Brooklyn Graves

by Triss Stein

Dr. Flint went on ahead, but Mrs. Mercer stopped me and pointed. “There. In the reeds.”

  It was a long-legged white bird with a curved neck and a trailing headpiece of feathers, an egret or heron. It was standing as still as one of the cemetery stones, looking like a Japanese print, right here, unbelievably, in the heart of Brooklyn, just a few minutes’ walk from the truck traffic on a six-lane avenue. I was transfixed.

  With a light touch on my arm she moved me back onto the path. The trees were in October gold, and with the unexpected sunlight glinting off the wet leaves and the polished stone chapels, there really was something magical about the place. It was a far cry from the bleak cities of gravestones where my mother and my husband were buried.

  That was no accident, as I knew very well. Green-Wood had been designed from the beginning to be a kind of park, a rambling, pastoral, social environment meant as much for recreation by the living as for as interment of the dead. The living used to come in their carriages for scenic drives and picnics. It was a weird thought, but I know Victorians thought about death differently. On a day like this I thought the designers would have to be proud. Were their ghosts hanging around, satisfied to see that their work was in good hands, still valued and cared for?

  Actually, I had no idea if they were even buried here, and I gave myself a little mental slap. The rare birds, the fanciful architecture, and the golden forest might have looked like an illustration from a fairy tale, but I was here to work, not to fantasize.

  I stepped into a puddle, soaking my shoe to my ankle, shocking me out of my daydream. Dr. Flint stopped abruptly and pointed across the road to one of the oddest mausoleums we had seen so far. It was made of mixed red-and-yellow brick, with a Dutch-style stepped roof. Elaborate stone columns added a formal touch, but the effect was sadly diminished because so many of them were broken, and the wrought-iron gate was falling off its hinges. At the back, a number of people were milling around with ladders and tools and putting up some kind of scaffolding. From our perch, it was impossible to see that side clearly.

  “That was to have been our first stop. You.” He meant me. “Come here with that camera. Get as close as you can.” He glanced at the guard. “Take photos of the windows as well as you can, not that it matters. None of them will be useful to me from here. It’s meant to be viewed from the inside, with light coming in.” He turned back to the guard. “What in the world are those workers doing?”

  The guard shrugged, and Flint barked out, “Oh, give up the Sergeant Friday pretense. That shabby building happens to hold exceptional pieces of Tiffany glassmaking. I should be there if there is a building problem. Imagine if the workers do damage. It would be a disaster. Irreplaceable.”

  He muttered, “Fools, all of them. You!” He meant Mrs. Mercer or me or both of us. “Keep on top of this while I am out of town.” I guessed he meant that for me. “If I had more time, Nancy Reade would have her ears sizzled.”

  “Perhaps we should move on to our other destination?” Mrs. Mercer could barely get the words out, she was so nervous.

  “Yes, let’s at least get one thing done. Come along. You. Are you taking notes? Describe what we have seen here, and note that this is the Konick Mausoleum. Badly neglected.”

  I whipped out a notebook, wishing I had an iPhone. Mrs. Mercer was standing next to me.

  “Yes, the neglect is sad, isn’t it? I prepared for this tour by looking it up yesterday. The family has quite disappeared or died out.”

  “What do you…?” I started to ask, but she guessed where my question was going.

  “In the old days,” she said, “it would have been torn down, I’m told. Shocking, isn’t it? Now the cemetery will preserve it. Eventually.”

  “Does it really have wonderful windows?”

  “I should say it does! They are not very well-known, and it’s a shame for you to miss them, but at least you’ll see one here.”

  We had reached our destination. This one was a miniature Greek temple, white marble, with columns topped with curly decorations whose names I didn’t know. Two limestone steps up and the door had been opened for us. I was certainly curious. I had never been inside anything like this.

  Facing us, above what I thought must be the tomb, was a huge stained-glass window: a redheaded Jesus in a field of shimmering white flowers, backed by a glowing red and yellow sky.

  I know I gasped. I’d never been so close to anything that large and that magnificent. The glass had the shimmering effect Tiffany was famous for. Even I knew that. Were the flowers lilies? Was the sun rising or setting?

  “His work doesn’t become less wonderful with familiarity.” Flint’s tone seemed almost approving. “Now, you. What I need is close-ups of that border. Borders are very unclear in my working collection of pictures, and I need the information for my speech. And make notes. I would know the origin, but I can’t say the same for my assistants.”

  He took some measurements, made some notes himself, motioned to me to take a few more angles. I hoped I knew what I was doing.

  There was a plaque with information. This was the tomb of Octavios Knight, the Silver King of Montana, and his wife, Anne, who became New Yorkers after they got rich. I had never heard of them, but here was a true work of art they had brought into existence.

  And that was it. Flint led the way out and down the hill to the parking lot. Before we could make our escape, a very young woman came up to us. “You are Dr. Flint? I must ask that you not discuss the problems with anyone. We prefer to handle it all privately.”

  Flint lifted an eyebrow. “Since we have been told precisely nothing, that will not be a problem.”

  The young woman seemed to collapse, just a little, from her rigid posture.

  Mercer muttered to me, “That twelve-year-old child is our new public relations pro. I’m sure she thought her job would be getting journalists to write happy stories about our beauty and history.”

  The young woman said, “That is good news. I was not sure, when I saw you talking to Dr. Reade. But you must not mention anything you’ve seen to anyone. Is that fully understood?”

  Mercer nodded, but Professor Flint said, “You misunderstand. I am not an employee. You have no authority whatsoever with me, none at all.”

  The woman looked even more stressed. “If you have any respect for Green-Wood as an organization, please help us here?” She tried a placating smile. “We do have a problem today, and we will handle it appropriately, but who knows what some idiot may want to make public? A blog? Local news?” She shuddered.

  “Of course. All you had to do was ask.” There was the tiniest emphasis on the word ask. “I would certainly agree to anything Nancy Reade asked.”

  “She is just a bit preoccupied just now.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I wouldn’t deal with that gossipy trash, even without being asked, and I hope I can speak for my scholar colleague here as well.” He was looking at me. Now I was his colleague? I nodded. Of course.

  Not another word was said until we were back in the suitably old and elegant part of Brooklyn where our museum is housed in a suitably old and elegant Victorian mansion. I paused at the main door to let my passenger out before tackling the unsuitably modern problem of finding street parking. He said, “I plan to keep quiet about this puzzling morning, and I certainly hope you will too.”

  “I don’t see why…”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Trust me on this. The museum and scholarly worlds are endlessly gossipy. They are a bunch of old women of all sexes. Let them all learn something happened from public sources. It’s probably all a tempest in a teapot anyway.”

  “I don’t think…”

  He gave me a stern look. “Do you want to spend the rest of the morning pandering to their curiosity? I don’t care to waste my valuable time that way.”

  I had to agree. I did not value his time as highly as he did, but I did v
alue my own.

  “I need you in a thirty-second meeting inside. Garage the car. There is no time to waste.”

  He waited while I left the car at a commercial garage, hoping I would be reimbursed for the shocking fee. Once again I followed, struggling to keep up, as he hustled to the director’s office, picking Eliot up along the way.

  He spun a vague excuse about being delayed at Green-Wood, and quickly set up a plan for the rest of the week.

  I turned to leave, along with some other junior staff, when Flint barked, “You! Donadio, wasn’t it?”

  “Donato.”

  “Yes, whatever. You said you are a historian. Think you can create a reliable record of what’s here?”

  “Yes, of course, but…”

  “Good. I’ll ask for you to work on this for now. You kept your head this morning. That gave me a hunch you might be competent, even if you don’t know anything about Tiffany.”

  I didn’t know which I wanted to argue about first, that I had other work to do or that I did, too, know something about Tiffany. It wouldn’t have mattered. He was already ushering me out of the room. “My airport car will be here in just minutes now.”

  Eliot gently took my arm and led me out. As soon as we were out of hearing range, I exploded. “I have other work to do—that whole new project for the school visits. And this Flint? I was with him this morning at Green-Wood. What a…”

  “Yes, yes, an arrogant son of a bitch.” He smiled sympathetically. “I’ve known him for years. But you are overlooking how high-profile this could be, if, of course, it turns out to be what it seems.” He was still smiling. “I’m doing you a big favor to allow you to become involved.”

  “Do I have a choice? I don’t, do I?”

  “Nope. You’ll be grateful when this is published and your name is on it.”

  “But…” Something told me Flint was not the glory-sharing type.

  Eliot stopped me with an upheld hand. “I’ll make sure of that. It will be the price for us doing some of his grunt work for him, and he did promise some help. He left in a hurry but said he’d e-mail us some instructions, and a copy to his assistant and it will all be ready tomorrow. Set aside your other work, just until Flint gets back. I’ll make it all right. Oh, and put in a voucher for the parking today.” He winked.

  There would be no more work today, not for me. I didn’t care who gave me another task. I was going out for a walk in the fresh, rain-washed air. If my walk just happened to take me past my daughter’s school, and it was time for her to be coming out, so much the better. I admitted to myself she might not see it that way. What high school sophomore wants to leave school with her friends and find Mom outside? Invading her world? As if she needed to be picked up? I didn’t care; I wanted to see her, whether she wanted to see me or not.

  Unlike the noisy flood of younger classes, upper-school students usually came out in discrete, chattering groups. Today, no one was chattering. As I stood across the street, on the alert for Chris or her friends, I thought some of the students were crying.

  There they were. Chris, fashionably sloppy and almost as tall as I am now, and her neighborhood best friend Melanie. Two other familiar faces were right behind. And they were definitely crying. I wove my way across the street, through the stalled traffic on the school block.

  Chris walked right into my arms and sobbed, “I guess you heard.”

  I held her tight and glanced over her head at her friends. One patted her shoulder, the others were standing by, arm-in-arm. They all looked teary.

  “What in the world is going on?” I asked

  “I thought you must have heard, somehow.” Chris’ sobs slowed down enough for her to talk. “Isn’t that why you came?”

  “Uh, no, I was just walking by. Suppose someone explains?”

  They all grew a shade paler at the thought, and Chris finally took a deep breath.

  “Alex wasn’t in school today and nobody heard from him, and Natalya wasn’t in the office, either. We thought, maybe, his grandmother? She’s pretty old. Then, later, like in Latin, there was an announcement.” Her friends waited, breathless, while she brushed the tears from her eyes. “It said his father had died and Natalya would be out of the office for the rest of the week. And that’s all.”

  Melanie prompted her. “They said we would have an assembly first thing tomorrow to talk about it, to determine the appropriate school community response. You know how they talk, blah, blah.”

  And that was how I learned Dima had died.

  Alex and Chris have been friends since first grade. Natalya, his mother, was the secretary in the upper-school office. And Dima was the chief school custodian, handyman, friend to everyone in the school community, a vigorous man in his forties who could fix anything, build anything. I had a sudden picture of him walking the school roof to repair a leak.

  One part of my mind said he could not possibly be dead, just like that, that it was impossible, but another part said, “You know better. You know better than most.”

  “That’s all? There was no more information?” A stupid thing to say to these grieving girls; my mouth was moving on autopilot.

  The girls all shook their heads, solemnly. Then one of them said, “But you know, it felt all day like there was something. Didn’t it? Teachers looked weird and, I don’t know, it just felt like there is more that they aren’t telling us. Something they don’t want us to know, right?”

  “It wouldn’t be helpful to spread stories like that, Heather.” I hoped I’d said it gently. “I know you are all very upset, but wait until someone really knows the facts.”

  “Wait, wait, I have a text.” Melanie turned the annoying tune off and consulted her phone. “Dan. Alex’s best friend.”

  She turned even paler and passed her phone around. Each girl gasped as she read it.

  I was last. “Alex’s dad killed. Not accident. More later.”

  Chapter Two

  I had to blink and read it a second time and then a third. It was the girls’ sobbing again that brought me back to the moment.

  I was shaking right down to my damp, worn-out loafers, but I was the grown-up here.

  “Come on, girls.” I kept my arm around Chris. “We can’t talk here on the street. Hot chocolate?”

  “Thank you, but…” All the girls had plans. School activities had been cancelled, but there were other responsibilities—babysitting, lab notes to do together, allergist appointment.

  “Chris, honey, I’m going to skip out on work and go home. I just need to go back for a few minutes. Do you want to wait?”

  She was blinking back tears. “I’ll go home with Mel and see you later.” They walked off, supportive arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Everyone at the school knew Natalya and Dima. Their school jobs made it possible to send their son to this excellent—and expensive—private school. Russian immigrants, they lived for their only child’s future. This would affect the school world in ways I could not even imagine.

  I returned to my cubicle in a fog, collected some items, and sent a terse message to Eliot that I was taking off for the rest of the day. I wanted a stiff drink, and the chance to dial my mind all the way down to “off.” I resolved to think about Dima and his family when I knew something. I would not let it take over all my thoughts right now.

  Of course that didn’t work out.

  We had become acquainted years ago. Our children were best friends when they still wore nametags for class outings. And we became friends as parents, perhaps because I was almost as lost in this world as they were. Our children were scholarship kids in a rich kids’ school.

  I could not forget that Alex and Chris now had another bond: young people whose fathers had died. And I would have to reach out to Natalya soon. As I drove home, a giant headache was forming behind my eyes.

  I told myself I had work
to do. I was falling behind. I only worked at the museum part-time, with the rest of my week supposedly devoted to writing my dissertation on urban history. I was examining the effects of new immigration on old neighborhoods and comparing changes from overseas immigration to changes from gentrification. It was the old yet always current story of life in Brooklyn.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time. I lived in a neighborhood that was the perfect laboratory for it. The heart of Park Slope had been the height of elegance when new, with mansions on the park and modest homes at the edges. Then it deteriorated badly in the post-World War II decades. Later it was rediscovered, rebuilt, and gentrified to a fare-thee-well, with chic restaurants replacing the bars where old men drank beer at eleven in the morning. It had been through all the cycles.

  I, myself, am not a gentrifier. Not even close. My shabby house is at the still-kind-of-gritty, not-really-renovated end of the neighborhood—a long way from the official historic district and out of zoning for the excellent public schools.

  I’m a kind of immigrant, though, even if my trip was nothing compared to Natalya and Dima’s. My home turf was a completely different Brooklyn, only a few miles away but another world, where a trip to Manhattan was a twice-a-year excursion; college was a short bus ride away, just like high school; moms stayed at home if they could and dads were cops or cab drivers; and most people married and settled down around the corner from their parents. I was happy with that life. too, until I had to move away from those memories and build new ones.

  Sometimes I feel a bit like a stranger in a strange land, but my daughter has no other memories. She takes the subway with her friends to Manhattan concerts, has been eating dim sum with chopsticks since she was six, and knows how to order ballet tickets. She doesn’t think twice about it. And living where we do, she also doesn’t think twice about families with different languages, different colors—even in one family—or families with adopted children or with two moms, or two dads.

  Thinking about Chris brought me back to Alex to Natalya to Dima. That was when I gave up on work and curled up under my down comforter, thinking about my friend and what she was feeling right now.