Hearts of Stone

It was a cold place, an empty place.  It was a lifeless place filled with deathly silence.  Brian walked past stone faces and tried not to look at their vacant, unemotional expressions.  The neatly trimmed grass belied empty hearts concealed behind dark countenances.  The stone faces mocked him in their silence, miserly guarding secrets that he was not permitted to comprehend.  They were unfeeling and uncaring, and he hated them.

He pulled the collar of his jacket around his ears.  The wind whistled a haunting melody as it whipped his shoulder-length hair around his head and over his eyes.  He was thankful for the momentary respite from having to look at the neatly manicured rows of granite as he walked past the small church and entered the unpretentious cemetery.  A chill rattled through him.  He wasn't sure it was from the bracing wind or the memories of his father's burial at this place a year before.

Brian turned his attention to the flowers that spotted the landscape.  His pale blue eyes under heavy brows glowered at the sight of red, gold, lavender, and azure contrasting the pale, somber shades of granite and marble.  But the more he tried to ignore the splash of unseemly color, the more they intruded.  What on earth possessed people to plant flowers?  There was nothing here to hallow, only the warm breath of decomposition.

He thought back to the morning when they had laid to rest the man who had been his father for some thirty-eight years. The whole process had been an ordeal to Brian, who had been forced to shoulder the bulk of the responsibilities for a task he cared little about.  He had been glad when it ended, glad to know his father was gone. 

He passed among the neat columns.  He was not here by choice.  Why Beverly wanted to meet him here was beyond his understanding.  His sister probably only wanted to show him the latest arrangement of flowers she had placed on the grave.  She had never seemed able to find time to clutter their father's life, yet seemed to have little remorse cluttering his grave.  Only after tiring of her incessant needling had he finally agreed to meet her here, 'to show you something,' she had said.

He approached a familiar place.  The last time he had seen it had been under a similar wintry, rain-soaked sky, surrounded by uncomfortably huddled figures.  The small plot of ground was in his name.  He had never owned a piece of property in his life.  That right was reserved for the lucky and the strong, but this he owned.  He couldn't resist a cynical smile.

Standing beside the grave and watching him approach was Beverly.  At the sight of her, his already clouded features darkened further, anticipating an impending storm.

Beverly watched him approach, fire in her eyes.  Brian steadfastly refused to meet them.  Instead he faced toward their father's grave as he stepped in beside her.  He could feel her eyes boring into him, begging him to turn and acknowledge her.  He ignored her, not out of petty jealousy or sibling rage, but simply because he knew she could not understand his feelings.  He had grown weary of explaining them.

Her sigh and a slight rustle of clothing told him she had given up for now and had turned to face the grave as well.  For long moments they stood in silence.

"Do you notice anything odd Brian?" she asked finally, quietly.

His land looked no different from that of the others.  It was neatly manicured, and with the ever-present flowers it blended in easily.  Still, there was one real difference between it and the others, a void almost screaming to be filled.  Brian had successfully ignored that screaming.  Missing was any discernible evidence of a headstone.

"Not really," he lied.

"Brian," said Beverly.  Her voice was calm and measured.  It was her debating voice, the one she used when only diplomacy was left, having exhausted her arsenal of arrows and spears to the heart.  "We can't put this off any longer.  He needs a headstone."

"I don't recall ever seeing that written down anywhere."

"It's the right thing to do, and you know it."

He turned toward her, challenge in his eyes.  "That's your only reason?  Because it's the right thing to do?"

That had done it.  Her veneer of diplomacy dropped and fire returned.  He knew her pressure points well.  She began to lecture him about his neglectful attitude, how it should be a family decision and not her's alone, and how the whole family felt he was being just a bit too childish and irresponsible.

He smiled to himself and turned away from her again, pulling his collar closer and hunching his shoulders.  This he could deal with.  He had heard it before and there was no reason to respond.  Her words slid off his shoulders like the freezing rain had that cold morning when they had buried Dad.  That had caused suffering and discomfort, but he knew all he had to do was weather the storm and soon he would find comfort again.

The onslaught of words eventually slowed.  Now and then a flurry of words flared, but the storm had passed.

"I don't know what more to say.  I can't seem to get through to you," Beverly said.

There was no need to try and tell her again what she wouldn't understand.

"Brian."  She had become quiet again.  "Please tell my why."

"I've tried to tell you why."

"You know Daddy loved you."

He laughed aloud at her words, shaking his head.  Tears welled in his eyes, possibly from the laughter.  It was pointless.

"Okay, so you're not going to listen to me, but you never come here.  At least stay a few minutes and maybe you'll see what a travesty this is to have Dad buried with no marker to acknowledge his passing."

Brian lifted his shoulders in apathy.  He hadn't planned on walking out with Beverly anyway.

"Fine!" she exclaimed, brusquely turning and walking away.

Brian stood with his head bowed and listened to the rhythmic click of her heels on the cemetery driveway.  He listened to them recede further into the distance.  Only when he heard the far-off sound of a vehicle leaving the parking lot did he finally raise his head.

He was exhausted.  It should be over now, but still it continued.  Even from beyond the grave his father reached out with his slimy fingers.

Blankly staring at first, Brian's eyes finally focused on the fresh-cut flowers Beverly had carefully laid on the grave--some mums and a few roses mixed in with a bunch of baby's breath.  Annoyed, Brian bent to remove them.

As his outstretched hands touched the dying stems, a shadow appeared from nowhere.  It advanced across his sight, first touching the stilled voices of the flowers and gradually moving to cover his hand.  Its passing sent a chill racing down Brian's spine.

He raised his head to evaluate the obstacle that had interrupted the daylight uninvited.  For a moment he could discern only the outline of a figure.  The sun, breaking though the clouds, skirted the figure and caused Brian to squint.

"Tidyin' up a bit, young fella?" The voice was clear, but sounded raspy.

Brian moved his head a few inches to the left to allow the source of the voice to block the sun.  The face he saw eclipsing the sun was old ... very old.  It looked like the earth itself, cracked and mottled with streaks of alabaster and iron.  Yet there was a certain vigor.  Maybe it was the lift of his voice, or the way he held himself.  Brian couldn't be certain, but he was overwhelmed by eyes that blazed obsidian.

"Yeah, I guess," Brian replied annoyed, turning his head back to insinuate deep contemplation of the flowers in his hand.  The last thing he had come for was conversation.

"Good thing for a son to do ... keep his father's grave clean."

Brian turned to look back up.  "What makes you think it's my father's grave?"

The old man arched his gaze beyond Brian, over his head and the heads of the stone monoliths to a far-off place.  "I know a lot of things ... been doing this job a long time."

"Oh, so you take care of things here?" asked Brian.

The old man turned back to look at Brian.  The corners of his mouth turned up slightly and his eyes shone deeply with penetrating flashes of radiance. 

"You might say so."

Great, thought Brian.  Now I have to deal with some grizzly-old, weirded-out caretaker.  Fortunately he didn't verbalize the thought.

"I been noticin' you don't have a stone here," said the old man.

Brian stood up.  This was too much.  He didn't have to explain himself or his actions to anyone.  Yet he found himself doing just that.

"Look. I don't owe my father anything."

Brian stifled memories with a clutched sob in the back of his throat.

"Technically, I had been fatherless for years," he said to the old man, bristling.  "When he finally died, it was just another time-stamp on my life.  You'll have to excuse me if I don't exactly want to commemorate all that wonderful devotion to family unity and pride."

Brian found it ironic that when his father died it was he, the one he had abused so mercilessly, that had ended up being the only one capable of handling all the arrangements. From a long history of stifling pain, he began growing meeker.

"My father did vile things to me," he said, almost limply.

Brian paused.  This was more than he had said on the subject to anyone in years, even to Beverly.

The old man simply smiled. "Care to take a walk with me?" he asked.

It was not exactly the response Brian had expected, and it left him perplexed.

"I want to show you some things," the old man said.

As much as he yearned to avoid it, Brian felt oddly compelled, as if something deep within was nudging him.  He shrugged.  Why not, he thought.

Brian fell into step behind the old man.  They paused before a simple marker, indistinguishable from most of the rest.

"That's Jimmy Blue," said the old man.  "He lived to the ripe old age of three.  He died when a  hurricane hit a city that lived in denial.  His mother came here and cried every day for a while, but she had to stop.  She ended up losing two more children from disease after being left to fend for herself, and had to spread her grief around."

"Don't say that on the headstone does it?"  said the old man after reflecting long seconds.

"No," was all Brian said.

The old man moved on and Brian followed, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the gravestone.

"Now look here," said the old man, pointing two rows deep.  "That's Bill Yates.  He was killed in the big one."

"World War Two," said Brian.

"World War One!  He was the father of three but couldn't wait to go to war.  What makes a man with three children want to do that?"

"Duty and Honor?"

"Perhaps. His two oldest sons enlisted during World War II, just to be like the father they never knew.  Their names were Carl and Leon."

Brain noticed the name of Carl Yates on the next grave, killed in 1942.  Beside it was one for Leon Yates, killed in 1943.  All three grave sites were marked by small flags with round markers placed by the local Veterans of Foreign Wars for servicemen.  He said nothing.

"Don't say nothin' about that either.  The VFW never forgets one of their own, and Paul Yates, old Bill's youngest son, comes here every Memorial Day and puts flowers on his father's and brothers' graves.  He's getting pretty old himself, but he still comes after all these years."

"I don't think they notice," said Brian.

"Oh they notice all right," said the old man quietly.  "But not for the reason you'd think.  The dead are jealous of the living.  Now, here's a sad one," he continued quickly.

Brain snorted.

"You'd be surprised about the sadness here," said the old man, reading his thoughts.  "This is Roger Place.  He committed suicide."

"What's so sad about that?" asked Brian.

"He committed suicide because he thought he was alone.  It seems he was right.  No one ever came to put flowers on his grave."

"Jesus," said Brian.

"That's not so unusual here.  Look around ... lots of places are forgotten.  Why worry about another one."

"I couldn't agree with you more, but everyone wants me to accept the way my father was and find forgiveness."

"Listen, the line between good and evil today is so blurred that forgiveness has lost all meaning.  One can't even tell anymore which principles to follow--they've all been accepted as having value."

Brian stood and thought a long time, staring at the grave of Roger Place.
 
"The ministers of faith say there's no need to linger here," the old man continued.  "They're right.  What lies here is just collateral damage from politics, neglect, and apathy. Be free and live as you see fit."

Brian had been struggling to stem an overwhelming tide within. He turned to respond, but found only an empty space.  The old man had disappeared.  All Brian could do was turn and walk away.  Deep in thought, he walked past row upon row of stone that were relentless and unchanging as time.

As he left the cemetery and walked past the small church, he noticed Revered Felton leaving his office for the day.  The Reverend noticed Brian as well, and turned toward him.  Brian had no interest in talking with the Reverend, but out of habit turned as well.  When the two met they traded pleasantries.

"I never got a chance to thank you for the ceremony last year," Brian broke in when he had the chance, offering a rote platitude he felt was needed, but didn't feel.

"It was my pleasure," said the Reverend.  "Your father was ... well-loved."

Brian nodded cordially, noticing the pause.  He masked the creeping hardness in his heart.

"I talked with your caretaker," Brian said, hoping to change the subject.

Reverend Felton cocked his head. "With who?" he asked.

"The old guy who takes care of the cemetery.  We talked for a bit."

"Oh, it's too expensive to pay for that.  We simply pay teenagers to cut the grass when needed.  That was probably just a visitor."

The crunch of loose gravel under his feet echoed in the stillness of the morning as Brian walked toward his car.  He had been able to mask his thoughts with the reverend regarding the old man.  But now his mind whirled as thoughts came and went, some invited, some less welcome. He paused at the car door, his hand gently resting on the cool metal of the door handle.  It seemed to reassure him--the touch of something real. 

In the distance, among the far gravestones and in the oldest part of the cemetery, Brian thought he saw a shadow move.  He shook his head and brought the day into focus.  He listened to the hard voices in the cool metal of the door handle, gently lifted it, and slipped in behind the wheel.  Whoever he was, maybe the old man was right.  It was time to discard the disposable morals flooding the airwaves and trust only in himself.

As Brian backed his car out of the cemetery parking lot and into the stream of traffic, obsidian eyes watched him depart in quiet contentment.  The seeds of despair were getting easier to plant.  It wouldn't be long until The Old Ones were liberated.