Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Tomorrow, or more likely Monday if he could find a few moments of down time, he’d return to the cemetery. If anyone saw him, he could say he returned to admire more of the stonework. In a way, that was true.

  With this resolve, he found his concentration returning. He picked up the pen and began to write.

  Chapter Ten

  There were moments, sometimes entire days, when Vincent Tarretti had doubts about his calling. Times when he made the mistake of looking at his life, with its lack of any substantiality, since leaving California. Every day he woke up, got out of bed, showered, ate breakfast and read the Worcester Telegram. He would then set out to work tending the grounds in the cemetery with Johnson following faithfully behind him. Vincent talked to the dog as he would any human being, and recognized the fact that many in town thought he was a bit daft because of it.

  Maybe he was. A man doesn’t isolate himself from the rest of the world, guarding something of such significance, and not get a little nutty. One night, a few years ago, he rented a popular movie called A Beautiful Mind. The concept of a man so lost in his own hallucinations—supported by the fact that this was a true story—had terrified him. Was this what he’d been doing all his life? Was there nothing in Solomon’s grave but a long dead body of a real man?

  That moment had been especially difficult. Until he’d fallen to his knees and asked God for some kind of clarity in his mind, praying until he could barely keep himself awake. He felt a little better after that.

  Then, as now, he understood the answer that God put into his heart. Since coming to Hillcrest decades before, hiding even from other people of faith, he’d not attended church services. He’d not sat among those who also believed with all their hearts and souls. The Sunday after watching the film, he drove aimlessly among the neighboring towns. He passed a small, non-denominational church tucked among the trees in the town of Boylston, when something settled on his heart. He turned the car around and pulled into the parking lot, joining the small crowd filing into the rows of seats. Many realized he was a newcomer and greeted him warmly. Vincent was skittish, as he always was whenever someone offered him too much attention. In the past, he’d never known whether they were being friendly or if he’d been discovered, if the smiling old woman offering her hand was ready to cut his throat for the relic buried under his adopted hometown.

  That first morning he had sat in the back of the church. By the time the service was over, he had felt the Spirit renewed within him, suddenly proud of his calling beyond words. He wasn’t crazy. Yes, his situation was like none other save that of his predecessors, but if he was nuts for following God so blindly, then so were all these fine people. None of them seemed daft to him. Though he continued to avoid the churches in his own town—he doubted anyone in Hillcrest even knew he was a Christian—since that first Sunday, he never missed a service in Boylston. This morning had been no exception; another inspiring service, another chance to remind himself that, though he worked and lived by himself, he was never alone.

  Lonely, yes, sometimes achingly so, but never alone.

  Prior to his arrival as caretaker, Vincent Tarretti had not been so lonely. As a child, he’d been dragged to church, sat listening to the ranting preacher talk about redemption. Mostly he concentrated on the raven-haired Melissa Alvaraz sitting with her family in the front pew.

  During his junior year of high school, Vincent, who at the time insisted on “either Vinnie or Mister Tarretti, there ain’t nothing in between,” learned to his delight that Melissa spent those same Sundays thinking about him. They were soon inseparable. The relationship was purely platonic at first, a mutual evangelical upbringing having at least some effect on their behavior. But after two years, they could no longer restrain their feelings for each other and broke away both from their celibacy and the church.

  They left home, sneaking away in the night, and found a tiny, roach-infested apartment thirty miles north, just outside of Hollywood. While she looked for a modeling job, Vinnie worked the grill of a diner two blocks from the Strip. He would have taken any job, as long as it paid the rent. They married. Not in the church, but in a small chapel in Las Vegas following a grueling day-long drive. A Justice of the Peace performed the ceremony. Melissa’s modeling career ended before it ever began, when she learned they were going to have a baby.

  Vinnie took a second job. They found a place slightly bigger and with smaller cockroaches. Even now, Vincent wondered what his son would have been like had he been born. He wondered what kind of a mother Melissa would have been—a fantastic one, he was certain—had a man named Simon Ellison not taken one drink too many before trying to drive home.

  Vinnie had been home from work only twenty minutes when the police came to his door and told him his wife was dead. The officer, sent to inform the next of kin, had not been at the scene. He simply took the report he was given and told Vincent Tarretti that his wife and son had been killed in an automobile accident.

  In the strongbox hidden under two loose floorboards beside Vincent’s bed, sandwiched between his notebooks and the short stack of other yellowed clippings, was the single newspaper report of the accident. A small number “1” was written in the corner, but with no corresponding notation in any book. It was the only thing he kept from those long-ago days, aside from his cheap, gold-plated wedding ring which he also kept in the box.

  His memory of life after the funeral, held in the town in which they’d both grown up, was a blur of alcohol. He had died in every sense of the word in that accident with his wife and son. Afterward, he was simply waiting for the van to arrive, as the song went. He was certain, thinking about it in retrospect years later, that death was waiting for him one particular night as he washed his third shot of Jack Daniels down with his ninth beer. If not that night, then soon. He’d sensed his personal limit had been reached, a signal to return upstairs and pass out on whichever piece of furniture was easiest to reach. That night, he’d hesitated, ordered another shot and beer. Once crossed, it was a line that would continue far into some desperate darkness waiting only for him.

  While he slouched in a booth, twirling the now-empty beer bottle on the table top and considering without much resolve about going back upstairs, an old—no, ancient was the word that came to him that night—woman slowly slid into the bench across the booth from him. She had garnered a lot of looks from the brooding regulars at the bar. As soon as they saw with whom she sat, people kept their comments to themselves. They’d watched Vinnie’s deterioration and short temper long enough to know not to make any comments about someone who was most likely his grandmother.

  She wasn’t his grandmother.

  “Is your name Vincent Tarretti?”

  “Yea…” he’d said, trying to focus on her face, but not succeeding very well.

  “My name is Ruth Lieberman,” she said. “I’m dying.”

  Vinnie rolled his eyes. “Well, too bad for you,” he said, and raised the empty beer bottle, trying to catch the attention of the bar’s only waitresses, a thin girl with tired eyes. She seemed to be looking everywhere but in his direction. He lowered his arm and said, “Everyone is dying. I’m dying; you’re dying.”

  “In a way,” she said, never breaking eye contact, “you’re already dead. You’ve made up your mind to choose oblivion. Now,” she said, laying her aged hands flat on the table, “forgetting the obvious repercussions of such an act, God has need of you. You will have to stop drinking, forever, and come with me.”

  In his state, the fact that this woman was echoing the thoughts blurring through his mind only a moment before did not carry any surprise. He simply smiled and said, “Yeah? Where to?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  The answer was spoken so assuredly that Vinnie sat up straighter in his chair. Hollywood was full of more kooks and weirdoes than he could ever count, but they never failed to entertain him.

  “Mass-a-what?” He chuckled, a gesture that felt alien in those days. “And why would I do th
at?”

  “I told you—because I’m dying, and God has sent me here to find you.” She looked around then, and for the first time Vinnie saw the calm certainty in her expression waver for a moment. “Everything I see, including you, is exactly as in the dream. There’s no question.” Saying that, her determination returned.

  “Yeah, and what exactly am I going to be doing in Massachusetts? Selling flowers at the airport?”

  She smiled. “No, sir. You’re going to be the new caretaker of the cemetery in town. Hillcrest, Massachusetts to be exact. It’s a pleasant little place a few miles north of a city called Worcester. It’s very nice.”

  He leaned over the table. The wrinkled hands remained flat on the surface. He whispered, “Go away now or I swear to God I’ll—”

  And then her hands came up and touched his cheeks.

  And the bar disappeared.

  Vinnie Tarretti saw the face of God as flames, burning His commandments into the stone tablets... a terrified old man carrying them down the mountain and in anger shattering them on a stone at the sight of the idolatry before him; returning from the mountain a second time with new tablets, placing them in a tabernacle adorned with the gold from destroyed idols, carried across the desert for forty years; then King Solomon, tall with a knitted beard and flowing robes and riches beyond match, building the temple of God, and the placing of the golden Ark of the Covenant beneath angelic wings of gold and….

  He vomited across the table. In the days that followed, he never found out—and dared not ask—if he’d also thrown up all over the old woman. But as Vinnie fell into unconsciousness, he felt his life and whatever remained of his soul burn away. The world he thought he knew blew apart like ash in the light of God’s vision.

  When he awoke, he was in the hospital. “Alcohol poisoning” was how the medical report read. He was released as soon as he could stand under his own power, being without insurance. Vinnie walked outside, into painful sunlight and thick, dirty air. An Asian man waved to him from a cab waiting at the curb, running to open the rear door without waiting for a response. Reflexively, Vinnie climbed into the back seat. Before he could get back out, the cab pulled into traffic.

  The old woman from Massachusetts patted his hand and said, “It’s time to go, Vincent.”

  Twenty-six years later, Vincent pulled his Blazer to a stop at the back of his small caretaker’s house, still relishing the joy from this morning’s service. Johnson barked from inside, as he did every time his master arrived home after going somewhere without him. Johnson’s bark sounded different this morning. An angry, warning tone.

  He understood why when he walked around to the front of the house, fiddling with his key ring. A short man stood on the porch, hands folded calmly in front of him as if in prayer. He wore a dark suit with a black shirt and white tie. The neat apparel, his Sunday Best, Vincent assumed, fit in well with his clipped moustache and short white hair.

  As Vincent mounted the single step, the man extended his hand.

  “Mister Tarretti, I presume? So glad to finally meet you.” Vincent took his hand in a perfunctory shake. “My name is Peter Quinn. I was hoping we could talk.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The basement of Hillcrest Baptist Church once housed the Dreyfus family’s workroom and wine cellar, but had slowly been converted to a hall for church functions. It was wider than the church itself, running under the full length of the house, with a two-foot high stage for the occasional children’s play and group meetings. This room was as familiar to Nathan as his parents’ home. Every other Sunday for eighteen years, the Dinnecks joined other families of the parish in this hall for fellowship dinner, a community breaking bread together and discussing everything from the morning’s sermon to the Patriots’ chances that afternoon. The tables usually filled quickly, though today many people chose to stand and mingle among the larger-than-normal crowd. According to Hayden, the last time Sunday service had been this crowded was Easter.

  The room filled with the scent of brewing coffee, orange juice, meatballs, pasta and pies. Children wandered toward the dessert tables, only to be pulled away by a parent who forced them to fill their plates with “good food” first.

  As promised, both of his parents came, though his father had fidgeted more than usual during the service. Nathan had also spied his friend Josh Everson smiling at him from the last row of folding chairs. Like Elizabeth, Josh was never a diligent churchgoer. Nathan had always been more forward about inviting him, but had also known when to lighten up. Nathan often wondered why he’d hung out with so many people who weren’t believers rather than with more kids from his parish. In life you didn’t always get to pick your friends, not that Nathan had complaints. Josh was one of the good ones. They hadn’t seen each other since Nathan came up for his last interview, but the two were in constant contact via email and the occasional phone call.

  When their spot in the receiving line reached him, Nathan embraced his parents. He’d tried to get them to come forward and greet him first but Beverly insisted on waiting her turn. Pulling away, he said, “It’s good to see you today, Dad. What did you think?”

  Art Dinneck offered a sheepish grin and said, “You did well, Nate. Kept your mother awake; that’s the important part.” He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially but loud enough for her to hear, “You know how she tends to drift off.”

  Nathan gave his father’s arm a squeeze in conjunction with the playful slap from Bev. Before he could stop himself, he said, “See you again next week?”

  Art’s smile faded and his face lost much of the healthy color it had begun to show. He looked away. “We’ll see. I’ll try.” But Nathan knew he’d overstepped the line his father had drawn between them the other day. Art glanced across the room and behind him, hesitating for a moment before noting with another wave of his hand the length of the waiting line. “We’ll move over there,” he said, nodding to one of the tables. “Catch up to us when you’re done here.”

  They moved on. Nathan greeted the next person, a shy older woman with thin gray hair. Pastor Hayden conversed comfortably across the room with a small group of people. This was a welcome reception for the new pastor, but next week would be the send off for the only other minister many of these people had known. Nathan felt a pang of guilt at all the attention he was getting this morning.

  Josh Everson had his turn and Nathan embraced him with as much vigor as he’d given to his parents.

  “Father Dinneck, I presume,” the young man said with a flourish.

  Nathan laughed. “It’s Reverend Dinneck, Buddy.”

  Josh smirked. “Close enough.”

  “I see you got my email.”

  “Yep, I replied, but never heard back.”

  “A few minutes after sending you the note, I was in a cab heading for the bus station.” He patted the bulge in his sport coat where the cell phone lay hidden. “This baby’s got text messaging now. I’ll give you the address. How’s work going?”

  “I tell you, Nate, the Greedy would surely fold without my stellar management.” The Greedy Grocer was the town’s only convenience store, tucked into the end of the strip mall a half mile away on Main Street. Both Nathan and Josh had worked there at various times in their teenage years. Josh continued part-time as he attended Wachusett Community College to earn a two-year Associates in Business Management. A few months after graduation, he was offered the job of manager at the store. Lately, their banter across the Internet had focused on the parallels between them. Nathan returning after college to his hometown church, Josh to The Greedy Grocer. Of course, his friend was quick to specify which was more significant a homecoming. You can’t get milk at church at ten o’clock at night, he’d explained in one letter. Josh said, “Good to have any kind of a job these days. Nice service, Nate. I admit I couldn’t help over-examining the fact that my best friend was the one talking, but I got used to it after a while.”

  “Come again next week.”

  “I just mi
ght.” Nathan hoped that was true. Josh gave him a rap on the shoulder and moved on with a “Talk to you later.” Any longer a reunion would have to wait. The man who greeted Nathan next introduced himself as Manny Paulson.

  “I’m a friend of your dad’s. He said a lot of nice things about you.” At his father’s mention, Nathan looked across the room. Art Dinneck was staring back at them, with what Nate could not mistake as anything but apprehension. When his father caught Nathan’s gaze, the look was replaced with a smile and a perfunctory wave. Paulson nodded in return and turned back to the minister.

  “A good sermon, Pastor,” he said. “I’ll admit I’m not much of a church-goer myself, but when I heard Art’s first born was the new pastor, I just had to meet you.”

  Nathan thought first born was an odd way of putting it, but he thanked the man and perfunctorily said he hoped to see him more often.

  “Careful what you wish for.” The man laughed at his own joke and moved in Art’s direction.

  When Nathan turned to greet the next person in line, the church hall disappeared. Two stone angels towered over him, their faces dripping with a lightly falling rain. He watched them, expecting their heads to lower and stare at him, perhaps take flight like gargoyles. He stared, unable to collect his thoughts, feeling the rain across his face.

  “Pastor? Are you all right?”

  The scene spun around like dirty water. He closed his eyes, fought down a sudden nausea. When he opened them again, a woman was holding his hand. He was in the church hall again, still standing and greeting a young mother with two bashful children hiding behind her dress. He felt himself sinking. His knees buckled but he caught himself. “Reverend!” the woman shouted.