Graveminder

Chapter 27

REBEKKAH HAD TRIED TO SLEEP BUT COULDN’T. AFTER A FEW FITFUL hours, she was outside walking again. This time, however, she watched the sun rise as she walked toward the cemetery. Day two without Maylene. Over the years, she’d lived a lot of places and spent many days— weeks —without speaking to her grandmother, but now that she was home, each day stretched out in front of her forebodingly.

When she’d visited Maylene, they’d gone from cemetery to cemetery plucking weeds and planting flowers. They’d buried food just under the soil and poured whiskey or gin or bourbon or any number of other drinks onto the ground. It hadn’t felt normal exactly, but it hadn’t felt peculiar either.

Rebekkah couldn’t fill the gap in her life that existed now that Maylene was gone, but following the routine she’d shared over the years with her grandmother helped. Like a handful of dirt to fill in a chasm. She shifted the weight of her messenger bag on her shoulder again. The clink of tiny glass bottles was almost too soft to hear over the sounds of cars and birds, but she listened to them. The whole of it—the birds singing, car engines humming to life, and liquid sloshing in the bottles—felt right. The familiarity was comforting.

At the gate of Sweet Rest, she jiggled the heavy lock until it clunked open. She lifted a hand to the tall iron gate and pushed. It swung inward with a mild creak, and she drew a deep breath. The peace she needed was here. She knew this with a surety that made little sense. Her feet moved over the soil as if a cord had pulled her forward, not to Maylene’s grave, which was in the nearby Oak Hill Cemetery, but toward a grass-covered plot in Sweet Rest. Once she reached it, reached Pete Williams, she stopped. The string that had pulled her there had vanished.

“Pete,” she started. “I have some bad news.”

She knelt and flipped open her bag.

“Maylene couldn’t come see you,” she told the month-dead man. “I came in her stead.”

Rebekkah pulled out a bottle and twisted off the cap. Silently, she upended it over a tiny ivy plant that had started to creep up the side of Pete Williams’ memorial stone.

“My grandmother died, Pete,” she whispered. “Would you miss her?”

She paused and leaned her forehead against the gray stone. Tears fell on the soil, not many, but enough that she had to blink them away.

“I’m not crying for you, but with you,” she said with a sniff. “You’d cry with me, wouldn’t you, Pete?”

Her tears fell to the soil, where the whiskey had already vanished, and then she took several steadying breaths and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Places to go, people to meet,” she told the absent man. “Hope your drink was good.”

Then she patted the top of the stone. “See you around, Mr. Williams.”

Nine graves, nine bottles, and quite a few more tears later, Rebekkah realized she wasn’t alone: Byron Montgomery was walking up the hill toward her. A five o’clock shadow made obvious that he’d not stopped to shave since yesterday morning. He looked exhausted: clothes wrinkled, steps heavy, and eyes red-rimmed.

“Did you sleep? I mean ... you look about as tired as I feel.”

He fell into step beside her. “Some things came up, and ... I slept, just not enough. You?”

“The same,” she admitted.

He reached out as if to touch her arm, but didn’t complete the gesture. “The grief will get easier. It has to, right?”

“I hope so. I miss her,” Rebekkah murmured. That was the truth, the whole of it: Maylene’s being gone hurt.

He nodded. “When Mam passed ... it felt wrong to be happy, to move on. I felt like a jackass for even trying to let go. In my line of work, you’d think—” He stopped himself. “It’s not the same when it’s family. Some deaths are harder than others.”

Rebekkah’s gaze drifted over the cemetery as she and Byron wound their way down toward the old mausoleums. Irises spotted the overgrown grass in bursts of purple and blue. Morning glories and ivy crept up trees and over the stone sides of the mausoleums. A few of the squat buildings had weathered benches, stone steps, and columns. Doors of ornate iron and bronze sealed some; others had lost their doors and had only wire mesh affixed to the entryways to keep out would-be visitors.

At the bottom of the hill, Rebekkah sat down on the grassy earth. She wondered briefly if Byron had become one of those people who thought resting too close a grave was bad manners. “Will you sit with me?”

He lowered himself to the ground and sat with his legs stretched in front of him.

She pulled at the long grass beside her. It needed trimming. No one was minding this grave. She glanced at Byron. “How did you know where I was?”

Byron gave her an inscrutable look. “Maybe we’re both meant to be here.”

“I came here because ...” She shook her head as she realized that the words she was about to say would sound freakish.

“You came here”—he reached out and laid a hand on the side of her satchel—“to visit the dead.”

The bottles clinked as he slid his hand over the bag.

Rebekkah swatted his hand away. “Maylene used to bring me. I thought it would ... it’s silly, but I thought she’d like it if I came here.”

“It’s not silly.” Byron caught her gaze. “I knew you’d be here.”

“Because of Maylene,” she said.

“And because of who you are.” Byron caught her hand in his. He laced his fingers with hers and held on. “We need to talk, Rebekkah. I know the timing sucks, but— ”

“Stop right there. You said you’d give me my space, that you were my friend, and I know I ... that I’m the one who kissed you, but”—she tugged her hand free—“I’m not staying here. I’m not staying anywhere or with anyone, and you’re the relationship type.”

“That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about, but for the record, no. I never was the relationship type, not with any woman I’ve met outside of Claysville. Just you.” He stood up. “But I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“I was waiting on you , Rebekkah.” He shook his head and laughed humorlessly. “I’ll always be waiting on you, and I guess I need to either accept the crumbs you’re willing to give me or pretend I’m over you. Maybe that’s been the choice for years, and I was too damn stupid to realize it. What I have with you I’m not going to experience with anyone else alive.”

“Byron, I’m sorry, but—”

“No.” He cut her off. “Don’t lie to me right now.”

She stayed on the ground, staring up at him. With the sun rising behind him, he looked like a graveyard angel, carved and dark, silhouetted against the morning sky. He belonged here, in the quiet of the cemetery.

With me.

She shoved that thought away as quickly as it formed and, speaking as much to herself as to him, said, “I don’t plan on staying here forever. I’m already going to be here a lot longer than I thought I’d be.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know that you can leave. That’s what we need to talk about, Bek.”

She couldn’t see the expression on his face for the sunlight behind him, but he sounded serious. It made her nervous. “What?”

He looked past her. “Did you ever think that the obstacles to what you want multiply the closer you come to getting it? If you say the wrong thing ... if you had done the smallest thing differently ... if you were better ... if you were enough ...”

“Byron?” She said his name softly.

He looked back at her. “My father died last night, and before he did, he showed me some things I need to tell you ... and show you.”

“Oh my God ... Why didn’t you say something when you got here? Why didn’t you call me last night?” She scrambled to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry. What happened? He seemed fine when you guys left.”

“He ... It sounds crazy, Bek. Dad’s gone, and ... I need you.” He cupped the back of her head in his hand and with his other arm held her close. “I need you, Rebekkah. I’ve always needed you—as much as you need me.”

She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Despite the tangled mess between them, he was still her friend, had always been her friend, and he was clearly in some sort of shock. She pulled back and looked up at him. “Do you want to talk? I’m not much for sharing my feelings, but Mom certainly is, so if you need to ... I’ve had lots of practice listening. I’ll listen if you want to talk.”

“I do,” he admitted, “but not about Dad. There’s a man you’re going to meet. His name is Mr. D or Charlie. He lives over there.”

“Over where?”

“In the land of the dead,” Byron said.

“The ... what ?”

“Please? Just listen.” He paused, and when she nodded, he told her: about Charlie, about the Graveminder, about his being the Undertaker, and about the contract between Claysville and the dead. He told her about the strange multi-era world, the club where he’d shared drinks with the dead, and his father staying behind. Then he added, “And the only two people who can go there are the Graveminder and the Undertaker. They’re partners. The Undertaker opens the gate, and the Graveminder escorts the Hungry Dead to their rightful place.”

“Uh-huh.”

Byron ignored her tone. “The goal is that the dead don’t get out of their graves, but—”

“Out of their graves?” she repeated. “Byron, sweetie, I think you’re in shock. Don’t you think we’d notice zombies?”

“They’re not zombies, Bek.” He understood why his father hadn’t told him, but as he tried to explain to Rebekkah, he also understood why the new Graveminder and Undertaker should’ve been told years ago.

“Okay ... Not zombies. Dead folk crawl out of the graves. Graveminder puts them back, by taking them through the gate that the Undertaker opens. William stayed behind; you’re the new Undertaker.”

“Right, and then she, you , take them to the land of the dead,” he added.

“Me?”

“Yes. The Graveminder is supposed to keep them in their graves by way of ... I’m not sure how. There are things you do when people die, ways to pin them or something. I’m hoping Maylene left you instructions on that part or Charlie tells you or—”

“Whiskey,” she whispered. “Prayers, tea, and whiskey. Memories, love, and letting go ... oh, fuck.”