The Jeweler (20 page)

G
INGER’S
E
YES
B
LINKED
O
PEN
. She couldn’t get back to sleep. The birds outside the house were making a racket. Magpies hassling a cat, probably, and the noise made Zoë restless. The big dog made circles around the bed, snorting loudly as she neared Ginger’s pillow.

Ginger gave up. The clock said seven fifteen. Zoë must have seen Ginger’s eyes open because she began to bounce up and down.

“All right, I’m getting up. For crying out loud!” Ginger swung her feet to the floor, only to have them accosted by a slobbery dog.

She let Zoë out the front door and sat on the stoop. In her bathrobe pocket she found a ponytail holder. She pulled the hair out of her eyes and fastened it on top of her head.

It was cooler this early in the morning. For the last few weeks, as school districts welcomed their children back to school and the business at the pool slowed down, Bode and Ginger had split the shifts. Bode worked early, and Ginger came in around noon. He liked finishing up early so he could go out. After his attempt at a relationship with Ginger had fizzled, Bode seemed to be enthusiastically frequenting the downtown clubs.

Ginger, on the other hand, had no interest in making the rounds. She wanted life to smooth itself out for a while. She went home to her dog and called it a good day if it had been uneventful. And she hardly ever thought about Fender.

This morning, she thought about something Molly had mentioned: going out to Brad’s grave. The one-year anniversary of his death. It made her neck knot up just to consider it. Lately, she made a point of avoiding calendars.

But the air was fresh this morning. Any later in the day, and it became hot like the exhaust of a truck or a blow dryer. Maybe she should go now. If she left right now, no one else would probably be there, either. She really didn’t want to run into people.

She went inside, threw on some clothes, and got her purse. She called to the dog, who was rooting around in the neighbors’ flowerbeds, and put her inside, locking the house door. She was going to do this. She was going to visit Brad’s grave.

She drove out the long road toward the foothills. She kept the windows down, enjoying the morning air. Ginger tried not to clutch the steering wheel too tightly.

She ascended the steep drive to the cemetery. A bright white and red sign warned, “Unlawful to remove decorations from graves. Violators will be prosecuted.”

“Shit.” Ginger hadn’t brought anything—no flowers, nothing to leave for Brad. She felt her palms go clammy; she was already breaking etiquette and already uncomfortable in this space. She passed the gates, engraved with the words
Perpetual Care
.

The last time Ginger had been here, she’d ridden in the limousine with Brad’s mother and father. It’d been kind of a surprise, riding with them. In fact, Ginger hadn’t spoken to his family since they’d packed up his things and closed the door to the house a few days after the funeral.
Just a girlfriend
, they must’ve figured.

But they’d been wrong. Ginger had been wrong. Brad must’ve been thinking of her as more. He’d bought the ring, after all. Bought it from Fender.

She stopped the car to pull herself out of that particular train of thought. She was at the crest of the hill now, so she steered to the side of the drive and parked. An awning identical to the one that had shaded the mourners for Brad at the funeral stood tall in front of her. Maybe it was the same one. She hadn’t noticed before that it was mounted on large black wheels. Strange vehicle.

She got out of the car and turned in a circle to get her bearings. Things looked different. At the funeral, the surroundings had been a vague background to her. She’d witnessed the service with a kind of tunnel vision. She’d noticed only a few of the odd details: the Astroturf under the chairs, the backhoe waiting not-too-subtly to the left of the site.
Fender
.

Now it was clearer. She saw much more around her. A covey of quails bobbed along between headstones in the older part of the cemetery to her right. She liked to see their lively little bodies in a place like this. They sprinted across the road like businessmen late for a train. The sun lit up their gray and brown backs and turned them lilac. The single black feather on the top of each bird’s head wiggled in urgency.

She felt suddenly uncomfortable. It wasn’t clear to her where she was going. Driving here, she’d thought it’d be impossible not to find Brad. Now it seemed a daunting task.

She remembered he was buried in the east section, and she remembered parking somewhere near this spot. But the graves in this part of the cemetery were marked with flat black-bronze metal markers. She had to walk up to each one to see the name of the occupant.

Maybe it was more to the left
, she told herself. A Mylar balloon drifted over one of the markers. She approached it, careful to place her feet wide of the grave itself.

It was an infant’s grave. So was the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that. She was lost in a heartbreaking sea of tiny crypts. Little lives, ended in one day, three weeks, a year, their markers engraved with lambs and child angels. Her head swam. She came upon a white marble bench, the headstone for Angela Rabbert. She had died the day after she was born. Under the bench someone had placed a stuffed bear, white with curly ringlets of synthetic fur. A tiny bouquet of roses lay next to the bear.

This felt peculiar. She wasn’t going to find Brad. She was lost. This had been a bad idea. She stood still and looked around, looking for something familiar. She was afraid to move her feet, afraid she might tread on a child’s grave. She felt sweat forming above her lip.

“Can I help you find someone?” a voice asked from behind her.

She turned around. A wiry elderly man stood on the driveway. He looked familiar. “Have we met?”

He smiled from under a thin mustache. “I believe we have. Aren’t you a friend of my son’s?”

It was Fender’s dad. She couldn’t believe it. She looked at the ground, unsure of herself.

He broke the moment’s silence. “Were you looking for someone?”

“Yes, I was. His name is Brad Janson. He’s supposed to be in the east section. He’s buried there, I mean.”

He nodded. “Oh, well, you’re very close. You’ve just gotten too far to the left. That’s the baby section. Here, come out here, and I’ll show you where you need to be.” He gestured to her, extending his hand.

She stepped carefully toward him. Then he took her hand, and she was out on the safe asphalt of the road.

“That’s sad, isn’t it?” He looked into her eyes with a large, warm smile on his face.

“Hmm?” Ginger felt lightheaded. She tried to snap herself out of it, focusing on his friendly eyes.

“The baby section. It’s sad to see so many little babies.” He turned her around, guiding her with a hand at her elbow. “It’s easy to get lost here. Unfortunately, by the time you’re my age, you’ll know your way around.”

He stopped in front of a granite block engraved with the words “East Section.” Ginger felt her mind clear. The sun now climbed to the sky, and the air was turning warmer. “Thanks. I haven’t been here since the funeral. I guess I didn’t remember it very well.”

Fender’s father nodded. “Fender told me you had a special person in your life who you lost. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m here to see my wife.”

“Fender and I aren’t really in touch right now.” Ginger wasn’t sure why that came out of her mouth.

“I did hear that.”

Ginger looked at the green lawn, marked by dips in the grass where the bronze markers lay.

Fender’s father took a step onto the lawn. “If you’d like, I’ll help you find his marker. Walk this way, between the rows.” Ginger followed him. “My wife is over on the other side, in the older part of the cemetery. The graves all have headstones over there. It’s a lot easier to find someone.”

“Do you visit her a lot?” Ginger followed him, watching him look at the names on each marker.

“I try to come when I think of it. I usually end up here once a month or so. I’m embarrassed to say I like to come and talk to her. I tell her what’s going on in my life, or how Fender is doing.”

Ginger felt something in her chest—something melting, warming up, tightening maybe. She liked to hear Fender’s father say “Fender.” There was a molasses note in his voice. “Do you have other children?”

“No, we had just the one. But he was plenty—a handful, I’ll tell you that. Kept my wife and me running from day one.” He paused. “Did you say Brad Janson?”

Ginger’s breath came up short. She hadn’t been bracing herself, readying herself. “Yes.”

“Here he is. Handsome marker.” He stood next to her, and she hoped she wasn’t leaning on him. But it did feel nice to have his shoulder next to hers. Safer. “Would you like one of my carnations?” He held up the cellophane-wrapped bundle he’d been carrying. He already had a peach carnation out of the bunch and handed it to her.

“Thank you. I didn’t think to bring anything.”

He chuckled. “It’s another hazard of getting old. I have a little bucket of supplies I bring when I come here. Too many friends in this place now. It makes me efficient. I even have clippers to prune away the bushes if they start to overgrow someone’s marker or headstone. Pathetic, I tell you.”

“I think it’s thoughtful. I’ve never been good at being thoughtful.” Ginger was afraid to stop talking to him. She hadn’t even looked down yet.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your thoughts for a moment.” He stepped lightly out of the row and walked toward the older section of the cemetery.

Without his shoulder up against hers, Ginger swayed slightly, just for a minute. Then she took a deep breath and looked down.

Set in concrete was a bronze plaque engraved with Brad’s name and his birth and death dates. At the top of the marker, the words “Loving Son and Friend” curved over his name.

She let the air out of her lungs, deflated. She didn’t cry, but tears clung to her eyelashes. She felt quiet inside. She’d cried about Brad so much this year. Maybe she could be quiet inside about it now. She knelt.

And waited, searching to see what emotions came. The marker had grass clippings on it, and some needles from a fir tree a few rows away. She tried to brush them off. Slivers caught in her ring finger and thumb. Fingers stinging, she sat back on her heels. “Next time I’ll bring a brush and clean those off.” She said it out loud, talking to Brad. But hearing her own voice was comforting.

Ginger looked up, over his marker. At the edge of the section stood a row of fir trees. A large foothill silhouetted them. The summer sun had baked the hill for more than three months. It was almost blond now, the wild grasses bleached of all their moisture. The hill was wild, flatly contrasting the manicured green of the cemetery.

“You have a nice view.” She talked to Brad again. No one was near. Fender’s father was somewhere behind her now, in another section. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit before.” She put the peach carnation next to his name on the marker.
Son and Friend
. Not a husband, not a father. It made her sad to think his would be the only Janson marker in the cemetery. He wouldn’t have a family plot. But he’d wanted to be in the country, in the wild state he loved. Brad wouldn’t have liked being buried back east, where his family was from. She was sure they had a plot in some ancient city graveyard somewhere.

Not a father, not a husband. That was the truth of it. Brad had been a good man. A good son. A good friend to many. He’d been a good friend to her. “Anyway, next time I’ll bring some other stuff for you.” Something about the talking felt right. As words came from her mouth, her insides smoothed out. “Zoë’s fine. She missed you a lot at the beginning. I did, too. Molly has a new boyfriend. She’s nuts like always. She wants me to burn some sage for you. I forgot to bring it. I will next time.”

Next time. It felt good to say that. Like she was doing the right thing for him. Doing her job.

“Well, I should go. I should go before it gets too hot.” She stood up. Across the drive at the crest of the hill, the trees grew larger, and instead of flat markers, tall headstones and monuments stood in the shade. Ginger looked for Fender’s father. She saw his small head, bent over the top of a headstone. She left Brad and walked to him.

He heard her and looked up. “All done?”

“Yes. Thanks for helping me find him. And for the carnation. Next time I’ll bring something.”

She came up next to him as he stood in front of a white marble headstone. Engraved in it were the words “Augusta Barnes.” A simple stone, only the pearly white of the marble stood against the green lawn.

“This is my wife, Augusta.”

Ginger nodded.

He pointed to the top of the headstone. On it were several small stones. They were perched in a row. Each looked a bit different. “That’s what I really like to bring to her, if I can. She was always picking up rocks on our hikes. Used to drive me crazy because she never had pockets, so I ended up hauling the rocks around for her. Must have been what kept me so fit, all that extra poundage. If I see a neat one, I pick it up and bring it to her.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Oh, she died when Fender was little. He was six, so he and I have been alone for a long time.” He stepped back from the grave, still rolling one of the rocks around in the palm of his hand. He turned and sat on a little wrought-iron bench, next to a rose bush. “Fender and I really did have a tough go of it. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t easy. He never quite believed anyone else would ever stick by him. He always had one foot out of the door when he was a teenager. I got the impression he wanted to leave before I could. I don’t know if he’s gotten past that yet. He likes to mess things up before anyone else ruins them for him.”

He stood again, walking around to the back of Augusta’s grave. “But don’t tell him I told you that. He’d be mad if he knew I was talking about him. Here, come look at this.” He motioned for Ginger to come around to the opposite side of the headstone.