mind. He never did. Then one day, the knock at the door went unanswered. Reverend Wiley banged harder, but still nothing.

A few days later, as he leaned over John Lamb's grave, he opened to the book of 2 Timothy Chapter 4 verse 7. And read the verse aloud. No one was around to hear it. Not even Wiley knew the significance of the scripture, or that it had made John feel closer to salvation, if only for a moment, a long time ago. He just read it because he'd found it on John's side table, scribbled on the back of the picture of a young soldier. And he figured it must've had some significance to him.

He closed the book, grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it in. He then noticed the gravestone beside his. The single headstone with two names on it. He noticed the age, and realized that John Lamb had once had what most men dream of. And that it had been taken from him.

He whispered a prayer into the silence for him. Not for his soul. But for the man he could've been.

There were no words after that. The gunsmoke that brought John Lamb's ghost into my life, has taken him away just as quickly. I am left there, ringing in my ears, darkness has crept through God's Acre and I am alone again. Nothing but an empty flask on his grave to prove that it happened.

Maybe I am crazy after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jack Chance is survived by his father Rex, mother Roberta, and his sister Violet of Champagne County. He loved baseball and riding his bike with his hands stretched out to his side instead of on the handle bars. His favorite food was his grandmother's macaroni and cheese and deviled eggs. He will be buried in his baseball uniform. The services will be held graveside on Tuesday, September 3, 1997. Folks are asked to make contributions to the family's expenses in lieu of flowers.

My mother laminated his obituary to keep it as a book mark in her bible. And she made copies for all of our extended family, too. Not me, I ripped it out of the paper myself and I keep it taped to the inside of my trapper keeper. It's short. I think too short. But what the hell else are you going to say about a boy who only had 13 years under his belt. I mean, he barely had a chance to make a dent. So his life is summed up by his favorite foods and bike riding habits. I guess if you think about it, it's not much different than anybody else. Instead of being survived by a wife and kids, he's survived by me and Mom. But I always thought that was a weird thing to say. Survived by. He didn't survive. He died. Dad made sure of that. To say he survived through anyone is complete bullshit. He's not here, and if you look for him in me, well, I am poor man's version. I'm a poor man's version of a lot of things. A big sister being one of them. And I didn't help him fucking survive. I couldn't save him.

I don't dwell on it. I didn't cry when he died. I haven't yet. I couldn't make it to the funeral. I'm sure if I'd seen him in his baseball uniform, I might have shed a few tears. I'm not really the crying type. I don't see the point. He's gone. Crying won't change anything. Sure, you feel better after a good, long cry. But it always seemed so cliché to me to cry at a funeral. Unless you're the wife or mother or kid, why cry? You're crying for one of a few reasons. You regret not having spent more time with them when they were alive, or you're sad that you no longer have time to make up for that. But neither of those things are helpful. You can't do anything about it. Death is final, and people think crying can somehow change that fact. Don't waste your energy. Crying is a form of fighting. You think God gives a shit that you're crying about His decision? No, He's like a parent who took your favorite thing away to teach you a lesson. No amount of crying will make Him change His mind. He's stone faced and determined to make a point. So throwing yourself on the floor, at His feet, snot and screaming — nothing phases Him. He thinks He knows what's best for you. He oversaw the whole thing. Orchestrated it even. To reverse the decision would mean He made a mistake. And God doesn't make mistakes.

At least that's what the preacher told my mother. Which, who the hell says something like that to a grieving parent? That's bullshit, too. God makes mistakes all the time. Just look at the Unabomber. Or Siamese twins. Or the Ice Age.

No, I think God is maniacal. Can't pin Him down, and if you do He just uses some bizarre excuse for why He did or didn't do what you asked of Him.

The preacher asked my mother if she wanted him to pray for my brother's soul. She said she believed that all children went to heaven, and that she thought he was there already. He rattled off something about being of age for conscious choices. Like, what does that even mean? What could a 13-year-old ever do that could keep him out of heaven? Gluttony? I mean, besides killing someone. Which, even that could be forgiven, under the right circumstances. Like in self-defense, or the defense of someone you love. Maybe even retribution for a sibling's death can be forgiven.

One can hope.

And if it can't, how bad can hell really be? Can't be much worse than a night with my father when he'd come off the rails. Scared out of your mind, hiding under your bed. Waiting for the next crash or fuck or damn it to come from the other room. Not knowing when or how it will end this time.

That's the hell of it, I think. The not knowing part that will make you want to climb inside the cushion of the couch and become the furniture. Just to be safe. You'd give anything for it in that moment. To be in the safety of someone, anyone, else's care. In that moment, you wished you were dead. Or that he were dead. Dead so you could all go on living life and not have to worry about him. Or tip-toe around him when you knew he was on edge. Or be extra sensitive to your surroundings cause you had to be. Other kids at school, you can always tell if they come from the same type of house. When the teacher yells, they sort of twitch and cower. Scared.

Of course, not many adults in school care if the kids are scared. They seem to enjoy it if they scare you into submission. Scare you with a paddle, scare you with a trip to the office, scare you with a red light or a frowny face. Just anything to make you afraid to do it again. But sometimes it has the opposite effect. You can tell the ones that get messed with the most at home because that stuff doesn't even phase them anymore. They go right on doing it. Ever seen anarchy in a classroom? Well, it generally only takes one kid standing up not giving a shit whether they live or die. That's the end. There's no hope. You could send him to detention, to juvie, even to hell, and it wouldn't make them get in line. Or act like all the others. Because they know it won't help. Their life is so fucked that hell seems like a relief.

That's what I'm talking about. Willing to take a bullet, to walk through fire, to kill someone just so they never have to go back to the real hell at home.

  *

"You had a chance to listen to my mix tape yet?" Booth asks as he kicks my foot while I'm writing. I haven't seen him in a while. I look up from my notebook to see his face, it's good to see it, I realize. He looks tired, in a sickly way.

"Uh..."

"Come'on. I worked hard on that. The least you could do is listen."

"I did, actually."

"And...what'dya think?"

"Emerson Lake and Palmer was a nice touch. For the most part, I found it..."

"Riveting, pensive, brilliant?"

"I was thinking dull and predictable. And...maybe even contrived."

"Aw, now that's disappointing. Did you listen all the way through? How can you say that when I have Fiona Apple and Gordon Lightfoot on there? I even have the man in black himself Johnny Cash on there."

"Yeah, but it's like you're trying to be interesting. And when you try, it always comes out wrong. You can't try to be interesting, you just are. Or you aren't."

"And you think I'm in the 'aren't' category then?"

"Not entirely. I found a few selections to be pretty insightful."

"Really? Which ones?" He perks up, hopeful.

"Wouldn't you love to know. I'm not telling you. You gave me the mixtape to your soul, not the other way around, remember. I don't have to tell you what I think. I just have to think it. That's the beauty of music and an opinion. You can enjoy it and no one ever has to know."

"You are so...so...soo infuriating. With your wit, which borders on pretentious, I might add. You can keep watching me, taking notes, formulating opinions, but you think you're so clever that you never have to share them with me. It's not that hard to see what's really going on here."

"And, what is really going on here, Booth?" I tilt my head to the side impatiently.

"You like me. And you hate it."

I'm not sure if his words are true or if they just make me feel like they are. Nothing about Booth is inherently attractive. His black hair is dyed in an apparent way and mangled most days. He constantly grabs a fistful of his bangs and moves them to one side (think less JFK endearing and more annoyingly nervous). But something about him gets under my skin. I can't quite put my finger on it. I try not to think about it, but when he's standing in front of me whining about my pretentious wit it makes it hard for me to ignore. And then there's his musical taste. Like I've said before, I like music that's good. So I have no issues with the fact that he included a few Beatles tracks on there, it's just the songs he chose seem. Well, odd. And he's so fucking ridiculous with his need to be different. It's exhausting.

It's been a while since I've mentioned it but it's still true. It takes one to know one. To be an outlier. Booth is on the fringe. Like he was one of them until one day he decided not to be, but it's still getting knocked off of him. The need to be liked and admired and all the other shit yuppy, rule following, people pleasers wade through life with. And it has a stink to it. You've gotta work really hard to scrub it off. And it can take years to finally fade. Booth's stink is still pretty strong.

Like the other day, for instance, when he took his shirt off, there was that thing under his skin. It was like the first time I saw what might have brought him to the dark side. And he wasn't ashamed of it, not like if he was one of them. But like it had been with him so long he was too tired to be ashamed. And being ashamed doesn't change things. It just creates suffering. Denying reality for what you wish it could be, that is the long shadow that suffering casts. That's what Eckhart Tolle says, anyway.

Today Booth has on his usual black hooded jacket, but underneath it is a collared polo. And it's not black, like usual, but a navy blue. Preppy blue. Makes me wonder. It's melting out here.

"How can you wear that jacket? It's hot as hell out here." Hoping to change the subject. He takes the bait.

"Habit, I guess." He pulls at the shoulder to take it off, like he just noticed the heat.

He unzips the front and starts to wiggle his arms out of it, one by one, "I guess cause it's a nice holder for my cigarettes." He smiles sarcastically.

He takes it off and I pretend to be focused on something else, but I'm really interested in the coat of arms embroidered over the left side of his polo, just over his heart. It's red and gold and underneath it says Recte et Fortiter.

If I were a kinder, more mannerly person I'd have mercy on his oversight, and just let him live. But that's not my style. At least, not today. Sun Tzu teaches you to never interrupt your opponent when he is making a mistake, remember?

"Upright and Strong?"

He jerks his head toward me and his cheeks ripen with red.

"What?"

"Your shirt. The school crest?"

He looks down at his shirt and suddenly realizes his fatal mistake.

"Shit." He whispers under his breath as he turns his head away to hide his embarrassment.

St. Johns Preparatory School for Boys is in Indian Hills. It's 20 miles outside the county line. Only the wealthiest purebreds attend.

"Tsk tsk. Now what would the establishment think about one of their prize pupils digging graves as an apprentice?" I ask smugly.

He laughs nervously at my assessment.

"It was laundry day. It was between this and a chef's jacket with my name embroidered on it. A gift from my grandma. I went through a cooking phase a while back." A shy grin crawls across his lips, it's a mix between pathetic and pitiful.

"Oh, cooking, huh? Now that is very interesting. What is your signature dish?"

"Come on, Violet. You've got me. I'm cornered. I'm waving the white flag. Call me whatever you're going to call me. Yuppy. Pussy. Let's get it over with."

I realize I should try and tread lightly here. He seems sensitive and on the verge of tears. I back off a little and soften my tone.

"No, I'm not being patronizing. I really want to know. It's generally a signature dish that gets you started. For me, it was French toast. I used to use every pan in the kitchen, and I had to stand on a box, but my parents always let me cook unsupervised. I mastered French toast in like third grade, and used to make it for all the neighborhood boys. Actually, they'd line up for it every Saturday."

He laughs reluctantly, trying to decide if he believes my story or not.

"I'm sure you did make the boys line up, didn't you?" He grins again, but this time it pings me in my stomach. He is doing it again. Getting under my skin.

I look away, so he can't see it on my face.

"Yorkshire pudding. It's my father's favorite dish, and so I learned to make it first. I make it better than him, actually."

"What's yorkshire pudding? Sounds fancy." I ask, more curious about his father than any stupid recipe.

"It's like a bread, but it has a light shell and a chewy center. It's mainly made of milk and eggs. Not hard to make, sort of like French toast, I guess. But the English version. My dad was. English I mean."

"So what's your secret ingredient. For me, I put a little vanilla and salt and pepper in the batter, and then serve it with powdered sugar. That's really what made the boys line up."

"Well, I didn't have a line of neighborhood boys to test it on, but mine was a hint of orange zest. I never told my da. Even though he always asked. Secretly, I don't think he really wanted to know. He just loved that I was great at something for once. Anything. I was always a disappointment. Except when I made him Yorkshire pudding."

I'm not sure how to respond to this revelation. I don't think Booth wants my pity, or even my condolences. He just wants me to listen and understand. And I do. Understand, I mean. On a level that maybe no one else ever will.

"Violet?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you ever wish, just once, that you could be the person that would make your dad proud?"

I just sit in silence as his words hang over me like a spirit. I realize in this moment that I've never wanted to be asked that question. Mainly, because, until now, I didn't know the answer.

"My father was a prick. Maybe one day I'll say he couldn't help it because he was raised by an even bigger prick. But right now, I can only say that I don't wish my father would've said anything to me. I just wished he could've stayed out of our lives. We would've been better off without him."

I realize my voice has gone from gentle to monster level and I'm clenching my fists into white balls, as I feel the rage in my chest rise and tighten.

"Jesus, you have about as much love for your old man as I have for my mom. I know that kind of rage." He was seated beside me now, nervously plucking blades of grass out of the ground. He started grabbing them by the fistful, like he was grabbing desperately for fistfuls of something else. Something inside himself. "My mom was never much of a mother, I was the only child my parents had, and that was only because my dad basically forced her to have one. He wanted a son so bad, but for a long time she convinced him they didn't need a kid, that she was enough. I hate her for having me, even though that seems crazy. I mean, I think she always knew deep down she'd be a bad mom. And she practically turned herself inside out to try and make my dad happy. But I think when somebody has their heart set on something, nobody can change their minds.

My dad eventually started hating my mother for the way she treated me. He would yell at her about not being good at taking care of me, not changing my diapers when they needed changing, not consoling me if I was crying in my crib. It eventually became an all-out war between the two, and I was in the middle of it. He left my mom when I was six. I remember how hard it was to have to be split between the two, and how messed up it was that I sort of missed having them together. Like, even though they hated each other, the fighting was better than the silence."

I want to ask so many questions, but I just let Booth say what he wants to say about what made him this way. And I respect him for it. I understand so much of him. More than I am willing to admit.

"I lived with my dad, I would only see my mom on holidays and some weekends. I tried to avoid her as much as I could. She just always had a way of making me feel invisible. My dad loved me in his own way, I guess. But he thought I was weak." He rubbed at the tiny box below his skin that still held so much mystery. "I wasn't ever sure if it was how his life ended up, or if it was me that let him down the most. My dad comes from a family of achievers. Success is the name of the game. Or should I say money, sports, women. It never interested me, though. I was never good at sports, and never much interested in money. I'd rather have a happy family, with kids that know I'm proud of them than all the money in the world."

"Lived?" I can't help myself. I try to stop it, but the question rolls out before I can catch it.

"What?" Booth is startled out of his haze of memory.

"You said you lived with your dad. You live with your mom now?"

"Oh. I did until he died two summers ago. It started as headaches a few years before. I thought it was the stress of his job. Then eventually the migraines turned into nose bleeds. Sometimes I would walk into his bathroom and there would be a pile of bloody towels in the sink just from that morning's nosebleed. By the time he went to the doctor, the cancer had spread so much there wasn't anything they could do. He had tumors in every major organ. At first, he tried to fight it with chemo. Thinking that it was a mistake. That the doctors were wrong. But, come to find out, the doctors don't make mistakes on things like that. He just sort of shriveled up. This really healthy guy, who could wrestle me, and pick me up over his head, just sort of withered up. When he died he weighed less than 100 pounds."

I start to pluck blades of grass now. I don't know what to say to make things better. Hell, nothing I can say will, so I just sit quiet.

"I stayed with him until he died. Then they made me go live with my mom. She was already married by that point to another guy. He has two kids. Well, I guess he had two kids. It was nice to have a brother and sister. That was my favorite part of living with her. My step dad just leaves me alone. He doesn't try very hard to find anything in common with me. But he doesn't bother me, either. I try to keep to myself. But there are times when I can't. Like when my mom would mistreat Bennett or Emma. I just couldn't keep my mouth shut about it. I even told Mike, my step dad, once. But he didn't listen. No one would listen to me. I think that's why God took Bennett. Because he wanted to protect him from them. Those two terrible people."

I am struck by his reasoning.

"You think God took Bennett to protect him? Like, what? Like He's some merciful thing that just wants what's best for you, so he'd have you killed before letting you be mistreated? Ha! That's bullshit. Sounds like some bullshit excuse that some religious person made up to try and make sense out of something that was senseless. Bennett, or anyone for that matter, should never have to die to be safe. IT'S FUCKING BULLSHIT!"

I am shaking at this point, but I can't stop myself. It is bubbling up out of me like lava, smoke is coming from my eyes and ears, everything has slowed to a crawl, and I am acutely aware of the silence around me.

"You are stupider than I thought if you believe that. I have to go." I stood up, tucking my notepad in my pocket and start to run.

"Wait, Violet! What the hell?" He grabs my arm to try and stop me. "I didn't realize you would be so, I don't know, touchy about my step brother's death? Jesus. That was intense. I was just saying, I think Bennett deserved better. I don't know why I said that thing about God. It makes me feel better. You're right, I guess maybe that's how I try and comfort myself about it. But, I mean, what's wrong with that? Why can't a person who is hurting find peace in that idea? You don't know what I've been through. Who are you to judge anyone?"

"You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've been through. Maybe I know what it's like to lose someone. And trying to gloss over that tragedy with some bullshit God-knows-best answer is an injustice. Not only to Bennett, but to the truth. The truth is much uglier than that. And sweeping it under the rug only makes people who refuse to believe that little platitude seem fucking crazy. Batshit CRAZY! It doesn't comfort anyone; it makes the ones grieving feel more alone. And, if you've ever been in the darkness alone, you'd never ever want anyone else to have to feel that. Not even for ONE. SINGLE. FUCKING. SECOND."

"OKAY! Ok. Ok. Alright. I take it back. Everything I said about God and the accident. You're right. It's bullshit. Ok? I'm a fucking asshole for even believing it. I just, I don't want to fucking admit the truth."

"And what's the truth, Booth? Huh? That someone should've fucking saved him? That someone should've protected him?"

"THAT I SHOULD'VE!

That I should've been able to protect him and I didn't." His skin all over is responding to his words, blotches of deep red are rising up on his neck, arms, and face.

"My mom never made sure he had his seatbelt fastened. Even though I knew he didn't like to wear one, and she never double checked. I KNEW that she didn't and when they drove away to go to school that morning, I saw him leave without his seatbelt and I did nothing. I could've said something. I could've SAVED him. But I was a fucking coward. And did nothing because I'm afraid of my own mother."

His voice cracks when he says coward. The worst sound in the whole fucking world. The sound of a guy's voice cracking right before he cries. It's like the sound of a dam breaking. You know what's coming and you can't stop it. His face is red all over now, and he is desperate to stop the tears, using the heel of his hand to cork both eyes. But it only makes it worse. And makes him more ashamed. Ashamed that he is crying, and ashamed that he didn't protect him, and ashamed that he is afraid of his mother. Ashamed that he is a disappointment. Mostly a disappointment to himself.

I know those feelings too well. Suddenly I have an overwhelming desire to kiss him. To make him feel better. To take away the pain.

So I pull his arms away from his face and get so close I can feel his breath. I slowly pull my lips towards his, and his eyes close in surrender. For a moment our lips touch, and I kiss him with as much passion as I can muster, and then move to kiss every tear on his face. Without warning he puts his hands on the sides of my face, gently sweeping my hair from my cheeks, and starts kissing me back, like someone who's never been given the chance but has longed for the moment. He pushes against me. We are completely caught up in one another, and the feverish rush of being swept away by a moment, by something greater than ourselves.

And then I realize what I'm doing. What a mistake this is. How confused I am about all of it.

I pull away, his hands still on my cheeks, tears still damp on his.

"Sorry." I say meeting his gaze. "I have to go, I can't do this. You don't want me, Booth!"

I'm too broken.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It's been a week since I kissed Booth. I've tried to wash him off me, I've tried gargling mouthwash, hoping it would wash out my brain, too. I haven't seen him. I've been avoiding him, actually. I don't know what I was thinking. Why did I kiss him? Now I've ruined everything. I've ruined the graveyard, and the oak tree, and the Mulhollands. I mean, I can't even sit under it anymore without thinking of Booth and his tears and that kiss. It's like I want to hide under the covers of life and never come out. Not to mention, Albert. I know Booth's told him. And now I'm embarrassed that Albert has to think of me that way. Has to think of me like a girl, instead of a friend. I don't want to be the topic of the man-to-man conversations over the grave they're digging, with the radio on, while they both take a break, wiping the sweat from their foreheads, as Booth swigs from his Coke can and Albert lights up a cigarette. I don't want to be diminished to that. It cheapens me. Makes me a prize to be won or a riddle to be solved. And I am more than both of those things.

I decide I'm going to walk over to them, and interrupt whatever bullshit conversation I am the topic of. And clear things up myself. It was a mistake. I felt sorry for him. And that's it. I'm still Violet. And I won't let that stupid little kiss ruin my life. This is my special place. I was here before Booth. He's going to have to leave. It's as simple as that.

As I approach, I can hear the radio, Dodgers game is on. Booth is taking a break, lying flat on the tarp as Albert continues to heave dirt over his shoulder. Most of it is burying Booth all the way up to his chest. He doesn't seem to care. He's in a trance of sorts. Completely distracted by his own thoughts. He looks solemn. Like someone's just died. Of course, he works in a cemetery, so the irony isn't lost on me.

I get close enough to hear Albert cussing about the score, someone's just let someone else hit a triple with three men on base. You'd think it was the worst thing to happen to Albert, judging from the amount of god-damn-its and sons-of-bitches coming from inside the freshly dug grave. Only his shoulders and head are visible every few moments when he slings another shovel full of soil on top of Booth.

"Goddamned sonsabitches can't catch a ball if their life depended on it. Lettin' these ass clowns score 3 on em. Put Piazza in, get Pena outta there!"

Booth can't be bothered by the upset. He's lying on his back, staring up at the cotton-ball clouds, only blinking every minute or so.

"Hey." I stop and stand over Albert as he continues to dig.

"Violet. Where you been, child? We been worried. Well, mainly that sick puppy over there. But still. Nice of you to check in. We were beginning to think you didn't like us anymore. You've gotta do something. He hasn't moved from that spot all day. I'm thinkin' bout burying him alive. Only thing is, I don't think it'll make him move."

"I don't know what I could do? He's his own person, and I don't have any special power over him." The lie comes out more shaky and defensive than I intend.

"Aww, you still sore about that thing that happened under that oak tree the other day?"

Albert keeps digging, but I know he's expecting an answer.

"He told you about that? I knew it! I knew he was just gonna come over here and run his big fat mouth to you, and try and ruin my life. I felt sorry for him, is all. And I just wanted him to stop crying."

"He didn't have to tell me anything. I saw you from up on the hill. He hasn't said a word to me. In fact, he hasn't said a word all week. He's just sat and stared. Up at the sky, down at the dirt, at his own hands. Anywhere, but at me. I filled in the blanks myself."

The heat rises to my cheeks. I had let my emotions get the best of me, and let myself forget who Albert is. He doesn't need much to figure things out.

"You felt sorry for me?"

I turn around to see Booth standing, covered in dirt, with his shoulders sagging and his hands hanging defeated at his sides. He is more deflated than a balloon.

"Booth, I didn't mean for you to hear that. It came out wrong."

"No, I think it came out exactly how you wanted it to. And Albert is just a witness to the heartless person you are."

"Booth, stop. I didn't mean it. Honestly. I just, I thought you had certain ideas about what happened. That you thought it meant more than it did. I'm just saying, it was one thing that happened. We were both upset and...well, it just shouldn't have happened."

"You just wanted me to stop crying? Really, Violet? Is that all it was? Was your attempt to stop me from crying? Damn! You are a real piece of work. You know that? I mean, honest to God. Why don't you get honest with yourself? You want to get all righteous, and stand on your soap box and preach at me about truth and not glossing over reality. And look at you."

Albert stops digging. He sticks his shovel in the dirt and pulls himself up the side of the grave.

"I'm gonna leave you two to sort this out. I've gotta go get a tool from my truck."

I step in front of him. "No, Albert, don't go! There's nothing to work out. This isn't a lover's quarrel. Booth is delusional. And he mistook my intentions. That's it. I need you to stay. I want, I need, for things to get back to normal. Which means, I need this to be over. So, stay! Please."

Albert turns around and looks at Booth who looks even smaller than he did a few minutes ago. Like with each strike of my words, it's driving him further into the ground.

"Booth? You need some space?"

"Nah. She's right, Albert. Stay. I'll go. She's never wanted me here anyway. I messed up her perfectly protected world. One where she doesn't have to see people, or feel anything or answer to anybody. Except you. So, I'll leave you to it, Violet. Go ahead, get back to your righteous life, where you can think and do anything you want and never have to worry about anyone messing that up. Because they're all fucking DEAD!"

Booth kicks his Coke can like a punter on a football team, flipping it in the air. A brown sugar rain falls over us as he runs down the hill. I want to run after him, but the bigger part of me is glad he is leaving.

Me and Albert don't say much for a good hour. We listen to the last two innings of the game, before he finally puts his shovel down and decides to talk.

"So, what are your plans, Violet?"

"What do you mean? I don't have any plans."

"I mean, after you drive Booth away, and you close everyone out. You are sharp as a tack and bright, you can do just about anything you set your mind to. I believe that. But this ain't no place for a mind like yours. I mean, this place is as close to a home as I got. And more than anyone, I understand why you're here. Hell, I even love you for it. But staying here isn't going to be bring him...," He pauses and stamps the dirt with his foot. "It's not going to bring him back, Violet. You can't protect him. You've got to go out and experience life. And there is no life here."

"Who are you talking about?" I fidget under the weight of his words.

"You want me to say it? You know who I'm talking about here. Jack. Your brother up on that hill. I've been watching you since the day you came here to visit him, not long after his funeral. I dug his grave, you know. I read the story in the paper. I know you'd hurt yourself trying to save him."

"Don't talk to me about this, Albert. I CAN'T. I CAN'T talk about this right now. I won't leave him. And you don't know anything about being open or letting people in. Why can't I just stay here with you? Huh? What's so wrong with you? I think you're just about the fucking greatest human being I've ever met. I mean, until I met you, no one gave a shit. Everyone looked through me. Over me. Past me. But then, one day, this kind soul who had a deep reverence for life showed up. I want that. Where am I gonna find that, out there? No, there are no Alberts out there. There's only selfish bastards, people who hurt other people, people who want things from you that you could never give to them even if you tried."

My voice cracks. I couldn't let Albert see my cry. I was falling apart. AGAIN. Stop, Violet. Stop yourself. You're losing control here. Here come the tears, like hot little bugs, falling, crawling down my face. No. Please don't.

I turn to run away and Albert grabs me in a bear hug and squeezes.

"Shhh. It's alright. It's alright."

He strokes my hair as I shake and sob into his chest, letting myself fall to pieces in his arms.

"Listen. Here me now. Don't punish yourself, ok? I know what you been through. You're a fighter. But if I could tell you one thing, if you could just learn one thing from my mistakes, don't let one thing steal all the other things from you. Ok? You got plentya reason to shut folks out. Plentya reason to hate, and harden up. And if you did, no one would blame you for it. They'd understand. But thing is, you don't deserve it. And this light inside you, she don't deserve it either. To be locked away in this prison of her own hurt. Only you got the keys. Hear me? Don't matter where you go, how many folks you keep out, ain't gonna save you from the pain of life. Can't nothin or no one save you from that. You gonna hurt anyway."

I don't want to hear these words. I know I don't deserve to feel better.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I pull up from his chest, knowing my face is a watery, red mess. But Albert doesn't seem to notice, or maybe pretends not to. Instead he backs away and hops down into the grave he was digging. He pulls the shovel out of the dirt and raises its handle up toward me. I wasn't sure at first what he was offering, then he tossed it and it landed at my feet.

"What? You want me to help you dig?"

"Nah, I don't need your help. I'm gonna leave ya here for a while. Let you alone in this hole, maybe you'll dig up some ghosts, maybe you'll bury some. Either way, leave em here. Whatever comes up, leave it. That's the real art of grave digging."

I pick up the shovel which comes to my shoulder and walk over to the lip of the grave.

"Who's is it?" I say, in the tear soaked voice of a child.

"Don't you worry about that. That's the beauty of it. Dirt is dirt, and all graves look the same. Can be for anyone you want it to be. Or need it to be. Point is to find peace with whoever you're digging it for."

"I don't know, Albert. What if I'm not strong enough? To dig it, I mean. What if I can't do it?"

"Take a little at a time, whatever you can handle. 'Fore you know it, they'll be a mound a dirt up there, and you won't remember the heaviness of the digging. Just that the job's done. All hard things are that way. But no one will judge how little of bites you took to get there. Just that you did it at all."

"Will you stay with me? Keep me company, at least?"

"This is a one-man job, sorry to say. I'll come back to check on you. Make sure you're coming along. But hopefully the person I see when I come back will be different than the one I left here."

"I'm afraid."

"Good."

"Albert!"

"Violet, just dig the grave. It's as simple and as hard as that."

He walks over to the radio and turns the volume dial down, intending to turn it off.

"Leave it on. Will you? Please. I like it."

"Fine, I'll turn on some music. Be back in a while. If you hit rock dig around it. And don't dig too much on the sides, I've got her where I want her there."

As Albert walks away toward the shady oaks in the distance, the sun lights up the hill like a pink and orange symphony, Creedence Clearwater Revival comes on the radio. Have You Ever Seen the Rain.

Jack had a small radio he tied to the front of his bike with rope and string. It was red, and he had found it for a quarter at a neighbor's yard sale. We'd ride down the road on our 10-speeds with his radio on, and the wind at our backs. When you're little, the freedom of your bike on an open road and music is as close to heaven as you can get. For us it was anyway. The closest you came to leaving the constraints and powerlessness of childhood. He loved CCR. He'd sing it to the top of his lungs, and I'd laugh at how he'd try to mimic John Fogerty's rusty vocals. Laugh until tears would stream down my face, the way you only could as a kid.

Free. Maybe the only time we ever were.

I strike the dirt with all my might, and lift the shovel over my head and dump its contents carefully on the tarp. It will take a lifetime to perfect the art of throwing the dirt over my shoulder like Albert does, I think. He always seems so carefree when he does it, like it is the easiest thing in the world. Now I know better. He just makes it look easy. The good ones always do, make it seem like you could just toss it over your shoulder and into the wind without even thinking about it. No, not me. The beginner will have to suffer through the long way, tediously lifting the shovel, hovering it over the tarp and carefully turning it over. This is going to take me all night, at this rate. Albert knew that, that's why he left me his headlamp and lantern. I see that now.

I've never been good at finishing. I can start a project with all the energy and motivation and stamina in the world, but when it comes to finishing something, I generally get bored half way through and move on to something else. Or just lose heart. Not this. I am going to have to finish it because Albert expects it of me. And I don't want to let him down.

I don't know what he thinks is going to happen by digging up a mound of dirt from this hole. I mean, it's not going to fix what's broken. Too much has already happened. And no truck load of mud is going to change that. I'm broken. In the worst way. The kind that can't be fixed. I want people to stay away because I'm just a ticking time bomb. A broken, angry, lost ticking time bomb. Booth only saw the tip of the iceberg of the fury I can bring into someone's life. I'm all tangled up inside, and the good parts have been knocked off the walls and messed up and you can't get to them. I don't think Jack did that. I think I did it to myself. And I'm trying to undo it, but I've tried for so long that I'm just tired now. And it's easier to not have to worry about people. They just end up hurting you or you hurt them. And I can't take the pain.

So, the solution is to just keep people at a distance. Don't let them close enough to see the ugly. This way they don't get burned. And you don't have to feel the guilt as they stand there wondering why you act this way, or how long this awful thing has been growing inside you.

The radio fades into another tune. Elton John's Rocket Man. Reminds me of a night we road home after a late night at the ballpark. Jack had played hard in a double header. We were in Dad's Bronco, windows rolled down, the cool breeze from the summer night hit my face and made my long, tangled hair dance wildly around my head. Dad lit up a cigarette, I liked the smell of the first burn of it. Always something comforting about it. The song was the only voice in the car. My dad was in a good mood, Jack was in a good mood. He had won both games, and this was one of only a dozen games that Dad ever came to. He liked seeing his son win. Jack liked that his dad could see him win. I liked the feeling of peace between all of us. And the longing in the song reflected a longing in me for this not to change. For this night to never have to end. For this to be the truth of my family. Dad tapped the steering wheel lightly with his thumbs, and hummed a little along with the song. He wasn't an Elton John fan, but he didn't turn it off. He was in too good of a mood to care. And I liked that.

And that made me even more sad at the moment. Because I knew this wouldn't last. And we'd get home and all go to sleep and wake up to a new day with new circumstances bound to piss Dad off. To ruin everything.

Jack stuck his hand out the window and let his fingers and arm dip and sway with the wind. His baseball cap was backward, his brown hair was sweaty still, sticking to the back of his neck. His face was pink from the first signs of a sunburn. He smiled, and kept looking over at Dad in the driver seat. Like he was asking for permission to be happy. We all were. And Dad was happy, which meant we could all be extra happy.

Jack rested his arm on the window seal, and sank his chin down into the crook of his elbow. He sighed and let a sweet, peaceful grin sweep across his face, as he closed his eyes. Relishing it. Soaking it all in. This night, his dad, his win, his life. Dad reached over and patted his hat, and then jabbed his fist lightly at his shoulder and said "Good game, son."

I'd never heard him say those words before. From the look on Jack's face, neither had he. He lit up and said, "Thanks, Dad. I like it when you get to come to my games."

I could tell Dad wanted to say something smart in reply, but, just this once, he held his tongue. He didn't say anything. He just shook his head in agreement and kept right on smoking his cigarette. I always wondered what he wanted to say. I imagine something defensive, something adult, about how he doesn't get to spend his days at a baseball field because he has to work, so we can have a roof over our heads and clothes on our back and food on the table. You know, parent things that they think are good excuses to miss out on their kids' lives. That the end justifies the means.

Elton singing...And I think it's gonna be a long, long time faded into the background. We rounded the block and headed up the hill to our driveway. I dreaded going home that night. Dreaded it ever having to end, this perfect moment, Jack smiling and proud, Dad smiling and proud. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, as I looked up at the full moon that was lighting up the inside of the Bronco like a spotlight. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer into the wind, under my breath, with as much strength and desperation as I could pack into it. I prayed for my dad to get better. For something to happen that would fix him, make him calmer and happy, make him love us the way I saw my friends' dads love them. I wanted God to answer that prayer so bad. My tiny, little heart screamed it from the inside of my chest.

And then Dad put the Bronco in park, and all the good feelings jerked to a hault, just like they always did, and the keys jingled as he pulled them from the ignition.

"Violet, get to bed. Jack, take a shower first, then get some sleep." He yelled back into the Bronco, and his shadow walked on without us, darkened the door of the basement and disappeared. I thought at that moment, so had the man we all wanted him to be. The perfect, happy version of him that we all wanted to see so much but hardly ever came around, he'd gone inside and disappeared. And we didn't know when he'd be back. Or if he'd ever be back. And that made the tears stream down my face faster.

Jack hopped out and pulled his batter's bag and cleats from the front floorboard. He glanced in the backseat and saw the glistening of the tears on my face.

"Hey, Vi, what's wrong?"

He was so sweet when he asked that question. Like he could do something to help, like he knew it deep down.

"Nothing. Just happy, is all. I'm glad Dad got to see you win. And I just, I was just enjoying the last few minutes of it. Not wanting it to stop. Ha, you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah I do." He suddenly put his cleats back in the floor, and put his bag in the seat. He pulled something out from under his pre-game clothes. His red radio. He turned it on and turned the dial until it picked up a signal. It finally landed mid verse on The Beatles, Here Comes the Sun.

Jack pulled the lever on the back of his seat and it folded forward. He climbed in the back, and sat down beside me. He put his hand on my leg and said, "Let's just sit here until he makes us come in. Probably let us sit here all night and not even notice."

"Ok, that sounds good." I wiped the tears as I laughed a little. I knew he was right. Once Dad was in for the night, he was in for the night. Mom had gone with the church for an overnight women's retreat and wouldn't be home, so there was no one left to check up on us.

And we did. We sat there all night listening to songs, making up lyrics, giggling and trying our hardest to not let the good end. We soaked up every single second of that night. Like two kids who never had a shot at being happy. And we weren't gonna just let it slip away without a fight.

And as the sun came up over the hill of Levi Street, and the batteries from the radio finally died, we pulled our half-awake zombie bodies from the Bronco, and went inside. I crawled in the top bunk with Jack and we stared up at the poster of Mickey Mantle he had pasted on his ceiling, and finally drifted off to a sweet and happy sleep.

I don't know if Dad ever knew we spent the night out in the Bronco that night. All I know is that was one of the last times we ever saw him happy, all of us together, happy like a family. It wasn't long after that, that Dad stepped off the overpass onto US 80 and into traffic. He ping-ponged between cars, smashing the windshield of an ABF semi-truck and ricocheted onto a tiny red VW Bug. The girl inside suffered a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder, couple of broken ribs, but she survived. Dad wasn't so lucky. Every limb was twisted in opposite directions, if not completely torn off. His right leg ended up in the northbound lanes, and his boots were found a couple of miles down the road. I remember thinking it was lucky he hit a red car, because that's where a majority of his guts were, and it saved a lot of bystanders from having to see the gore.

Not me though. I was in the car with him when he pulled off in the gravel just before we got to the overpass. He told me he wanted to see something. I went with him, of course, because I was curious to see what he found, or wanted to see. When we got to the middle of the bridge, traffic was light on it, only one car passed us the whole 15 minutes we stood there. Finally, after shaking his head and whispering something to himself, he climbed up on the cement barrier wall. I had no idea what his intentions were at first, but then it dawned on me. I'd only ever heard talk about people taking their own lives.

I remember the roar of the trucks below, and the billows of air that wafted up from their huge trailers, and thinking how that would knock anyone off balance. My arm was still in a sling from my visit to the hospital, Dad had just picked me up. Mom was at Grandma's, still mourning and receiving her fair share of casseroles. I stood there, unable to say anything to him. Not Dad stop, not don't jump, not a damn thing.

And then he just disappeared. I ran to the edge and looked over, and saw as his body was torn to shreds over and over. What only took a few seconds seemed like an hour, time stood still as I watched it all play out in horror. No one should have to see that, have to watch a family member die. And yet, this would be the second family member I would watch die that September.

And that's why I'm broken. And I can never be fixed. And why no amount of digging will ever cover up what I've seen and done.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was in the early hours of dawn when the birds were still silent and the dust of night still clings to the heavens that Albert made his way to the hole to check on me. By this time, I'm sitting in a tear induced daze at the bottom of the grave staring at the tiny end of a sycamore tree root that is peeking through the wall at me, more than 200 pounds of dirt lay on the edge of the grave. My finger nails are caked in mud and the busted blood blisters on my hands aren't as bad as the busted blisters inside my mind. But I'm finished. I completed the task that Albert gave me. The physical one, at least. I still feel like a tangled up mess inside. I'm even more of a wreck than when I started.

He doesn't say anything to me, he just holds the lantern over the grave and looks intently at my face. I feel dead inside. Like I've spent all I have and am left penniless, and numb. I stare back at him, but make no effort to speak, or have an emotion on my face. I know I'll have to stand eventually, but even the thought of it makes me hurt.

Albert finally places the lantern at his feet and reaches out his hand to me to pull me out. Every single part of me aches, even the hairs on my arms and head are tender from the dig. It takes all I have to reach out my hand to grab Albert's, and he must know as much because he does most of the work after that. He pulls me up single handedly and sets me down on the grass next to the tarp. He sits down beside me and it's another few minutes before either of us say anything.

"I finished." My voice is gravely and hoarse from the sleepless night and hours of tears.

"I reckon you did." He's pleased, I could tell, but he stops short of impressed.

"You knew I would."

"Ah, I knew you had to. Wasn't any other choice."

"I guess you want to know what ghosts I dragged up last night."

"Nah, that's for you and you alone. A man's ghosts are personal. Something that haunts you your whole life, big and hairy, can seem like a meek mouse to someone else."

"I wish that was true."

He stands up and dusts himself off, picks up the lantern and then reaches his hand out again to lift me up.

"Come on, I wanna show you somethin."

I don't say anything, I just let him lift me to my feet and follow behind him as he weaves in and out of the headstones, sometimes lifting the lantern above his head, looking to the trees and morning stars for guidance and markers. We probably walk a good 1/2 mile across the cemetery before he pulls back a wall of ivy and bids me entrance into a hidden place. I wonder as I walk under his arm holding back the ivy how many other people he's shown this place. I like to think I'm the only one. That Albert and I understand each other on a level that other people couldn't. And my night wrestling my demons had earned me admission into this secret place.

We walk down a footpath and finally come to the sagging arms of a weeping willow. The wind blows and I smell the mossy copper smell of pond water, the croaks of toads call to each other from opposite ends of the morning.

Albert bends down and clears the leaves, sticks and grass from a flat grave marker, and then another, and then another. Three gravestones under this tree.

He hands me the lantern and lets me take a closer look at the inscriptions.

The first reads

Dare Hattie Doolittle

Mother

1924-1958

Aeronautic Death

"Plane crash? And her name was Dare? Kind of ironic, isn't it?" I look at him, laugh a little and wait for an answer, but he's silent.

I move to the next grave marker and it reads

Otto Archibald Doolittle

Father

1921-1958

Aeronautic Death

They both went down together in a plane crash. At least she wasn't alone. Romantic tragedy.

Then I move to the last marker and it reads

Otto Archibald Doolittle Jr.

Son

1951-1958

Aeronautic Death.

The entire family died in a plane crash. Why is he showing me this? Who were these people?

"These were the first graves I ever dug. I was about your age, living in my car, wanting so much to find something in life that could take away the pain. But, it ended up that these graves were all I needed to feel normal again. This here is where I fought my demons. I dug for 20 hours straight. By the time I pulled myself up out of Jr.s tiny grave, I was different. That dirt and shovel changed me. Gave me purpose, even." He pauses, pulls the pack of filtered Lucky Strikes I bought him out of his pocket and hands me one and then takes one between his own lips. He lights mine with his Zippo, shielding it to make sure it's lit, before moving on to his own.

I take a deep drag and try my hardest not to cough. I want to take a snapshot of this moment. Me and Albert, under this tree, sharing our secrets and smoking. After Jack died I wasn't sure I'd ever be happy again, sometimes I wanted to make sure I never was. As a way of remembering him, honoring his time on earth, as my brother. But here in this moment with Albert, it feels similar to what it used to feel like to be happy. Only this time it's different. Like a new kind of happy. I was always afraid of losing it before. So I'd hold onto it so tight I'd choke the life out of it. But this time, I'm happy in the way that feels earned. I feel this moment with an open hand, letting the breeze and Albert and the story of this family sort of pass through me, acknowledging it, thanking it even, but letting it pass, none the less. Because I realize maybe for the first time that moments are only felt, they aren't kept. You can't keep them here, with you, no matter how hard you try. You can feel them again, when the breeze is just right, or the same song comes on the radio, or the smell overtakes you. Yes, that's what is meant by keeping a moment. But if you try to grab it by its tail, bring it in close, with the hopes of holding onto it, it will disappear. Dissolve. Vanish in your arms, gone forever.

I take another puff, and close my eyes, opening myself up to the moment with no idea of where it might end, or how long it would last. It is my new happy. My earned happy. And it feels good to not be afraid of losing it. In fact, that is even better than being happy. The freedom that comes with not being afraid anymore.

"I remember the funeral, there were a lot of people. Apparently the woman had been some sort of an inventor, she'd designed the plane that the family went down in. First time in it. They only got a few hundred feet off the ground. Just long enough to wave back down at earth before the wing bent and the whole thing tumbled to the ground in a fiery mess."

I like it when Albert tells me true stories. Truth means more than fiction. Or, maybe it just means more to me.

"I guess, in some way, there is some solace in the fact that her whole family died together." I say, naively.

"Yeah, that would be nice. If it'd been true. Only, they had a 15-year-old daughter, Adelle, that was too sick to take the trip, they thought. This crash orphaned her. She was left alone, without anyone. A distant relative ended up taking her in, raising her as her own."

I should know better than to think I know how any of Albert's stories will end. There is always some twist that I can't account for. Some little detail that changes everything.

"Adelle started to visit me on her 18th birthday, and every birthday after that. It's been interesting to watch her life unfold from the perspective that I have. Digging her family's grave and all. She's asked me to tell her the story of how I came to this graveyard at least a few dozen times over the years, and every time I feel the same sense of loss as I did when I dug their graves on that stormy night in April. Like someone had taken my own family away. Again."

"Did you tell her this same story you're telling me now? About fighting your demons, and all that other personal stuff?"

"Nah. I've never told anyone what I told you tonight. I just felt like you deserve to know. Maybe so you feel less lone. Or maybe so I do. I'm not sure."

"When's her birthday? I mean, what day does she visit?" I think for a moment that I'd like to meet her. Maybe we'd have a bit in common.

"Her birthday is next week. I know because it's my birthday, too."

I didn't know Albert's birthday. Never thought to ask. Maybe I didn't want to impose on him, or maybe I didn't think he'd tell me. Either way, something inside me hates the idea that some stranger knows more about Albert than I do. I have never thought of myself as a possessive person. Until I found this place. And then I wanted it all to myself. A place where the world can never find me. And Albert was my secret, too. We were each other's secret. And then Booth had to come and ruin it. Try to stick his nose in our business. We'd worked hard to get to that point. And now I find out this Adelle character is something I can never be. She knows about Albert's family. The real story that I have never heard.

"Could I meet her?"

"Let's not make any formal thing of it. If you're here and she's here, maybe you two can cross paths and you can see if you think she's worth knowin. Anything more than that is just asking for disappointment."

I agree with Albert. I mostly always do. I can't seem to find a reason not to. No matter how much I want to know this woman who knows so much more of Albert than I do, I won't force myself on her. And I won't let Albert see my jealousy. Jealousy doesn't look good on anyone. Especially me.

"She normally comes at around sunset, and stays no longer than half an hour. I always make plans to be here when she's here cause she won't come hunting me down. It's been a nice way to celebrate my birthday, so I use that as my excuse to be here instead of somewhere else."

"I'll be here. And I won't force it. I just want to see what she's like."

Truth is I want to see more than what she is like, I want to see the hint of her mother and father in her facial features, and hear the sound of her voice as she speaks. I want to see the way she presents herself to someone she's known for a long time, to see if she leans in for a hug or if she just gently and warmly touches his arm. So much can be learned from a person just in the way they greet a friend. Is she old for her years, does she wear it in the lines and dips in her face, or is a visit to their graves only a formality by someone who only knew them once a long time ago, who can only recall their faces now from the pictures she keeps in a frame on her nightstand.

As we walk back to Albert's truck for a cup of coffee from his plaid thermos (his offer) there are many things left unsaid about this morning. But all at once Albert stops and looks at me.

"Just don't compare yourself to other people. You're one of a kind, Violet. I hope you never lose sight of that."

I wonder what Albert means by that. I let my mind wander into a million different rooms in my head. But I nod in agreement.

Something about Albert seems worried. Maybe that something or anything could ruin me at any moment.

"Albert, you don't have to worry. I won't." I grab his hand for a moment, just so he knows I know what he is saying is important.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Today I meet Adelle Doolittle. It is also Albert's birthday. I know he isn't the type to care much about gifts, but I like to show off my perceptiveness by giving him something he doesn't even know I know he likes. I wrapped a shoe box of some $1 scratchers from the 7-11 and a bag of circus peanuts. You know, the peach colored candies that don't taste like anything, and are terrible for your teeth? Yeah, those. He's the only person I know that likes them besides my grandma. I'd seen a bag of them a couple of times in his truck, so I ear marked it as his favorite candy for future reference.

I wrapped it in brown paper and tied a blue ribbon around it. I even wrote his name in big, curly letters, and drew a couple of balloons on it to mark the occasion. I am glad Albert was born. I don't feel that way about a lot of people, so that alone is worth celebrating.

I won't see him until later this evening, when I go searching for the orphaned Adelle. I'll hide it behind my oak and when we are alone I'll give it to him. I can't wait to see his face when he realizes I was paying attention, and I know him better than he thought. It is one of the great pleasures of my life. To really surprise people. Not just with a gift, but with something that says, hey, I'm listening and I see you. That's the real gift.

I decide to take a walk among the gravestones on the other side of the pond where Albert took me last week. I can keep an eye on the Doolittle graves from a distance without anyone noticing, in case Adelle decides to show up early or late. I will take it all in and make the decision then whether to introduce myself. Or get close enough to introduce myself even.

Today is a viscously hot day for mid-August, but there is a cool breeze that whistles through the trees and makes them sing a sweet song. I have on a sun dress, yellow with polka dots. Sometimes the best way to celebrate the end of summer is to wear a dress for it. Like you're thanking it kindly for the gift.

I still have on my scuffed Converse, of course, because you can't walk through the graveyard with heels. They sink and you are miserable. Plus, I have an image to uphold. So I keep my sneakers on to make sure no one gets the wrong idea. Like I have changed, or worse, that I care what people think.

I walk slowly, reading the names, noticing the small details that most people miss. Like the grave marker for Joseph Baton that has a French saying engraved in quotes "Je ne sais pas." I'm not good at French, in fact it's the only class I got a C in. I do, however, know how to sing the French national anthem, and I can also sing She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain in French. I don't know what his inscription means, but I know it doesn't belong on a grave. Something about it made sense to him though. That's all the matters, I guess.

I keep walking.

Flora Beckett, simply reads Here Lies Our Beloved Aunt Flo. 1809-1859. Must not have had any kids. I wonder if that bothered her. Maybe she tried to have kids but her body betrayed her. Or maybe she tried to marry but it never suited her. Somehow, though, she'd managed to gain the love of a few nieces and nephews, which to her, was all the love she ever needed. She knew being an Aunt was better than being a mother because you can be someone's favorite. Someone's favorite aunt. You can never be someone's favorite mother. Because you only get one, and you don't get a choice. So a mother is a mother and you love her more than you know. But a favorite aunt is like a favorite song or a favorite season or a favorite book. You have a selection, but something about her makes you love her more. More than the others. And you savor her idiosyncrasies, tuck them inside you to enjoy later in life, when you have nieces and nephews of your own. And you hope to give them the joy that your favorite aunt gave you. Maybe you'll send their age worth of crisp dollar bills in a birthday card every year, or maybe you'll take them to see all the good movies that your mom would never let you go to, or maybe you'll take them to the bookstore and let them pick out anything they want. Whatever it is, the favorite aunt is an honor. So much so, it's worth an epitaph on a grave. Not a lot deserves that kind of permanence.

It's an honor I'll never know.

I am in my yellow dress, inside my own mind, lost again in my own thoughts. So I don't see it at first, the three buck crossing the field from my left. By the time I notice my head is filled with the whistle of a train, the lights flashing from the sky blind me for more than a minute. They walk gracefully a few rows ahead of me, and lay down without any pomp or circumstance, other than the one going on in my brain.

A part of me wants to run. Not today. Any other day but today.

But something else, something outside of me, drew me forward to them. As the sun droops in the afternoon sky, I approach the headstone of Caroline Strong.

Caroline Strong

1909 – 1930

She brought me a cold drink of water when I was thirsty.

Her name strikes me like a hammer. I think about a girl that wears glasses, and carries a cheap paperback novel wherever she goes. She has beautiful penmanship. She is smart, and sweet, and is the first of her family to go to college. Princeton.

And now he is here. In front of me. An old man in a pinstripe suit sipping a glass of water.

"I know I'm not much to look at now, but back then, I was a strapping young Princeton man with a lot of promise." He says, matter-of-factly to me.

"We had three classes together freshman year, and I fell in love with the way her glasses would fall down her nose when she took notes and how she wouldn't push them up until she was done writing. And the odd patch of freckles by her ear. She would share whatever supplies she had including her lecture notes, and was always willing to help anyone who was stuck on a particular lesson. I was simply mesmerized by her. And then one day, in the spring of our sophomore year she didn't come to class. The next day either."

I'm not sure how to respond, or even if I could, so I just sit and stare. Listening to this man who was once a boy who loved a girl from a distance.

"I learned that she had been in an accident on spring break with her cousin in Pensacola. She'd gone out for a swim while the tide was out, and by the time her cousin realized it, she'd been missing for over an hour. They searched all day and into the night, until her body finally washed up on shore.

Her green bathing suit made her look more like a mermaid on the beach that evening than a girl who'd drowned at sea, the papers said." He adds.

He takes another sip of his water. Beads of sweat are starting to gather on his temples and forehead. The story seems to be taking the very breath from his lungs.

"I'd heard about her drowning and called her family to offer my condolences. They asked if I thought any of her friends might want to come to the funeral. They wanted to know what she was like in school, how she'd been. They asked if I had any stories about her. They were meeting with the undertaker that afternoon and wanted something to help them write an epitaph that would honor her."

He sort of laughed to himself and scratched at the back of his head. He said he thought for a moment, and then remembered the one time he'd actually spoken to her.

"Well, last fall, I was out playing football on the green. It was warm, and she had been reading under the tree. Suddenly she came walking toward me. She'd brought me a cold drink of water because she said she noticed I was thirsty. Her mother thanked me for the story. And had jotted it down on the pad of paper by the phone as 'She brought me a cold drink of water when I was thirsty.'"

"I thought the sentence seemed too lovely to ignore. Almost biblical. It was who she was, in every way. And how she should be remembered forever."

He came to her funeral, went to the train station as soon as he'd gotten off the phone with her mother. Watched as she was lowered into the ground, and then, after everyone had gone home, he walked over and laid a letter he'd written her on her grave. In it he confessed all the things he loved most about her, and how he'd watched her from a distance but was too shy to introduce himself, and how sorry he was that he'd never had a chance to tell her all the wonderful things about herself that hypnotized him every day, and how grateful he was that she'd given him that glass of water. He just wished he'd had something else to give her mother, that she could've been remembered by something more than that. He let his fingers trace the letters of the inscription, slowly and gently caressing the grooves as if it were her, her back, her cheek, her lips. Tears streamed down his face. And then, the thought that his sentence would mark her grave for eternity, that a piece of him would be with her always, made the tears stop. He smiled, leaned down and kissed her name. He left a part of himself there with her. The part you always give your first love that you can never take back. Some say the best part even. He'd only visit her grave one more time before he died. Tell her about the life he'd ended up living without her. And how, even then, he carried her with him. He'd tell her that he never married. There had been women, but never any like her. And he'd never brought himself to ask a woman to spend her life with him. Never had the urge.

Then he confessed that he'd bought a plot not too far from hers. A few feet actually. And that was his dying wish. And he took comfort in it. Knowing he'd never be that far away from her ever again. That he'd watch her from a distance as he always had. And that she could be admired, even in death, by someone who loved her once. The grave stone next to hers was Lee Anderson and his stone read

Lee Anderson

1908-1980

The cold drink was for me.

As I read the headstone, Lee disappeared. Leaving only his empty water glass behind.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

This visit from the man in the pinstripe suit has me a little more shaken than the last. Not sure if I'm hallucinating, or have completely come off my rocker. I walk over to a well that is a few yards up the hill. I'd heard Albert mention it when he was describing proximity and distance of graves he was digging. I had always wondered where it was and thought about trying to find it. I notice it in the corner of my eye and decide it is a good place to sit and catch my breath.

The well is beautiful in a battered way. A few of the stones on the side have crumbled, but for the most part it is like the one I imagine Snow White singing into. It even has a rope where a bucket used to hang. When I look down inside it there is a glisten of water more than thirty feet down. If I try hard enough I can see my own reflection staring back at me. If ever I had found a well for wishing, and one that might actually grant my wish, it is this one.

I reach in my pocket and pull out the little white pill. I don't have a penny, so this will have to do. I only have one wish, but I know it will never come true. That is for Jack to be alive and still be my brother. I need a new wish. One that might actually be granted. Even if it's hard, I know I need to throw this in and hope for something better. I close my eyes and think long and hard on a wish. A new wish. And finally one comes to me. Like a feather falling, landing on my face. Lightly, and sweetly. So I hold it in my mind for a few seconds, staring light into it from all the good and best parts of me. Maybe, if I blast enough good at it, it will come true.

Then I toss in my little piece of sanity and wait to hear it. A second later I hear the light drip of it in the water below. My wish has made it to the ears of the wish granter, at least. It is up to her to decide if it's fit to be granted. Or that's what my mother always says, anyway. That the ears of God are at the bottom of the ocean, or lake, or well, and that is where all the prayers end up. At the bottom. And the answered ones disappear if they are granted. So the bottom is only full of the dashed hopes and dreams. Not the ones that come true.

I pray my little wish will disappear. I hope I deserve for it to.

  *

By the time Adelle arrives this evening, the sun has just disappeared over the hill, fighting being pulled down into night with every ounce of colorful might it can muster, until the very last moment.

I'm still sitting on the edge of the well when I notice the cascade of ivy pulls back and a little woman, no taller than 5 feet, walks from beneath it. She has a thin frame and her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. I can see from a distance that she has something underneath her arm. It looks like a package, or maybe a bag. She has a slow pace about her, like a stagger almost, and she keeps looking behind herself like she is waiting for someone.

She walks slowly up to the graves of her family. And peers intently at each of their headstones. Her skin is tanned, and her auburn hair has streaks of white in it. She is definitely older in looks than the 50 odd years gives account for. I wonder if maybe it is the orphan in her that makes her age so quickly. I wonder if the almost-orphan in me will have the same affect. She takes the brown parcel from under her arm and opens it. She slowly pulls out a small paper airplane, neatly and meticulously done with bright blue origami paper. She places it on the grave of her brother. Then she pulls out another in a brilliant shade of green and places it on her father's grave. And then, lastly, she pulls out another, the color of lavender and places it on her mother's grave. The detail in each of them is almost poetic. She must've worked hard to become that skilled. I wonder what she does for a living.

After a few minutes of standing and surveying her lost family, the ivy pulls back once more and a woman who looks to be a few years older comes through the wall of leaves. She is wearing a white nursing uniform and her hair is pulled tightly into a bun on the extreme top of her head. I recognize her. She has something embroidered on her chest. I can't make it out. But I know instantly what it says. She is from Shady Spring State Asylum. The place I spent 6 months. The place I work so hard to stay out of, still.

She keeps her distance, but also keeps her eye on Adelle.

My head is starting to feel funny.

They both continue silently standing there, reverently remembering. I feel a tap at my shoulder. I turn to see Booth standing beside me. He must've been shown this place for maintenance purposes. Because I know Albert wouldn't have shared this with him. He is the last person I want to see right now in my state. I start to fill ill.

"What do you think her story is?" He asks with a simple grin on his face as he motions to Adelle with a lift of his nose to point across the pond.

"I'm trying to figure that out." I appease his request and try to play along. Anything to avoid small talk about the other day. Plus, my palms are sweating just being in this close proximity to the Shady Springs attendant.

"Think she's crazy?"

"What?" I ask, defensively.

"I don't know, just seems odd to have an orderly follow you into a cemetery to visit a grave, ya know?"

"What do you mean, an orderly?" I want to throw Booth off the scent. But also to see how much he really knows.

"You know, an orderly, from a psyche ward. Mental hospital. Cuckoo's nest. Whatever you want to call it. They wear white scrubs like that there. I only know because I had a crazy great-uncle who ended up in one. Went to visit him a few times. The scrubs looked a helluva lot like that."

My heart sinks. He's been to Shady Springs on a visit. I lived there. And I can't figure out why the hell this woman knows Albert.

"Up by the old mall on 77, right when you think there's nothing else out there, you drive up to a huge ass set of gates. It's pretty creepy at night. The gates are huge too, and always locked. Don't know how you'd get permission to come out here if you're in there."

"I know where it is. Maybe that's not it though. Maybe she's like a hospice nurse or something." I had no idea why Adelle was in that place, but her being here made me nervous.

"Look, Albert's down there. That's weird. They know each other?"

"What?"

I look down the hill to see that Albert and Adelle are embracing. He has his arm around her. She is holding him back with her arm just below his shoulders. So weird. Why are they being so affectionate? I just stare down at the exchange. Trying to make sense of what I'm seeing, as the woman in white watches them both intently.

"You think that's family, or something?" Booth asks in his detached way.

"No."

"Why? Could be."

"Because Albert doesn't have family."

"How do you know? You guys talk a lot about his personal life?"

"I'm not talking to you about this. I just know he doesn't. Ok?"

"Fine. Just another one of your landmines I just stepped on without knowing it. There should be some sort of signal you give when I'm getting close. Just so I can salvage what's left of my..."

"Your what? Your heart?"

"I was going to say sanity. But thought it was in poor taste."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh is right. Back off me. Please. I'm just trying here. I thought for split second before I walked over here, when you were leaned over that well, that maybe we could still be friends. That we could just move past all this other shit and try to start over. But now I'm not so sure."

I turn to see his face looks more like someone who's given up than someone who is heartbroken. Something about that sinks to the bottom of my stomach like a weight.

"Booth, can we talk about this some other time? I'm just a little preoccupied at the moment."

"Oh, yeah, really busy. Watching Albert embrace some crazy woman, and you're desperate to figure out why. That's not busy, that's just sad."

At this point, I am getting more and more irritated by Booth's presence. I need to get him away from me if I am going to have any shot at meeting Adelle. And that is the plan, after all, to meet her and see if maybe she might be someone I can talk to. About life, and tragedy, and trauma. And, well, hard things.

"What is your obsession with him anyway? I mean, I love Big Al just like the rest, but you have a keen interest in him I just can't quite get a handle on. I've really tried to dig deep and figure this out, to be honest. I've looked at your relationship from all angles. Desperate to figure out why it is you are so...I don't know...is possessive too strong of a word?"

"How very perceptive of you. You think I'm possessive of Albert? Sorry, I didn't have the best role models at home. So I was forced to go find some in the real world. And when I saw Albert, he had about every fucking quality I could think of that would make up a good person. Admiration, Booth. It's natural. And to make something creepy out of it is just a poor reflection on you."

"So Albert is your study in good people, then? You study his behavior, look up to him, try to mimic his altruism?"

"Maybe. What's wrong with that?"

"So you want to emulate the behavior of an old, black man?"

"You are an asshole of the worst kind."

"Ha! Hold on a second. I'm just playing with you. I have nothing against Albert. Hell, we all want to be like him, why do you think I'm here, digging fucking graves. I just wanted to rile you up. I haven't been able to even get you to acknowledge my existence since that explosive moment a few weeks ago. And I knew the only way I could get your attention was to either cry or poke at Al. I know how sensitive you are about him. And we both know how the crying thing ends." He smiled coyly at his punch line, ruthlessly flirtatious even in this heated moment.

"I don't have time for your games, Booth. Ok? I've seen too much to fucking play them with you. We're both here because life is serious and ruthless and will stop at nothing to just take everything good from you. Sorry if I don't find any of that funny, or worth playing with your emotions about."

He shoves his hands into his hoodie and pulls his hood up over his hair. He pulls out a cigarette and tucks it between his lips.

"You win." He says plainly as he lights the stick and inhales.

"It's never been about winning to me. It's about drawing a line for once and telling the world, yourself included, that you can't just cross it any goddamn time you please and mess with me. Ok? So back the FUCK off."

He doesn't say anything, he inhales again and blows rings of smoke out at the pond. The darkness is settling heavy over the creatures that reside near it, making them come to life in a glorious roar of croaks and ribbits and hisses.

"You know what your problem is, Violet?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me even if I don't want to know."

"You think that no one else hurts. You are the main character in this book you're writing about pain and suffering, and you have done the other characters an injustice by thinking they don't know pain in their own way. Or that somehow your pain is superior."

His words are like a swinging knife, something about them cuts deep and causes me to shrink back in surprise.

"Are you talking about yourself, Booth? That you think I've discounted your pain, or that I don't think what you've been through is as bad as what I've been through?"

"No. I think you've been hurt so deeply that we can't even compare battle wounds because you won't even show me yours."

The cuts are coming faster now, and each one is deeper than the last.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"See, there you go again."

"This is getting old." I sigh and pretend to stare more intently anywhere but at Albert and Adelle or Booth.

"As soon as someone gets close you just, boom, throw that fucking wall up. It's like clockwork. And I know I'm getting under your skin because the more I say, the higher your walls get."

I'm not sure how to respond to Booth's words. Part of me agrees with what he is saying, but the other, much bigger part of me wants to get away from him as quickly as possible. I can't have this conversation with him. I can't even have this conversation with Albert. Or maybe even myself.

I hear a ringing in my ears again, and I'm blinded by a metallic light. Suddenly I hear Jack's voice calling out to me from the pond. I look across the water and Albert and Adelle and her nurse are all gone. In their place are the three deer, staring at me from the water's edge.

My heart is beating at the speed of thought and I am trying to keep pace with it in my mind, trying to figure out exactly what is going on here. I turn to run but then hear Jack's voice again.

Violet! Help me, Violet! It's really smokey in here!

Please stop. Stop. Make his voice stop.

Violet! I can't see, it's dark, help me!

"JACK?! JACK? WHERE ARE YOU JACK?" I yell into the distance, wanting to see him, even once.

"JAAACKK!"

Violet! (Cough, cough) Violet, please, open the door, I need to get out, the flames are getting higher! I can't see, Violet! Vi, please help me!

Booth has grabbed me by the arms, and is trying to figure out my desperation.

"Violet, who's Jack? Who are you yelling at?"

"BOOTH, please please, you have to help me! You don't understand, he's out there, just out in that darkness and he needs me and I can't see him! Help me find him. Please!"

"Violet, Violet, woah, calm down, ok? There's nobody out there!"

"NO! You don't understand! I can hear him. He's crying for help! JAACCK! I'm coming! I'll find you and I'll save you!"

"Hey, Hey, it's ok! Violet, you're scaring me! Who is Jack?"

Tears are streaming down my face, and my entire body is trembling, like I am being electrocuted by a steady low voltage, and I can't tell if it is killing me or bringing me to life. The ringing in my ears is so loud at this point that Booth's voice is a faint whisper in the background. I can only hear the ringing and the desperate plea from Jack.

Violet, Violet! They're so close Violet! The flames! Help me!

"JACK!!! JUMP OUT THE WINDOW! Please, please, Jack, please, wait, I can save you. I'll catch you! I'm coming, hold on!"

I run as fast as I can toward the pond, until I get to the very edge of the water. There is no sign of him. And yet his voice now calls out to me from the forest edge, just beyond the graveyard. The bucks stop drinking at the water and run toward the trees, disappearing into the thicket of pines and evergreens.

I am frantic. I need to find, Jack. I know he is out there, waiting for me to come find him, to save him, and yet I am petrified. I can't move. The ringing is getting more intense, turning into a white noise that blocks out all other sounds except for one. The voice of Jack, calling me.

I finally move my legs, and run as fast as I can in the direction of Jack. I don't care that I'm alone, or that it's dark and I have no flashlight. I am going to find him. I run past the first row of trees, into the woods, and the three bucks catch my eye. I see them heading northwest, in the same direction that I can hear Jack's voice. I follow them. I know they are leading me to him.

I try to slow the pace of my heart, just long enough to hear him again. I hope he knows I am coming for him. That I am desperate to find him. That I will save him this time. I won't let him die.

Violet! I'm scared! I can't see anything! I can't breathe! I need you! Violet!

What if I don't find him. Oh, God. Please, please! Let me find him. I can't lose him again. I won't.

I hear a snap, and turn around to see the entire sky light up, bright white with heat lightening. I turn back around and wait for another strike. A few seconds later the entire forest lights up, for a flash I can see for at least a hundred yards in the distance. I can see the deer, in one direction, and then, for a moment, I can see him. Way off in the distance, what feels like a million miles away, is Jack. In his baseball uniform. And his brown hair. And his freckles. And he is calling to me.

Without warning, the lightening hits the tree a few feet from me. Splitting it in two and sending a fiery ball of limbs to the forest floor. Everything around me ignites like it has been doused in gasoline. I am being surrounded quickly by flame. It is spreading, consuming everything in its path, and heads in the direction of Jack. I have to get around the flames, and to him before it's too late.

Violet! Can you hear me Vi? They're too big. I can't breathe, I can't see anything! The smoke is so thick!

No, Jack. Don't, Jack. Just give me a minute. I can figure this out.

I run as far west as I can, eyeing a clearing not far from me that will slow down the flames long enough for me to get around it. I run, not paying attention to the flames behind me or beside me. I just have to get around them, just long enough to get ahead of them.

I finally get to the clearing, and adjust my path to head toward Jack's voice. There is a small window, a path to him, but there are flames on both sides. It won't be long before the entire forest is consumed. I have to save him.

The smoke is black, and the heat feels like an oven, I can barely see, my eyes are small slits now, just open enough to see shadows and outlines of things, but they burn too badly to open any further. I am scanning the forest, running toward where I think I see Jack, looking for his outline, the silhouette of his uniform. I keep running, but I can't see him.

"JAAAACK! JAAACKKK! WHERE ARE YOUUU, JAAAACK?! CALL OUT TO ME, OK! I'M COMING!"

Violet! Will you help me Violet? I can't find the window, it's too much! It burns! I can't see!

"JAAAACKKKKK! *COUGH* JAAAAAAAACKKKK! *COUGH, COUGH* JJJJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAAAAAACKKKK!"

"Jack, please, wait for me! Jaaaack...."

No, Jack! Please don't give up, go to the window...jump! You'll make it! Jack! Please, please, stay here, please, don't give up, stay here, stay with me, don't die, don't leave, ok, I need you, I need you, Jack, I don't want you to go, I can't go on without you, please, jack....please...don't...i love you...i tried...i...tried...to...save...you...i...tried...

"VIOLET! VIOLET!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I wake up to the beeps and whirs of machines, I can feel the chill of the IV pumping in my arm, and the chatter of voices from the corner of the room.

A figure is over me, holding my hand.

"Violet? Sweetie? You're in the hospital, ok?"

The voice of my mother.

"Mom?"

"Don't try to talk, ok. Just rest and we'll talk about it when you've had some time to heal."

"Mom? Where's Jack?"

"Honey, shhhh. Let's not get ourselves worked up, ok? You're safe. You're in a hospital, and they are going to get you better."

"No, Mom, where's Jack? Did he make it? I was there, with him. He was in his ball uniform. I was trying to get to him, but I must've passed out or something."

"Sweetheart, listen to me, ok? You are safe, here, in this hospital bed. So just, lay back, and close your eyes and rest for a bit."

"NO! Mom, he was THERE! I'm not making it up! Jack was there, in the woods, and he was calling out to me, and...and...I don't know, I kept trying to get to him, he needed help...he was afraid...and I was trying to get to him, but the flames...they got too high...I tried though, Mom! I tried to get to him!"

Tears start to stream out of the corners of my eyes. He's not here. I didn't save him.

"Shhhhhh...shhhh...I know, sweetheart. I know you tried to save Jack that day, but that's in the past.

Jack is in a better place, he's in heaven with your father. And you are here, with me. Safe and sound."

"NO! DON'T say that shit to me! Dad's not in heaven, ok? We both know it. He threw himself off of a bridge because of what he did to Jack. And they don't let murderers into heaven. Last time I checked anyway."

"Violet! Please! Stop, honey! Just calm down, ok? Doctor? Nurse? Hello! Anyone! My daughter, she needs some help!"

A plump nurse walks into the room, and I can hear murmuring about me, but can only pick out a few words like, trauma, pain, accident, not right, Shady Springs, help. Soon the nurse is messing around with the arm that has my IV in it, and it is cold again. The rage lessens, and my desperation to find Jack lessens, until it isn't anything but a gentle pulse of indifference. And I am drifting...away from myself, and this room, and my mother, and Jack. Off into a field...of wild flowers and tall grass, and the sun is shining...and I am laughing, Laughing at something. Laughing at someone. I can't tell.

Then I hear him, Jack, singing his best John Fogerty, in the deep voice of a boy, trying to be a man, in that over-the-top way that always gets the laugh, singing Fortunate Son.

And I am lying on my back, looking up at the clouds as they dance in gilded pairs across the sky, glistening with a dreamt sheen of perfection. I am content, listening to Jack and letting my fingers roll across the blades of grass, and the dandelions. I am floating in a pool of childhood-happiness, the careless, weightless kind. And Jack is riding his bike in circles around me, singing and giggling, trying to make me pay attention. Doing everything he can to impress me.

But I don't care what he does. In this moment, I just like that I have a brother, and that he is with me, and we are together again. That's all I need, is him and me.

He finally gets off of his bike, and plops down on the grass beside me, lying down and trying to figure out what clouds I might be looking at.

"That one looks like a dragon to me." He says, pointing up at a popcorn cluster of clouds.

"Really? I don't see it."

"No, see, his mouth is open, and his tale is coming out from the other side of it?"

"Ohh, yeah, I do see it now. Cool."

We just both look up at the dragon, watching it float slowly across the sky, letting the cool breeze tickle our faces. Like a parade float, it rolls across the stage of the sky, until it slowly morphs into something else, breaking apart and spreading out until all that is left is a tale and a few specks of his mouth.

"Hey, Violet?" He asks, not taking his eyes off the parade of clouds.

"Yeah, Jack?"

"I'm glad you're my sister."

I smile at his little revelation. It turns something inside me. Like a key.

"So am I. And, you know, don't tell anyone I told you this, but you're not so bad yourself."

"I mean it, though. I'm glad you're my sister and not anyone else's. That would suck."

"Yeah, it would, wouldn't it? Ha!" I elbow him in the ribs a little.

He sits up and plucks a dandelion.

"I'll always love you, Violet. Even when we're old and we don't talk but every once in a while and you live across the country and I'm always on the road playing with the Yankees. Even when you can't see me. Just know, you're the best sister and I love you."

He blows the white seeds from the dandelion and they are pulled swiftly up into the air, and fly all around us. Just like the pieces of a wish breaking apart, waiting to be granted.

"Ok, Jack."

"Deal?"

"Deal."

"Great, now I gotta go, cause I told Sam I'd meet him at the field to practice sliders!"

He hops on his bike, turns the radio up and drives away, singing to the top of his lungs.

I watch as he pedals away, as the sun sets behind the clouds, and just before his bike drives out of site he throws his arms out to his sides, free and reckless. Just like a kid should be. Just like he always should be. And maybe like he always will be.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I come to and Booth is standing over me. It's dark outside, and the TV in the corner is playing Wheel of Fortune. My mother isn't in the room. No one is but me and him. Booth is holding my hand. Caressing it like someone who doesn't want to lose whatever they were holding onto.

"Hey." My voice is rusty, like I've swallowed a mouthful of salt and haven't had water in months.

"Hey. How are you feeling?

"Like I had a date with the devil in hell. And it didn't go so well."

"Ha! Glad to know you didn't lose that biting charm in the fire."

I smile softly at Booth, too tired to fight or even be opposed to his presence. Something about him is comforting to me now. I am even a little glad to see him.

"What happened? I mean, I remember bits and pieces, but then there are chunks of time missing. I remember being on the hill with you, and watching Albert and Adelle across the pond, and then, I don't know, I was in the woods and, well it all seems sort of out of order in my mind."

"Honestly, Violet, I don't know. I've been going over and over what happened in my mind, trying to figure it out. I think, I think maybe I did something to you. I mean, we were having a pretty intense conversation, which I instigated. And then, it's like something I said just triggered something. Inside of you."

"What do you mean?" I know what he means, I want to hear it from him.

"It's like one second you were fine, and then something snapped and you were, you were yelling for someone named Jack. And there was no one there. But you kept saying you could hear him, and then you got really upset and ran to the edge of the pond and then just bolted, running full force into the woods. It was like you were running after someone, as fast as you could. I tried to go after you, but I lost you. I was yelling, and then the lightning struck and it was like the whole forest went up in flames so fast."

I don't know how to respond to him. I want to comfort him and tell him it wasn't his fault. But I can't without telling him everything. Too much. I don't know if I'm ready.

"Who's Jack, Violet?"

I have reached a fork in the road, I have to choose. Trust or run.

"Jack is my baby brother." With that I let out all the air in my lungs. And the relief is instant.

"And you thought you heard him or saw him last night, at the edge of the woods?"

"I heard him."

"But he wasn't there...or was he?" he asks, his brow creased in the middle from worry and confusion.

"I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, I heard him. And then I saw him." I turn my head and watch the IV drip slowly from the bag.

"Well, was he or wasn't he. Can't you just ask him? I mean, he could clear all this up."

I swallowed hard. And inhaled before taking the last step off the cliff.

"Jack died last year.

Our house burned down, and Jack was trapped in his room. I was at a friend's house, and was walking home when I saw the flames. My mom was at a Tupperware party and my dad had gone to the grocery store to get more beer. He'd left the stove on after he'd cooked a pot of pork and beans.

I could hear Jack yelling for me when I got there. He was trying to open the window so he could jump. We had an old ladder by the garage, so I climbed up the side of the house. I busted his window out with my arm, but the blow back was so intense it knocked me off. I fell 15 feet. I don't remember anything after that. Except that Jack was gone. And I didn't — I couldn't save him."

Booth doesn't say anything. We just both sit in silence. He is still holding my hand. I am staring at the florescent light on the ceiling, trying to keep the tears in, but they are falling out of the corners of my eyes without hesitation.

Booth finally breaks the silence. "I could say a lot of things right now, but we both know it's all shit."

"Yeah." My voice cracks softly in agreement.

This is the part about life that is always the hardest to deal with, when everything worth saying has already been said, and nothing can fix it. What was lost in the fire can't be brought back to me. No matter how much Booth or me or anyone wants to, Jack is gone. Even believing that I should've been the one to go doesn't seem to lessen the pain.

"What was he like?" Booth manages to whisper those words, his voice sounds on the verge of tears.

I pause and think about how to answer that. "He was a saint. A saint that loved baseball. And Creedence Clearwater Revival. And long bike rides."

"Sounds like a cool kid. Wish I could've known him."

"Yeah, unlike me, Jack Chance never met a stranger. He would've liked your hair. And your taste in music." I force a playful half grin.

"Aw, don't make me blush. You know, you're not so bad yourself, Violet. I mean, minus the prickly pear shit."

"Thanks. Ha. I guess."

"Jesus, you know you really scared us both to death. We thought you were dead. Honest to God, we thought that you had died out there."

"Who's we?"

"Me and Albert! He saved you. It was...well, it was fucking heroic, is what it was. Now I know why you had such respect for the guy. I mean, he man-handled that fire, and those flames, and just picked you up and...at one point his shirt was on fire, but he didn't even notice. I guess it was from the adrenaline or whatever. You know what they say about mother's being able to lift cars and shit. Yeah, it was that kind of superhero stuff."

I can't believe what Booth is saying. Albert had gone into the woods looking for me, and risked his life to save me.

"Jesus. Is he ok?"

I am desperate to know that he is.

"He's fine. I mean, he's in another room, they're treating him for burns and stuff. I guess the smoke burned his lungs or something. Anyway, they said he'll probably be good to go in a day or two."

"He's here? I have to go see him." I am determined, sitting up, the skin under the bandages on my back and arms scream with my movement, and my legs are slow to respond to my prodding. I move at the pace of a wounded animal, waiting for my body to catch up, discovering for the first time how much damage I have done to myself.

"Violet, I know by now you're going to do whatever you damn well feel like. But, you're going to hurt yourself. You need to heal, and so does he. That's why you're here in this place, after all. Not to run around, pretending like you weren't just pulled from the pits of a forest fire."

"Booth, I just want to make sure he's ok. With my own eyes."

"I'm not even sure they'll let you visit him."

A nurse walks past the room and I scream out for assistance. He stops and asks if I am alright.

"My friend, he was hurt too, he's in another room here. Can I go see him? Where is he? How is he? I just need to know if he's alright and if I can go see him."

"What's his name?"

"Albert."

"Albert...last name?"

"I don't know."

How do I not know Albert's last name? I just, I don't know, always felt like it was intruding to ask. Or maybe I didn't want to know. It made him feel more like my graveyard friend and less like the real world if he didn't have a last name. Something about it felt mysterious and forbidden. Maybe even pretend. Even though I know he knows mine. I liked the distance not knowing his last name gave us. Like even if I wanted to know him outside the walls of the graveyard, I couldn't.

The nurse shakes his head and glances at his clipboard. "Ok, let me check. But you really need to lie back. You can't be up walking around yet. If and when he wants to see you, someone can wheel you over there."

"Fine."

I slowly lower myself back onto the bed, and try to think about anything else other than how badly Albert is hurt. I can't bear the thought of him being in another room, hurting because I had been too stupid to know it couldn't have been Jack I'd seen in the woods. I don't know why I went after him. Something was pulling me, something beyond myself. The deer. Yes! The deer. They'd led me. Told me to follow them. And I did. Again.

Then I remember that day with Albert when I'd first seen the buck. He hadn't seen them the way I did. He'd even had me describe them and then was very curious about how they acted. Like he knew something I didn't. Something I couldn't have known. He said there hadn't been deer like that there in 15 years or more. He'd said a specific year. I wonder why? Had he seen them too? Had they visited him before?

Maybe that was the thing he was trying to figure out. If they were the same thing he'd seen all those years before. I wonder if they'd led him the way they'd led me. To graves. And if he'd been visited by the ghosts of those buried there too. If he'd been told their stories. Or maybe I am just crazy and making all of this up. After all, I had been the one to hear Jack screaming my name, and then ran into the woods and seen him, alive, in his baseball uniform, as if he'd never died. But that couldn't have been. Jack died in a fire, his body was burned beyond recognition. It couldn't have been him in the woods, walking around. But yet, something in me said it was. Knew it was. And those deer. How could I explain seeing those deer when no one else did? But they were real. Real as Booth or anyone standing in front of me. And those spirits, telling me their stories.

I need to see Albert. Talk to him about everything that happened. I need to ask him about the deer. What they mean. And if he's seen them before. Something about it seems odd. Like he was too interested in them to not have seen something similar before.

I also need to see him to make sure he is alright. Albert is the person on this earth I care about the most. Not even my own mother means as much to me as he does.

"Ma'am?"

My thoughts are interrupted by the male nurse who's returned from his trip to find Albert.

"Yes?"

"There isn't an Albert admitted here. We do have a gentleman in the burn unit. Older." He pauses as if he is contemplating whether to describe him further. "He's black." He whispers, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one hears him use that descriptor.

"Yes, yes. That's Albert."

"But we don't have a name on the chart. He's refusing to give us one. And he doesn't have any id on him. Right now he's listed as John Doe. But you say his name is Albert?" He starts to write what I am saying down on a clipboard. Part of me wants to elaborate, tell him all about Albert, but then something in me says Albert doesn't want them knowing who he is. Or anything about him.

"Well, that's a nickname. I actually don't know his name."

Booth squeezes my hand like he wants to say more, or maybe he isn't sure where I am heading with this, or if I should be lying to the hospital. But I don't care. My only care is Albert, and making sure we respect his wishes. And clearly his wishes are to remain anonymous in this place. Hell, I can't blame him. These people, they are incessant. Pricking, prodding, asking a gazillion questions about your father's father's blood type and what you ate for breakfast a year ago. If I were as skilled, and didn't have a nosey mother who insists on telling everyone everything, I probably would try and stay anonymous too.

The nurse's face is peaked with interest, but he doesn't push for any further information. Maybe because of my current condition. But a part of me knows he won't stop at that. He will be back, asking more questions. About that night, and where I was, what I'd seen. I need to get a plan together and get out of here. I'd been through this before. I didn't like the look on my mother's face when I mentioned Jack, or seeing him. And I didn't like the look of the staff's face when she'd said all those things that made them give me the medicine that knocked me out.

Something about all of it seemed like they would eventually try to tell me what I already knew. Jack wasn't there last night. I was seeing things. And hearing things. And then they'd start prodding and prying, wanting to know what I saw, and how long I'd been seeing it. And they wouldn't just send me to my therapist this time. Or prescribe me medicine. They'd want to send me back to that place, Shady Springs, that my mother would insist was only going to help get me better. She was always gullible that way. Always took the side of the doctor or the professional over the thoughts and feelings of her daughter. I love my mother, but she's detached. In the way that lets me know my crazed visions aren't safe with her. And maybe neither am I.

I look at Booth, who is still holding my hand and watching my face for signs of what I am thinking. I trust Booth. I know he will help get me out of here. And away from these people.

"Booth, listen to me."

"Violet, why wouldn't Albert give them his name? That's weird, right?"

"Booth, I need you to help get me out of here." I start to sit up again, slowly.

"Cool, I'm down, just say when."

I am shocked by how appeasing he is, and how few questions he asks.

"Wow."

"What, you think I haven't learned to just do what you tell me the first time? Plus, I hate hospitals. Spent too much time here myself as a kid. I'd love to get the hell out of here. But we just need to figure out how."

I agree. We need a plan, but not before I see Albert.

"I've gotta see Albert first. Just to make sure he's ok."

"I don't know, Violet. They seem keenly interested in our John Doe. I'm not sure you could sneak in his room without being noticed."

"What if you just pretended to be taking me out for some fresh air, and then we just swing by his room. If it doesn't seem safe, we'll keep going."

"Alright, whatever you say, Boss. I'll go see if I can scrounge up a wheelchair and track down a different nurse."

Booth leaves the room at a quick pace, like someone has juiced him up with an energy drink. He isn't kidding when he says he wants to get the hell out of here. I think back to that moment in the graveyard, the matchbox sized implant under his skin, and I wonder what it does to him, or for him. And how long he's had it. I've heard about people who have things implanted under their skin to help with some medical condition or another. I wonder if that's why he's so skittish around the medical staff, and seems obviously bothered by the beeping of the machines. Not like he is afraid of it, but like it is a part of him that he'd like to forget.

He comes back into the room in a flash, whipping through the door with a wheelchair.

"Come on, Violet. Get in. We gotta go. I ran into that male nurse and he seemed very interested in what I was doing with this set of wheels. I told him I was going to take you out to do some wheelies in the parking lot, but he said he needed to get your vitals and check on your bandages and stuff first. For some reason I didn't believe him though. And there was a lady with him. I think you know her. She has short blond hair and was whispering. I heard your name a few times."

"My mother."

"Whatever they were talking about seemed like they were doing it in a we-know-whats-best way. And I've known people like that. It's never what's best for you. What do you think they're talking about?"

"I think you know. I woke up talking about how I'd seen Jack and my mom had the nurse give me meds to knock me out. My mother believes in better living through pharmaceuticals, let's just say. And I could end up drugged in a padded room somewhere and she'll believe wholeheartedly that it was what I needed."

"Well, we need to get the hell out of here then. Because they seemed pretty amped."

I get up as quickly as my back and shoulder will allow, and lift each leg individually, inching them over the side of the bed. I want to rip my IV out, but Booth takes the bag off and places it on the tall steel bar that rises from the side of the wheelchair.

"Here, this way it looks less like a jail break."

"Good idea." I whisper to him.

Then, without asking or even hinting, he scoops me up and puts my arms around his neck. My forearm can feel his heartbeat, and the small box that also rests there. I am too tired to fight, and instead let myself be carried the few feet to the wheelchair. He places me gently in the chair. His face is a few inches from mine and he looks in my eyes, studying the features on my face, like he is searching for something. Whatever it is, I know he won't find it. But there is a part of me that hopes he will someday. With someone else. Find that thing he's looking for.

"What?" I ask shyly, getting a little self-conscious with how long he's been hovering a few inches from my face.

"I'm just savoring this moment. When a guy like me gets to save a girl like you. Even if it's from a hospital bed."

"Ha! Nobody saved..."

Before I can finish, he kisses me. Grasping for my lips with his, not wanting to let go of me, or of the moment. I don't want to give into him, knowing I can never be all that he'd need me to be. I'm not whole. But the urge is too strong, and there is too much of him that I understand. And something in me is drawn to his kiss, what it says about me, how passionate it is, but how it longs for something more. I like the Violet that Booth desperately wants. I cling to that, kissing him back, letting him overtake me, clutching the back of his neck, and listening to his breathing change as I touch his skin.

The sound of nurses passing pulls us out of our moment together. Slightly shaken, we both straighten ourselves out, Booth clears his throat, and we go back to the task at hand, finding Albert and getting out of the hospital.

We roll at the speed of light through the long vacant hallway of the burn unit, peeking into rooms, where most everyone is covered in bandages from head to toe. One boy's door is open, he is sitting in Batman pajamas and playing cards in the bed. He still has a bandage around the top of his head, and the lower half of his face looks more like melted wax than chin and lips. His ears are also missing, which gives him an otherworldly countenance. I can't help but feel for him, knowing the kind of life he will be faced with. I wish I could tell him here and now that whatever people say about him doesn't matter. That everyone will eventually be summed up in a shitty sentence and no one will remember his burns. But I don't. I decide to let him enjoy his cards and stay a child for a minute longer, even.

After peering through the window of one of the last rooms in the hall, Booth opens the door and wheels me in. Albert is sitting up in his bed, with tubes coming out of his nose. His torso is wrapped in bandages, and so is his leg. His face has a red tint to it. My heart sinks at the thought that I have caused him even a moment of pain. He is my friend. Maybe the first real one I've ever had. Few people have had the pleasure of knowing a great person, not to mention a great friend. But if you have, you know that you'd rather die than see them hurt. And I did, die a little inside.

"Albert!" I reach up to grab him, wanting to throw myself over his chest, but instead I just grab his wrist with both hands and hold on.

"Violet." He says softly, with a smoky struggle in his chest. "You look good for a girl who nearly was swallowed up in flames."

"Albert! I'm so sorry! God, I would've never followed those stags into the woods if I'd have known this is how it would end. I just, something overtook me."

Even though his body and voice are tired, his eyes widen with the mention of the deer.

"Same ones? From a few months back, you mean. They were there last night?"

I look up at Booth, realizing I am going to sound even more unhinged than he realizes.

"Yes. Jack was yelling and those buck appeared, like they were calling me into the woods. The thing is, they've been visiting me for a while now. And...well, other things, too. I need to know, Albert. What are they? I mean, are they real?"

"If you saw 'em, then they're real." He looks down at his bandage. Like he's remembering something.

"Once upon a time, they were real to you, too, weren't they?"

He clears his throat before he starts again. "They're apart of the legend of God's Acre. Once told to me by the person who hired me. Course, I didn't believe it until one night when I was digging the grave of a preacher named Isaac, I looked up and there they stood. Mild in manner, but fiery in the eyes. Like they had secrets to tell."

"Secrets? What secrets?."

"Before I knew what to do, I kinda had a flash of something, heard church music. And then, well, Isaac stood there before me, told me his story.

It's been said that they help to settle the truth of a matter. That if the soul of one of the people buried in the graveyard is being fought over, that they come to make it right. I don't know if they're angels or messengers, but they have a mission. And when you first saw them, I thought maybe they might be the same ones. They haven't visited me for quite some time."

"You mean, you think they appeared because Jack needed to clear something?" I had to calm myself just thinking about how Albert had seen the same thing.

"Well, I think you were what he needed to settle, Violet. You were his last tie to this earth and he needed to make amends, replay that night, and make it ok. That's why."

I shook my head, understanding a little more what it all menat. "I had a dream. Well, I drifted off after they gave me some pain meds. And I saw him in a field. He told me some things."

"I won't pretend to know how it works. All I know is what I've seen. And that they leave as quickly as they come. Mysterious. Like the divine. Can't be explained except to those who experience it. But if you feel like a burden's been lifted than I would say that they did what they came to do."

Booth seems unphased by all of the ghostly visitiation talk. But seems more on edge about the hospital finding us. He pulls my chair back and whispers, "Violet, I think I hear the nurse, we better go."

I grab Albert's hand and squeeze.

"In case you don't already know, you are my most favorite person. Thanks for risking your life to save me. Sorry you paid so dearly for it." I kiss his hand and Albert brushes the hair on my head.

He whispers in my ear. "The feelings mutual, kiddo."

Booth slowly backs me out of the room.

When we get to the hallway, he quickly darts into the supply closet. It's dark and I am still teary eyed from my moment with Albert.

"What are we doing in here?" I whisper to the air behind me.

All I can hear is the crinkling of wrappers and Booth shuffling through things. He throws something in my lap and then we emerge back into the florescent light of the hallway.

I turn around to see Booth is wearing a dark blue scrub shirt, so he can blend in. Smart guy. He looks good in blue, instead of his usual black.

We make it to the elevator and then eventually to the outside. The night is moist and ablaze with the sounds of a late summer night. Crickets and frogs and birds and all the in between. Once we are at the edge of the parking lot, Booth pulls us up to his car. A black pickup truck. Black. Of course. I don't think of him as the pickup truck type, especially the big kind. As he opens the door I eye the huge step I have to hoist myself up on to get in. My thoughts go immediately to the pain it's going take to get in, but before I can even finish the thought Booth is lifting me out of the wheelchair with a single bound and has me in the seat before I can even protest.

"How's your back feeling? I don't want to bother your shoulder," he explains as he pulls the strap of the seatbelt behind my back and uses the lap belt around my waist to secure me.

"Uh, it's fine."

"Good."

As he adjusts the height of the seatbelt to make sure it doesn't irritate my bandages and burns, he gets close to my neck. Just the presence of his lips this close to me makes me nervous. Something about boys and big trucks and being injured, it's all bleeding into this perfect cocktail of wanting to be wrapped up in Booth. Even just to see what it might be like. Our bodies together, skin touching skin, his fingers running along the softest parts of me, my lips tracing the most sensitive parts of him. Hovering over me, making sure I was secure, the smell of him is intoxicating. Like the safest place in the world is in the crook of his neck.

I can't help myself, I reached up and kiss the skin just below his ear, pulling him close to me by the dog tags he is wearing around his neck. I linger there for a minute, waiting for his reaction, to see if he wants me as much as I want him. He is frozen, like an animal of prey, waiting to see what their predator's next move will be before deciding what to do. I move down his neck this time, my lips tasting his skin, wanting to be near him. Wanting this moment more than I ever had.

He takes a deep breath in, like he is using all of his might to control himself, to try and contain whatever brute instinct rages inside of him.

He pulls his head back and meets my eyes. His gaze is soft, malleable, like someone who has lost all ability to put up a fight. Tame and vulnerable.

"Violet," he whispers, as he cleared his throat. "I don't think you know what you're doing. To me." He leans his forehead and rests it against mine. "You, uh, you can't do what you just did, ever again. Ok? Because I, uh, I don't think I can control myself. Not when those lips...are on me. Makes me...makes me want to do things. To you." He laughs nervously as he turns his head.

"What kind of things," I whisper, I pull myself up to his lips and kiss them.

"Jesus, Violet." He whispers longingly with his mouth only centimeters from mine, his face is flushed and his breathing is rapid. "I've never wanted anything...more...than you." He says in a hush in my ear, like someone completely powerless and confessing his darkest secret.

"Take me somewhere." I reply, in the same hushed tone. He looks at me, perplexed. And shakes his head a little.

"Where?"

"Wherever you take girls." I look at him with a grin and he smiles back. "I'm not so sure, Vi. You're not in the best shape."

"I didn't say we had to do anything. We can just talk."

He agrees and hops into his side of the truck and we drive a few miles. The truck is silent except for the hum of the tires and the radio turned low. He finally pulls over into gravel on the side of the road. The trees look familiar. I realize where we are. My eyes dart to the overpass, and the highway sign.

"Is this where you take girls?!" I say in a panic.

"What? There's a nice little spot up in the distance, you can see the lights from the hospital and stuff. I mean, I've never brought any other girls here. If that's what you're worried about."

"I can't do this, Booth. Take me back."

"What's the matter? What happened to the soft Violet from earlier?" He nudges my hand playfully, and I pull away.

"This isn't what I meant." I open up the door and jump out onto the gravel. I can hear the traffic below.

"Hey! Violet!" Booth scrambles to get out of the truck and make his way over to me. The jump has jerked the iv out of my arm and I am doubled over, holding the open wound to keep it from bleeding.

"What happened? Damn it, you pulled your IV out. Here," he rips off the scrub shirt he'd stolen and grabbed my arm, holding it on the spot that was bleeding. "Put pressure on that. Should be fine in a few minutes. Jesus, you didn't have to jump out of the truck to get away from me. I would've given you some space. I get it. That hospital parking lot was just one of the many shades of Violet. I just never know which one I'm getting, is all."

"No. It's not that. I just, I'd love it if you took me anywhere else. Just not here. Ok?"

"Ok. Anything you want." He walks to the passenger door and opens it, moving the IV he'd hung from the ceiling, and offering to help me in again. I try to lift myself, but the step proves to be too much without hands. Booth doesn't seem to have an issue lifting my once again helpless body into place. He is in my space again. But this time he doesn't have a shirt on. I can see the little matchbox under his skin again. Only this time I notice a scar over his rib cage.

"What is that?" I ask, for the first time.

"What, this?" He says, pointing to it. "It's where I keep all the secrets people tell me. Where no one can get to them."

Something about the way he says it makes me fall a little under his spell. My unscalable wall is crumbling under the weight of his charm.

"Really though, what does it do?" I'm not one for probing questions but something about the way he is standing there seems like it gives me permission to ask.

"Tell you what, once we get out of here and to a place that doesn't make you want to run the hell away from me, then I'll tell you anything you want to know. Deal?"

"Deal."

He once again secures me and then hops back into the driver seat and drives at a rapid pace away from the scene. We are quickly several miles away from the overpass. The same one that was the symbol of a horrific moment in my life. One I will never be able to take back even if I wanted to. It seems like such a blur in one hand, and in another I can remember every tiny detail. Like, that I'd followed my dad to that cement barrier and watched as he climbed up on it and looked below at the traffic. I remember thinking that something about the traffic seemed merciful to me. Like at least one other human being would be forced to witness the end of my father, the man who'd given life to me but at the same time taken so much away. It was the paradox I'd often struggled with when it came to asking myself how I felt about him. Whether I loved him or absolutely hated him. In the end, I think the line between the two is so thin it's almost indistinguishable. To hate someone, you must do it at the same depth you once loved them. It's the terrible and beautiful law of being human.

If you had asked me then what I felt about my father, I would've said nothing. That I felt nothing for the poor, pathetic bastard I blamed all the bad things in my life on. But the distance between he and I now provided a moment for me to understand the true nature of what we were to one another. You see, there was a time when I believed that my father could be fixed. Like the prayer I whispered into the wind that night in the Bronco, I believed, within myself, that the catcher of those prayers could fix him. But now I know that men like that can't be fixed. Not by someone else. They have to seek out the change themselves. And most don't even see the issue. They hate themselves, yes, but on the surface they don't believe they need help. Or change. Or anything else that might salvage their family.

I heard once that people want to kill themselves only in the exact moment when they really wish they could be saved. But the thing is, my father should've thought about that before he dragged me there with him. I may seem like the girl who wants to save people. And maybe that's true. But the thing is, my father chose the wrong person. In that moment, when the wind was blowing on my face, and I stared at a man who stared at the traffic below, I saw someone who wanted to die. Someone who would never have the strength to change. He'd already taken the best thing I had in my life from me. A decision that he could never take back.

Maybe when he looked at me he was looking for a reason to stay. A hope in his hopeless moment. But, me, standing there, with my windblown hair and my broken arm in a sling with bandages from the cuts, he didn't see hope. For whatever reason, I wasn't enough to make him stop.

And I didn't feel sad. I just felt relieved.

Sure, my dad was a prick, and yes, I hated him for it. But not more than he hated himself. I could see it in his eyes every time Jack would hit the ball out of the park, or every time we'd hear him talk about his time in college. He hated that he wasn't more. He didn't look at me that day and see something worth staying for. He only saw a reflection of what he'd always felt inside. Hatred.

And before I knew any of that, before I realized what I'd felt, I'd let him jump off that overpass. My own fucking father. And I'd not only that. I'd stepped close and...

Well, made sure the deed was done.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Finally, the engine of the truck falls from a roar to peaceful purr. I look out the passenger window and notice the particular oaks trees we are passing look vaguely familiar. We are in God's Acre, near the entrance, out toward the hollow but away from any lights or possible visitors. There is an entire undeveloped pasture of land out by the fence that has never been dug, and not a soul visits there, or has been placed in the ground. The owner of the cemetery had purchased it years ago for development, but not enough people in Champagne County have died to even break ground. Eventually, long after Booth, Albert, and I have passed away, they will bring a long line of backhoes in to dig up the land, smooth it out and make it appropriate for death. But until then, it is just a silent place, nature fills it, and the hum of the dead is missing.

Booth switches off the ignition and leans his chin to rest on the steering wheel. Under the stars, he looks like someone who is more aware of how things should be. I am happy to see him sitting there with his mind somewhere else, on something else. I know things won't always be like they are tonight. Amidst the stars and in the aftershock of the chaos of the hospital. Things are more desperate than they had been, but in the way only youth can be. Like they'll never be another moment to spare to make up for what's been missed in the lost moments of our own ignorance.

Booth has been at one moment or another, an enemy and an ally. You think you know in certainty what someone is and what they will be, but time has an interesting way of blurring all of the certainty. Until all at once you don't know if he'd ever been either or if you'd only dreamt it.

I think Booth knows what's coming. And I think maybe he wonders if he's ready for it, or maybe he wonders if he deserves it. You know how people are. They always wonder if they deserve the good things in life that eventually come to them. Rarely do they, and we'd all be better off if we accepted the good despite not deserving it. At least that's how I feel about myself, anyway.

So we both sit in silence. I'm not sure how much he wonders about what had made me so upset about the overpass. I wonder if I'll be able to get out of ever having to tell him. But knowing Booth, that would be like neglecting the most important part of the evening.

Without saying anything to me, he opens the driver door and slinks out. He leaves me with the ringing of the truck saying the keys have been left in the ignition. I wait for him, but he never comes to my door. Not one to give much thought to the idea of chivalry, or even expect it, I open my own door and ease my way out. He has pulled down the tail of the truck and is sitting on it.

"So, I'm just supposed to stay in the truck while you come out here and ponder all of life's most interesting questions?" I ask, half kidding, but half upset that he'd left me in the truck alone.

"Nah, I just wanted a minute. Just a single second to absorb what life was before I got all I ever wanted." I wait for him to laugh or make some sort of punch line out of it, but that never comes. He is serious. I nearly collapse from the pressure.

"Listen, Booth. Please, don't talk like that. Because I don't deserve that kind of talk, first of all. And secondly, somehow it makes me feel like running. As far away from here as I can get."

"I know it freaks you out, Violet. I know it does. But the thing is, my entire life I was told that girls like you didn't exist. That they were a figment of my imagination. I used to sit and watch the girls in school, and be totally bored by them. Turned off by their shallow existence. Maybe I just missed the ones like you. But I swear to God, they weren't there. And then, in the middle of a fucking cemetery, you fall out of the sky. And..."

"And what..."

"And my entire life has been turned upside down because of it."

"Booth, I can't ever be what you want me to be, or think that I am. I'm not that. Trust me. The more you think of me that way, the more I'm bound to disappoint you."

"It's moments like this, when you say things like that, that I know that I'm not wrong. I don't think you're perfect. But you drive me absolutely mad with how much I want to know everything about you. I can't think about you enough. You're like a giant puzzle and I can't sleep until I've pieced it together myself."

"I'm missing too many pieces for you to ever figure that out. You'll waste your entire life on me and then get to the end and realize the most important parts were never on the table to begin with."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, Booth."

"Not to me." He looks down at his hands, and balls them into fists.

I wait for a minute, letting things become what they are supposed to before I change the subject.

"What is that thing under your chest? The matchbox you don't ever talk about."

There is silence for a while. I almost embrace it, the small, blissful moment of ignorance before you know the truth.

"When I was eight my heart stopped. I died. And they brought me back to life with the panels, you know the kind they rub together and put on your chest. Anyway, it turns out I have a faulty valve. Keeps my heart from beating like a normal person. And every so often I get an electrical pulse from it, to make my heart pump again."

"Jesus. Is it dangerous? Like, could you still die from it?"

"Yeah. But that's why they implanted it. The chances of me dying again are less if they do it this way. It detects when my heart is struggling and it sends a signal to keep it in rhythm."

Thinking about Booth dying in my arms, in the bed of his pickup truck doesn't sound nearly as romantic as it seems. But I'm not one to treat him like he is sick. Even though I'm not sure I can treat him like he isn't even if I tried hard. There will always be an element to him that is just out of my comfort zone. One that makes me slightly uncomfortable. But in this moment, I pretend like it's as if he told me that he changes his boxers every other day instead of every day.

"What about you?" He asks with the softness of a friend.

"What about me?"

"That overpass thing. You nearly came unglued."

I try not to let his words make me run.

He clarifies. "I don't want to pry. You scared me, is all. And with all the other stuff I never knew about you, I just thought maybe you'd like to have a friend, someone you could trust to tell it to."

I'm sitting on the tail of the truck and decide I've had enough confessional for one night. This isn't my idea of foreplay. Not even in the most bizarre sense. I jump down and walk toward the fence. It's not long before Booth is standing behind me.

"Don't do this, Vi. Don't put a wall up. Just tell me. You've clearly suffered long enough." He pulls my hair back off my shoulder, accidently touching my neck with his fingers.

"You like to think that everything can be talked about to a point of making it better. I'm here to tell you that that's not true. Some things are best left unsaid. Trust me, I know."

I reach into his pocket and grab his pack of cigarettes, pulling one from the box and putting it to lips.

"My dad was an asshole. You can fill in the blanks." I light the cigarette and take a long drag.

"So that overpass had to do with your dad?"

"God, you are the worst, aren't you? I don't want to have this Q&A with you right now." I turn around again, facing the starry, moonless horizon.

"Fine. Ok. I'm sorry. Just tell me what you want and leave the rest to imagination. If that's how you'd like it."

I don't know what I want. The night is so confusing. I look down at the bandages on the same arm that was in a sling the day my father jumped to his death. And the feeling in the air, the early breeze of fall, only reminds me more of the traumatic days leading up to it.

"A week or so after Jack died, my father picked me up from the hospital. My arm was in a sling, broken in 4 places. He pulled over in that same spot you did, and walked to the middle of the overpass. I followed him because I thought maybe he wanted to have a moment of regret for what'd happened so tragically to Jack. But instead he climbed up on the cement barrier and stood for a second, looking down at the traffic, unsteady and murmuring to himself."

"You don't have to say anything else, Violet. I get it."

I turn back around quickly. "NO! If you want to hear the story, then you're gonna let me tell it."

He doesn't say anything, he just nods in agreement.

"I could've stopped him. I could've done what any good daughter would've done, and yelled out his name. Or tried to pull him down. Tried to stop him."

"Violet, it wasn't your fault."

"I pushed him, Booth!"

"What?"

"I hated him so much. And I was so mad at him for stealing Jack. And for all the bad things he'd done to us. To our family. To me!"

He winces and stares at his feet.

"I...I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I've never told anyone. Not even my mother or my therapist or Albert. But I guess maybe I thought you should know. Before you go telling me all this bullshit about getting everything you ever wanted.

I was so angry. And he kept looking over at me, like he couldn't find any reason in me not to jump. I'M HIS FUCKING DAUGHTER, and he couldn't find a single goddamn reason in the world to not jump. It was like, I don't know, seeing the devil standing on a bridge and you have the opportunity to end him. He looked down at the traffic. I knew he was going to jump, but something in me wanted to help. Like, I couldn't control it. So, I pushed him."

I am crying uncontrollably at this point. Sad and pitiful. Like a child.

Booth reaches over and grabs my arm.

"Violet, whatever happened to you, whatever he did to you, it's over now."

My voice cracks as I try to speak again. "No, that's the thing. It's never over. It's always just creeping around the corner, waiting for me. Waiting for that smell, or that sound, or that song to trigger it and it all comes flooding back. Like an avalanche of sorrow and regret and longing. Sometimes it's so overwhelming that I feel like I'm going to die. Like it's going to take me."

Suddenly a crow lands on the fence post. He stares intently at both of us, like he is trying to figure out what might be so important that we would be here talking like this. Something about him feels like a friend. Like someone I'd known once, that I could talk to again. Maybe even tell my secrets to.

Booth and I just sit and stare at it, neither of us wanting to scare him away.

"Crows. Odd birds, aren't they? People say they're creepy, but I've always found them to be intriguing and beautiful. In only the way a creature with many secrets can be." He seems to have a realization as the last words came out of his mouth.

"Animals have an interesting way of knowing what humans are thinking before they do. Like that crow knows more of sorrow than even the most broken hearted among us."

I am distracted by the odd interest this bird is taking in our conversation. I know that something in the way he is looking at me says all I want to know about the triviality of my problems. For a fleeting moment I feel like he and I are the same creature. The same magical creature of flight, in whose shadow all the secrets of life are hidden and revealed at the same time. In that moment, I feel like there is a deep truth to the idea that all suffering and all pain and all joy and all love is universal. What is felt in one is reverberated in all of us. We are connected in such an unspoken and deep way that if it were exposed to the depths at which it was true, we'd be in a constant state of awe and humble gratitude.

The bird flies away. And Booth and I are once again left to ourselves and the thing that hangs between us that we are both thinking carefully about exploring, but at the same time want to deny exists at all. Not even the visit from a wandering crow can make it disappear.

Booth walks over and sits on the tailgate of the truck. I creep up to him, in the crisp, coolness of the night, and put myself between his knees. I look deeply into his eyes, trying to figure out what odd thing this human being finds in me that is worth fighting for. If I could, I would give anything to have it implanted in my brain. To expose that mysterious thing he is so drawn to, that no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find in myself. He'd done what I can't do every day, no matter how hard I try - find something in me to love.

"What?" He asks in the boyish charm of a new crush.

I put my head on his chest. Wanting to hear the patter of his heart, and figure out the unique pattern in him that makes his matchbox work. I don't hear anything but the deep, wild thud of a normal heart. It shakes both of us as it beats, jerking us almost. That's the thing about a heart that most people don't realize, if it weren't tied to the inside of your chest it would never agree to endure the pain. It's almost like all it ever wanted was to be let out of its cage, and even after a million failures it still tries every other moment. To be let out. And it doesn't stop until at long last it realizes that there is no escape except in the surrender.

I'm not sure that it even makes any sense to those who can't listen to their own hearts. But given the chance, everyone should watch the subtle shake of someone sleeping at night. It's quite a beautiful sight. Knowing that within each of us is something so untamable that even in chains and the unconscious of sleep it seems savage and violently relentless.

"What does it do?" I ask in almost a whisper.

"What do you mean?" He finally says in return. The depth of his voice reverberating in the chasm of his chest.

"What does your box of secrets do to you when your heart decides to surrender?"

He pulls me up from his chest and lifts my chin.

"It doesn't work that way. It sends my heart signals to beat properly. That's all."

"So, it could never stop beating, even if it wanted to?"

"No. It can't save me. It can only help fix a flaw. But if a heart wants to quit beating, nothing can stop it. It's stubborn that way, I guess."

"Does it ever feel like it wants to? Stop, I mean." I know my question seems childish, but I think maybe there might be some sign that a heart puts out that says it's about to give up. Something to look out for.

"Maybe. But I haven't figured it out yet if it does."

Without asking Booth takes me under my arms and lifts me up on the tailgate beside him.

"Lay down beside me, Violet."

I decide not to fight it, and lie down in the bed of the truck and look up at the stars. Everything about this moment feels like a dream. Like I am laying on the back of a comet while it is being catapulted through space. And my only job is to enjoy the view. To notice every single detail about the cosmic design, every twinkle of light, ever galactic cloud, every cluster of star, everything. And for the first time, I surrender to the magnitude of it. The feeling of being so small, that even if I wanted a different outcome, who was I to request it. I am a speck on a speck on a speck. And the hand I've been dealt, although painful, probably doesn't look much different from every other speck on a speck on a speck. Unless looked at under a microscope. But maybe God doesn't look at us and our problems under a microscope. Maybe He just checks in on us every once in a while, from a great enough distance that He can see that while things feel wildly off track to us, they seem pretty accurate to Him.

In the moment, I feel grateful to be so small. To not have the pressure of the world and the universe as we know on my shoulders. But I lean into the luxury of being the spectator for a moment. The person who tried their best, and can rest in the realization that the possibility of control was only ever an illusion. The human illusion. Those of us that have been through something traumatic at the hands of someone meant to take care of us, we've been taught a great lie. That if we try hard enough, we can anticipate the bad things this time. And hopefully change them. The lie that we can control the world and the way it spins on its axis with our thoughts, and keep the pain, the other people, the bad stuff away from us.

But instead, we exhaust ourselves with the illusion. Until all that's left is an empty shell, and a vacant stare. Someone who is too busy anticipating the future and trying to avoid the pain to ever realize what's happening in front of them. Too consumed to look out and realize that the universe gives us a signal each night after sunset, a giant signal, to look up and be reminded that we aren't in control even when we convince ourselves we are. That even on our best day, we are all just specks on specks on specks. Racing through space on the back of a comet, that has never and will never ask us to command it. Or stop and ask us for directions.

We are all as vulnerable and powerful as a grain of stardust. And if we take a moment to surrender, we'll realize that's the most spectacular thing we could ever hope to be.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

TEN YEARS LATER

I received a letter in the mail to my new address recently. It had come a long way to get to me. It was addressed to Miss Violet Chance, and the return address was from Champagne County. I opened it and it was a notice saying that my presence was requested at a graveside funeral. It asked if I would come. I bought my plane ticket and packed a carryon's worth of items.

I stop by a small flower shop on my way to the graveyard. I pick up a bouquet of flowers, violets tied with tweed string.

When I walk up, there isn't another soul standing by the open grave. The casket has already been lowered, but the dirt is still piled high beside it.

I walk over slowly, standing over it for a while. Remembering vividly the last time I'd stood over him in a grave he'd been alive, and laughing, cursing at the Dodgers for their shitty defense. My time with Albert felt like a lifetime ago. Like a different world.

That night in the bed of his pickup truck was the last night I ever spent with Booth. Not too long after that, he left his grave digging apprenticeship. And I stopped spending my days at the graveyard. I'm not sure which one came first, maybe they happened at the same time. It seemed like we both outgrew it together.

I would stop in to see Albert when I could, until finally I just stopped visiting altogether. I think that's always what Albert wanted for me. To one day stop seeing my face crest over the hill, into the hollow, heading to the oak tree that had kept me company for so long. Albert's hope for me was to always one day graduate from this place. To return to the land of the living, with scars from my past instead of open wounds. And it was true, this place had healed me. I suppose it had healed him, too. But he always felt like he had a certain penance to pay for that. To tell you the truth, so did I.

I drop the violets into the hole, and they land perfectly on top of his casket. Then I grab a handful of dirt, kiss it, and drop it slowly over him. There is a part of me I am dropping in with it. The part that I had gotten from him, that I had borrowed for a time, the strength and the wisdom. It was time to give it back.

"Miss?"

The voice from behind me is of a woman, seems frail and raspy, with more air than words.

I turn around and see a feeble woman, no more than 5 foot standing behind me, with her Sunday best and a hat with a sunflower on it.

"Yes?" I ask, looking into her eyes, and thinking for a moment I recognize them from some place.

"Are you Violet Chance?"

"Yes, ma'am. I am. Who are you?" I ask curiously.

"Billy always spoke so highly of you. I believe I even saw you once or twice. But you look so different now, I couldn't tell."

"Billy? Who is Billy?" My face twists a little with confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Adelle. I was a friend of Billy's. He buried my family, and we kept in contact with each other. I always felt a certain protectiveness over him, given the state he was in when we met all those years ago. I don't know, always felt like I needed to look out for him."

"I'm sorry. I do remember you, Adelle. Your family died in that plane crash. But I don't understand. Who is Billy?"

"Billy. Oh, well, I guess he went by Albert with most folks. I never called him that, of course, but I think maybe it was because I knew his story. I don't think he wanted people to know him as that. Even in some ways, I think he buried that name with all the other folks he put to rest here."

"Albert wasn't his real name?"

"Well, it was the name he gave himself. His real name was William Silos Wilkins. Billy for short. You know, he had a hard life."

I hold my hand up to keep her from going any further. "Wait. Hold on. You're telling me that Billy Wilkins was Albert's real name? I'm confused."

She looked down at her feet and sighed. "Billy had a hard life as a kid. He went through some things. Most folks would've probably let it take them to the grave. But not Billy. He overcame his demons. He was one of the strongest men I ever knew."

Suddenly I remember a story Albert once told me. The first story he ever did, actually. "But Albert, er, Billy, er, whatever, told me a story once about a Billy Wilkins, I think. About him being so good at baseball, but being abandoned by his mother and father, and being put in the foster system and falling down a well. And being left for dead?"

"Yes, yes, that's right. So he did tell you about his life?"

"No, he told me that boy died. That he was found days later, dead in the bottom of that well." My head is spinning with questions and memories.

"Oh, well, the part about being found is not true. Billy fell down that well and was down there for more than a week, broke his arm and his collar bone, it stuck clean out his neck. Remember that scar he had? Well, he drug himself out of that hole, inch by inch, with one hand and his other arm dangling. Sheer will and determination. Shows you how resilient and strong the human soul really is."

What she was telling me didn't make any sense. This boy that he'd told me had stuck with him for so many years was really just the person Albert had been. The one he'd tried to outrun.

Albert had told me who he was from the beginning. I just wasn't smart enough to connect the dots.

"Yes, that fall took any shot he had at baseball away. But he pulled himself out of that hole. He didn't go back into the foster system. He just raised himself. He healed himself. And then eventually he landed here. They gave him a job. Anyway, when we met, I had been dealt my own painful hand. And we found something in common that way, that and we shared a birthday. We became friends. Trusted each other. I think we needed each other. And then he told me his story. I always felt a part of my mission on this earth was to help Billy."

"No, I'm sorry for my face and my reaction. I have always felt that same way. Only reversed. Like God put him on this earth to help me. Like he was my guardian angel, of sorts. But I just never knew all those days we spent together, and those times he was telling me that story about Billy, I should've known he was telling me about himself, instead. He just had a twinkle in his eye. Like what he was saying was too true for him not to have lived it."

Adelle smiled softly. "Yes, well. I know he wanted to say his goodbyes. And you meant an awful lot to him. Most attached I've ever seen him get to anyone. He told me to write you, so I did. I wasn't sure you would come, to be honest. But here you are.

He gave me something to give to you. He said you would know what it was. And what it meant."

She pulls out a box from her purse and hands it to me. I am shaking from the emotion and shock of what she is telling me.

I open it, and inside is a dusty baseball. It is worn and tattered. Like it's been thrown a million times, and it had meant quite a lot to someone a long time ago. There are splotches of brown dots on it. Dots of blood. Albert's blood.

"Was this the ball he was holding down in that well?"

"The note inside explains it all."

I pull a small white card from inside and on it, in messy small writing reads:

Sometimes it's our dreams that pull us from the depths of despair. And sometimes it's our demons. But we march on because we are strong. You were always the strongest, Violet. Sorry I didn't tell you the whole truth, but I knew you'd find your own eventually. See you soon.

– The Gravedigger

I close the box and quickly look up. But Adelle is gone. Disappearing as quickly as she'd come.

And I am there at his graveside alone. At the grave of someone who had once saved my life, with the very thing that had saved his.

I want to keep it, but I know that it isn't mine to keep. That it should be buried beside the man who had used it to overcome so much. As a token. As a symbol. As a gift.

And so I drop the baseball into the dirt. And whisper into the wind. A prayer for the life he could've had. And a thank you for the life he kept on living.

"Goodbye, Gravedigger. See you soon."

THE END

