by Ari Berk
Floral Hills was an enormous property, meant to serve the now sprawling suburbs of Saltsbridge, as well as the older town of Kingsport to the north. It was built to be a “proper” cemetery for local people after Lichport began its descent and rumors had started circulating abroad about the numerous “irregularities” in “that forsaken place by the marsh.” Floral Hills, it was clear, was built by people who cared more about money than about the peace of the dead or the bereaved. It was filled with “art,” the largest and most garish reproductions of the world’s masterpieces. There was a poorly made version of Michelangelo’s David, with hands far too small for the big body. There was a garden of tombs displaying a copy of the Winged Victory of Samothrace at its center. Everywhere you turned, these sculptures rose up as if to say, Look here! I was a very important person in life! Isn’t this place tasteful and cultured?
Silas enjoyed the cemetery’s visitors. Some came to pay respects to loved ones. Others were tourists, attracted by Floral Hills’s garish advertisements along the highway. These people wandered the property, viewing the monuments and taking pictures, as though they were on vacation in Rome. It wasn’t long before Silas found other ways to amuse himself. He started wearing his blue blazer to Floral Hills and would give tours to the sightseers. He knew the grounds well by that point, where the famous people were buried, and even knew a bit about some of the sculptures. What he didn’t know he made up.
After a while, to make it more interesting, he began to invent stories about some of the people buried there, sometimes quite elaborate family histories. The storytelling lasted only a few weeks because honestly, it made him feel guilty. He meant no harm, but they were lies he was telling, and he got a sour taste in his mouth when he told them. And sometimes, when he spoke the names of the dead and attached them to things he’d made up, he had the unsettling feeling he was being watched, listened to, and hated.
It was eleven fifteen p.m.
Dolores Umber was not quite sure how many months her husband had been gone. More than seven.
She held a gin and tonic in her hand because when she tried to set things down, sometimes she dropped them. The heat of her hand would warm the drink too fast, so she sipped quickly. She was pretty sure there wasn’t much gin left in the house.
Out of gin and tired as hell.
She could see her son was tired too. Exhaustion and depression floated like bruises just under the skin of his handsome face.
In her presence, Silas wouldn’t retreat from the belief that his father was alive. He refused to back down, though she knew he must have some doubts. She knew what Silas wanted. He wanted her to believe Amos was alive somewhere. Silas wanted help, clinging to his hope. She knew her son. For all her dislike of how much he was like his father, she knew him. She suspected that under all his yelling about not giving up, far, far down inside him was a place where he might just barely consider that he would never see his father again. He needed to visit that part of himself more often, let it out, let it breathe a little. She knew that if he did, he might start feeling like she did: a little guilty, but relieved.
She could see Silas wasn’t sleeping well, and how jumpy he was every time the phone rang. He was tired. But what was his losing a little sleep compared to what she had lost? She was tired, damn it! Tired of living without for so long. Tired of living with a man who cared more about the dead than he did about how or where his family lived. And she was tired of being the sensible one, the one telling people to get on with things and to stop dreaming about what wasn’t likely to happen. She’d given up her dreams a long time ago, so now it was someone else’s turn.
More than anything, she was tired of looking into her son’s eyes and seeing how much he wished at every moment that his dad might come back. Silas’s neck was taut as a bowstring all the time. And his eyes were like headlights, wide open, staring at every corner, as if his father might be hiding somewhere and if he didn’t spot him fast, Amos might slip away for good.
All day, every day, he carried the weight of his father’s absence squarely on his shoulders and his alone, because Dolores knew that if she gave in, even a little, he’d be moon-eyed and stupid forever, just like his father. Amos had traded away a chance for a decent, normal life. Was it too much to ask that their son have a chance to be happy?
She was weary of fighting with her son and just wanted to start over. But whenever she tried to move something of Amos’s, or worse, throw away some worthless piece of paper her husband had left lying around, even the newspaper Amos had been reading right before the night he didn’t come home, Silas would blow a gasket. She usually gave in, but there was a price for her retreat. She would go right to the bottle and drink until she didn’t care that her son probably hated her. She knew she and Silas didn’t see eye to eye on most things, even before Amos died, when she was sober a little more often. But couldn’t two people still love each other even if they didn’t understand each other? Am I thinking about Silas or Amos now? she asked herself as she nursed her drink.
How alike they looked. At least, Silas looked a lot like how Amos did when she’d first met him. Fine was what she’d called Amos, back in Lichport, when their parents introduced them: a fine-looking boy.
Dolores didn’t like thinking about the past, about how Amos used to be, because that’s when the brakes came off. Lord, but she did love him in the beginning. Hard to admit it now, but oh, it used to feel so good, holding hands, just looking at each other. He’d touch her cheek and she couldn’t remember her own name. Amos would set those eyes on her and there was nothing else in the world. That’s what hurt the most: thinking about how much she’d loved him when they got married. But it wasn’t long after the marriage that the nuptial fires began to cool, because Amos turned more and more toward his work. She’d hoped when Silas was born, Amos’s delight in her might be stoked again. No luck. Once old Lichport got its hooks into him, it was all over. He took to Silas right away, but he didn’t look at her very often after that. Now, when Dolores gazed at her son, she saw Amos’s cold eyes looking back at her, and she could feel herself filling right up with all that old hurt and anger and jealousy. And what was she jealous of? Of Silas? Of them? Of those folk Amos claimed to help? Please, she thought, what kind of man prefers the dead to the living? My man, she told herself. Mine does.
Dolores had started grinding her teeth. She took another sip of her warm gin and a deep breath after that.
I’m not drunk.
“Comfortable” was the word she used. Be quiet with that noise of yours, she’d sometimes yell down the hall, your mother is just getting comfortable. When she was comfortable, she was more honest. Wasn’t that a good thing? The way she figured it, every parent is also a person, filled with inconsistencies and human error and occasional pettiness, so what? We’re all just people, she told herself. She assumed some parents kept the truth from their kids, learning to bite their lips and fight only when their kids had gone to sleep. She wasn’t that kind of parent. She said what she meant. Here comes some honest talk from an honest woman. And if that made her a bad mother, well, just someone tell her that to her face.
She needed to be comfortable when she spoke about Amos to her son. The truth wasn’t easy to say, wasn’t easy to get out, so she had to coax it a little. Just being honest. The boy needed more honesty in his life, so she’d let Silas hear anything she could think of, any disappointment she’d ever had, any of Amos’s shortcomings she could remember. Sometimes she thought she might have taken it a bit too far, but the liquor pulled the wall down so low it was easy to get at and share even her oldest and worst memories. She desperately wanted Silas to see his father as she had. With eyes wide open. But with every revelation she handed to him, he just distrusted her more. Like it was all her fault. Amos had lied to his son every single time he saw the boy. Mortician my ass, she thought, and laughed, but I’m the one Silas doesn’t trust. Go figure.
Silas might be awful quiet except when he was hollering at her, but t
he boy was smart. She knew that. He’d read all those damn books. Smart and good-looking, tall and that perfect nose and good cheekbones … those were her gifts, and Silas was wasting them. Most days, you couldn’t even see the best parts of his face behind all that hair.
Silas was clever, so why couldn’t he just admit that everything she was saying was true? See? It’s okay. He’s gone now, I know. But trust your mother for a while, because believe me, hon, we’re better off without your father.
SILAS’S MOTHER HAD LEFT THE HOUSE for two days in a row, taking a taxi both times. Each night when she got home, the drinking went on more heavily than usual, so Silas knew something was going on. At lunch the next day he asked his mom if something was wrong, and in a rare moment of clarity, she was succinct and spoke without the hint of impatience or a sigh.
“Silas, I think we are going to lose the house. We have almost no money left. Your father left no money.”
“But we own our house. How can we lose it?”
“We don’t own it, Silas, your uncle owns it. When your father and I got married and left Lichport, your father had almost no money. Your grandfather was furious at Amos for leaving Lichport and wouldn’t help us, and my family, well, let’s just say not too many of them came to the wedding. The bank wouldn’t loan us the money with nothing to put down, so your father’s older brother stepped in and helped us.”
“He loaned you the money for the house?”
“No. He bought the house outright and your father paid him rent, though I expect that there were many months when your father didn’t pay him anything at all. But your uncle is a generous and patient man, so we’re still here. But with no money at all, and good prices for homes right now in Saltsbridge, and times being what they are in Lichport, your uncle can’t afford not to sell this place. Not after a year of no payments from your dad.”
“So he’s throwing us out? I mean, just where the hell are we supposed to go?”
“I told you your uncle is generous. Well, he has come up with a solution. An idea for now. Not forever, God knows, but for now.”
Dolores reached into her purse and pulled out a letter. Without a word, she handed it to him and walked to the kitchen. Silas could hear her dropping ice cubes into a glass.
A few moments later, Silas was still standing there, looking at the unopened letter in his hands. As though his mother could see him through the walls, Dolores said from the kitchen, “Go on. Read it, Si. Then start packing.”
Silas turned the envelope over in his hand. It was heavy, good quality paper, but when he took the letter from the envelope and opened the carefully folded paper, it felt damp, and he thought he smelled something like stale candy.
Dearest Dolores,
It is my most ardent wish that you will not think ill of this intrusion, either of its timing or its sender. A year, it must be agreed, is ample time to grieve, even for a great loss such as yours.
As I know you are all too well aware, the house you and Silas occupy was partially paid for as a gift to you and my brother upon your nuptials. The remainder of the mortgage was to be paid in regular installments by my brother to me. I had hoped this arrangement would allow you both to begin your life in some comfort, even though it meant your departure from the loving company of your families. I hoped, as you did, that your move would be the beginning of a marvelous adventure. It appears now that many of our dreams have not been realized.
In a perfect world, all would have been well and Amos would still be with us and regular payments would have been made. Indeed, had Amos followed everyone’s advice and sought more gainful employment, the mortgage might have been long ago paid off. This business has been hard on everyone, and it brings me to a difficult decision. The house must be sold.
I simply cannot continue to bear the financial burden of a second property as I have my own family’s welfare to consider, a son beginning his first term at an expensive private college not least among them.
However, let it not be said I take and give nothing, or that I have given little thought to you or your son, my dear nephew. Kin cannot be turned out into the streets, and of course I realize you are descended from a fine Lichport family and should be, now most especially, allowed to live in a manner more in keeping with your upbringing if not your marriage. Here, in Lichport, within my own house, there is room enough for you and my nephew for as long as you should like to stay.
Dolores, I know you hold Lichport in little regard, and the thought of returning here on the charity of your husband’s kin may be less than welcome at this time. I beg you to consider your son, who is now fatherless. I would maintain him as though he were my very own. Should he make plans to attend college, I will cover the costs, yes, as though he were my own child. For the memory of my brother, I would gladly take on this sacred duty.
The day you took my brother’s hand in marriage, a bond was forged between our families, for good or ill. Let me now, in friendship and with true and appropriate affection, extend to you my own hand at this, your hour of need.
It is no secret that my brother and I quarreled often over the years, and he turned away from my friendship and sober advice, choosing instead to squander his days in the pursuit of what I have always considered a distressing line of “work.” Let me now, by offering you shelter, succor, and the protection of my own humble house, here, in the safe harbor of our ancient neighbors and acquaintances, show you the depth of my love and affection for my family.
Your loving brother and friend, Uncle
Nearly everything about this felt wrong, but Silas didn’t know enough about his uncle, really, to either put facts to his fretting or set his mind at ease.
His uncle’s name was Charles, but he had been given the nickname “Uncle” when he was younger for his habit of playing rough with the other kids, and it stuck. No one called him by his first name. Hadn’t for ages. Silas didn’t like it. His dad never spoke very well of his brother, so Silas had a hard time believing this was all kindness between kin. But maybe his unease was more about his mother than his uncle. Hadn’t she always aspired to better? Now here comes Uncle Umber with his big fine house. “Come on over!” Uncle calls, and his mother starts running.
But there was Lichport, and on that point, Silas felt a little differently. To imagine walking the same streets his father walked made his heart quicken. At least there, in Lichport, he might be able to find out something about his father. Maybe people had seen him. Maybe someone there knew something.
So he decided he would go and try to make the best of living with his uncle. Think of it like being on vacation, he told himself. At least he’d be away from Saltsbridge, and for the moment that would have to be enough.
The day his dad didn’t come home, it was like a huge window over their heads had shattered, and every day they were walking through the broken pieces. Nothing fit together. Nothing made sense or seemed connected to anything else, and every step hurt. Maybe in Lichport he’d find a missing shard or two that would help him start piecing things back together.
“Okay,” Silas shouted to this mother in the next room, refolding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope.
“Okay, what?” his mother said hesitantly, coming to stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips, expecting a fight.
“We’ll go,” Silas said quietly, hugging his mother tentatively before walking quickly to his room and closing the door behind him. There, he began sorting his belongings into piles on the floor. All the complicated arrangements he’d created over the past year—the little altarlike clusters of books, rocks, and curios—were now being taken apart in preparation for packing as if they’d never had any meaning at all.
THE TIDE WAS FLOODING FAST, leaping up over the rocks, churning itself into spirals of foam and bladderwrack, pushing higher among the piles of driftwood abandoned above the high-tide mark left long ago by a storm.
Mother Peale stood watching the quickening flood from the wharf-side, wondering how high it mig
ht get.
“Company’s comin’, and that’s sure,” she whispered into the still evening air, and then began to sing softly, just breathing the words out into the twilight. “Who will it be? Who will it be? Shall we dig ’em a grave, or set table for tea?”
If the strange high tide was any hint, someone was coming home. In the old days, Lichport folks could always tell when a ship carrying kin was sailing into port because the tide would flood in high without a storm, without so much as a breeze. But kin ships were not all that came in on a flood tide. The portents hailed worse, things that ought to have stayed out at sea, things best not to set eyes on.
A black dog was sitting at the edge of the pier, barking.
No good, she thought. That is no good sign.
Someone was coming in by land, she could feel that, but this omen—the dog—told her trouble was coming on the flood, too. Looking farther out over the water, she could hear a sound, soft but sure, something like the creaking of timber and a distant cry, like someone might make from the bottom of a well if they survived the fall.
By land and by sea … it made her think whatever was coming from either way was no accident. Maybe connected. Maybe not. Whatever was out there on the water was a fair bit off yet. So she turned back toward the land and closed her eyes. She could see farther that way. She drew the dark night close about her like a shawl.
