[Originally published in the anthology: Born Under A Bad Sign, by Screaming Eye Press, 2021.]
Every day since she’d been able to walk, George brought Emily with him to work. While he trimmed the grass, tended the flowers, and shaped the yew hedges surrounding New Eden Cemetery, Emily scampered among the marble headstones and granite crosses, stopping to pose next to a mourning angel or miming a sculpted child’s heavenward gaze.
“What’s that say?” her little girl voice asked. She posed in front of a headstone, pointing to its inscription.
George looked up from his watering. “Rest in peace.”
Kneeling in front of the stone, she traced the hard raised letters with a tiny brown finger while George watered the multi-coloured geraniums circling its base. He liked the vibrant colours, but their chemical smell reminded him of the hospital.
“Why they need rest?”
George worked his watering can around the back of the marble headstone. The question didn’t surprise him. Even at the age of five, Emily knew enough about the dead to pose the question. Just their connection to the living escaped her. George set down his watering can and leaned on the top of the headstone, looking down at Emily.
“They don’ need rest. It’s a wish.”
“A wish?” Emily cocked her curly head to one side.
“Yeah. A wish. Remember how you wished for that dolly in Pop Murphy’s store window? Like that.”
“I di’n't get the dolly.”
“No. But you hoped you would. ’Member how that felt?”
Emily stared at the headstone, then glanced up at George. Her dark brown eyes glistened in disappointment.
“But I di’n't get it.”
Emily pushed off the headstone and stood. She looked at George and back at the headstone like she was comparing the two. Then, as if a conclusion had been reached, she jumped off the grave mound and skipped away, the dolly seemingly already forgotten. She zigzagged between the stones and statues like she was running an obstacle course.
George turned back to his work, clipping the long grass that pressed against the base of the rest-in-peace headstone. He wasn’t certain if there was any peace or rest for the dead. He thought they were past caring. Hoping and wishing only occupied the living. He doubted if he could find simple enough words to explain that to Emily, to enlighten her just yet about hope’s mixed bag of getting and not getting what you want; for some, the difference between bad luck and worse luck.
When he heard Emily humming, George looked up. She trotted across the short grass, making a wide arc, her arms outstretched like the wings of an airplane, coming into land under the old crab apple tree, its cool dappled shade drawing her like a magnet out of the sun’s hot glare. While Emily circled the tree, kicking at rotting windfall apples, and singing a kid’s old nursery rhyme about a stolen pig, George contemplated the scene. The tree held no magical powers, but he wondered if its roots, sunk deep in the fertile cemetery soil, discovered any buried memories there.
***
The gnarled, old tree stood at the northern end of New Eden Cemetery. Planted in 1935, the tree’s roots burrowed deep, and its sturdy spread of branches only began bearing its tangy fruit shortly after the war ended. Ever since George could remember the tree had been the cemetery’s landmark and served as a natural gathering place for mourners.
As a kid, when someone died, George walked to the cemetery in the company of his parents and the Christ’s Temple church folk. They’d all gather around the apple tree, and with bowed heads and arms lifted to the sky, they’d sing. George recalled the glorious songs of heaven, of crossing the Jordan, of bright mansions and golden shores and life everlasting; the hope of the redeemed.
The women, perhaps more used to comforting and remembering, stood at the front of the gathering. Black straw hats canted on their bowed heads, and below the hats, modest high-necked, long black dresses rustled discreetly against stocking-clad thighs. When the spirit moved them, they locked arms and swayed together to the rhythm of the singing. Behind the women, the men held rank, standing stiff and vigilant in their black suits and crisp white shirts, ignoring their wide black ties, loose and flapping in the slightest breeze. And beyond, at the edge of the group the doubters huddled in denial, silent and impatient, cupping half-smoked cigarettes, turning their backs on the inevitable. But even in a cemetery where sadness and loss reigned, where the very end of life remained observable and tangible, the choir of solemn voices never failed to carry a measured cadence of hope.
Under that same tree George and Lucille met up when they were both still in high school. Their courtship began with George offering Lucille a fresh rose he’d pinched from one of the cemetery’s funerary urns. In return Lucille gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a bashful smile. Sometimes they’d sit close in the tree’s cool shade and hold hands, and against the fading light of an evening sky, watch the swallows dive and swoop for insects.
And just after high school, one warm night in the middle of summer, when time and age and familiarity dictated, under the spreading branches of that old crab apple tree and over top its deep roots, they joined together to make their daughter, Emily.
At the tail-end of winter, George and Lucille married. Emily was born in the spring, a few months later. George thought spring the appropriate season for new birth.
George and Lucille settled easily into their first months of married life. They had Emily, the bright spot between them.
When they first married, George had been working as a mechanic at a local garage. But the garage shut down and George lost his job. Lucille was taking care of baby Emily but George had to find work to support his family. With that weight hanging over him, George set out each day making the job-hunter circuit, visiting the town businesses, talking to anyone he met about work. What jobs he did find were part-time and low pay, not enough to support a family of three. Almost hopeless. But with just a glimmer of hope remaining, he responded to a notice he saw posted on the Town Hall bulletin board: “New Eden is looking for a cemetery caretaker. Good pay. Apply within.” George applied. Got the job on the spot. The last caretaker had died suddenly and the job had been open for some time. Seemed the town government had a hard time filling the position. Not a whole lot of people wanted to work among the dead. George didn’t mind. He’d been coming to that cemetery since he was a boy. Where he and Lucille fell in love. Where Emily was conceived. Where he sang all those gospel songs with the church ladies about hope. He looked on this new job as some kind of spiritual song that had yet to be sung. He hummed a tune he remembered from long ago as he skipped home to give Lucille the good news.
Though every cloud supposedly has a silver lining, it is still a cloud.
With the child came added expenses, expenses that crept beyond the reach of George's cemetery paycheck. Lucille would have to find a job. She hated the idea. And having to put Emily in nursery increased the drain on their finances. For Lucille, the bright spot dimmed. But to keep their heads just above water, she consented and got a job waitressing at the local eatery, Maggie’s Diner.
The diner was owned and opened by Maggie Vance, a Black woman in her mid-fifties whose family had been raised in New Eden, in fact, on the site where the cemetery now stood. Maggie sold the cemetery land to the town and with the financial windfall, opened Maggie’s Diner. The diner opened at a time when segregation was popular and practiced, but Maggie refused to post the usual “Colored Only” and “Whites Only” signs in her establishment in its support. The alliances she’d made over the years with some of the longer-term residents in Town Hall, not to mention the good price she’d asked for the cemetery land, kept the authorities disinterested in pursuing any legal avenues in response. Some in authority might groan about it, what could be called saving face, but they kept their distance. By default, her stance on this point of law made the diner popular with the Blacks in the community along with a few white liberals and even a couple of rednecks who liked good Southern cooking no matter who they had to sit next to. And that’s what Maggie’s Diner served, good food in a good Southern atmosphere. With or without the signs, Maggie noted that the races imposed a certain unspoken segregation: Blacks sat on one side of the diner, whites on the other. As long as everyone was pleased with their food, there was nothing Maggie could do about a long-ingrained, unnatural order of things. Everyone had to make their own stand against wrong. She’d made hers. The Civil Rights Act in 1964 changed nothing in Maggie’s Diner, at least not right away. But it opened a locked door.
When Lucille applied for the job at Maggie’s Diner, integration had made some inroads. The races no longer sat separately though there were still more Black patrons than white. But even that was slowly changing. Some concept of equality was slouching toward New Eden.
“You’re lucky. Came in at just the right time,” said Joyce, the other waitress. “Carla ran off to get married. Left us short. No notice. Just eighteen and ending her life before it starts.” Joyce placed her hands on her hips, stepped back and took a look at Lucille. “How old are you, Lucille?”
“Nineteen.”
“Married?”
“Yeah. Do I need to speak to Maggie?”
“Maggie’s been gone a long time. Dead and buried in the town cemetery. We kept the name just the same. I run things now.”
“My husband George’s the caretaker at the cemetery.”
“You don't say. You got kids?”
“A little girl. Emily.”
“I guess you won’t be runnin’ off then.”
A couple months after she started working at the diner, George noticed a gradual change in Lucille. At first, she came home from her shift exhausted and short-tempered.
“You try runnin’ around serving damn hard-to-please people all day. Little bit different than servicing the dead, George. You miss watering a flower, they don’t mind, do they? No complaints from the dead, George.”
She fell asleep early, leaving George to do the last feeding and put Emily to bed.
Then George noticed Lucille seemed more attentive to her appearance when she got ready for work. She applied more makeup, expertly coiffed her hair, and hemmed her uniform a couple inches above her knees.
“That uniform’s a bit short,” said George. Lucille was bending over the mirror, patting a couple of stray curls into place. “I can see the tops of your stockings.”
“I’m bent over,” she answered, still facing the mirror.
“You stretch across those tables at work.”
She straightened, turned her head, feigned a pout. “Don’t you like my legs, George?”
“I love your legs.”
She picked up her purse, gathered a light coat on her arm. “You should. My boss says they’re big tip-earners.”
That said, Lucille scurried out the door on her way to work. In the closing door’s draft, George sensed the hint of perfume scent, jogging a memory of the overly sweet smell of rotting crab apples, surrounding a blanket, spread out under an old tree.
Joyce invited Lucille to have drinks with the diner staff after their shift, an event that became a regular occurrence when Lucille worked days or evenings, leaving George to care for Emily. George began to suspect Lucille didn’t really want to come home or maybe even want to be home. She did nothing to convince him otherwise. For when she did get home, either late in the evening or well into the early morning hours, she staggered in tipsy drunk. Ignoring her state and feigning exhaustion, she stumbled her way to the bedroom. One evening George followed her.
“I thought you didn’t like the diner work. All those hard-to-please people, you said.”
“Oh shut up, George. I got to get some sleep.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so tired you got home sober at a decent hour.”
“No one bugs me at work like you do here, George. Not the customers, not Joyce or Harry the cook or Tommy the busboy or the cashier, Sandy. We have a few drinks and a laugh after work. Don’t expect you have a laugh at your job, do you, George?”
“No. You’re right. No one at my job is laughing. Their laughing days are over.”
“Well mine aren’t. So get used to it.”
“What about Emily? You never see her.”
“Jesus, George. We all got to make a little sacrifice. I got this job because of Emily. So we could make ends meet, you said. If I got to help make ends meet, I’m having some fun while I’m doing it.”
George decided to let the conversation die at a draw. A waste of breath. There was no winning and too much to lose.
The next morning at the diner Lucille pulled Joyce aside.
“Tell me. What do you know about Harry?” asked Lucille.
“What are you thinking?”
“Just asking.” They both stared across the counter through the order hatch and watched Harry flip some burgers.
“You hear him tell it, he’s been all over the world. You ask me, I think it’s only his hands that have done any exploring.” Lucille laughed behind her hand.
“I went back in the kitchen yesterday to get some cups off the dishwasher rack. He acted like he was passing behind me. But he put both hands on my ass and pressed up against me. Tried to excuse himself.”
“Ain’t no excuse.”
“No. He’s got some mighty big hands, though.”
Some weeks after George’s talk with Lucille, town councilman Ernest Sanders, the man in charge of keeping New Eden looking its best, called George, asked him to come into his office at the Town Hall. Ernest was a white man. In fact, the whole town council was white. In that respect, in this neck of the woods below the Mason-Dixon line, though things were changing, on the whole, there was little very new about New Eden.
“Hi George.” They shook hands. “Sit down.” George removed his grey slouch hat and sat leaning forward in his chair across the desk from Ernest. “How long you been doin’ this job up at the cemetery?”
First thing, George thought he was being fired. The question was foolish. And firing always started from something foolish. The town council had hired him. They already knew how long he’d worked at New Eden Cemetery.
“Three years come next month. I ’member ’cause it was shortly after Lucille and me got hitched.”
Ernest lifted a piece of paper off his desk and stared at it. “If our records are up to date, says here you got a little one now.”
“Yes sir. Got us a little girl. Emily. Comin’ up to three years pretty soon.”
“I see also before you came to us you worked as a mechanic.”
“Yes sir. Always been good with my hands.”
“Why’d you leave that job?”
“Garage shut down. Owner retired and sold the land to a real estate developer. I was out of work till the cemetery job came along.”
George wasn’t sure where all this was heading.
“You know, George. Here at New Eden we pride ourselves at bein’ an equal opportunity employer.”
“Yes sir. I’m sure of that.” Sincerity and a pleasing smile played on George’s brown face.
Ernest carefully placed the piece of paper back on his desk and looked up at George, searching for any insolence in George’s last statement. He prided himself in being able to ferret out a smart-ass attitude in anyone who worked for him. But George had a lot of experience at hiding the truth, so Ernest saw nothing beyond what George wanted him to see. So Ernest just saw another Black man sitting in front of him, another grateful labourer for the town of New Eden. His town.
“So what we’ve decided to do is give you a ten percent raise.” George’s face lit up. “I know it’s not much, but it’s about as much as I could squeeze out of these other tight-fisted councilmen. I hope you appreciate I went to bat for you, George.”
George shot to his feet and leaned over the desk with his hand extended. “I surely do ’preciate that. Thank you kindly, Mr. Sanders.” George knew the rules and the game.
Sanders took the cue and stood and shook George’s hand. “I’m glad we had this little talk and I got to get to know you a little better. Things get kind of busy here trying to keep the town looking its best. Good to put a face to the name on the paper. And if my old Ford starts to moan and groan, I’ll know who to come to.” They shared a laugh.
“Yes sir, Mr. Sanders. Any problem, give me a call.”
“Keep up the good work, George.”
“I surely will. Thank you again.” George turned and headed for the office door. Then he turned back around with a big smile. “I can’t wait to tell Lucille the good news.” With that he donned his hat, placing it on the back of his head like a man pleased with himself, and left the office.
He skipped down the Town Hall steps, hopped into his municipal truck, and headed for Maggie’s Diner, wanting to break the good news to Lucille as soon as possible. George always hoped things would get better, though he knew hope was a distraction, something that only made you feel better in the face of an uncertain future; fate’s grinning disguise. George knew from his years caring for the dead, you often couldn’t see the worm in the crab apple till you cut it open. So he wore the mask of hope. He remembered the cemetery songs, the ladies’ voices and hands raised in hope even in the face of death. So he raised the mask of hope, a thing he learned to do long ago. Maybe his and Lucille’s luck was changing. He’d hoped it would but wasn’t certain hope had anything to do with it. The fact of the pay rise surely was a thing of luck. Lucille couldn’t quit her job entirely based on his ten percent pay rise, but maybe she could go part-time, giving her the opportunity to be home more. He hoped that would work. He needed some luck.
George rounded the side of the diner and pulled into the parking lot at the back. He figured he’d go in the back door, surprise Lucille who wouldn’t see him coming. Mounting two concrete steps, he’d just gripped the door handle when he heard giggling coming from around the corner of the diner. A narrow alley ran down the its side, used for deliveries directly into the kitchen storeroom. George stayed motionless for a beat, figuring on kids up to no good. Until he heard a voice. “Oh God. That feels so good.” He recognized Lucille’s voice. What made her feel so good? The fear of knowing froze his feet in place, locked his muscles, paralyzed his thoughts like a shot of novocaine to the brain. But the need to know released him. He slumped on the steps for a moment, then regained his strength. His heart pumped. Blood left his heart, flowed to his brain. He stood. Glanced around the corner.
A man George didn’t know, but evidently Lucille knew very well, held her up against him with one hand across her breasts. Her head lay back on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her mouth open, gasping, her body shuddering. The man’s other hand hid under the front of Lucille’s uniform in between her splayed legs. The hem of the uniform moved in rhythm to Lucille’s labored breathing. Clearly the two were caught up in their own world, one of their own making. Neither noticed George watching. The odd thought came to George, he could see the tops of Lucille’s stockings. He stepped out.
“Lucille?”
Lucille and the man both stared at George. They’d both stopped moving. Lucille pushed off the man. Stood apart from him. Smoothed the front of her uniform. Touched her hair.
“Fuck. George. Fuck!” Lucille screamed. The man took two steps and disappeared through the storeroom door.
“I won’t ask what you’re doing. That’s pretty clear.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” George took two steps toward Lucille. “Stay the fuck back, George.” Lucille held up her hand like she was a cop stopping traffic.
George stopped. “What I’m doing here doesn’t seem very important now.” He almost forgot why he was there. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Well you abso-fucking-lutely surprised me. That’s for sure.”
“That makes two of us.”
They both stood there. Ten feet apart. Ten miles apart. No matter. George looked at the ground. Kicked a stone off to the side. Lucille turned in a circle. Folded her arms across her middle. Found some composure. George waited her out.
He could see she was about to speak when he asked, “Who’s that man?”
“I’m leaving you, George.”
“You mean you’re leaving us.”
“No. Just you. Emily’s coming with me.”
“She doesn’t even know you.”
“She’ll get to know me.”
“I don’t even know you.” Lucille remained silent. “Who’s that man?”
“He’s the man who makes me feel good.” Gaining confidence. “His name’s Harry. He’s a cook. No. He’s a great cook.”
“You’re running away with Harry?”
“I married someone who became a fucking cemetery caretaker, a dead-end job. You’re a joke punchline, George. I’m running away with a simple cook. The joke there? I think I’m going up in the world.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re done. I won’t be home tonight or any night. Say your good-byes to Emily. The authorities will be paying you a visit. Bye, George. Now fuck off.”
“You hate me. You hate my job and the people in that cemetery. But you know what? You’re as dead as they are.”
Lucille raised her middle finger at George, turned, and entered the storeroom door. She slammed it closed behind her. George heard the lock fall into place. Absent of argument or angry voices, the alley returned to its proper place in the world. And George? George slowly retreated from the mouth of the alley and from a moment that would change his life forever. His luck had just turned bad.
Under that same tree George and Lucille met up when they were both still in high school. Their courtship began with George offering Lucille a fresh rose he’d pinched from one of the cemetery’s funerary urns. In return Lucille gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a bashful smile. Sometimes they’d sit close in the tree’s cool shade and hold hands, and against the fading light of an evening sky, watch the swallows dive and swoop for insects.
And just after high school, one warm night in the middle of summer, when time and age and familiarity dictated, under the spreading branches of that old crab apple tree and over top its deep roots, they joined together to make their daughter, Emily.
At the tail-end of winter, George and Lucille married. Emily was born in the spring, a few months later. George thought spring the appropriate season for new birth.
George and Lucille settled easily into their first months of married life. They had Emily, the bright spot between them.
When they first married, George had been working as a mechanic at a local garage. But the garage shut down and George lost his job. Lucille was taking care of baby Emily but George had to find work to support his family. With that weight hanging over him, George set out each day making the job-hunter circuit, visiting the town businesses, talking to anyone he met about work. What jobs he did find were part-time and low pay, not enough to support a family of three. Almost hopeless. But with just a glimmer of hope remaining, he responded to a notice he saw posted on the Town Hall bulletin board: “New Eden is looking for a cemetery caretaker. Good pay. Apply within.” George applied. Got the job on the spot. The last caretaker had died suddenly and the job had been open for some time. Seemed the town government had a hard time filling the position. Not a whole lot of people wanted to work among the dead. George didn’t mind. He’d been coming to that cemetery since he was a boy. Where he and Lucille fell in love. Where Emily was conceived. Where he sang all those gospel songs with the church ladies about hope. He looked on this new job as some kind of spiritual song that had yet to be sung. He hummed a tune he remembered from long ago as he skipped home to give Lucille the good news.
Though every cloud supposedly has a silver lining, it is still a cloud.
With the child came added expenses, expenses that crept beyond the reach of George's cemetery paycheck. Lucille would have to find a job. She hated the idea. And having to put Emily in nursery increased the drain on their finances. For Lucille, the bright spot dimmed. But to keep their heads just above water, she consented and got a job waitressing at the local eatery, Maggie’s Diner.
The diner was owned and opened by Maggie Vance, a Black woman in her mid-fifties whose family had been raised in New Eden, in fact, on the site where the cemetery now stood. Maggie sold the cemetery land to the town and with the financial windfall, opened Maggie’s Diner. The diner opened at a time when segregation was popular and practiced, but Maggie refused to post the usual “Colored Only” and “Whites Only” signs in her establishment in its support. The alliances she’d made over the years with some of the longer-term residents in Town Hall, not to mention the good price she’d asked for the cemetery land, kept the authorities disinterested in pursuing any legal avenues in response. Some in authority might groan about it, what could be called saving face, but they kept their distance. By default, her stance on this point of law made the diner popular with the Blacks in the community along with a few white liberals and even a couple of rednecks who liked good Southern cooking no matter who they had to sit next to. And that’s what Maggie’s Diner served, good food in a good Southern atmosphere. With or without the signs, Maggie noted that the races imposed a certain unspoken segregation: Blacks sat on one side of the diner, whites on the other. As long as everyone was pleased with their food, there was nothing Maggie could do about a long-ingrained, unnatural order of things. Everyone had to make their own stand against wrong. She’d made hers. The Civil Rights Act in 1964 changed nothing in Maggie’s Diner, at least not right away. But it opened a locked door.
When Lucille applied for the job at Maggie’s Diner, integration had made some inroads. The races no longer sat separately though there were still more Black patrons than white. But even that was slowly changing. Some concept of equality was slouching toward New Eden.
“You’re lucky. Came in at just the right time,” said Joyce, the other waitress. “Carla ran off to get married. Left us short. No notice. Just eighteen and ending her life before it starts.” Joyce placed her hands on her hips, stepped back and took a look at Lucille. “How old are you, Lucille?”
“Nineteen.”
“Married?”
“Yeah. Do I need to speak to Maggie?”
“Maggie’s been gone a long time. Dead and buried in the town cemetery. We kept the name just the same. I run things now.”
“My husband George’s the caretaker at the cemetery.”
“You don't say. You got kids?”
“A little girl. Emily.”
“I guess you won’t be runnin’ off then.”
A couple months after she started working at the diner, George noticed a gradual change in Lucille. At first, she came home from her shift exhausted and short-tempered.
“You try runnin’ around serving damn hard-to-please people all day. Little bit different than servicing the dead, George. You miss watering a flower, they don’t mind, do they? No complaints from the dead, George.”
She fell asleep early, leaving George to do the last feeding and put Emily to bed.
Then George noticed Lucille seemed more attentive to her appearance when she got ready for work. She applied more makeup, expertly coiffed her hair, and hemmed her uniform a couple inches above her knees.
“That uniform’s a bit short,” said George. Lucille was bending over the mirror, patting a couple of stray curls into place. “I can see the tops of your stockings.”
“I’m bent over,” she answered, still facing the mirror.
“You stretch across those tables at work.”
She straightened, turned her head, feigned a pout. “Don’t you like my legs, George?”
“I love your legs.”
She picked up her purse, gathered a light coat on her arm. “You should. My boss says they’re big tip-earners.”
That said, Lucille scurried out the door on her way to work. In the closing door’s draft, George sensed the hint of perfume scent, jogging a memory of the overly sweet smell of rotting crab apples, surrounding a blanket, spread out under an old tree.
Joyce invited Lucille to have drinks with the diner staff after their shift, an event that became a regular occurrence when Lucille worked days or evenings, leaving George to care for Emily. George began to suspect Lucille didn’t really want to come home or maybe even want to be home. She did nothing to convince him otherwise. For when she did get home, either late in the evening or well into the early morning hours, she staggered in tipsy drunk. Ignoring her state and feigning exhaustion, she stumbled her way to the bedroom. One evening George followed her.
“I thought you didn’t like the diner work. All those hard-to-please people, you said.”
“Oh shut up, George. I got to get some sleep.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so tired you got home sober at a decent hour.”
“No one bugs me at work like you do here, George. Not the customers, not Joyce or Harry the cook or Tommy the busboy or the cashier, Sandy. We have a few drinks and a laugh after work. Don’t expect you have a laugh at your job, do you, George?”
“No. You’re right. No one at my job is laughing. Their laughing days are over.”
“Well mine aren’t. So get used to it.”
“What about Emily? You never see her.”
“Jesus, George. We all got to make a little sacrifice. I got this job because of Emily. So we could make ends meet, you said. If I got to help make ends meet, I’m having some fun while I’m doing it.”
George decided to let the conversation die at a draw. A waste of breath. There was no winning and too much to lose.
The next morning at the diner Lucille pulled Joyce aside.
“Tell me. What do you know about Harry?” asked Lucille.
“What are you thinking?”
“Just asking.” They both stared across the counter through the order hatch and watched Harry flip some burgers.
“You hear him tell it, he’s been all over the world. You ask me, I think it’s only his hands that have done any exploring.” Lucille laughed behind her hand.
“I went back in the kitchen yesterday to get some cups off the dishwasher rack. He acted like he was passing behind me. But he put both hands on my ass and pressed up against me. Tried to excuse himself.”
“Ain’t no excuse.”
“No. He’s got some mighty big hands, though.”
***
Some weeks after George’s talk with Lucille, town councilman Ernest Sanders, the man in charge of keeping New Eden looking its best, called George, asked him to come into his office at the Town Hall. Ernest was a white man. In fact, the whole town council was white. In that respect, in this neck of the woods below the Mason-Dixon line, though things were changing, on the whole, there was little very new about New Eden.
“Hi George.” They shook hands. “Sit down.” George removed his grey slouch hat and sat leaning forward in his chair across the desk from Ernest. “How long you been doin’ this job up at the cemetery?”
First thing, George thought he was being fired. The question was foolish. And firing always started from something foolish. The town council had hired him. They already knew how long he’d worked at New Eden Cemetery.
“Three years come next month. I ’member ’cause it was shortly after Lucille and me got hitched.”
Ernest lifted a piece of paper off his desk and stared at it. “If our records are up to date, says here you got a little one now.”
“Yes sir. Got us a little girl. Emily. Comin’ up to three years pretty soon.”
“I see also before you came to us you worked as a mechanic.”
“Yes sir. Always been good with my hands.”
“Why’d you leave that job?”
“Garage shut down. Owner retired and sold the land to a real estate developer. I was out of work till the cemetery job came along.”
George wasn’t sure where all this was heading.
“You know, George. Here at New Eden we pride ourselves at bein’ an equal opportunity employer.”
“Yes sir. I’m sure of that.” Sincerity and a pleasing smile played on George’s brown face.
Ernest carefully placed the piece of paper back on his desk and looked up at George, searching for any insolence in George’s last statement. He prided himself in being able to ferret out a smart-ass attitude in anyone who worked for him. But George had a lot of experience at hiding the truth, so Ernest saw nothing beyond what George wanted him to see. So Ernest just saw another Black man sitting in front of him, another grateful labourer for the town of New Eden. His town.
“So what we’ve decided to do is give you a ten percent raise.” George’s face lit up. “I know it’s not much, but it’s about as much as I could squeeze out of these other tight-fisted councilmen. I hope you appreciate I went to bat for you, George.”
George shot to his feet and leaned over the desk with his hand extended. “I surely do ’preciate that. Thank you kindly, Mr. Sanders.” George knew the rules and the game.
Sanders took the cue and stood and shook George’s hand. “I’m glad we had this little talk and I got to get to know you a little better. Things get kind of busy here trying to keep the town looking its best. Good to put a face to the name on the paper. And if my old Ford starts to moan and groan, I’ll know who to come to.” They shared a laugh.
“Yes sir, Mr. Sanders. Any problem, give me a call.”
“Keep up the good work, George.”
“I surely will. Thank you again.” George turned and headed for the office door. Then he turned back around with a big smile. “I can’t wait to tell Lucille the good news.” With that he donned his hat, placing it on the back of his head like a man pleased with himself, and left the office.
He skipped down the Town Hall steps, hopped into his municipal truck, and headed for Maggie’s Diner, wanting to break the good news to Lucille as soon as possible. George always hoped things would get better, though he knew hope was a distraction, something that only made you feel better in the face of an uncertain future; fate’s grinning disguise. George knew from his years caring for the dead, you often couldn’t see the worm in the crab apple till you cut it open. So he wore the mask of hope. He remembered the cemetery songs, the ladies’ voices and hands raised in hope even in the face of death. So he raised the mask of hope, a thing he learned to do long ago. Maybe his and Lucille’s luck was changing. He’d hoped it would but wasn’t certain hope had anything to do with it. The fact of the pay rise surely was a thing of luck. Lucille couldn’t quit her job entirely based on his ten percent pay rise, but maybe she could go part-time, giving her the opportunity to be home more. He hoped that would work. He needed some luck.
George rounded the side of the diner and pulled into the parking lot at the back. He figured he’d go in the back door, surprise Lucille who wouldn’t see him coming. Mounting two concrete steps, he’d just gripped the door handle when he heard giggling coming from around the corner of the diner. A narrow alley ran down the its side, used for deliveries directly into the kitchen storeroom. George stayed motionless for a beat, figuring on kids up to no good. Until he heard a voice. “Oh God. That feels so good.” He recognized Lucille’s voice. What made her feel so good? The fear of knowing froze his feet in place, locked his muscles, paralyzed his thoughts like a shot of novocaine to the brain. But the need to know released him. He slumped on the steps for a moment, then regained his strength. His heart pumped. Blood left his heart, flowed to his brain. He stood. Glanced around the corner.
A man George didn’t know, but evidently Lucille knew very well, held her up against him with one hand across her breasts. Her head lay back on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her mouth open, gasping, her body shuddering. The man’s other hand hid under the front of Lucille’s uniform in between her splayed legs. The hem of the uniform moved in rhythm to Lucille’s labored breathing. Clearly the two were caught up in their own world, one of their own making. Neither noticed George watching. The odd thought came to George, he could see the tops of Lucille’s stockings. He stepped out.
“Lucille?”
Lucille and the man both stared at George. They’d both stopped moving. Lucille pushed off the man. Stood apart from him. Smoothed the front of her uniform. Touched her hair.
“Fuck. George. Fuck!” Lucille screamed. The man took two steps and disappeared through the storeroom door.
“I won’t ask what you’re doing. That’s pretty clear.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” George took two steps toward Lucille. “Stay the fuck back, George.” Lucille held up her hand like she was a cop stopping traffic.
George stopped. “What I’m doing here doesn’t seem very important now.” He almost forgot why he was there. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Well you abso-fucking-lutely surprised me. That’s for sure.”
“That makes two of us.”
They both stood there. Ten feet apart. Ten miles apart. No matter. George looked at the ground. Kicked a stone off to the side. Lucille turned in a circle. Folded her arms across her middle. Found some composure. George waited her out.
He could see she was about to speak when he asked, “Who’s that man?”
“I’m leaving you, George.”
“You mean you’re leaving us.”
“No. Just you. Emily’s coming with me.”
“She doesn’t even know you.”
“She’ll get to know me.”
“I don’t even know you.” Lucille remained silent. “Who’s that man?”
“He’s the man who makes me feel good.” Gaining confidence. “His name’s Harry. He’s a cook. No. He’s a great cook.”
“You’re running away with Harry?”
“I married someone who became a fucking cemetery caretaker, a dead-end job. You’re a joke punchline, George. I’m running away with a simple cook. The joke there? I think I’m going up in the world.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re done. I won’t be home tonight or any night. Say your good-byes to Emily. The authorities will be paying you a visit. Bye, George. Now fuck off.”
“You hate me. You hate my job and the people in that cemetery. But you know what? You’re as dead as they are.”
Lucille raised her middle finger at George, turned, and entered the storeroom door. She slammed it closed behind her. George heard the lock fall into place. Absent of argument or angry voices, the alley returned to its proper place in the world. And George? George slowly retreated from the mouth of the alley and from a moment that would change his life forever. His luck had just turned bad.
***
“Hello? Is this Maggie’s Diner? Who am I speaking with? Sandy? Look. I was just driving by the diner and saw some kids around the cars in the parking lot. Looked like were letting air out of tires or something. Thought I’d let you know. You’re welcome. Bye.”
George made the call to Maggie’s Diner the next morning from a phone booth across from the diner’s parking lot. He wanted to see which car was Harry’s. There weren’t that many cars in the lot. He chose mid-morning thinking several of the cars would probably belong to employees. Heads began popping out the diner’s back entrance. A few people strolled out from the alley. He spotted Harry and Lucille among them. George wondered if they’d been necking in the alley beforehand. Could be. Looked like they were holding hands. Sweet. He watched them from behind a tree that grew right next to the phone booth. When Harry and Lucille reached his car, a pale blue Plymouth sedan, they split up and walked around the car in opposite directions. Lucille saw Harry kick the tires, so she kicked a couple tires for good measure. All the tires were in good condition. George knew they would be. He got the information he wanted.
George wanted to nip this situation in the bud. Lucille was not taking Emily, a certainty George could take to the bank. He was out to spoil their plans, wreak havoc, stem the flow. Out to throw the proverbial wrench in the works, he made his plans.
“Hello? Could I speak to Sandy. I think she’s the cashier or hostess. Oh. This is Sandy. Our family wants to come in for dinner one evening this week when Harry’s the chef. We’ve dined there before when he was cooking and the meal was excellent. Tonight and tomorrow night? Oh good. Looking forward to a great meal. Thank you. Bye.”
That evening, George bundled Emily enough to keep her warm and dry. Rain clouds had blown in around five that afternoon and now, three hours later, the wind had picked up, blowing the rain at gale force, buffeting the car as he sat Emily in her car seat and fastened the belt. The weather, the blinding rain would be his perfect accomplice for what he had planned.
George drove to the diner dressed in a black rain slicker with a hood he’d pulled onto his head. He parked up on a side street adjacent to the diner’s parking lot. Even through the veiled sheets of rain, he spied Harry’s blue Plymouth. George reached down to the floor of his car and retrieved a tire iron he’d placed there earlier. Before he exited the car, he glanced back at Emily. She usually fell asleep in the car and tonight was no exception. George reached back and pulled down her scarf so she could breathe better. He watched her for a few minutes, her peaceful slumber mocked him, absent of any kind of peace himself. Tire iron in hand, he got out of the car, pushing into the wind and rain.
He told himself he only wanted the guy injured, not dead. Though dead wouldn’t bother him much if he didn’t think about it. But could he stop thinking? He popped the hubcap off the left front wheel, caught it before it clanged on the pavement. He loosened all the lug nuts, unscrewing them until they just held the thread. He replaced the hubcap then stood and scanned the parking lot and surrounding houses. The windswept rain may have been his only ally.
Clear sky the next morning promised a sunny day. After the rain and wind the night before, no doubt the cemetery’s urns and flowers suffered at the hands of the unkind elements. George was just dressing Emily for her day at nursery when someone knocked on the door. He picked up the half-dressed Emily and hurried to the door. When he opened the door he found the local sheriff, a man he knew well, standing back from the open door, hat in hand. They caught me, was George’s first thought.
“Sheriff Bob. What brings you to my door?”
“George. May I come in?”
“Sure. Come on in. I just got to get some clothes on this girl if you don’t mind.”
“You go ahead.”
George finished dressing Emily, then plonked her in one of the plush living room chairs with her favorite picture story book.
“Thanks. What can I do for you sheriff?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, George. Lucille was killed in an automobile accident last night. I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God. How did it happen?”
“We’re not sure. Exactly. Looks like a branch got caught in the wiper blades in all the rain and wind. Stopped the blades from working. We think she was blinded, couldn’t see because of the rain, hit a bridge abutment. The impact drove the left front end of the car into the driver’s side of the vehicle. Took us several hours to get her body out of the front seat. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what to say. God. Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. No one else involved to the best of our knowledge.”
A subsequent investigation revealed the reason Lucille was driving the car. Lucille got off early from work. Harry asked her to drive to his house where Lucille had been staying. She was going to pack them bags for a trip they were taking. After, she was supposed to come back to collect him at the diner at the end of his shift. Harry waited an hour, then called a taxi. They discovered the accident en route.
Eventually, George’s eyes drifted away from Emily and her play under the crab apple tree and came to rest on Lucille’s headstone. Given the position of the tree, on the days it was clear or didn’t rain, her grave was in full sun most of the day. George thought the gravesite fitting. He knew Lucille didn’t care. But George, George needed the light.
After some time, after some weeks and months passed, even after years, George came to believe hope was a mirage, and whatever happened was the luck of the draw. He believed that, convinced himself of its truth, but only if he didn’t watch Emily skipping merrily among the tombstones, her laughter teasing death. To get through, to get past the bad luck and worse luck, though a mirage, you needed hope.
George made the call to Maggie’s Diner the next morning from a phone booth across from the diner’s parking lot. He wanted to see which car was Harry’s. There weren’t that many cars in the lot. He chose mid-morning thinking several of the cars would probably belong to employees. Heads began popping out the diner’s back entrance. A few people strolled out from the alley. He spotted Harry and Lucille among them. George wondered if they’d been necking in the alley beforehand. Could be. Looked like they were holding hands. Sweet. He watched them from behind a tree that grew right next to the phone booth. When Harry and Lucille reached his car, a pale blue Plymouth sedan, they split up and walked around the car in opposite directions. Lucille saw Harry kick the tires, so she kicked a couple tires for good measure. All the tires were in good condition. George knew they would be. He got the information he wanted.
George wanted to nip this situation in the bud. Lucille was not taking Emily, a certainty George could take to the bank. He was out to spoil their plans, wreak havoc, stem the flow. Out to throw the proverbial wrench in the works, he made his plans.
“Hello? Could I speak to Sandy. I think she’s the cashier or hostess. Oh. This is Sandy. Our family wants to come in for dinner one evening this week when Harry’s the chef. We’ve dined there before when he was cooking and the meal was excellent. Tonight and tomorrow night? Oh good. Looking forward to a great meal. Thank you. Bye.”
That evening, George bundled Emily enough to keep her warm and dry. Rain clouds had blown in around five that afternoon and now, three hours later, the wind had picked up, blowing the rain at gale force, buffeting the car as he sat Emily in her car seat and fastened the belt. The weather, the blinding rain would be his perfect accomplice for what he had planned.
George drove to the diner dressed in a black rain slicker with a hood he’d pulled onto his head. He parked up on a side street adjacent to the diner’s parking lot. Even through the veiled sheets of rain, he spied Harry’s blue Plymouth. George reached down to the floor of his car and retrieved a tire iron he’d placed there earlier. Before he exited the car, he glanced back at Emily. She usually fell asleep in the car and tonight was no exception. George reached back and pulled down her scarf so she could breathe better. He watched her for a few minutes, her peaceful slumber mocked him, absent of any kind of peace himself. Tire iron in hand, he got out of the car, pushing into the wind and rain.
He told himself he only wanted the guy injured, not dead. Though dead wouldn’t bother him much if he didn’t think about it. But could he stop thinking? He popped the hubcap off the left front wheel, caught it before it clanged on the pavement. He loosened all the lug nuts, unscrewing them until they just held the thread. He replaced the hubcap then stood and scanned the parking lot and surrounding houses. The windswept rain may have been his only ally.
Clear sky the next morning promised a sunny day. After the rain and wind the night before, no doubt the cemetery’s urns and flowers suffered at the hands of the unkind elements. George was just dressing Emily for her day at nursery when someone knocked on the door. He picked up the half-dressed Emily and hurried to the door. When he opened the door he found the local sheriff, a man he knew well, standing back from the open door, hat in hand. They caught me, was George’s first thought.
“Sheriff Bob. What brings you to my door?”
“George. May I come in?”
“Sure. Come on in. I just got to get some clothes on this girl if you don’t mind.”
“You go ahead.”
George finished dressing Emily, then plonked her in one of the plush living room chairs with her favorite picture story book.
“Thanks. What can I do for you sheriff?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, George. Lucille was killed in an automobile accident last night. I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God. How did it happen?”
“We’re not sure. Exactly. Looks like a branch got caught in the wiper blades in all the rain and wind. Stopped the blades from working. We think she was blinded, couldn’t see because of the rain, hit a bridge abutment. The impact drove the left front end of the car into the driver’s side of the vehicle. Took us several hours to get her body out of the front seat. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what to say. God. Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. No one else involved to the best of our knowledge.”
A subsequent investigation revealed the reason Lucille was driving the car. Lucille got off early from work. Harry asked her to drive to his house where Lucille had been staying. She was going to pack them bags for a trip they were taking. After, she was supposed to come back to collect him at the diner at the end of his shift. Harry waited an hour, then called a taxi. They discovered the accident en route.
***
Eventually, George’s eyes drifted away from Emily and her play under the crab apple tree and came to rest on Lucille’s headstone. Given the position of the tree, on the days it was clear or didn’t rain, her grave was in full sun most of the day. George thought the gravesite fitting. He knew Lucille didn’t care. But George, George needed the light.
After some time, after some weeks and months passed, even after years, George came to believe hope was a mirage, and whatever happened was the luck of the draw. He believed that, convinced himself of its truth, but only if he didn’t watch Emily skipping merrily among the tombstones, her laughter teasing death. To get through, to get past the bad luck and worse luck, though a mirage, you needed hope.
Jim Shaffer is the author of the novella, Back to the World (Close to the Bone). His crime fiction
stories have appeared in several anthologies and online at Close to the
Bone, Flash Fiction Offensive, Retreats From Oblivion, and Punk
Noir Magazine.
You can find Jim on Amazon and Facebook:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/James-Shaffer/e/B07RPJVVVD?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1643666933&sr=1-1
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