In This Town

“It looks fine, I guess. What do you think?” 

The headstone was a little weatherworn on the edges, but what else can you expect of mixed granite? Kathy had wanted pure marble. Marble had a regal affect she aspired towards in life and hoped to finally achieve in death. A marble headstone would have left a better impression. She should have known; her children were cheap. Her daughter was regrettably into that eco-movement, whatever that meant, while her son had acquired his father’s minimalistic tastes. A single lamppost cast an orange glow over the stones. She felt her eyes grow wet.

“They did their part, honey. No use holding a grudge now.” 

“Right. I suppose you’re right.”

At least the flowers were relatively fresh, she noted. Dahlias. A shame the font was all wrong. The grass was clean and clipped, if a little browned by the chill. At the very least, they had chosen a good cemetery. Fine, it was fine. Greg could sense this was an important distinction for her, although he didn’t care.

“Well. We’ve got time to mull it over.”

Kathy smiled, if only to appease her husband. She didn’t want him to think the joke fell flat. It just wasn’t funny.

At the sight of her mixed granite headstone, she felt suddenly depleted of energy. It seemed so silly now that they had traveled all this way, and that she had insisted on it. A vague disappointment rose in her chest, and then a violent urge to prove herself a good person; the kind of woman deserving of marble headstones and new bouquets. Hadn’t she been an attentive mother? A caring neighbor? She had done well in life. Was she not worthy of marble?

Greg turned to watch his wife’s face. Whatever expression she made would determine his next move. He had been looking forward to visiting the old creek where he used to fish. He enjoyed wading in knee deep without a shiver; one of the perks of being without the confines of blood and bones. But loving one’s wife meant loving what she loved, or at least feigning interest, so he agreed to the graveyard. He thought this in a somber tone and decided yes, he had made the right choice to accompany her. Yes, this was what good men did. There was always next year for nostalgia.

She raised her right eyebrow slightly. Maybe Greg would get the hint and place a comforting hand on the small of her back, like he did when she was young and his girlfriend. They stood looking over their final resting place, unable to feel the breeze or leave a shadow on the ground. He sighed and laid his hand atop her own, which she accepted.

When they were on the road earlier, she had quipped, “You’d think the afterlife would provide some sort of express transportation on the one night we can cross over.” The traffic was pretty bad. But Kathy was too excited to be upset then. She snapped pictures along the way, gossiping with her husband about who they might see, how desperately they might be missed. Greg laughed, nodded, and gestured when it seemed appropriate. He liked to pretend he could match her.

Neither missed the world of the living very much, save for the grandchildren. ‘Til death do us part wasn’t entirely true, as it turned out; they were given the option to renew or renege their vows. They were free to do as they pleased now. No one would blame them.

Kathy was appalled. Greg objected, too. Sure, they had their arguments, every couple did. But, after half a century of marriage, they saw no point in splitting. Still, there were rules. They could watch, but never touch or interfere in the world of the living, with the exception of October 31st. Even in the afterlife, appearances mattered to Kathy. “If the neighbors are going, we’re going”, she had declared, and she was firm. Holidays were important. For Kathy, it was the spirit of competition that kept them alive.

The way she saw it, if she couldn’t keep up with the Joneses, by God, her children and property would. The twins’ baby costumes had been unbelievably cute and she lorded these pictures over her own sister, who never seemed to outgrow sibling rivalry. Janet loved to condescend Kathy for becoming a housewife after college. Well, fine, if that’s all she was, she would be the very best. She relished in knowing her home was supremely celebratory. The neighborhood kids adored her house; she was known to permit generous handfuls of candy and her décor put Better Homes & Garden to shame. She was fun and pretty then. Lizzie and Michael were good students, and popular. The other mothers admired and loathed her. Few things made Kathy prouder.

Greg had found this competitive streak of hers difficult at times, but the idea of living (could he still call it that?) without her caused him to feel dull and grey, like a wilted houseplant. In their married life, his nervous dreams always revealed a common theme: Kathy leaving him. In truth, he had routinely fixed up the garden and held her hand to keep himself necessary. He should have been needed more; she should have needed him. Never mind, no use in dwelling. She chose to stay, after all. When she asked him if he objected to visiting their headstones, or if he really missed the creek, he lied. He said he didn’t.

Now, the children were grown. Kathy was resigned to memories and a yearly visit to their hometown with her husband as dead people. The place looked a little worse for wear.

She could hear a teenage couple rustling in the bushes, unaware they weren’t truly alone. She heard their muffled attempts at affection, their heavy breaths and heartbeats. A memory of her youth, before her husband, entered her mind and she chuckled. Kathy had been many women once. It really was a lifetime ago.

Giving his hand a light squeeze, she said, “Shall we take a walk around?”

They strolled the length of the lumpy grass to the metal gate of the church, then the periphery of the grounds. The two chatted and reminisced. They waved at the other visiting couples. Everyone smiled cordially and glided along. Greg could see now how the living might find graveyards peaceful, although they had given him the creeps before. Children were trick-or-treating several blocks away. Their shrieks slowly trickled as the night wore on, until only the rebellious remained. Up to no good, he thought. Greg never understood those kinds of kids.

Time seemed to move very quickly in this realm. Soon, morning would come and they would have to leave. Give it up, Kathleen, she thought. You can’t rely on the living.

Motherhood was a thankless job, she knew that. She just expected more. They should be missing her more. There should be marble and roses and cherished memorabilia. She had spent years laboring over a legacy that would only die with her, that much was clear. Greg had it easy. All husbands had to do was be decent and bring home the bacon. If the living forgot him, he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t mind anything. A cruel desire to say something uncouth, something shocking and wrong, bubbled inside her. She felt alive.

Then, a small, spherical thing flew through her head, exiting between her brow, and hit a tree trunk. It splattered a sticky yellow that oozed down the bark as the white shell of it fell to the dirt. A group of gangly boys in unzipped windbreakers ran by, smelling of liquor and cold sweat. They hooted and laughed, daring each other to go on, don’t be a chicken, throw another.

“Can you believe it? Look at ‘em. No respect.” Greg shook his head in exaggerated disbelief.

“We were young once, too.”

He shrugged. “Sure. We never did anything like that, though.”

Kathy watched one boy tumble and fall over a large root. His friends scoffed, then roughly grabbed him by the shoulders to set him upright. He had drunkenly crushed the carton of eggs. The boys kicked it aside, taking swigs of their stolen bottle, and decided to make trouble elsewhere. Their shouts became quiet and far away.

“Didn’t we?” she asked. “I hope we did.”

His eyes widened. “Why do you say that?”

She floated to the soiled, misshapen box, left where the rebels had fled. She picked it up.

“You know, I only get this way when we’re here. In this town. I’m not myself.”

Peeling open the soft cardboard, she took stock of the eggs. They were all cracked and bleeding, a row of injured soldiers tucked into bed. She chose one soldier and threw him squarely at her own block of granite. He broke into bits. She threw another and another and another, then the carton, then a stone, until her hands were empty and nearly warm. Her family name was desecrated with the embryos of birds. She giggled like a girl.

“Kathy, come. Let’s go home.”

The sun began to peek over the dying leaves and rooftops, sheltering sleeping people soon to wake. Soon, they would roll out of blankets, exchanging words and currency. They would slip on ice and snap a bone or burn their flimsy tongues on instant coffee. They would recover and begin again.

Now, the sun was rising. It was time.

“Yes, dear. I’m ready.”