I call the cemetery and get directions because I forgot them after all these years. “It’s late,” person I speak to says, “but you can make it if you catch the next train and grab a cab at the station.”
I put on my warmest clothes and boots and catch that train. It doesn’t move for a half-hour after departure time and then goes unusually slow for even a suburban train, getting to the station an hour later than it was expected and a few minutes before the cemetery’s supposed to close.
I get a cab at the station and the driver starts taking me a different way. “Where you going?” I say. “I remember the ride and unless all the roads have changed since or they’ve moved the cemetery, then at that light back there you should’ve made a left instead of a right, because I know it’s not down this drive.”
“You said Saint Athemus, correct? So this is the quickest most direct way there.”
“I told you Pearlwood, loud and clear — Pearlwood, so don’t give me it you didn’t hear.”
“I didn’t. You claiming I did? I didn’t. I distinctly heard you say Athemus. But you don’t like the way I drive or a man can’t make a simple mistake with you, which mine only might’ve been but I swear wasn’t, then what do you want me to do?”
“To be absolutely fair, deduct a half-dollar off the meter and I’ll be satisfied.”
“And have it come from my pocket? Because that’s what my boss will want. He’ll say I was cheating him.”
“I’ll write a note for you that you weren’t.”
“He won’t take notes. He’ll say I could’ve signed anyone’s name to it and he could be right.”
“I’ll put on it my phone number and address.”
“For the fifty cents owed him you think he’ll phone you on what could be a dollar call? Just tell me you’ll pay the full fare that’s on the meter or I’ll have to let you off here.”
“You leave me out here wherever the hell we are and I’ll tear the back of your cab apart.”
“Try and I’ll lock you in and call Cab Control who’ll call the cops.”
He presses a button on the steering wheel and all the door locks snap down another notch. I try pulling up my lock but can’t. There’s a steel screen between us and I say through it “Okay okay, no more complaints. Get to Pearlwood fast as you can and I’ll pay.”
“Now you’re talking sense.”
He turns the cab around and drives to Pearlwood and stops at the cemetery gate and says through the screen “Eight dollars.”
“Meter reads four-fifty.”
“I have to ride back and have no customers here because your cemetery’s closed. And I don’t feel like waiting for you, even if you wanted me to, at the dollar-every-three-minutes time. For one reason, you might leave through one of the side ways if you got in and for another, I know you’re not giving a tip. So the eight or I take you back to the station and let you off after you pay the four-fifty plus whatever the new reading is from here to there.”
I put a ten in the screen tray and he gives me two dollars change and presses the button that releases the locks. I get out.
“Piece of advice,” he says.
“I’ll give you.”
“No listen, see that phonebooth there? When you call a Meyermeg cab to get back, don’t ask for Nate’s.”
“Bastard,” I yell. He waves and drives away. Never should’ve yelled anything like that in front of here. About death I’m a bit superstitious and make the religious sign with my fingers over my chest and then think that’s ridiculous and rub it off and ring the bell on the cemetery gate. Voice on an intercom above the bell says “Cemetery closed for the day.”
“Please, I’ve come a long way.”
“Sorry, closed, good day.”
“Look, I haven’t seen my parents or sister in years and I can get out here just about never.”
“Next time come earlier.”
“Next time I will, that’s a promise, but this time give me a break.”
“I shouldn’t but could.”
“Yes?”
“That’s it. I shouldn’t but could.”
“So what’ll it take?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying can we talk straight?”
“Anyone with you?”
“You can’t see through that camera thing on top of the gate?”
“It’s dark behind you. People can lie in shadows and what I’m seeing you through is a cheap set.”
“Nobody’s with me.”
“Then we can talk, but be circumspect.”
“Will a five or ten dollar cash contribution get me in for a half hour?”
“Contribution to the cemetery.”
“Cemetery.”
“Fifteen minutes total is all I can spare you once we reach your plot. You don’t know where it is, I can be of service in another way, as I’ve this direction book to help.”
“It’s in one of the rows to the right off a driveway. I can’t miss it as it’s in a meadow almost by itself.”
“Others have gone up all around it.”
“Louise and Lester Fleet then. And my sister, with the same last name, and our grandparents, Dondon, in adjacent graves.”
“All I need. E-F-Fl-Fleet. Agnes. Lester and spouse. Corelated: Beatrice and Daryl Dondon the third. Row 141, section 7S. Wait for me.”
Drives down, gets out of his car, says hello and sticks his mitted hand through the gate. I shake it. “That’s fine, pleasure’s all mine. But the you-know-what.”
“I’m not sure anymore I can.”
“Don’t try to haggle with me, Fleet. The ten-dollar cemetery donation or I ride back and you won’t see me again today.”
“Please, let me go over with you what I’ve gone through to get here and why.”
“Not interested.”
“Don’t be such a hard guy.”
“Also no time for talk.”
“Then just let me in. I don’t want to hand over money and it’s cost me enough just to come out. And it’s my cemetery. My grandfather also reserved space for me here and my wife and kids if I had them.”
“You need cash then? Sell your extra plots. There’ll be no end to takers. This is a relatively close space to the city, so you’ll get plenty for them — ten times what your grandfather paid.”
“I don’t want to. I still could get married someday and have a kid or already my wife’s. And this is holy ground. At least sacred to me with my family in there, so don’t make me have to report you.”
“You threatening? I’ll deny and backfire on you. I’ll say you went crazy when you came late and I wouldn’t let you in. I’m old and trusted here. Just as I thought you could be trusted — dragging me down here, you son of, and you didn’t act that type over the TV screen — so they’ll believe me as they know people in grief have tried everything with us day and night and also the owners never heard my doing anything wrong. Not that I ever have or am doing anything wrong now. A contribution to the nondenominational cemetery chapel I’m trying to collect for them they certainly won’t frown upon.”
“It’s a bribe for yourself you want, no contribution.”
“Whose bribe? You pushed me and I refused. God, if I had the legal right or my earlier age and strength I’d force you to pay to the cemetery the car gas down here and my wage consumed and maybe for me my medical bills for the temperature I’ll probably get standing here and charges. Courtroom charges I’d be using to sue you for breach of everything and filthy slander,” and he gets in the car and drives up the hill.