Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

by Mary Amato

  As Mrs. Steele pulls Sam aside to give him a lecture, more extended arms appear. Lacy feels anger rise, but she takes a breath. The fucking bugs are not even real, she tells herself. They’re ghost bugs. All she needs to do is swallow them. If Sam can do it, she can do it. She walks over to another raised hand and takes one termite.

  Sam and his mother turn to watch. There’s a rule, although Lacy can’t remember the number, about no job-related complaining. Lacy tosses the bug into her mouth and almost gags. She forces it down and gives Mrs. Steele a defiant look.

  LACY: Delicious.

  MRS. STEELE: Only a few hundred termites to go.

  LACY: No problem.

  As she speaks, Lacy walks from resident to resident, brushing the termites from their palms into the shawl she is wearing like a skirt. Raven whistles a tune that sounds suspiciously like “Eating Goober Peas.”

  LACY: I’m going to collect them all and enjoy them one at a time. Like popcorn. Except gummier. I’ll eat them and read over the two million rules I’m supposed to know.

  Lacy dumps all the bugs onto the stone bench, smiles fiercely at Mrs. Steele, walks over to Sam, and puts out her hand for the scroll of rules. Since she is blocking him from Mrs. Steele’s view, Sam can afford an admiring smile. He hands her the scroll, which she takes over to the bench. She sits down and begins to read, popping another termite in her mouth and forcing herself to swallow it.

  Mrs. Steele scowls and sits down in her usual place for tea. Sarah hurries to serve her.

  LACY: Anyone who wants to can sit and watch me eat and read all night long. It will be very entertaining.

  Lacy pops another termite into her mouth.

  In silence the residents resume their positions around the tea table, Sam hopping up on the Watson crypt. Now that Mrs. Steele is ensconced, they pretend indifference toward Lacy, which Lacy understands. The best way for her to get and keep allies is to make sure that nobody gets in trouble because of her. Knowing that Mrs. Steele is scrutinizing her over every sip of her tea, Lacy braces herself and eats another termite as she unwinds more of the scroll.

  After the first ten Rules of Etiquette, which she knows are the most important, the rules are a haphazard collection, some of which serve as explanations, while others beg questions.

  Rule 19: No currency exists in the afterlife; as such the Deceased are relieved from all need to earn money.

  That makes sense.

  Rule 20: Since Deceased Children progress without appearing in the cemetery system, Deceased Parents are relieved of any and all parental duties.

  Lacy looks around. She hasn’t seen any little kids, although she remembers seeing kids’ tombstones. What does that mean? Where are they? What does “progress” even mean?

  Rule 21: Living animals cannot see or communicate with the Dead with the exception of ravens and black cats.

  Lacy looks up at the Poe monument. Raven waves.

  The handwriting in the scroll is difficult to read and, after a while, she finds that her mind is wandering. West Fayette Street is quiet. It must be two in the morning. Or later? What day is it? It’s as if all the numbers have jumped off the calendars and clocks and have dissipated like the fog.

  Through the iron gate to the left, the stoplight at the corner is visible. Lacy watches it turn from yellow to red, although no car is there to stop. She imagines a car racing through, thinking no one was watching. Do people run red lights in the dead of night? She sees the road as if she is in the passenger seat and the car is speeding through the intersection . . . A queasy feeling creeps into her stomach and she turns her focus away. A light in a top-floor apartment flicks on and then off.

  She imagines a woman walking out of the building and across the street, imagines her standing right there, hands on the gate, imagines trying to talk to the woman and watching her remain unresponsive.

  It’s so odd to see the familiar sights of the Living World and yet know that she is separate.

  How did this happen? How could this have happened? Again, she tries to remember the night. A police siren wails in the distance, and it dawns on her for the first time that what happened to her might not have been an accident. A chill runs through her and she turns instinctively to Sam and lets her thoughts out in a rush.

  LACY: What if I was robbed and murdered? Maybe that’s why I don’t have my phone. My mom was on me all the time not to walk at night. She was always showing me stuff she heard on the news about people getting robbed and raped and beat up and killed. Maybe I was walking to the open mic at Tenuto’s and somebody followed me and when I stopped in here some son of a bi—lly goat killed me! (She gets up.) I should be allowed to find him, right? I mean, at the very least I can haunt him, right? Isn’t that the way it works?

  She looks up at Sam on the crypt. With Mrs. Steele right there, he doesn’t dare answer her directly. The other residents are equally afraid to help. Sam quickly makes a job of brushing nonexistent dirt off one of his boots and finally turns to Dr. Hosler and plays the same game they were playing before.

  SAM: I remember when I died, I was surprised to find out that we can’t do anything in the world of the Living. The Living can’t hear us or see us or feel us and so all those ghost stories about spirits knocking on walls and creaking about in attics and blowing curtains and extinguishing lights . . . those aren’t true.

  DR. HOSLER: Yes, Samuel. Even if a murdered resident could find out who murdered her—or him—and even if that resident could physically leave Westminster, she—or he—couldn’t do anything of any consequence to that murderer.

  Mrs. Steele scowls. She sees through them, but they are breaking no rules.

  LACY: This is ridiculous. There has to be justice, right? So what are we supposed to do . . . just accept the fact that we can’t do a fu—

  Mrs. Steele is leaning forward, eagerly watching Lacy grow more and more impassioned. With an aggravated sigh, Lacy shuts up and sits back down. She won’t do herself any favors by getting another strike. With a barely audible growl, she returns to reading the scroll and forces another bug down her throat.

  The night passes slowly. When it’s clear no one is drinking more tea, Sarah collects the set, returns it to the Watson crypt, bids a good night, and descends to her grave. Dr. Hosler, the Spindly sisters, and Maria give up and retreat to their graves. Although they would like to offer a word of condolence or at least a “good night” to Lacy, no one dares. Virginia lasts another half hour and then gives Mrs. Steele her sweetest smile and retires as well.

  Now it is just Sam, Mrs. Steele, and the ever-present Owen, whose job requires him to rise at midnight and remain vigilant until daybreak.

  As Owen sits motionless and Sam writes in his journal, Mrs. Steele dozes off and then wakes with a start. When she dozes off again, Sam hops off the crypt. He passes by Lacy’s bench, silently snatches a handful of termites, eats them, and returns to his seat. Lacy catches his eye and mouths, “Thank you, Sam.”

  Thus begins a game that gets the two through the night. Whenever Mrs. Steele dozes off, Sam makes another round and reduces Lacy’s pile of termites by another handful. Raven nods at Sam with what looks like respect, and Lacy sneaks Sam as many secret glances of gratitude as possible.

  After a while, the pile is gone and the rules have been read. Although Lacy has no way of marking it, she can sense that it must be near morning.

  She is right. After another moment or two, a door of earth in front of the grave marked Peter Brown opens and out steps a handsome young man, not much older than his wife Sarah, shy in appearance and slight in build. Having grown up in a family of oystermen and yet plagued by seasickness, Peter had been responsible for selling rather than dredging. Every day since he was a boy, he worked the Fells Point market calling out, “Fine, fresh oysters! Cool, smooth meat! The meatiest to eat!” Here at Westminster, Peter is the Town Crier, whose primary job is to warn residents of daybreak. Like most of the others, he chooses to stay asleep much of the time, not wanting to
take a chance at getting his third strike. Although he and Sarah are kind to each other, they aren’t at all close—something Lacy will notice.

  Like most of the unseen others, Peter listened in on much of the conversation tonight, enough to know about the unorthodox new resident, Lacy Brink. Now, he uses his job as his excuse to get a peek at the newcomer.

  Lacy returns his glance with curiosity of her own, not knowing anything about his job, assuming he is just another gawker. She is wondering if she should wave or not when he pulls a bell from his waistband, stands straight, and rings the bell twice. His voice is crystal clear and loud enough to make Lacy jump.

  PETER: Oyez! Oyez! Five minutes till daybreak.

  He rings his bell and begins his route, which is to walk twice around the property, clockwise, a job that he is supposed to do regardless of whether anyone is up.

  LACY: Oh yeah. I read about this. Residents will be given fair warning of daybreak each and every night. (To Peter) You must be the Town Crier. I’m Lacy Brink.

  Peter gives her a quick glance but keeps going. Owen rises and, without looking at anyone, returns to his grave. Happy to see Peter and Owen complying with her request to ignore the girl, Mrs. Steele stands and smooths her skirt. She walks over to the stone bench for an inspection, notices that the termites have all been eaten, and exhales sharply. She takes the scroll from Lacy and hands it back to Sam.

  MRS. STEELE: Well, it seems that the night has passed. Rest well, Samuel. I will see you tomorrow. (She walks over to her grave and a door of earth opens. She turns back and smiles at Sam.) Perhaps the new girl will decide to stay up.

  The color drains from Sam’s face and he wants to turn and remind Lacy of the rule, but she is a step ahead.

  LACY (to Mrs. Steele): I’m not an idiot. I know I have to be in bed before the sun rises.

  Lacy fakes a gigantic yawn. Mrs. Steele gives her one last scowl, descends into her grave, and shuts the door.

  Sam breathes a sigh of relief.

  They share a smile and then Lacy looks down nervously at the spot where Sam had said she was buried.

  LACY: How does this work? I don’t think I really have a grave—or at least not one with a door. (She looks at the other graves and crypts.) And even if I did have a door, how can I open it if I can’t open the gate or pick up a rock? I know there was something about this in the rules. (She looks at the scroll, which is now in Sam’s hands.)

  Sam wants desperately to defy Mrs. Steele, to run over to Lacy, to take her in his arms and tell her that he will help her through this ordeal, to tell her that he will be by her side until the end of time itself, to tell her that he will protect her and cherish her, but he answers matter-of-factly without looking at her.

  SAM: Regardless of whether you’ve been buried or cremated, you can simply jump onto the spot and you will be instantly subsumed. But old habits die hard, and most of us enter and exit the more respectable way—through a door. We have physical sovereignty over our burial plots, which includes the doors to our crypts, coffins, sarcophagi, and catacombs. We can open and close them by merely imagining them to open and close.

  To demonstrate, Sam runs over to his grave. A door of earth opens. Although there are no stair steps, per se, he moves downward by intention. He turns and comes back up, making sure that Lacy is watching. Then he closes the door and demonstrates the second method. He simply jumps onto the same spot and he instantly disappears through the ground into his grave. He hops out the same way.

  Lacy’s eyes are wide. She turns to look at her burial spot. She imagines a door opening, and in the next instant, a small, roughly cut lid of earth lifts and shifts to the side.

  LACY: Amazing. (She peers into the dark hole that is revealed.) That is way too small, though, Sam. That’s like the size of a basic trash can.

  SAM: The size doesn’t matter. Our matter fits in and out of whatever size was used for our interment.

  Lacy knows he’s trying to help, and she is exhausted, but she is still terrified at the thought of going underground.

  SAM (whispering): It’s not so bad, Miss Brink. Sleep, that is. I was afraid at first, but I grew accustomed to it. And you need sleep. Sometimes you don’t even realize how tired you are. Good night, Miss Brink.

  He walks to his own grave, descends halfway, and then stops and turns for one more look.

  Lacy stands motionless. The image of her bed reappears in her mind, the blue-and-purple quilt, the three pillows, just the way she likes it, and the wave of homesickness rises again.

  PETER (walks past, ringing his bell): Oyez! Oyez! Daybreak in one minute.

  Peter rings one last time and descends into his grave.

  Lacy turns and sees Sam, half in his grave, looking at her with concern, motioning for her to go to sleep.

  Lacy (whispering): I just want to go home, Sam.

  Quickly Sam climbs out of his grave and rushes over.

  SAM: I know, Miss Brink. I’m sorry, but it’s almost sunrise.

  LACY: Can’t I just sleep on the bench?

  SAM: The Deceased must return to the earth by sunrise. No exceptions.

  LACY: Or what? When the sunlight touches our ghostly skin do we burst into flame? (She is hoping that Sam will laugh, but he doesn’t say anything.) Sam, I was joking. Really . . . what happens to us?

  SAM: I don’t know, Miss Brink. It’s one of those chances none of us dares take.

  LACY (stares at the ground): This is really, really scary.

  SAM: Ten seconds. Good night.

  Sam heads back toward his grave. From underground, the voices of the Deceased begin the ritual countdown.

  VOICES OF THE DEAD: Ten, nine, eight . . .

  Raven hops onto the very top of Poe’s monument and settles his wings.

  LACY (whispers again): Sam! (On his way to his grave, he stops and rushes back.) Can’t I sleep with you?

  SAM (blushing): Sleep with me?

  LACY: I’m sorry . . . I don’t mean with you. I mean next to you . . . nearby . . . in the same region.

  VOICES OF THE DEAD: Seven, six, five . . .

  SAM: You must sleep in your own grave. You can do it, Miss Brink.

  LACY: Sam?

  SAM: Yes?

  LACY: Can you just call me Lacy?

  SAM: I’ll hold your hand, Lacy.

  VOICES OF THE DEAD: Four, three . . .

  LACY (touched, she holds out her hand): That is so swee—

  Sam pushes her into her grave. Before she has the chance to scream, she sinks out of sight. He runs and leaps into his own grave.

  VOICES OF THE DEAD: Two . . . one . . .

  Blackout.

  Scene 5: The Living

  The day dawns, and we gradually see and hear the rising sights and sounds of the Living. Outside the iron gate, cars and buses begin to roll by. As the sun burns through, the colors of the scene send a little shock through us. The world of the Dead, which we have been in up until now, is washed only in white and black and gray.

  We can only see what is happening on West Fayette Street through the gate. If we close our eyes, we can experience the coming day as Lacy must, through sound alone. If, as for Lacy, this is our first day underground, we will be unable to sleep and the sounds will hold us in their grip. We hear an ambulance in the far distance and the bass thump of music from a passing car. There is that crunch of dry leaves beneath footsteps that is missing from the Dead. Lacy is guessing it’s a pedestrian walking down the leaf-strewn sidewalk close to the gate.

  As the minutes pass and one hour leads to the next, sounds rise, merge, cross, and fade: the hum of traffic, snippets of conversations, commuters rushing to work. More footsteps, a family asking for directions to the hospital, a drunk asking for spare change, a one-sided cell phone conversation, laughter, an argument between a couple, one girl teasing another about a boy. The human voices and the fragments of conversations are achingly ordinary, people wholly absorbed in the daily flow of life, as if their physical existence in this time a
nd place had always been and would always be.

  The morning turns to afternoon. A few tourists arrive, as they do each day, to look at the Poe monument. Lacy can hear them read the historical plaques to each other. She can hear the “take a picture of me” requests. One man with a French accent makes a toast to Poe. Lacy can’t see it, but he pours a shot glass of bourbon for the celebrated writer and leaves it on the base of the monument.

  The sounds build to a crescendo and Lacy pictures the early evening rush hour. And then, as the noise lowers in intensity and volume, one sound emerges: that of a stroller on the leaf-covered brick path quite near to Lacy. The crunch stops and Lacy hears, as if close to her ear, the voice of a mother, singing. It’s a silly song about five little pumpkins, and Lacy can hear the woman’s smile in her voice. Lacy can imagine her leaning over to look into her baby’s eyes as she sings, and when the mother gets to the end of the song, the baby laughs—a babble of excruciating beauty. The laugh, an ordinary sound really, a sound that is as common as a crack in the sidewalk, seems to float as if it is made of a rare element, a special kind of helium.

  And then the crunching of the stroller resumes through the leaves and fades, and it is quiet.

  Lacy’s throat burns with a hot sheen of sadness. And then anger, like a match, strikes and she feels as if her soul has caught fire. The injustice of her predicament, the desire to find out who is responsible for her death, the foul-tasting hunger for revenge consume her for several long minutes, and then she closes her eyes. Suddenly exhausted, she begins to fall asleep.

  Slowly, the Dead stir in their slumber, as they often do at this time, when the sun is setting and the earth is turning toward that final stretch to midnight. The evening noises, the audible affirmations of life, often make the Dead hum softly. It’s not a hum made by the voice; it’s rather the emission of a different kind of energy.

  [The closest you could come to understanding what it sounds like, dear Reader, would be to listen to the burning of candles, which give off a lovely sound as well as a light, of course, but which the Living can’t hear because the frequency is beyond mortal range.]