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“Wednesday.”
His voice pulled me from my thoughts. Oddly, I hadn’t noticed his approach. It was especially odd considering he was creeping beside me in his pick-up truck. The window was rolled down and he was looking at me with a gentle smirk. “Wednesday,” he repeated.
“Hello,” I looked at him. He stared at me some a while longer. There didn’t appear to be any signs that he had any dialogue planned past attaining my conversation. “What?”
“Come with me,” He grinned boyishly, “I want to show you someplace.”
“Tyler, what makes you think I would have any interest in joining you?” I asked.
He shrugged, “I’m not sure. Boredom? Curiosity? A chance to have fun? An opportunity to escape a therapy session?”
Logical reasoning. I glanced at the forest surrounding me and nodded shortly and abruptly. I pulled open the door to his truck and took my place beside him. It was a bench seat; unusual for Normies in modern times. I turned to Thing, who had made his way from my shoulder to Tyler’s dashboard. “Thing, please go and make sure my papers are in order.”
Thing gestured and tapped his reply.
“I do not see why not, but do not make a mess and organize the papers first,” I compromised, “Please.” I added as an afterthought.
He agreed and hopped out of the truck and towards Nevermore.
Tyler watched Thing scramble away in his rearview mirror. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes, it isn’t that far of a walk. He has gone further distances before and is surprisingly agile for an appendage.” Thing was an interesting sort of creature.
“What did he say to you, by the way?” Tyler began to drive, evidently convinced that no harm would come to my companion.
“He wanted to have a hand massage and take some time to himself,” I explained.
“Hand massage?” Tyler’s brow crinkled. His gaze remained focused on the road ahead of him. The path was framed by a seemingly endless stream of arched willows; their leaves tangoed intricately with the breeze.
“I built him a contraption three years ago.”
“Ok...?” His face was contorted in confusion as he attempted to imagine what I had created. It was enjoyable, seeing him scramble.
“Where are you taking me?” I inquired. While anything was preferable to the torture that was therapy (although I did enjoy torture – it was wonderful and exquisite! – English had created such a useful and dramatic cliché that I found the phrase fitting,) it always ate away at me when I was uninformed.
“Some place I think you would like.” His answer was cryptic and heightened my curiosity. Judging by the way his eyes brightened, his eyebrows wagged like an absent-minded cat’s tail, and the curve of his lips as he smiled, Tyler knew precisely the affect.
I did not give him the satisfaction of knowing my interest. For years I had perfected my stoic expression and my ability to maintain it. While the limp configuration of my features was my default expression, occasionally an event or person stirred enough intrigue and caught me off-guard, even if it was for a moment. I composed myself, refusing to give in to the momentary urge to glance at him and hold my gaze.
I kept my gaze focused firmly on the road before us. My hands were clasped in my lap.
Luckily, Tyler wanted to fill the silence and in doing so, abated my curiosity – slightly. “There’s this place that always fascinated me. My dad thinks I’m crazy for it. I never really told anyone about it but a couple people learned about it over the years and… yeah, well they made it known just how crazy it is. Sure, maybe it’s a little weird and creepy and incredibly macabre, but I love it. I think you would like it.”
Creepy? Macabre? My interest was piqued. “Sounds interesting,” I looked at him. He glanced from the road to me and smiled a bright smile. A beautiful one. It was a smile filled with light and excitement; a secretive smile for the special moments. There was pure light and adoration in his gaze.
I had seen Father smile at Mother in that way many times before. I wasn’t aware others could emulate that expression so precisely.
And then the second stopped and Tyler looked away from me and focused on driving. I returned my attention to staring at the road before us.
He turned on his blinker and pulled off the main road and onto a muddy dirt path that was both well-worn and riddled with weeds and other plants.
“It’s a bit out of the way,” Tyler continued, “but… I don’t know. There is just something so calming about it to me. I go there to think. Sometimes I spend hours there. It just passes so easily. I know that it should unnerve me but instead it’s peaceful. Do you understand? Maybe that’s why I like you. I know you try to act frightening, and while you definitely can be, you relax me. I’m more comfortable when you are here with me than when you aren’t.” He pursed his lips. His hazel eyes were vulnerable and hesitant. He thought he was overstepping boundaries, I realized.
I did not know what to make of his words. Was this feeling pleasure? Satisfaction?
My cheeks were warm. Odd.
“Are you all right?” He asked me, frowning, “Your cheeks are all red.”
“I don’t need your concern,” I replied coldly. Perhaps that was too harsh. “I am fine.”
His lips twitched. “I see.”
The trees parted to reveal a field. A wrought iron fence surrounded the parameters and enclosed hundreds of beautiful gravestones. My breath hitched and I gasped.
It was fantastic.
I have held a fascination with the dead since my youth. The graveyard near my family’s manor was my favorite. It helped me clear my head and focus on my novel, my inventions, everything. Sometimes I took my cello to play in between Mary Rightstone (1750-1828) and William Ashfields (1745-1815.)
Drat. So emotional. I shut my mouth and hoped Tyler hadn’t noticed my undesirable display of emotionality.
“You like it?” He was hopeful, glad.
He had noticed. Wonderful, I chastised myself.
Tyler parked the truck and jumped out. He made his way to the other side of the vehicle and opened the door for me. I stepped out and nodded politely to him, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he turned and began walking towards the gate’s entrance. I followed him. My footprints squelched in the mud and small bits flicked onto my stockings.
“It was built in 1648.” He began to recount the history of the site. I watched him.
His love for the graveyard was evident. Usually, I would have been taking in the beauty of my surroundings and reveling in it. The forest surrounded us and was obscured by the thick mist. The gentle curve of the headstones peaked through the mist. There were headstones of granite, black marble, and the oldest, my favorites, were made of pure calcium carbonite. Nearly all were aged but remarkably well-preserved. Moss and lichen clung to the stones, blocking the view of some names and dates. It was just enough to add mystery to the place while also preserving the memory of the people lain to rest. I watched as the young man with the Teddy-boy haircut basked in the euphoria and tranquility that was this ancient cemetery. I suspected he was the reason it was in such idyllic condition. It was the perfect mixture of overgrown and untamed with meticulous and intentional care.
That wasn't what held my interest. Those were just passing observations that barely registered.
My focus was Tyler. My focus was his pure passion and enthusiasm for our surroundings. I realized there was nothing he loved more in the world. His energy was magnetic and pulled me to him.
He told me of the oldest grave in the cemetery, Patience Harris, who died of pneumonia in 1648, and the newest: Uriah Brown, who passed in 1894 of unknown causes. Everything was catalogued in my mind for reflection later, yet my mind was foggy and dull and I was only half-listening as he riddled facts and the stories of the bodies beneath our feet. I was solely focused on his expressive eyes and distant smile.
It dawned on me that I was the first person he had shared this place with.
“Then a new graveyard was made, in 1911,” Tyler told me. We were sitting on a bench under a willow in the center of the cemetery. Martha Connors (1694-1761) sat to my right and Tyler to my left. “It is a lovely place, but too neat for my taste. Do you know what I mean?”
"It lacks charm and life and mystery.” I knew precisely what he referred to.
“Yes! Yes!” He grinned at me as though I were a kindred spirit. Perhaps in his eyes, I was. “It’s so clean and there are always flowers and people are there to visit grandmama. So much sorrow for the living. Here it is only us and the history and their presence.” He nodded towards the grave of William Meyer (1801-1809,) his neighbor.
Their presence is everywhere.
What many people do not understand about cemeteries is that they are alive. It seems counterintuitive, …that the place for the dead should be filled with more life than a town center. Yet it was true. I experienced it whenever I visited a cemetery. You could feel the dead everywhere. Yes, their corpses were below and decomposing into dirt, but the air was thick with their presence. It is a land of history and stories if one is curious enough. There are war heroes, spies, murderers, housewives, children, adulterers, and families. Stories, fascinating stories, if only one would do an inkling of research. And then the cemetery’s life-force only heightened. There were stories and faces to match the presence, not just feelings and movements in the corner of the eye.
“Do you like it here?” He asked me.
“It is wonderful,” I informed him truthfully. “Thank you for showing me this place. I see why you have such affection for it.” This was my favorite place in Jericho. Aside from the Weathervane.
His smile softened, “I hoped you would like it.”
I surprised myself. I returned his smile. Small, gentle. An unguarded moment. I pursed my lips and blinked, looking away.
“Wednesday,” he touched my chin and pulled me to look at him.
“Tyler,” I addressed him. He was standing close to me. Inches away. The graveyard’s smell of moss, mist, and dirt was tinted with coffee and vanilla shampoo.
His lips were soft. They were warm. Pulsing with life.
I pulled away after a few moments of gentle kisses. He was worried that he was unwelcome but relaxed after a second. Maybe I was more expressive than I hoped.
“Kissing in front of Johnathan Harker,” I glanced at the imposing black marble beside us. “I hope he doesn’t mind.”
“Since when do you care about what others think?” Tyler cupped my face with his right palm and pulled me toward him with his left. The feel of his hand on my waist. Electric.
“I never said I did,” I replied, “Just that I hope he doesn’t mind,” I leaned forward and he smiled adoringly as my lips met his once more.