Like Talking to a Tombstone

LIKE TALKING TO A TOMBSTONE

           Clarice stood at the entrance of the cemetery and appraised it before walking in. This was her favorite entrance: the historical section. In the early evening chill, just before dark, there was a low fog on the ground. The worn, gray tombstones stickling up out of the ground looked like skyscrapers sticking up out of clouds, or what Clarice thought they would look like. That Spivy girl who had her own horse and whose father was a lawyer once told her that when she had gone to the top of the Empire State Building in New York City they were above the clouds looking down on them. She wanted to go to New York City one day.  The tallest building in her town was four stories tall and the 4th was storage, so she couldn’t even get that high. So much world to see, and she could only get three stories off the ground.   

           The mist made little eddies on the ground as Clarice headed for her usual destination. Little swirls made my things unseen; maybe the wind, maybe little creatures, maybe things best not spoken of. But if they were unseen, they were still respectful and didn’t bother those who entered.

           Clarice found this misty development encouraging. The dampness might discourage the rowdy teens who came here at night to scare each other, drink beer, and progress to dirtier deeds, leaving the debris behind to clutter the ground like obscene creatures who shed their skins.

           “Good evening, Colonel,” Clarice spoke to a large roughened tombstone. “I hope you are resting well this evening. I came to do a little home work again, hope you don’t mind the company.”

           Colonel Wilson had a place of prominence in the old section of the cemetery, and his tombstone had a smooth platform around it, like a wraparound porch inviting visitors. Clarice’s limber young legs folded pow-wow style and her jean clad bottom sat on the bits of dried leaves scattered on the granite like gram cracker crumbs.  She had two books in her hand.

           “What will it be, math or Latin? Wish I had a history book, a real history book. The lessons they teach in school are booooor-ring. All we do is memorize dates and lists of old dead white men. Sorry, no offense intended to present company. I’m sure your story would be interesting. I’ve just never read any ‘real person’ accounts of the Civil War.”

           Clarice made a Bulldog jaw and jutted her chest out, arms drawn up to a 5’3”, 96 pound bully pose. “I mean, were you like, ‘Who do those damn Yankees think they are, trying to come down here and release all my darkies? I’ll show them who they are messing with?’”

           “Or were you more, ‘Mamma, what are we going to do? Those Yankees are killing and pillaging everything. If they take our slaves, we’ll starve to death. The children will diiiie!’” And here she took a pitiful, melodramatic pose.

           “So what was it? Civic pride or economics? Fear or anger? Ignorance or meanness? What about your non-plantation neighbors? Did they all agree? I’d love to know what really went on.”

           A sudden disturbance made Clarice uncomfortable; a momentary change in atmosphere, a slight raising of hair on her arms as if there was an intruder in her home.

           “Somebody’s coming, Colonel. I may have to go on home and cut the homework session short for now.” She looked back over her shoulder toward the modern entrance to the cemetery. A formidable figure emerged from the mist, a Stetson crowning his head.

           “Lordy, Foster, you ‘bout gave me a heart attack. You walk softly for such a big lout.”

           “Thank you, Clarice, and it’s good to see you, too.” The figure pushed the western hat back on his head and took a seat beside her on the tombstone. “I thought I might find you down here doing homework.”

           “I didn’t know you were back in town. You and the boys still playing around Myrtle Beach?”

           “Yeah, we get there now and again. We’ve branched out, though. We think we have prospects in Austin.

           “Wow, that’s good. I’m impressed. I guess you can fool a lot of the people some of the time.”

           “Guess I need to make my fortune before all those folks catch on that I don’t have any talent.” He gave his boots a swipe with the palm of his hand and hid his grin with his downturned head.

           “Well, you do have some looks, I’ll give you that. So, you might be ok until that starts to go. Might better find you a woman before then, too.”

           “You done turned me down, hate to settle for second best.” He tried to look pitiful but Clarice knew it was in jest.

           “I told you marriage is for old people. I’m not getting married until there is nothing else to do and I have to stay in one place. Besides, I’m only 15, some groupie will snag you before I’m ready for that.”

           “Oh, it’s ok. You broke my heart, but I got a good song out of it.”

           “No kidding? What’s it called?” Clarice asked with curious puppy eyes.

           Foster snatched his hat off his head and held it over his heart in mock seriousness. “The title is, ‘Just Call Me Apple Because a Women Done Cut Me to the Core.’”

           “Oh! You. Are. AWWWFUL!” But she laughed, as he had intended.

           “I know. There are lots of women after me for my looks but there is a dearth of women after me for an intelligent conversation, more’s the pity.” He re-arranged his lanky frame on the tombstone so the cold granite didn’t cut into his bottom so harshly.

           “Now see, right there is why I keep trying to get you to go back and finish your senior year.  Don’t know why you left so suddenly. They’d let you pick back up, I bet. I not only don’t know another boy to have a sensible conversation with, I don’t know one who would use ‘dearth’ in a sentence. ”

           Foster made a goofy face at her and sidestepped a direct answer. “I don’t know too many girls who do homework to pass the time.”

           “Just some Latin or math. They never change. You can count on them like faithful friends. 3.14 will always be Pi. Latin verbs are always conjugated the same. It’s comforting to have something you can count on to be the same day after day.” Clarice meant the last sentence mostly for herself, but Foster replied:

           “I guess I can see that,” and his squinted gaze seemed to inspect visions in his mind like baked goods rolling down a conveyor belt.

           “I bet the school drops Latin when Miss Massy dies. She’s nice. She lets me sit in on the advanced classes now. I just sit in the back and listen.” Her quick change brain had another thought. “Do you think Latin was spoken with an accent back when they really spoke it?”

           “You should ask Miss Massy. She’s so old, it was probably her native tongue.”

           “You’re a mess, but I do have a serious question for you. The Colonel here doesn’t seem too forthcoming on information about the Civil War. Question is: if you were living during those times, would you have gone fought for the South?”

           Foster took his hat off his head and ran his hand through his long hair, pulling it away from his face and planting the hat back down like a rock holding down tar paper. He stood, walked a couple paces; gathered his thoughts like picking fruit from a grocery store bin, rejecting the bad ones.

           “Can’t you just ask me my favorite color or my sign? You get into serious stuff every time I come.”           

           “Well, enquiring minds want to know.” She tossed the cliché at him in mock jest.

           “OK, well, I guess a Civil War ‘me’ would have thought he was getting a uniform, meals, and a pay check. He would have teamed up with his buddies, given a rebel yell, and headed out with no idea what was in store for him. Momma said our family has been scrub farmers and handy men back to cave days.  Ending slavery probably wouldn’t have been an issue one way or the other. Hard to say, though”

           “But what about the ‘today Foster’? Would you take up arms against your fellow countrymen if you thought America itself was in danger?”

           “You are too serious for a 15 year old.”

           “Well, I just wonder if we are really any different today than we were a hundred and fifty years ago. Seems to me we haven’t changed all that much.”

           “I know the today ‘me’ would head for Canada rather than take up a gun, Clarice. I don’t know how someone can shoot another person, even a stranger, take their life, and ever be the same again. Even a soldier.” Foster stood up, kicked at the pine cones and gravel only vaguely seen under his feet, and walked a few feet away into the falling darkness, his back to Clarice. “But I guess if my family was in danger, I’d do what I had to do.”

           “You’re deep, Foster. That’s why I like your thinking.”      

           “Hey, maybe I can get a song out of that. I’m in so deep… I’m too deep…”

           “There you go again. Just when I think you have some redeeming social values, you turn tail. Oh, heck!” Clarice sat up like a chipmunk looking out of a borough and peered into the darkness over the tome stone. “I think someone’s coming. It’s too busy tonight to even study. I better get on home to Momma, its full dark now anyway.”

           “How’s your Momma, doing, Clarice?” There was a seriousness in the sound of his voice that encircled Clarice and made her feelings safe to share.

           “Well, you know Momma always liked to dance and party some. But lately it seems she’s trying harder and enjoying it less. And she’s drinking more at night. Maybe it’s an aging thing. I try to be with her after dark. She seems better when I’m there.” Clarice picked up her books and took a meandering way out toward home on the distant side of the cemetery.

“You do that, Clarice. I think it is a real comfort to her,” Foster said, but the words were said to her back and seemed to come from a faraway place. They fell low and soft, swallowed by the ground.

The man coming down the path was a sharp contrast to Foster. Foster was Country/Western even though he was from the Mid-Atlantic, but the part fit him. This man had a big city look on a small town man. He wore his Armani suit and Brooks Brothers tie and leather shoes and kept his hair cut short and neat. Gold cufflinks flashed at the edges of his sleeves. The look fit him until he spoke.

“Oh, my God! The boys told me you came down here for inspiration when you came back home. I’m glad I don’t travel with you all that much. I stayed to the path under these faux...what? Gaslights? And it still spooks me out. Don’t you find it creepy in here?”

“No, Carlton, as a matter of fact, I think it would be a great world if people had the respect for the living they have for the dead,’ Foster replied, standing up from the tombstone and turning back to the lighted path heading out.

“I can’t get over all these old tombstones. Some are so worn on this side you can hardly read the names. This other side of the cemetery looks more recent.” Carlton gingerly stepped off the path, but stayed within the vision provided in the low mist by the lampposts. “Still spooky.”

“Would you like a tour?”  Foster asked, rising to his full height and gesturing down the path like a tour guide.

“No.  Absolutely NO. I just couldn’t wait to tell you the good news. We got a call from the guy in Austin I’ve been sending your songs to. We got a bite on one. He wants you and the guys to come make a demo next week.”

“Damn, man, why didn’t you say so instead of reviewing this place like a Stephen King novel?  Hot damn! Maybe this is the break we need.”

“Well, am I not the world’s greatest band manager? I’ve been busting my butt for three years peddling these sappy songs of yours. People sure like them when the band sings them on tour. Just a matter of getting you in front of the right people.”

Carlton was reading tombstones even as he spoke, but checking his steps as if something might grab his ankle at any time.

“Oh, man, Foster. Isn’t this the tombstone of that little girl you carried out of the high school that time? Wasn’t her name Clarice something? Is this where she’s buried?”

“Don’t start making a big deal, Carlton, she just happens to be buried near where I can sit down.” Foster headed up the path hoping to lure Carlton away, like a dog owner hoping the dog will follow without being carried.

“Foster, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you have PTSD over that day or need help or something, just say so, Buddy. You know we got your back. We won’t think anything about it. Hell, everybody knows about you carrying that little dead girl out of the high school during the school shooting.”

“Well, I didn’t know she was dead when I carried her out.” Foster made light of it.

“I heard her Momma had some of her school books buried with her.”

“I heard that, too. Now come on. We better get out of here before you become vampire bait.” Foster turned and walked backwards away from Carlton, between the umbrellas of light cast on the path.

“Oh, hell, Foster, don’t even kid about that. Have you seen that program about the walking vampires that take over a town? They film that down in Atlanta.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it and I’d hate to lose you to some marauding spook now that you are proving useful.” Foster went back to Carlton and put his arm across his shoulder, applying comradery pressure to steer him forward.

“Still, Foster, this has got to have an effect on you. I don’t think this is a good place for you.”

“Nonsense, I get lots of inspiration here. I think I got a new song tonight, just sitting here alone.”

Carlton came to full stop.  Foster urged him on once again, walking, talking, side by side.

“Yep, think so.”

“Well, great. What’s it called?”

This time Foster stopped, put his hat over his heart, and said in a serious voice. “I’m going to call it, ‘I Get Tears in My Ears from Crying Over You at Night’.”

“Oh! You are awful, just plain awful!”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that. But let’s keep it to ourselves and not tell the fellow in Austin, what d’ya say?”

“I’m silent as a grave. Oh, shoot. I didn’t mean that. Or shoot, didn’t mean that either. Damn, you got me all flustered.”

“Don’t worry about it Carlton, we’ll get you some help. Maybe I’ll find you a good tombstone to talk to.”

Carlton shivered his shoulders and this time he didn’t need any urging. He headed toward the parking lot and the brighter lights.

Their hurried footfalls made little eddies in the mist on the ground. Little swirls made my things unseen; maybe the wind, maybe little creatures, maybe things best not spoken of. But if they were unseen, they were still respectful and didn’t bother those who hurried out.