Chapter 3 of The Graveyard Runes by K.D. Upton
Rumbles of thunder followed the darkened clouds brewing above as I walked along the path from the main house to the family cemetery. It was a pleasant walk on most days, even in the sweltering heat, but today the blossoms hung on weak stems, and the colors appeared blunted like they too mourned the passing of their guardian.
He’d spent hours in the gardens, never hiring a landscaper to tend the ones around the graveyard. He, and he alone, cut stems, trimmed bushes, and mulched the flowerbeds, nurturing them to a brilliant mass of blues, purples, and golds to greet the souls of the departed.
Once he’d mentioned that past generations had tended them, and it was his privilege to continue the tradition. Sometimes I caught him speaking amongst the flowers, and when I questioned him about who he was talking to, he’d broadly smiled and said, “Our loved ones never depart us, Cherry. They get lonely sometimes too.”
I didn’t believe him back then, and simply laughed it off as an old man’s peculiarity, but now, as I breathed in the scenery, which had given me some of the best moments of my life, I wondered if he hovered about. Was he watching the family gather for his funeral and pleased? Or was he frustrated over all the fuss?
The white wooden chairs came into view once I was outside the eight-foot tall, black wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. Situated by a giant oak tree, whose heavy branches swayed against the rushing gusts of wind the brewing storm kicked up, the weathered gate was opened, revealing rows of moss-covered tombstones in the center of the clearing.
Twenty feet away, underneath a green tent and hemmed in by potted ferns, was a wooden casket set up on display. Le pépé was to be buried in the furthest corner where he and I used to watch the glorious sunsets from the time I was two. He’d often spoken wistfully of the spot and on more than one occasion had mentioned that it would be the perfect place to spend all eternity. At least he’d gotten his wish.
I trudged down the makeshift isle, eyes downcast, past the disdainful stares of my extended family who sat amongst the seats, only stopping once I’d arrived at his casket. A burning lump stuck in my throat, and I blinked away the moisture that had blurred my vision. I reached out to place my palm on the casket when I stepped back in surprise. Reverend Dupont rushed up, laying his hand on my upper arm.
“Let me help you to your seat,” he whispered. “We will start soon.”
He offered a tight smile, but his focus was on something over my shoulder.
“W-what?” I stammered, looking from him and down to my pépé.
His smooth skin appeared unusually rosy, especially on his cheeks, and waxen. Why was his casket open? He hoped to be buried without a viewing, since crying over a corpse seemed morbid. His wish was for people to remember him as the spry, cheerful soul who worked tirelessly on educating the public about the American Civil War and our family’s part in it, hoping to prevent a repeat of the past. But here he was. A body on display dressed in a tux and caked in makeup.
The reverend tightened his grip on my arm and steered me away from the casket. I didn’t have the strength to resist. Putting one foot in front of the other proved difficult, but when my grandmother’s disapproving stare locked onto me as I stumbled halfway up the aisle, it was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on top of my head. A shiver of unease sent my tummy into fits, and for a split second, I wanted to run and hide.
Elsa strode within a foot of me and clasped her hands together. All of 5’2”, she peered up at me, her mouth a straight line.
“Don’t be a fool,” she scolded, whipping her right hand back into the air.
I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for the impact, but when none came, I peeked out one and then the other. The sight was enough to make my heart flop inside my chest.
“Mother,” grumbled my father through clenched teeth, “not today.” He held onto her tiny wrist, stopped in mid-swing. His guarded demeanor softened when he looked at me. “Cherry, please sit down.”
My legs wobbled, and when I failed to move, my dad nodded toward the reverend. Within a minute, I was seated in the last row and promptly left to my own devices. I didn’t blame the reverend. He was usually a kind man, but he, like everyone else, jumped at my grandmother’s bidding. Her reputation for ruining a person’s character was well established in these parts, which is why it shocked me that my dad had stopped her. Not once had he intervened on my behalf or that of my mom or sister.
Gosh, I remember rounds of fights late at night when I was supposed to be sound asleep. My mother’s shrill voice lashing out at my father for his lack of defense. Noelle, my sister, slept through the commotion, and she’d roll over and yank her blankets up to her chin if ever I woke her.
At first, it scared me, but as I grew older, it became part of the norm. My mother railed against my dad for his deference to Elsa, he’d let mom spend her energy until she collapsed onto their bed, crying, and then he’d tuck her in, kiss her on the forehead, and sleep on the couch in his downstairs office. Until the age of 18, when I went to college, did I find out other families weren’t like mine.
The haughty stares of my relatives didn’t last long. They locked onto Elsa’s rigid frame and followed her, my father, and my mother as they walked the rest of the way to their seats. Of course, they sat in the front row beside my sister, but it didn’t bother me I had a back row seat. I was happy under the large branches that had stood witness to generations of my family. The rustling leaves and shade provided much relief from the hurt of losing my le Pépé.
Though the darkened clouds weakened the sun’s heat, the humidity hadn’t lessened. Most of my relatives fanned their faces with the funeral program, or if nothing else, their hand.
With indifference, I watched as their meticulous appearances ran like paint down a drain. On any other day, this wouldn’t do. Society seeing them less than perfect? Unthinkable. They were, after all, typical Lorraine-Archambeau’s: rich, arrogant, and beautiful. They achieved whatever they wanted in life.
For generations, our family networked within the highest echelons, including the government, and received awards, grants, and invitations to secret societies, some of which conspiracy theorists speculate are the ones who really rule the world.
Of course, none of that interested me, and a good thing too, because when my father married my mother, he was all but cut off. Gone went the formal balls, the golf outings, the sailing parties. He got a job and worked 60-hour weeks, climbing his way up the corporate ladder until he’d become CEO of a finance company. Though he’d received a stellar education prior to his marriage, which helped immensely, I credited him for sticking to his guns and marrying whom he chose, not whom Elsa handpicked. That took guts, and probably the last time he used them.
The reverend cleared his throat, and the gathering quieted. After the first few words, I zoned out, and instead focused on the good times we’d shared. There were plenty to pick from like the bountiful flowers surrounding us. I looked to my left and saw the profusion of pink azaleas that lined the flanks of the cemetery.
One hot June day, I’d picked up some pruning shearers that had been left on the ground. Gosh, I was only six or seven at the time. I’d seen le Pépé snip parts of branches off the vibrant bushes that morning, and I’d gotten the smart idea of helping him do the rest. He’d gone inside to get some lemonade, but he’d forgotten to put the shearers back in his gardening belt. Being a curious child, and one with an impulsive streak, I snatched them up and cut away.
The memory made me chuckle, and multiple heads whipped around, greeting me with a scowl as the reverend’s monotone voice droned on. I dipped my head and fought the tug at the corners of my mouth. It wouldn’t look good to be smiling at my le Pépé’s funeral, and if word got around to Elsa…
Well, I’d be tossed out on my derriere in two shakes of a saltshaker.
When the heat of their stares faded, I chanced a glance at the blooming azaleas again. Though a decade plus had passed, those severely pruned bushes had regrown into the beauty that I witnessed today.
A tear fell down my check.
The memory of le Pépé’s astonished face at my deed remained clear as day. Not understanding what I’d done, I stared up at him expectantly. Chest puffed out in pride, I beamed at my grandfather and gestured to the row of bushes that I had cut, almost to the point of no return. I marveled now at his calm demeanor.
If something I’d cherished had been destroyed like that, I can’t say I’d have the same restraint or forgiveness.
Instead of scolding me or a spanking me though, he had extended his palm and quietly asked for the shearers. When I handed them over, he kneeled beside me and laid a hand on my tiny shoulder. “Darlin’,” he said, “you did some pruning while I was away. But,” he paused and crooked his head over to see the ones on the other side of the cemetery, “those need some tending. Care to help me?”
With a twinkle in his eye, he took my sweaty hand in his and led me over to the other bushes, teaching me in small words that I could understand about how to prune azaleas, and from that point on I helped him yearly with them. Never did he make me feel ashamed or sad about what I’d done. I didn’t know my mistake until years later when he’d teased me about it. But that was le Pépé. The kindest, sweetest man on earth.
“Amen,” came the crowd’s response, drawing me back to the present.
After the line of sweaty and irritated family members had thrown flowers on the mound of dirt shoveled over his grave did they rush back into the coolness of the home, leaving me all alone with my thoughts. My dad had kissed my brow and said to take all the time I needed while simultaneously escorting my chatty mom and Elsa back to the mansion.
Fat raindrops plopped onto my sticky skin as I kneeled beside his tombstone. Mosquitoes buzzed about my face as I remembered back to the service. I’d clutched the fire and ice rose the entire time, not able to relinquish it when the moment came. Somehow it seemed too final, too raw.
Despite a few of my relatives snickering at me, my father had drawn me back when I faltered, pulling me into his chest. He bent his head and whispered into my ear, “It’s alright, darlin’. He understands.”
I squeezed my eyes shut at the fresh memory. The well of tears that had been kept at bay at last broke free, cascading down my cheeks. Only le Pépé had ever called me that. My father, too consumed with work, had never been around enough to pick up on the term of endearment, which made this even more poignant. To me, le Pépé was still here, and that realization left me breathless.
“Le Pépé?” My voice sounded gravelly.
I rolled the stem between my middle finger and thumb. It was his favorite; the fire ice rose. I’d admired them once as a child, and he’d admitted that they were his favorite too.
“So, you missed our date. Chess and ice cream, remember? You promised to kick my butt this time.” My throat constricted and burned against the knot that formed in it. I swiped at the tears that pelted the dirt, matching the plops of rain falling from the heavens. “Looks like you lose.”
A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the blackened sky, and the thunderous boom soon followed. If I didn’t get a move on, my mom would send my father to check on me, and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. He didn’t handle weepy females well.
I inhaled deeply. The smell of pooled water, cut grass, and dirt hung heavy in the air. I placed the rose at the base of his gravestone, bending over to kiss the top of it.
“Love you, Pépé. Rest in peace.”
My fingertips trailed the slippery marble tombstone, wet from the deluge of water now pelting my skin much like a pincushion. I darted for the trees when, just as suddenly, the rain stopped, and a rainbow appeared on the horizon. While the clouds remained, the sight sucked the air from my lungs.
“Wonders never cease,” I mumbled.
“Wonder, indeed,” came a deep voice behind me.
I whipped around, hand flying to my throat. A young man in his twenties stared back at me, a glimmer of mischief within his chocolate brown eyes.
“Who are you?” I involuntarily stepped backwards.
“An ally.”
I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean? And why are you here? This is a private funeral.”
“I’m as shocked as you,” he said, inclining his head to the side. “No matter, we’ll talk in due time. First things first, you need to change clothes before you catch cold. Meet me back here in fifteen minutes.” He strode off, hands stuffed in his black suit pants, whistling a tune.
“Wait!” I called, but he kept walking. Right before he disappeared behind a set of large oak trees, he turned and said, “Fifteen minutes, Cherry, and don’t tell anybody I’m here.”
That would be easy, I thought as I stared at the trees. I don’t even know your name. And why would I need an ally? While the idea seemed preposterous, curiosity had struck.
“Alright, but you better not be a serial killer,” I called out, jogging toward the mansion. Was I mad, stupid, or both? Either way, I was meeting with this guy if only to send him packing. What’s the worst that could happen?
Other Works besides The Funeral
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