by Anne Riley
Nana and Papa’s ancient television sits in the corner, wedged between a stack of magazines and a wobbly side table. I pick up the remote, point it in the general direction of the TV, and let it fall to my side without pushing the power button. I could use a little quiet time right now.
There’s a portrait of Papa and Nana on their wedding day that sits on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. My dad gets his wide smile from his father, that’s for sure; if I could take away the dated clothes and hairstyles, this photo of Papa would look just like Dad. Nana is smiling too, with her head tilted slightly toward her new husband.
They look so happy and in love. Indestructible.
But now, they—as a couple—don’t even exist. They’ve been reduced to part of a whole. And it feels like my family is headed the same way.
EIGHTEEN
THE MORNING OF PAPA’S FUNERAL DAWNS AS appropriately as possible—gray clouds that seem content to hover indefinitely over Blackheath and a fine drizzle mixed with fog.
The sanctuary of All Saints’ Church is a rich blend of white columns and wooden pews, with thick red carpet running down the center aisle. The ceiling peaks far overhead—a stretch of open space with windows at the very top, which might allow for sunlight on another day, but today only provide a gloomy reminder of the mournful weather. At the front, next to the pulpit, is Papa’s casket. It’s white and smooth. Thick brass handles jut out from its sides, handles that six men will grip to lower my grandfather’s body into a rectangular hole. The burial process suddenly seems barbaric. Who decided it was a good idea to lock someone’s body inside a box and then heap dirt on top of it? What kind of final farewell is that?
I shift on the hard pew, smoothing my black dress over my legs—or rather, Mom’s black dress that she let me borrow. I don’t know why I didn’t pack anything to wear to Papa’s funeral. We knew this would happen sometime between now and August. It was silly to leave my black dress at home.
Silly, or maybe hopeful.
To my right, Dad sniffles, and a thousand hairline cracks race through the supporting walls of my heart. He’s trying not to cry, probably because of all the times he’s reprimanded me for sobbing over things I couldn’t change. His voice rings through my head. Words I’ve heard so many times I’ve lost count. Crying doesn’t help anything, Rosemary. I’m never Rosie or Rosebud in those moments, just Rosemary. Formal and distant.
I let my eyes drift over to him. His face is worn and pale. If he feels me looking, he doesn’t show it; his gaze is fixed on the front of the sanctuary.
The crowd files in reverently, but somehow, they still manage to be loud—rustling skirts, clicking heels, murmured condolences. There are more people here than I expected. I know Papa was loved in the community, but the church is nearly at full capacity. I lean forward just enough to peek down our row; is everyone else falling apart like Dad?
Mom is staring straight ahead, too, with her hair extra moussed and her lipstick extra drab. Her eyes are dry, but she’s clutching tissues in her hand like she’s afraid they might fly away. Nana’s next to her, breathing in uneven spurts. Her eyes are glassy and her hands seem like they’re working independently from the rest of her body, clenching one second, wiping themselves along her skirt the next. She keeps opening her mouth a little as if she’s going to say something, but she never does. And then there’s Paul, slouching at the end of the row in his wrinkled black pants and a jacket nobody realized was navy until twenty minutes ago. The last time I saw him in a suit was our cousin Amy’s wedding, when he was six and holding a pillow with a fake ring tied to its middle.
A hush goes over the crowd, and I swallow a sudden rush of panic. This is really happening. Papa’s funeral is right in front of me. Surrounding me.
My talent is yours, dear girl. Take it and conquer.
But I don’t know how to speak into minds like he did. What am I supposed to conquer? The Mortiferi? I hardly know what they are, much less how to conquer them.
And whatever you do, always protect our secret.
Oh, Papa. It seems you had a lot of secrets.
I close my eyes as all the familiar questions blaze across my brain. I can’t handle them now. Today is for mourning. The Mortiferi—whatever they are—will have to wait.
Music pipes through the organ, a collection of swollen notes that fills the sanctuary. Nana must have chosen the hymn for this moment. It was Papa’s favorite, a tune he used to whistle while he shaved in the mornings. Hot tears gather in my still-closed eyes as I remember the shrillness of his whistle, the rush of water in the pipes as he rinsed his razor. The words run through my head in time with the organ’s melody.
For the beauty of the Earth, for the beauty of the skies
For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise
When I open my eyes—still brimming with unshed tears—the organ is silent, and in place of the rich music is a vacuum of soundlessness that makes me squirm. I hate the spaces between moments, those few seconds when one thing is over but the next has yet to begin. So as the priest begins his slow migration up to the pulpit, I turn my head just enough to scan the crowd.
He’s here. Albert. Sitting in the back with Dan, Isaac, and his sister Casey. It’s odd to remember the first time I saw all of them at the video store. They seemed so carefree and comfortable. Now, they’re stiff and grim, with shadowed eyes and somber frowns.
What in the world are they doing at my grandfather’s funeral?
“Dearly beloved,” the priest begins, but I barely hear him because my eyes have locked on Albert’s sorrowful face, and the shock of seeing it—seeing him —has sent my heart on a full-throttle escape mission.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Edward Clayton,” the priest goes on.
My heart pounds on the wall of my chest and then crawls up my throat until I feel like I might suffocate. I look back to the pulpit and wrap my fingers so tightly around my necklace that the rings leave dents in my flesh.
“Many of us knew him as a friend.” The priest gestures at the crowd in general. “Others loved him as family.” He nods towards us and Dad looks at the floor. “But some of you never knew him personally; you only knew of him, and that is what brought you here today.”
What does he mean, people knew of him?
Nobody else in the sanctuary seems confused. Everyone is watching the priest as if he hasn’t said anything odd. A few people are smiling and one man nods enthusiastically.
Why would people know of Papa without actually knowing him? And why would that bring them to his funeral?
I look over my shoulder at Albert. He’s watching me. “Turn around,” Dad whispers harshly.
I obey.
CHARLTON CEMETERY LIES TO THE NORTHEAST OF All Saints’ Church. It is packed with rows of headstones and lined with pathways—a horrible alternate version of the heath. Until today, Charlton Cemetery was just a cemetery. Now it’s Papa’s new home. The low rows of granite markers remind me of tiny sentries standing guard over their wards, and it’s as if I can hear them whispering to me along the breeze: You’re not meant to be here. This is no place for the living.
But I am here. And so is Papa, being lifted out of the hearse in his white box by a group of men I’ve never seen before. I still don’t know what the priest meant by people knowing of Papa. I tried to ask Dad, but he didn’t respond.
The burial passes in much the same way the service did—so slowly I fear it will never end, and then over in a breath, too suddenly for me to realize what’s happening. Papa’s already being lowered into his grave, and I feel like we just got here, like I only just shuffled my way to the front of this green tent and stood by Nana while her hands shook. Dad’s still snuffling loudly on my other side—has he stopped crying at all since the funeral began?—and even though I can’t see Mom, I sense what she’s doing. She’s crying quietly into a tissue,
unwilling to let her emotions truly show. It’s the same thing she did when Carter had his accident and my little brother’s world began to unravel. She sniffled, wiped away a couple of tears, and told us to watch TV while she made spaghetti and garlic bread.
I cast a sideways glance in her direction. She’s nodding sadly at the well-wishers and blotting her tears with the crumbling tissue, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone.
She won’t say anything about the funeral when we get home. I guarantee it.
Papa’s coffin hits the bottom of the grave with a soft thunk, and Nana tosses a handful of dirt on top of it. The priest mutters some empty stock prayer, and then I hear soft footsteps trailing across the spongy grass as people begin to leave. It’s over for them. They’ll go back to their jobs and complete families and normal lives, and we’ll do—what?
The same thing, I suppose, except it won’t really be over for us.
I lost track of Paul somewhere between the car and the cemetery, but I see him now. He’s standing at the side of the group, about two yards away from everyone, glancing at the grave and then down at his shoes. He does this kind of thing—the shifty-eyed, I-don’t-know-where-to-look thing—when he’s feeling lost. I want to reach out to him. But when his eyes meet mine, he turns away, and I don’t have the energy to persist. So I let him go. Not for good, just…for now.
The handful of dirt from Nana’s palm sits on top of Papa’s casket like a bizarre little hat. Bits of earth tumble down the glossy surface and into the cavernous hole. I should be crying, but my eyes are stubbornly dry. I can’t look at his grave anymore. It’s worse than being sad, this feeling. It’s an emptiness that sucks all my emotions dry. I turn to the side, trying to look like I’m not desperate to get away from this place—and that’s when I see him again.
I knew Albert must have come to the burial, but I haven’t seen him since the service. Now, though, he seems impossible to miss. He towers over everyone around him, black hair blown unruly by a sudden gust of wind. He’s staring into Papa’s grave.
I turn to Dad, focusing on the collar of his jacket instead of his eyes. It takes more than one nudge for him to notice I’m trying to get his attention.
“I’m ready to go,” I say when he turns to me.
He nods. “Take Paul home with you.” His voice is so frail. “I think we’ll be a while yet.”
Mom gives me an empty smile from Dad’s other side. Nana keeps looking at Papa’s grave; I don’t think she even heard me. Tears roll down her face unchecked. It feels wrong, this blankness inside of me. Instead of closure, I feel like all my emotions have been erased.
Paul is loitering under an elm tree in the corner of the graveyard near the exit. He looks up when I start to move, and I hold up my index finger, telling him to wait a minute. He scowls. If anyone’s more desperate than me for all this to be over, it’s Paul. But there’s one more thing I want to do before I leave.
I have to talk to Albert.
He’s unflinching as I approach, a statue of a man in a black suit. But when I say, “It looks like we have more to talk about,” he cracks a sad smile.
“You knew Edward,” he says quietly, nodding toward the grave. “You’re his family, I assume, since you’re staying at his house. He was your grandfather?”
“Yes. And you knew him too, since you’re here,” I say. “And since you recognized his house when you dropped me off.”
He chews briefly on his bottom lip. Then he looks around the cemetery as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “I know this is a bit much to ask, but can you get away today?”
“Probably not,” I say. “I need to be with my family.”
I look back toward Papa’s grave. A few stragglers still stand in and around the tent, but most have left for cars or taxis or the Charlton train station. One man with white hair looks over his shoulder at me and then turns away, ambling toward the gate. I bet he was one of Papa’s friends. Maybe a member of one of the committees Papa loved so much. I wish I could say hello, learn his name, maybe chat about his memories of my grandfather. But the man is walking quickly now with his head down. He doesn’t want to talk.
“Come to my flat tomorrow, if you can,” Albert says. “We’ll be able to talk uninterrupted.” His shoulders are tense and his eyes shift from one section of the graveyard to another, lightning quick.
“What are you looking for?” I whisper.
His eyes cut to me—sea green against a canvas of ivory skin. “I’m looking for them.”
Them. “The Mortiferi,” I breathe.
His nod is almost imperceptible. “It may not be safe for us to talk in the open anymore. I don’t know how much they know about me, or you. There are too many unanswered questions. But my flat is safe—you remember that, I’m sure.”
“Of course.” I cross my arms, suddenly cold. “I’ll try to get away tomorrow. When should I come?”
Paul’s voice, ragged, carries over to me from the elm tree by the gate. “Rosie, are you coming?”
I turn around. “One more minute, okay?” Then, without waiting for an answer, I look back at Albert. His thick eyebrows are furrowed as he scans the cemetery.
“I work in the morning,” he says. “Come after lunch, if you can manage it. If not, I’ll find you another time.”
“All right.” I edge toward Paul. The cemetery is starting to suffocate me, even though we’re outside in the open air. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow,” he replies in a quiet voice. Then he turns toward Papa’s grave, and I turn toward my brother, who carries an eerie reflection of death in his eyes.
It’s like I can almost see the life leaving him just like I watched it leave my grandfather.
NINETEEN
ALBERT’S BEDROOM HARDLY QUALIFIES AS MORE THAN a closet. There’s a single bed pushed into one corner with a rumpled quilt strewn over its lower half. The pillow has fallen to the floor, landing perilously close to a half-full glass of water. The opposite corner houses a brown leather armchair, its surface raw and worn. If I look closely, I can almost see the imprint of Albert’s body; he sits with his back pressed into one of the arms, probably so he can look out the foggy window. The glass needs a good cleaning, but thanks to the room’s third-floor location, it provides a stunning view of the heath in spite of the smudges.
Albert and his sister share the top floor of the house. Her room is across the hall from his, and although I haven’t really seen it, I did catch a glimpse of bright orange walls as we passed her door. Dan and Isaac share the second floor, which is laid out identically to this one.
Albert moves to the low nightstand that separates the desk from the bed. He switches on a brass lamp, bathing everything in a soft yellow glow.
“Thanks for coming over,” he says, gesturing to the leather chair. “I know it must have been hard to leave your family, with the funeral yesterday and all.”
I smile as I move across the room. “It wasn’t that hard, actually. Mom and Nana have gone into full-blown organizing mode. You’ve never seen so many extra-large plastic bins in your life. And the label situation is completely out of control.” I shake my head, settling into the chair while Albert perches on the edge of the bed.
He smiles too, but it’s not enough to chase the sadness from his eyes. “What about your father and brother?”
I guess he’s not going to let me leave them out, regardless of how much I’d like to. Dad’s robotic movements and half-aware responses are enough to send me over the edge, but combine them with Paul’s self-imposed solitary confinement in his bedroom upstairs (what is he doing in there?) and it’s too much for me to think about, let alone discuss.
My eyes travel along a crack in the blue wall to the metal desk, which is covered in scratches and dents. Papers and pens lie scattered across its surface, while other random things—paper clips, receipts, loose change—have been thrown into a large glass jar that sits on the corner. To the right of the desk is a tiny closet with the door ha
lfway open. Some of Albert’s clothes are hung up properly, but most of them are clumped together on the floor.
“They’re surviving,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Rosie.” His voice sounds hollow. “How did he…how did it end? I mean, if you want to talk about it. We don’t have to talk about it.” His expression is strained, like he’s fighting the same level of emotion I am—except, unlike me, he’s winning. His face is a carefully arranged mask of control, but I see the tangle of disbelief and despair behind his eyes.
“He had cancer,” I begin, and Albert nods like he knows this. And I guess he does know, thanks to whatever connection he had with Papa. “But he ended up having a heart attack. And right before it happened, he—”
Suddenly, I don’t know how much to say. The truth is that Papa spoke to my mind, that he mentally said the word “Mortiferi” and told me, without actually speaking, that he was passing “the talent” to me.
I glance at Albert.
He stands up and saunters to the window, leaning against it with his arms crossed. “Something strange happened, didn’t it?”
I lick my lips. “Yes.”
“What?” His voice is a croak—the only hint of turbulence beneath his composed exterior.
There’s really no way to say this without sounding crazy, but I have the weirdest feeling he already knows what I’m going to tell him. “He talked to me, only he didn’t use his voice. It was like I heard it…in here.” I tap my temple. “He said something about passing his talent to me. And then he said—or thought—the word ‘Mortiferi.’”
Albert’s expression is glazed, as if he’s thinking about something so hard that he’s forgotten where he is. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Rosie, your grandfather had a secret.”
I slide to the edge of the chair. “Tell me.”
