by Sarah Shaber
His Jewish side accepted that better minds than his had puzzled over the question of the afterlife for an extremely long time, even, if the paleontologists were to be believed, since before man had officially evolved into Homo sapiens, and that he ought not to make himself crazy wondering about it, especially at night when he needed his sleep. Since right now was the only life Simon knew for sure he had, he had decided that he'd better make the best of it.
The minister continued: "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger."
Let's hope so, thought Simon. The minister delivered a brief eulogy. He had bothered to find out something about Anne Bloodworth from Simon, and it made the funeral seem almost personal, though not a soul in attendance had ever met her.
The News and Observer's front-page story on the discovery and identification of the body had made Simon a minor local celebrity. His experience after he won the Pulitzer taught him that the blitz of phone calls, letters, and handshakes would end quickly, and he could return to blissful obscurity. However, that did not prevent him from enjoying himself thoroughly for the duration. He was the center of attention during the reception after the funeral. He was surrounded by the mayor, the president of Kenan College, who patted his arm with a proprietary pride, and the chairwoman of the historical society, as well as other hangers-on, including the press from several out-of-town papers. Simon answered all their questions with enthusiasm, but, cautioned by Sergeant Gates, he never said a word about his interest in solving Anne Bloodworth's murder. He did, though, agree to write an article on Anne Bloodworth for N.C. History when he could get to it.
"You would think the man was a rock star or something," Alex Andrus said to Marcus Clegg. The history department was out in force, since the historical society had endowed a teaching position and Walker Jones wanted to show the flag. "It frosts me how he manages to get the attention he does."
"Grow up, Alex," Marcus said. "Simon gets noticed because he does remarkable things. He's just better than most of the rest of us."
"That's your opinion." "If the police had asked me to help identify an old decayed corpse, I wouldn't have bothered, not in a million years. This poor woman will get a proper funeral and a gravestone with her name on it because of Simon. He deserves whatever attention comes his way for this."
Simon finally detached himself from his admirers and joined the delegation from the history department. Andrus turned on his heel and walked out the door. "I don't want to ask," Simon said.
"He's jealous because you got your name in the paper," Marcus said. "Forget it." "I wish I knew what I could do to make peace with him."
"That's easy," Marcus said. "Just don't ever do anything noteworthy again. I expect that will be difficult—for you, that is. Let's eat. That's what funerals are for." The two men attacked the buffet, which was loaded with the perennial foods of southern social functions—shrimp, ham biscuits, chicken salad, baked Brie and chutney, fresh strawberries to dip in chocolate, and pecan tartlets. The predictability of the food didn't make it any less delicious, and Simon was loading his plate for the second time when he and Marcus ran into Julia and Sergeant Gates grazing on the strawberries.
"Not too busy today, Sergeant?" said Simon. "I'll have you know that this is official police business," Gates said. "We're checking out the attendance at the victim's funeral. Miss McGloughlan is, of course, here in her capacity as legal adviser to the police department."
"Actually," said Julia, "we heard they were having shrimp and strawberries, and this rather neatly coincides with our lunch hour."
Simon introduced the two of them to Marcus Clegg.
"What's this about a murder investigation?" asked Marcus. "There wasn't anything in the paper about that."
"We're half-kidding when we say that," Simon said. "We'd like to find out more about what happened to Anne Bloodworth, but we're not sure we can."
"Keep it under your hat," Sergeant Gates said. "I'm afraid the powers that be at the police department wouldn't be pleased with me."
"I'm not sure what the chairman of my department would think about it, either," said Simon.
"Hey," said a young voice. "You guys have monopolized the strawberries long enough. Let some of the rest of us get some."
The speaker was Bobby Hinton. He was wearing a black armband and carried a halffull buffet plate.
"Sorry, Bobby. We'll get out of your way," Simon said. The group moved outside to the porch, where they could stuff themselves while enjoying the weather. North Carolina had entered that lovely phase in late May after most of the pollen had been washed away in yellow rivers down the city's storm drains, and before the wall of heat and humidity descended on them in July. Then it would be too hot even to go swimming, and air conditioning would become a necessity of life comparable to bread and water. Now the little group stood comfortably on the porch, looking out over Hillsborough Street and the grounds of the college.
The group ate in silence for a few minutes, then collectively paused for conversation. "In a few weeks, we won't want to be outside," Gates said. "We'll all be inside hovering over the air-conditioning vents."
"I sometimes wonder if summer is worth it," Julia said. "I mean, in July and August, you can't walk from your house to the car without breaking a sweat."
"You business types wear too much clothing," Marcus said. "Human beings were made to wear T-shirts and shorts in the summer." "And baseball caps," Simon said.
"And sandals," Marcus said.
"I could see me showing up at work looking like that," Julia said. "I would probably get fired."
"I don't know, Julia," Gates said. "I think the police department would thoroughly enjoy you in shorts. We could pick a day when the chief is out of the office." "I'll do it if the guys wear shorts, too. Some of you must have decent legs," Julia said, looking pointedly at the bottom half of Gates's massive self. His legs were the size of good-sized tree trunks.
"Me in shorts is a sight to behold," Gates said. "But I get your point. Sorry." Simon was impressed that Julia had treated Gates so gently. He could not have meant to make so obvious a sexist remark. Simon watched Julia finish what was on her plate. She still wasn't dieting, thank goodness. One strand of her auburn hair was tangled in an earring, and Simon longed to reach out and smooth it free.
Julia caught him looking at her. She smiled at him. Simon knew he had been caught out. He desperately wished they were alone so that he could ask her out. But they weren't alone, and his mind blanked on small talk.
He was rescued when Bobby Hinton blundered into the small silence. His plate was heaped four inches high with food.
"What's with the black armband, Bobby?" asked Marcus. "Oh," said Hinton, waving his fork in the air and waiting to swallow a mouthful of chicken salad before he spoke. "I'm the official family representative. My mother was really taken off guard by all this. She didn't want to get involved, so she asked me to come."
"I had no idea you were related to the Bloodworths," Simon said. "My grandfather was a nephew of Adam Bloodworth's—his sister's son," said Hinton. "When Adam died, my grandfather inherited. This house and everything involved was a headache for the estate, so it was donated to the historical society. They restored it, and Granddad took a tax deduction."
"So your mother is the official next of kin," Gates said.
"That's right. Of course, she never knew the woman. When the society offered to claim the body and bury it, she was very relieved." "Do you know anything about what happened back then?" asked Julia. "Haven't a clue," Hinton said. "Who cares anyway?"
"We're just kind of interested in how she died," Julia said.
"She was shot, wasn't she?" Hinton asked. "How could you possibly find out the details after all this time?"
"Think, Bobby," Simon said. "You must know a family story about her disappearance. It would
have been a big deal at the time."
Bobby Hinton thought. "Well," he said. "My grandfather told me that Charles didn't have any sons, so he brought Adam in to learn how to run the family business. It was sort of understood that he and the girl would get married, but then she backed out."
"Really?" said Simon, remembering that Adam Bloodworth had insisted in the newspaper that the marriage was still on. "I think that's the story. Of course, Adam would have been up the creek if she had married someone else, because then maybe he would have been out of a job. But then she disappeared and later was declared dead. So he inherited the whole shebang after all."
"Maybe Adam killed her?" Marcus suggested. "Because she broke off the engagement and he was out in the cold?"
"He had an alibi," Julia said. "He was on a fishing trip." Simon noticed that Sergeant Gates had put down his plate, taken a small black notebook out of his pocket, and was methodically taking notes. He had the old-fashioned habit of licking his pencil every few minutes.
"Mr. Hinton," Gates said. "Do you have any idea who Adam Bloodworth went fishing with that night?" "For God's sake," Hinton said. "How on earth would I know something like that!" "Part of your family lore, maybe?" said Julia.
"I haven't got the faintest idea," said Hinton.
"Would you humor us a little, Bobby?" asked Simon. "Call your mother and see if she could add something to your recollections."
"She'll think I've lost my mind, but okay," Hinton said. "You could never prove anything after all these years anyway."
“Maybe not, but I’m going to try,” Simon said.
Chapter Eleven
THE GOOD INTENTIONS OF THE PEOPLE WHO WENT TO ANNE Bloodworth's funeral did not extend to the more macabre activity of following the hearse to the cemetery for internment. There were, after all, no refreshments served during this aspect of the occasion. Only Simon, Julia, Bobby Hinton, the president of the historical society, and the minister stood at the grave site as Anne Bloodworth's coffin was lowered into the ground. There was, of course, a Bloodworth burial plot, and she was interred next to her parents. Some efficient person would see that she had an appropriate gravestone.
Simon heard a small scraping sound behind him. He turned, and saw that his little group was not alone after all. About twenty feet behind him were two black women, one elderly and one younger. The scraping noise had been made by the older woman's cane on the cement walk.
While Simon watched, she sat down heavily on a concrete bench, scraping the cane on the sidewalk again, louder this time. Simon saw her exhale heavily as she settled herself. Both women were dressed up. The older woman was wearing an old-fashioned dark shirtwaist dress with a small print, a dark straw hat, and black orthopedic shoes. Her hair was almost completely white, and she was very thin. Her companion, whom Simon speculated was a granddaughter, was dressed in a stylish turquoise blue suit and matching shoes. She sat on the arm of the bench, with a hand on the old woman's shoulder. They were voyeurs, Simon guessed, visitors to the cemetery on some personal mission who stopped to watch the funeral while the old woman rested. Well, why not, Simon thought. We're all voyeurs in this instance.
At the appropriate point, the minister instructed a very uncomfortable Bobby Hinton to throw earth on the coffin. "Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our sister departed, and we commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."
When the service ended, Bobby Hinton was visibly relieved. He wiped perspiration away from his eyes and pulled off his black armband. "I need a cold beer," he said. "I didn't know this was going to get so intense!" He turned and walked quickly, very quickly, toward the parking lot and his car. He was followed by the minister and the president of the historical society. Simon heard the scraping of the old black woman's cane as she and her companion also left.
For some reason, neither Julia nor Simon moved. They watched silently as the grave was filled with dirt and the gravediggers smoothed the mound with the backs of their shovels. Simon helped them cover the grave with the flower arrangements that had come to the cemetery with the hearse. There were enough to cover the grave. The two biggest were from the Historic Preservation Society and Kenan College, but there were several from individuals. Simon wondered who would send flowers to the funeral of a woman who had been dead for seventy years.
The grave diggers piled their tools on a small wagon pulled by a converted golf cart and drove off. They were listening to old rock and roll from a boom box balanced on the dashboard. Simon could hear the beat of "Pretty Woman" reverberating long after the melody and vocals faded away down the road.
Simon and Julia looked out over the huge city of dead people. Old magnolias shaded its rolling hills from the hot, clear sun. The endless vista of markers was spotted with small Greek temples, little stone houses, and monoliths that gave the cemetery a skyline. Asymmetrical groups of gravestones were crisscrossed by paths that reminded Simon of streets and alleys in a neighborhood. Each plot was like a house with an address, inhabited by entire families and an occasional friend who had nowhere else to go. Simon had explored the graveyard many times, and he knew it even had its ghettos—the old black section and the Jewish corner. As in any southern cemetery worthy of the name, Confederate soldiers, both known and unknown, were proudly massed in troops and regiments, with their officers out front.
The cemetery was right smack in the middle of town, so the noise and bustle of daily life gave the impression that its residents were still somehow participating. Lawn mowers roared, dogs barked, traffic streamed by, and the band at the high school across the street was practicing for graduation.
"This is strange," Julia said. "Graveyards are supposed to be depressing. But I'm not depressed. I feel like we should have a picnic or something."
"I know what you mean," Simon said. "When I come here, I always feel like I've walked into a neighborhood block party."
"It makes death seem a little less cold. All the families are together, and lots of the people buried here must have known one another." "Do you have time to take a walk around?"
"Just for a few minutes. I work for the people, you know."
Simon led Julia toward the military section of the cemetery. They had to carefully pick their way around countless stones—not just headstones but also squared-off stones that surrounded plots and small markers without inscriptions that popped up in odd locations. They both tripped before Simon decided to get on a path.
They walked through the flower-draped marble arch that was the entrance to the Confederate cemetery. Simon was always fascinated by the sheer determination of the Daughters of the Confederacy to memorialize its unknown dead. It was a continuing process—many of the markers were new and the plantings around the graves were beautifully maintained.
Simon supposed that it had been a comfort to southern families in the 1860s to know that the son they never heard from again was being cared for by strangers not far from some bloody battlefield.
"This is incredible," Julia said. She walked down the rows, stopping to read each inscription. "I always assumed that people who died in battle were just sort of tossed into mass graves, if they were buried at all."
"Not at all," Simon said. "Of course, bodies couldn't be sent home in those days—no refrigeration. So they were buried locally, and families were always notified where the remains were, if at all possible. And locating and identifying remains from the Civil War, and other wars, too, was a process that went on for years. They're still bringing bones back from Vietnam."
"It seems like a lot of trouble," Julia said. "After all, dead is dead."
"Not to the people left behind. They don't forget. That's what this is all about." Simon led Julia into a small marble replica of a Gothic church. It was about twenty feet square, and every possible surface of its walls was lined with tablets listing the local dead of past wars. There were hundreds and hundreds of name
s.
"Not only do survivors want to remember; they want some way to immortalize. So we have places like this, where people like you and me can wander around and read the names of people who are no longer remembered by anyone alive." So that just for a few seconds a beloved's name cast in cold metal might cross the consciousness of a breathing person, Simon thought.
Simon suddenly felt profoundly depressed. Standing in the cool shadows of the mausoleum surrounded by ghosts had overwhelmed the benefits of modern chemistry. He remembered that his parents were dead, his wife had left him, and he had no children. If he died tomorrow, how long would it be before his friends and family forgot him? How long before the only thing left of his life was an award-winning book on a library shelf ? And how long before that book was culled from the collection by a librarian making space for new books?
He remembered the words of Isaiah: "All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field. . . . The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever."
Simon shot out of the little building, forcing himself out of the cool shadows into the hot sunshine. Astonished, Julia turned from reading a tablet dedicated to seven men who had died on a battleship in the Pacific as Simon abruptly vanished from her side. She saw him sit down outside on the base of a marble angel, which was just settling on a grave, its wings outstretched in landing. Simon was breathing as though he had run a mile very quickly.
