Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  He dipped his chin in greeting and sidled closer. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, please. We all know Great-Aunt Roberta was a mean-spirited old biddy. She got off on scaring children who came to her door for Halloween trick or treat fun, and throwing rocks at passersby. She’s no one’s friend and nobody’s loss, especially mine.”

  Garda Galbraith and Liam exchanged weighted glances. Then, they let their gazes roam around the room.

  “You know I’m right.” Lassi began to chuckle. Her hilarity transformed into hearty laughter as the stress and gloom of this whole wake experience found its release.

  Liam laughed nervously.

  Galbraith smiled indulgently.

  She struggled to get a grip on her wild outburst. Her gaze landed on Father Ward.

  He stood smashed against the window, with Ailis directly in front of him. His eyes darted about wildly, like marbles on the wood floor. His face bore a grimace. He couldn’t make his dislike of the town slut any more obvious. Finally, he rested his attention on Lassi.

  She smiled at him, trying to convey her sympathy through her gaze.

  He smiled back, appearing to grasp at the gesture like a lifeline.

  For a second, stirrings of interest for the priest pricked her attention.

  More like curious wondering of what would happen if I were the one to help him break his vows. Nah. Not worth it. I’ve already got a room reserved in hell. I don’t need an adjoining suite. Another shiver catapulted up her spine.

  Then, another plate exploded.

  Father Ward tried to lunge toward the coffin but Ailis blocked his way.

  The casket slid a few centimeters.

  “Goodness,” exclaimed Ailis. She pressed her hand to her bosom.

  Father Ward forced his way past her, reached down and grabbed a broken piece of ceramic. Then, he crouched, and wedged it under the leg, stabilizing the table once more.

  “Well, that’s something,” Galbraith said. “Even in death she makes trouble.”

  “She wasn’t steady in her last days. Poor thing could barely walk,” Liam added. “It’s like she took her unsteadiness to the beyond.”

  “We’ve got it handled,” Father Ward said, confidently.

  I’m not so sure. Lassi turned back to Liam and Galbraith, positioning herself so she could keep an eye on Great-Aunt Roberta.

  Galbraith nodded at her. “Let me know if you need anything… anything at all.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded, politely. “I might need help putting Roberta back in her broken casket if things progress.”

  He frowned slightly, like she was the oddball, not him and all the rest of these fecking villagers. Then he leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and turned to tromp away, leaving her with Liam.

  Liam stared at her, the way her cat at home stared at her when she got out the can opener.

  “What?” She glared at him.

  “You might consider stopping by the Laughing Rat. I doubt if you’ll be filling your great-aunt’s refrigerator.”

  “Uh....” She studied him for a moment. Right. For a meal at your pub. With you and your forty-year old, bald-pated leer directed my way. Not happening. “No, thanks.”

  An uneven cloppity-clack clattered across the wood floor.

  Lassi looked over. Liam’s wife, Penny, lurched through the door from the kitchen, wielding two deviled eggs—one in each palm.

  She stumbled toward them, her eyes fixed on Liam’s face in some sort of anti-climactic stare—the way couples do when they’re bored, wondering what they’d seen in the person they’d married.

  “Here.” She thrust one of the eggs at him. “I thought you might be hungry for food for a change.”

  Her gaze swung disinterestedly toward Lassi and back to Liam.

  He smiled. “I was only offering the girl a meal or two, love. She looks stressed and tired.”

  Do I? Lassi glanced down at her black shirt. She’d found the tattered thing in the closet. It needed a few holes stitched and smelled like mothballs, but at least it was black. The shirt was undoubtedly something her great-aunt had picked up at a rummage sale for no good reason.

  She brushed the front placket, trying to coax a few wrinkles free.

  Penny let out a chuckle. “Keeping the ladies content with your culinary charm, are you?”

  Her words came out slurred.

  Liam put his arm around her. “Pet. We’re all upset by this recent death. Roberta was a...” He scanned the ceiling as if it held clues. “She was a fixture in this town.” Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “You eat the egg. I insist.”

  He seized it from her palm and held it to her lips like it was made of the most delicate blown glass.

  Smiling, she nibbled the cooked egg white. “So, what are you going to do with the house, Lassi?” she said through a mouthful.

  She kept her attention on Liam like she was still trying to figure out what he meant to her.

  “Junk everything that needs junking and sell what’s left. Then, take a trip. I’m thinking Barbados might be nice.” She twisted her hand to see her wrist. 2:52. The end of this fecking nightmare of an afternoon is near.

  Penny ignored her, grabbing the last of the deviled egg from Liam’s fingers. She popped it in her mouth, while keeping her eyes glued to Liam’s face.

  “How’s that food going down?” he said.

  “It’s wonderful,” Penny cooed. Yellow egg bits stuck to the corners of her mouth. She smoothed her frumpy black dress like a preening pigeon.

  Liam tapped her on the nose. “That’s my girl. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

  He guided his wife away, without sparing a glance at Lassi.

  Big fat whatever. They’re the oddest pair. When Father Ward had helped her set up for the wake, he’d mentioned how Penny had been super helpful with Roberta in the final months of her illness, so she couldn’t fault her for her oddness. Lassi’s gaze slid across the room toward Father Ward. Ailis had sauntered away from him and now stood flirting hard with a sandy-haired young man.

  Father Ward took the opportunity to sidle away from her until his hip bumped the table. It wobbled, so he stayed put.

  The sandy-haired man shifted from foot to foot, letting his gaze slide to the floor, to the ceiling, and side to side. A redheaded woman with a toddler on her hip came to his rescue.

  “Let’s go pay our respects to Miss Finn,” the redhead said, touching his arm.

  “Thank you, love, of course.” He placed his hand over hers.

  From the warmth in their eyes, to the tone of their voices, they looked to be married and every bit in love.

  Their regard of one another struck a soul-deep longing in Lassi—the kind she’d pushed away each time she dated a new man and got her heart squished like a roach.

  The redhead led the sandy-haired man toward Lassi.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” she said, jiggling the child on her hip.

  “Truly we are. If there’s anything we can do,” the sandy-haired man added. “I’m Dylan Riordan, by the way. This is Siobhan, my lovely wife. And this chap...” He gently tweaked the toddler’s nose. “This is Paul. Say hello to...” He looked toward Lassi. “Sorry, love, I didn’t catch your first name.”

  “It’s Lassi. Lassi Finn.” Relief flooded her to be talking to someone normal for a change. Fina-fucking-ly, some nice people in this village! “So, do you live in town?”

  “We do.” Siobhan cast a loving glance at her husband. “We bought a giant old cottage smack dab in the middle of the village and are renovating it.”

  “With a thatched roof,” Dylan said, looking at her adoringly.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Dylan, you can’t win this argument. There will be no thatched roof. They’re too much work.”

  A smile played at the corner of his lips. “They’re no work at all. You’ll see, love.”

  He stroked her cheek with his fingertips.

  She brought them to her mouth and kissed them.
>
  “You always get your way, don’t you?” she said, but she didn’t seem upset.

  “The only thing I got my way about was marrying you. Nothing else compares.”

  A blush bloomed along Siobhan’s cheek. “Oh, Dylan, I didn’t take too much convincing. I was smitten from the start.”

  Lassi imagined herself in the middle of sunshine and unicorns. She smiled. Then, her gaze landed on Ailis.

  Ailis stared at Dylan, a feral, hungry expression on her face.

  Lassi’s eyes narrowed.

  Siobhan turned to where her attention rested. She fidgeted with Paul’s red and yellow shirt, tugging it, and then smoothing it along his back. “We’d best be getting on, Dylan. Paul’s tired.”

  Dylan frowned. “He just had a nap.”

  “Well, then, I’m tired. Let’s go, shall we?” She took his elbow. “It was nice meeting you, Lassi.”

  “It was nice meeting all of you,” Lassi said. She studied their retreating backs then let her attention slide toward Ailis.

  Ailis leaned forward, like she might run after the Riordans.

  A few people staggered down the hall from the kitchen, lurching toward the front door. They slung their arms around one another.

  Father Ward hastened away from the coffin, looking to either catch them if they fell, or bid them farewell.

  Lassi hoped for the latter. The table seemed to be holding steady now, so she pushed away from the wall and headed for the kitchen.

  Not one person so much as blinked when she entered. They continued to shout, laugh, and lift their glasses high in toasts.

  Pushing through the revelers, she grabbed a garbage bag from the pantry, and began picking up plastic cups and forks, paper plates with crumbs of cake, and soiled napkins, hopefully giving the universal sign indicating, “We’re done. Get the feck out of here.”

  A few got the message.

  “Let’s continue at the Laughing Rat,” an older man said. He reached for the hand of the woman next to him.

  “I second that,” a younger man agreed. “Let’s go.” He nodded at Lassi. “Miss Finn,” he said in a slurred voice. “Sorry for your loss.” Without waiting for a response, he staggered from the room, along with several others.

  Her attention drifted down the hall to Father Ward.

  He stood at the front door, beaming warmly at each person, patting some on the shoulder, shaking hands with others.

  The women tittered, tossing saucy, mischievous looks at their friends.

  A few villagers shook his hand as if Father Ward would save their souls this very instant and absolve them of any wrongdoing.

  The town elders’ faces bore serious expressions. They looked like they tolerated the priest but didn’t welcome him.

  She studied the procession with narrowed eyes. She didn’t trust the seemingly pleasant exchanges. The smiles and fond words seemed habitual, not genuine. And the old-timers…do they wish for an older, more traditional looking priest? She shook her head. Maybe I’m just feeling creeped out at village life. It always struck her as way too insular, incestuous, and riddled with hatred. At least in the city, hatred was anonymous.

  If someone gets stabbed to death, it’s usually by a stranger. So, you’d die wondering what the feck that was all about. You’d think it so random to be alive one second, and dead the next by the actions of someone you didn’t know. How much worse would it be to see who killed you and realize they were your neighbor or your supposed best-friend?

  Yeah, village existence might seem idyllic, but she’d bet her life there were piles of steaming shite underneath everyone’s polite smiles. She hoped to get out of town before she found out what some person she thought as kind had in store for her.

  She stepped down the hall toward the front room, garbage bag in hand.

  As she turned to head through the arch into the great room, Father Ward turned from his farewell procession and their eyes locked.

  Electricity cascaded through her limbs.

  Several commemorative plates cracked, sending shards flying.

  Lassi raced toward the room, right as Great-Aunt Roberta and her wooden box slid, heading for a collision with the floor, her commemorative plates, and her dead cat.

  Chapter 2

  The morning after the wake, the rattle and roll of a thunder and lightning storm shook Lassi into semi-consciousness. “I’ve got her,” she mumbled, fighting with the sheets. “I’ve got Roberta.”

  She tried to organize her thoughts between the storm outside and the horror of Roberta’s coffin nearly crashing to the floor yesterday.

  Somehow, she and the lingerers—Garda Galbraith, Ailis and Father Ward—all raced into the great-room and managed to steady the casket. They secured the table, shooed all the other wake-goers outside, and left the front room empty. Hopefully, Roberta hadn’t crashed in the night.

  The mothball smell emanating from her black shirt tickled her nose. Keeping her eyes shut tight, she peeled it from her body, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it across the room. A clatter and dry, hollow thud forced her eyes open.

  “Ugh.” Another dead kitty lay on its side on the floor, partially obscured by the shirt. Parts of it had snapped in two from hitting the floor. She scanned to see where it had fallen from. Her gaze landed on a high shelf secured to the wall. On top of the wooden plank sat three more deceased felines, their vacant eyes fixed in her direction. “Gah!”

  Lassi shivered and pulled the sheet over her head. How did I miss those when I arrived a couple of days ago? She knew the answer. The house was an utter pigsty. To keep from going insane—or maybe to keep from stumbling and breaking a toe—she kept her head down when she trekked through the house.

  She lingered beneath the sheet, preferring to avoid the hangover waiting to torture her for her overindulgence last night.

  After everyone left the wake, she had hustled toward the kitchen. She’d placed the dried feline she’d tripped over the night before on a paper towel spread on the counter to keep her company. The brittle orangish cat proved better company than yesterday’s mourners. Well, save for Father Ward, perhaps.

  Not wanting to waste the liquor she’d purchased, she’d poured the remnants of scotch-filled glasses onto her tongue, sucked droplets from the bottles of near-empty Guinness, and finished off at least one bottle of Ireland’s top-shelf whiskey. She’d toasted her dead great-aunt, told stories of the bits she remembered to the dead cat and celebrated, or maybe cheered, the passing of life.

  Her great-aunt had always been bitterly unhappy. And, she made it her mission to have all in her presence join her in misery.

  By the time Lassi had staggered to bed, however, a sense of depression had clawed at her insides. The whole house, steeped in decay, mildew, and debris; the wake; the neighbors—they all reminded her of why she hated Bally-nightmare.

  “And, the sooner I get to cleaning it, the quicker it can be sold and I can get back home to Dublin,” she muttered into the hot, damp space surrounding her sheet-covered head. She flung the covers away, rolled out of bed, and wrapped her arms around her naked body to keep some of the chill of the room away. Then, she picked her way through the debris to find her backpack. Rummaging inside it, she retrieved a t-shirt, clean panties, and boy shorts, as well as her wool jumper. She quickly yanked them on. Not wanting to step in anything disgusting, she retrieved a pair of socks, too.

  She made her way into the small kitchen, kicking aside the boxes, crumpled papers, plastic bags filled with who knew what, Tupperware, and other junk littering the hallway. She’d made a trail when she’d arrived, but apparently the crap had collapsed back into disarray in the night.

  Once she entered the kitchen, she let out a disgusted sigh. The dingy room didn’t look any better in the daylight than it did during her celebratory binge last night. Glasses, paper cups, plates, liquor bottles and other signs of yesterday’s celebration assaulted her eyes, as well as Roberta’s hoarded crap. Someone’s bra dangled from the old land li
ne on the wall. It’s probably Ailis’s. The crispy, dried cat glared at her from the counter where she’d left it.

  “Christ on a cracker,” she muttered. She stepped across the grimy floor, opened the pantry, and found a pack of garbage bags. Pulling one free, she carried it toward the kitchen table. She opened the sturdy black plastic with one hand, balanced one side against the table, and swept the table clear with her other arm.

  Clinks and clatters rang out as the waste and bottles landed either in the bag or on the floor.

  “At least nothing broke.” She kicked the bag into the corner and set to making tea.

  The dead cat seemed to scrutinize her every move.

  “We can’t have you staring at me, can we?” A search under the sink revealed some yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. After tugging them over her hands, she gingerly picked up Mr. Meow’s brittle body and carried him into the living room. She pried open Great-Aunt Roberta’s coffin and placed the dead kitty at her feet. Then, she traipsed into the bedroom, climbed on top of a dresser, and stretched to retrieve the three dead felines from the high shelf. She stacked them one on top of the other and trekked back into the living room. There, she arranged them around her Great-Aunt Roberta.

  Eager to get to her tea, she rushed into the bedroom to retrieve the cat which had fallen when she threw her black shirt. She daintily picked up his tail and front leg, and stacked them on top of the dried body. Holding them at arm’s length, she scurried into the front room. Carefully, she arranged this kitty next to Roberta’s head. Both cat and aunt had similarly pinched faces. They kind of look like sisters. She tucked the tail and the leg like a bouquet underneath her dead aunt’s hands, which lay folded in repose over her chest.

  Finished with that ghoulish task, she hurried to sanitize her hands and the counter and make some tea. Once she had a steaming mugful in hand, she picked her way through the gloom and waste to sit on the front stone steps.

  Even the surrounding countryside brought no cheer. The dark sky cast shadows over an ancient stone dwelling to the south. It had lost most of one outer wall over the centuries. She squinted. In the flickering light, revealed by rapidly moving clouds giving way to seconds of sun, it almost looked like someone was scurrying from one side to the other inside the stone structure. She shivered and looked away, in the direction of the dirt road leading away from here.