1

Chapter One

On a late August evening, Adam was breathing heavily when he reached the top

of the hill and walked up to the oak tree. Eight leaves on its lower branches proved the

tree still struggled to live. Its higher branches reaching skyward like arthritic fingers, a

stoic defiance lingered in the oak’s crooked trunk, insisting it could stand forever.

“We survive every second except the last one,” Adam said and patted the peeling

bark. He leaned on the tree and looked to the foothill, to where a creek flowed, though

now—the height of summer—only a trickle remained amid stagnant pools coated with

algae and rife with mosquitoes. Pine trees shaded the creek and covered the ground with

dry needles. Through the pine trees, Adam glimpsed his log cabin and the train tracks

beyond the woods. He could also see the tall stone walls surrounding the cemetery—two

acres etched with humanity’s fate.

The sun set behind the hills. Adam peered through a new hole that mites had

formed in the brittle trunk; the insects hummed like the white noise from a tiny television.

He patted the trunk, said, “Hang in there,” and then strolled down the hill. He reached his

cabin after dark.

In his kitchen, Adam selected ripe tomatoes and cucumbers, which he cut finely

and tossed with lemon juice and pepper. Doing so reminded him of dinners with Naomi

—so long ago, he didn’t want to think about it. He warmed half a roasted chicken from

the night before, boiled a pot of white rice, and was uncorking a bottle of red wine when

he heard the swift double knock on the door.

 2

“Come in,” Adam said and lit two candles set in bronze holders placed at the

center of the oak kitchen table.

Noah entered and smiled. “Good evening.”

Where Adam was lanky and thin-lipped with a long face and brown eyes, Noah

was rotund, with a round face, thick lips, and blue eyes. His vibrant silver hair, neatly

combed and parted on the left, defied his seventy-five years and compared favorably to

Adam’s almost bald head. At the village tavern, Adam and Noah were nicknamed Laurel

and Hardy. The comparison appealed to both men who sometimes entertained their

acquaintances with a short skit. Arms on his hips, Noah would deride Adam. “Well,

there’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley. You’re such a nincompoop.”

Shoulders sagging and smiling sheepishly, Adam would scratch the top of his head and

say, “You bet your life I’m right, Ollie. I’m not a dumb as you look.”

Noah sniffed and rubbed his palms. “Smells absolutely delicious.”

Adam smiled. “Your British accent makes my food taste better.”

Clanking silverware filled the silence while the men stacked their plates with

food. Adam poured wine into brown ceramic mugs, handed one to Noah, and said, “A

toast to another grave.”

Noah raised his mug. “Cheers.”

While they sipped their wine, Noah shook his head in contemplation. “There were

seventy open plots when you became the caretaker in ’95. Fifteen years later only three

graves are left to dig, and after the dearly departed Julia Morris is buried the day after

tomorrow, only two. Where has the time gone?”

Adam was unfazed by what he knew the cemetery manager considered a

 3

momentous occasion. “Seventy graves is enough digging for one lifetime,” he said.

Noah shrugged. “I suppose it is.”

Adam chewed on a piece of chicken. “I don’t want to be buried. Cremation is

much tidier and simpler.”

Noah sighed. “I agree.” Then he smiled. “We manage a cemetery yet prefer

cremation. It’s akin to a recovering alcoholic supervising a liquor store.”

The candle flames cast soft shadows on the low ceiling and the masks hanging on

the wooden walls. The two men, now finished with dinner, sat in silence. Adam lit a

cigarette. “I’ll have to start digging early. Looks like tomorrow’ll be hot.”

“You really don’t seem to care that you’ll soon never dig another grave,” Noah

said.

Adam shrugged. “Why should I?”

“It seems to me that digging graves is a grave matter, a heady ritual,” Noah said,

then rolled his eyes. “That was a poorly placed pun.”

“It’s only a hole in the ground,” Adam said.

“I suppose,” Noah said and stared at the candle.

They retired to the deck overlooking the creek and the pine forest, where they sat

in wicker chairs and listened to chirping crickets, buzzing mosquitoes, the rustling of

bushes parted by rabbits and deer drinking from the creek’s stale water, the hooting of an

owl on the prowl. Finally, Noah yawned and rubbed his stomach. “I should get to bed.”

“The train hasn’t come through in three days. It’ll probably come through

tonight,” Adam said with a hint of pensiveness, knowing he’d be woken by the rumble

from the east and reminisce about an episode in his life while metal struck the tracks.
 4

He’d been listening to the train for fifteen years and had noticed that each rumble was

different, as were his memories.

As they walked to the door, Noah said, “I’ll make a fruit salad tomorrow and

bring you a bowl around noon. You’ll be finished digging by then.”

“I appreciate that,” Adam said. “Have a good night.”

“Same to you, and thanks for dinner.” Noah walked off the front porch and up the

path to his house. Adam stood in the doorway until Noah vanished in the dark. Then he

brushed his teeth and went to bed where he smoked his last cigarette of the day and

listened to Schubert’s piano sonatas. He fell asleep before the second sonata ended.

The train’s rumble woke Adam. He lay listening to the wheels—an efficient pulse

akin to the heart of a marathon runner. He saw Naomi lying beside him and groaned into

the darkness long after the train’s commotion ceased. Then he listened to birds welcome

dawn and watched gray light seep in between the closed shutters. He walked to the

kitchen, sat at the table, and listened to the coffee trickle to the bottom of the glass pot.

Coffee mug in hand, cigarette dangling from his lips, Adam stepped outside and sat on a

rickety bench shaded by an avocado tree that towered over his garden.

The quiet morning dampened the memory of Naomi.

Adam walked the gravel path circling the cemetery walls until he reached the

entrance and what lay beyond: seven hundred and thirty-eight sealed graves and three

still waiting. A red flagstone path cut across the cemetery grounds and divided the lot into

two rectangles.

The shoddy wooden door creaked when Adam entered the tool shed at the far
 5

right corner of the cemetery. Pale morning light shone through fluttering spider webs and

blinked through the cracks in the wooden planks on to a dirt floor with garden tools,

hoses, bags of fertilizer, and plastic buckets. Adam selected a shovel and a pickax.

Balancing them in his right hand, he carried two empty buckets in his left and walked

toward row F, plot 4, the one assigned to Julia Morris, scheduled for burial the following

day, where he started to dig.

An hour later, with the sun still hidden behind pine trees and the grave three feet

deep, Adam took off his shirt, sat on the pile of dirt, smoked a cigarette, and surveyed the

grounds: the flagstone path lined with evergreen hedge fence and the trails branching off

from it, graced by finely cropped rosebushes. The dew on the graves evaporated as the

sun rose higher over the pine trees. Weary of the coming heat, Adam returned to digging.

The grave to his right—a slab with chipped corners and fading letters—sheltered

the remains of Morris Williams, 1930-1967. Noah had mentioned once that Williams had

been a fairly prominent jazz pianist in the 1950s and that he had died of a heroin

overdose. His girlfriend, who’d bought the plot, paid for it with change she carried in

glass jars that she placed with a ruckus on Noah’s office desk. After she had done so, she

folded her arms over her chest and looked at Noah and raised her chin. “There’s exactly

two hundred dollars in the jars, the money you said I needed to buy the grave.”

The grave to his left—white marble with brown swirls and a two-foot tall

headstone—sheltered twelve-year-old Jenny Forrester, who was born June 24, 1987, and

died April 14, 1996. For ten years after her funeral, once a year in early spring, an old

man shuffling with a cane and holding a bouquet of daisies would visit her grave. He’d

lay on the tombstone and silently caress the headstone for long moments. Then he’d get
 6

up, place the daisies on the grave, and walk away. In the eleventh year, the man failed to

appear. Noah said that Jenny Forrester had been the old man’s granddaughter. He didn’t

know the tragic details of her death.

The grave now four feet deep, Adam rested and wiped the sweat off his shoulders.

He was sitting on the pile of earth when he saw the widow walking up the flagstone path.

As she’d done every weekday for about a year, she walked toward row J plot 8, where

her husband, Forrest Burns, lay buried. The widow dressed in a black dress, wore dark

sunglasses, and held a cloth bag. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, and she had a

sensual stride, head held high, never looking sideways. Adam estimated her to be about

forty.

Following her routine, the widow sat on the ground in front of the gravestone. She

brought out a wooden, pyramid-shaped metronome from the cloth bag, placed the

metronome on the grave, and bowed her head while the metal strip ticked away. She

stayed by the grave for thirty minutes, the metronome’s heartbeat sometimes shrouded by

a crow’s caw or by a truck driving by, but quickly dominating the silence again. Soon

after the widow’s ritual had become apparent, Noah had shrugged and said, “No doubt

it’s a first for me, to hear a metronome ticking on a grave, but who am I to question her

grieving? Perhaps it’s the passage of time she tries to reinforce, to create tangible ways to

mourn.”

That day, with the morning sun growing hot, and with over a foot left to dig,

Adam found comfort in the metronome’s tireless tempo. He obeyed the beat—ten ticks to

raise one shovel filled with earth, five ticks to rest.

The metronome ceased its chant just as Adam finished digging. He climbed out of
 7

the grave, sat on the pile of earth, and watched the widow put the metronome in her bag

and walk toward the cemetery entrance. As she walked past him, the widow, for the first

time, turned her gaze on him. Adam couldn’t see her eyes, hidden behind the sunglasses,

but marveled at her full lips and high cheekbones. Then the widow crossed paths with

Noah, who entered the cemetery carrying two white bowls and a larger pink one. The

proprietor said, “Good afternoon.” From his sitting position atop the dirt pile, Adam saw

the widow nod slightly but couldn’t tell if she answered.

Noah walked up to the open grave and leaned forward to inspect it. He looked at

Adam and smiled. “It’s a terrific grave.”

Adam craned his neck. “I guess it is. Thanks.”

Noah sat on Morris Williams’ decrepit tombstone and, with a wooden ladle,

spooned the fruit salad from the pink bowl into the white ones. He handed a bowl to

Adam and said, “Now only two plots remain.”

“One for each of us,” Adam said and chuckled.

Noah pointed to the stone structure occupying the far left corner of the cemetery.

“Were it not for the mausoleum, we would have room for five more plots.”

Enjoying how the word mausoleum rolled off the tongue and appreciating its

ancient ramifications, Noah insisted on using the name even though the tomb’s diameter

was less than fifteen feet—too small for a mausoleum by historical standards. Noah

argued, and not without merit, that modern times and their affluence had enabled more

families to build smaller structures in which to shelter their deceased loved ones, thus

broadening the traditional definition. Adam contested Noah’s premise, but seeing the

pleasure his friend took in using the word, he let it be, though he referred to it as “the
 8

tomb.”

The tomb was constructed from uneven granite rocks. It was square, twelve feet

high, with two narrow pillars shadowing its arched entrance. Adam suspected that the

architect hadn’t been very good, or that other reasons—poor health, bad working

conditions, time constraints—had resulted in the tomb’s marginal structural integrity.

Still, two centuries later, it stood, a marble stele at the center, with a stone bench on either

side of it. On hot summer days, Adam sometimes reclined on a stone bench and took in

the cool silence coming off the thick walls.

Noah’s records said that the mausoleum had christened what had once been a

barren field. The man buried in the mausoleum on October 12, 1770, had been George

Lepiel, a wealthy merchant who’d made his fortune in logging forests and hunting bears

and foxes. Some forests had sprouted to live again, but the bears and foxes had long since

died out. “Lepiel willed the cemetery to the town’s people,” Noah had said to Adam

when the gravedigger had first moved into the redwood cabin. “Perhaps he feared to be

buried alone—a silly notion if you ask me—and felt soothed knowing he would

eventually be surrounded by many other dead people.”

Now, sitting on Williams’ grave, Noah sighed. “The cemetery will soon reach full

capacity. After forty years, no more burials, no new souls to bid farewell to with dignity,

no more family members to counsel through their mourning. I may be selfish in saying

so, but helping them makes me feel alive.”

“You’re the least selfish man I’ve met,” Adam said. “And you’ll still have the

families who visit the graves.”

“It’s not the same,” Noah said. “They grow stronger with time. Busy lives soon
 9

temper their sadness. When they visit the grave and I greet them, I see embarrassment in

their eyes, knowing I’ve witnessed their pain. They greet me warmly, but their guard is

up. They don’t want my sympathy any longer.”

The clutter of hooves and the creaking of wheels sounded from the cemetery

entrance. A donkey pulling a cart led by a slender young man with his dark hair in a

ponytail rattled up to the men sitting by the open grave. The young man clicked his

tongue and pulled on the reins. The donkey—a gray, old beast with its back arched

toward the ground and cataract-filled eyes leaking murky tears that stained its gaunt

cheeks—came to a docile stop.

Noah stood up and smiled. “Hello Paul, so nice of you to come.”

Adam eyed the dirt pile. Then, with the shovel, he drew a line and cordoned off

about a quarter of the dug-up earth. “Take that and put it under the avocado tree in my

garden.” Adam planned to mix the dirt with bat guano to liven his winter crops. He

yawned and stretched his sore arms. “I’m going to shower and nap.”

“And I have paperwork to do,” Noah said. He collected the bowls while Adam

handed Paul forty dollars.

“Thanks for the job,” Paul said. “Rebecca and I really need the money. Rachel’s

had a 103 fever for three days.”

Noah’s brow tightened. “Do you need money to visit the doctor?”

“We took her to the free clinic. They said it’s that flu goin’ round and gave her

antibiotics.”

Noah smiled at Adam. “She’s just about ready for first grade.”

Adam shook his head. “So fast. I still remember Rachel the toddler running
 10

around the cemetery and tripping over graves.”

 11

Chapter Two

We live for thousands of days until, one day, none remain, Adam thought as he

stood on a chair and looked over the cemetery’s back wall while Julia Morris was

lowered into the grave he’d dug the day before.

As the cemetery’s caretaker, he’d watched many funerals. A detached fascination

remained. Feeling somewhat guilty, Adam couldn’t honestly grieve for the people buried

in the cemetery. He equated grieving over a slice of earth to praying in a church: neither

the dead person nor God resided in either place. That was why cremation appealed to

him. He hadn’t cried when his father died, because he’d never met his father. He hadn’t

cried when his mother, only fifty-five and seemingly in perfect health, had died of a heart

attack. He hadn’t cried when Naomi died. He’d sit motionless for long moments and

squint to force out the tears, but none had come. He still vaguely hoped for the day when

tears would unlock the sadness weighing on his heart.

Noah joined the mourners attending the funeral. Dressed in his faded tuxedo, a

fedora clasped against his ample torso, Noah’s head was bowed in honest sadness. An old

man stood silently to the side, ignored by the other mourners. With the last of the earth

piled onto the grave, the priest recited a prayer, crossed himself, and said, “Amen.”

“Amen,” sounded the murmured response. The mourners stood in silence, heads bowed;

the hot afternoon sun struck their solemn faces. A woman, her face obscured by a black

veil, placed flowers on the grave. The priest crossed himself again and walked away,
 12

followed by Noah and the rest of the mourners. The old man standing to the side inched

closer to the grave, stood over it and whispered while shaking his head.

Adam stepped down from the chair and leaned against the wall. It was almost

noon; the widow would soon arrive. Adam decided to appear busy tending rose bushes in

the vicinity of row J plot C while the widow bowed to the metronome on her husband’s

grave. He yearned for her to notice him again, and looked forward to her stride and

auburn hair.

An hour later, settled on his knees by the rose bushes lining the pathway, Adam

was digging up earth and mixing in fertilizer when the widow’s dark figure walked

through the entrance. Adam waited until he heard the footsteps behind him, and then

stood up, turned toward the woman, and said, “Good afternoon.”

The widow nodded but did not speak. She brought the metronome out of her bag,

placed it on the tombstone, and triggered the ticking monotone.

Back on his knees, Adam rearranged the earth around a rose bush, but soon

became restless, flustered by the widow’s tepid response to his clumsy foray. He knew

that pestering a grieving client was unprofessional, rude even; part of his job as caretaker

was to appear like another shrub. Adam picked up his tools and walked off toward the

shed. Her back turned on him, the widow didn’t see him depart.

The sun shone warmly as Adam walked from the tool shed toward the tomb. He

entered through the arched doorway. Thick cobwebs covered the ceiling. Adam reclined

on a bench and smoked a cigarette. The smoke disappeared in the dark, but then swirled

in the sunlight at the entrance. Lying on his back, he was thinking about the widow and
 13

had almost dozed off, when he heard a long, guttural moan.

Goose bumps rose on his arms. Adam sat up quickly and looked around. The

tomb was empty. He rushed to the exit. The widow was sitting by the grave, and the old

man who had stood over Julia Morris’ grave was shuffling out and speaking with Noah

who walked beside him, nodding, hands clasped behind his back. Unsure if he’d

imagined the moan, Adam asked: “Anybody here?” Echoes of his voice replied. He sat

quietly and waited. The tomb was silent. Somewhat bewildered, though by now quite

sure he’d mistaken the breeze swirling through the tomb for a moan, Adam walked out

into the sunshine and saw the widow stride out of the cemetery.

By the time he reached his cabin, Adam had convinced himself that the moan had

been a figment of his imagination. No one had been in or near the tomb, therefore, he’d

imagined the moan. Adam was unsure about a lot of things—human nature, God’s nature,

a woman’s love—and openly admitted his agnostic tendencies. Nevertheless, he

remained sure of one thing: the dead did not moan, neither did they walk, eat, breathe, or

associate in any way with the living world. Years of intimate association with graves and

funerals had provided all the proof he needed: the barrier separating life and death was

impenetrable without exception.

Noah had mentioned paperwork that could not be delayed, so Adam spent the

evening alone, reading Gogol’s short story _The Portrait,_ which he found enchanting.

He also listened to Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” a piece of music that kept on giving.

Around midnight, Adam tucked himself in bed and drifted off in restful sleep that lasted

until he was jarred awake by the metallic thump of the train humming through the

redwood cabin. The unpleasant memory of when he had refused to fight a classmate in
 14

third grade rose to sadden him. Adam flailed his arms in the dark, wishing he could go

back in time and defend his honor. He couldn’t go back to sleep.

Dawn’s gray shadows invaded the bedroom, crawling, spreading over the floor,

inching up the walls, seeking equilibrium like water flooding an aqueduct. Adam lay in

bed and reflected briefly on the moan he’d heard in the tomb. He shrugged it off. An hour

passed in wakefulness and dozing before the childhood memory abated enough for Adam

to want to get dressed and step out into his garden, where he picked tomatoes and

avocados. He returned to the kitchen and made a sandwich, which he ate on the way to

Noah’s house.

Noah served Earl Grey tea sprinkled with milk, and they sat in the living room on

a decades-old brown couch. “Yesterday’s funeral, if sparsely attended, was still a

memorable one,” Noah said.

“Who was the old man?” Adam asked. “Looked like he was ignored by the rest of

the people.”

Noah shook his head. “Love’s sediment, like quicksand, sometimes locks our feet

in the mud against our best intentions.”

Adam chuckled. “Let me guess, he was her lover.”

“Yes,” Noah said and scratched his chin, eyes drifting to a hummingbird skirting

by the window.

“And she left her husband for him and her children are pissed.”

“Indeed.” Noah smiled sadly. “So few stories has man, no more than four or five.

The old man, Joseph is his name, is riddled with cancer. He confessed he was going to

kill himself as soon as he returned home. ‘Now that my dear Julia is gone,’ he said, ‘I
 15

have no need to wait my turn to join her.’”

“And you, of course, tried to talk him out of it,” Adam said.

“I did,” Noah said, “but my words lacked conviction, sounding false in my ears.”

“Are you telling me I should start digging another grave?”

“Not at all. He already owns a plot in Green Meadows.”

Adam shuddered. “What a faceless place, like a Kmart.”

“Indeed,” Noah said solemnly, but then smiled. “Let’s carve potatoes for little

Rachel and go visit her. Paul says she’s better and could use company.”

“Good idea,” Adam said, hoping to quell his restlessness by carving potatoes.

Noah walked to the kitchen and returned with two knives and four large, oval

potatoes, their skins greenish brown. He set them on the table. “What shall the theme

be?”

“How about fish?” Adam said. “A family of dolphins.”

Noah clenched a fist. “Terrific choice,” he said, and sank into the couch. The

cushion exhaled an exhausted puff. “I’ll carve the baby dolphins while you carve the

parents.”

“Agreed.” Adam took hold of a potato. They settled into carving until Adam

asked: “Can you tell me more about the widow with the metronome?”

Noah raised his silver eyebrows. “And why do you ask?”

Trying to hide his burning curiosity, Adam shrugged. “Yesterday she noticed me

for the first time, a fleeting glance, but I could tell how beautiful she is.”

“She is ravishing,” Noah said. “The eternity of woman carves her body.”

“What’s her name?”

 16

“Eva.”

Adam exhaled a low whistle. “Eva. Eva Burns. The name fits her well.”

Busy shaping the dolphin’s tail, Noah said, “I’ve talked to her briefly over the last

year. She’s quite guarded about her past. Some mourners are that way, but usually, when

they pay homage as often as she does, I’m able to develop a more fluid exchange.”

Adam nodded. “She’s mysterious. I’d like to talk to her but I don’t want to be

pushy.”

“You would be if you tried,” Noah said.

The two men finished carving the dolphins. Adam’s sculptures looked more

lifelike. Noah had trouble duplicating the snouts and fins, and confessed to having “lead

fingers” as he dried the figurines with a towel.

“They look fine,” Adam said. “They have personality.”

Noah placed the dolphin potatoes in a paper bag. “Shall we go?”

They stepped outside and got into Noah’s golf cart. The sight of the cart chugging

along with the two men—one rotund and round-faced, the other lanky and long-faced—

further justified their nicknames, Laurel and Hardy.

The Robbins family’s mobile home stood at the end of a narrow dirt path and was

shaded by pine trees. A corral to the right sheltered the old mule; two rusting swings and

a seesaw centered the front yard. The wood porch was decorated with potted flowers and

hanging vines that hugged the beams. A diminutive round-faced and dark-eyed woman

with brown hair cropped above her shoulders opened the door.

“How are you, Rebecca?” Noah asked warmly.

Rebecca smiled. “So nice of you to come. Rachel will be thrilled.” She glanced up
 17

at Adam. “Are you getting taller?” she asked in jest, as she almost always did.

“A growth spurt is normal at sixty-two,” he replied with a fresh answer to the

recurring question.

Rebecca smiled, then turned to Noah and said, “Don’t forget to mail the electric

and water bills. I left the envelopes on your desk.”

Noah replied: “I shudder at what the state of cemetery affairs would be without

your executive assistance.”

The room smelled of cabbage. There was a kitchenette to the right, and two beds

and a clothing cupboard took up the left side of the room. The walls were lined with

family portraits and Rachel’s drawings—sailboats on the sea and flower gardens. Adam

and Noah sat on a weathered couch at the center of the room while Rebecca set a pot of

water on the stove. She peered out the window overlooking the corral and cried: “Rachel.

Uncles Noah and Adam are here,” then turned to the men and smiled. “Rachel’s been

spending a lot of time with Seymour. The poor mule looks like he’s ready to drop

anytime.”

Noah pursed his lips. “Seymour has lived a laborious life filled with dignity.”

The front door swung open and a barefoot Rachel charged in. She wore a pink

dress, and her dark locks bounced on her shoulders as she ran and jumped into Noah’s

lap.

“My dear child,” murmured Noah and wrapped his chubby arms around her thin

torso. He lifted her chin and narrowed his eyes to closely look at her face. “You seem

well, if still a bit pale.”

Rachel reached from her sitting position on Noah’s lap and skirted her fingers
 18

across Adam’s wrinkled forehead. “Waves.”

“Sand dunes.” Adam said, and stretched his forehead upward to deepen the

wrinkles. Rachel laughed.

Noah pointed to the paper bag on the table. “And what have we here?”

Rachel opened the bag and brought out a potato. “Dolphins!” she cried. “I love

dolphins.”

“It’s a family, with mommy and daddy and two sisters,” Noah said and took out

the other figurines.

Rachel’s dark eyes widened. “I want to paint them.” She rushed to rummage

under a bed and brought out a set of watercolors and two thin brushes.

“That should keep her busy for a while,” Rebecca noted while placing a tray with

teacups and a plate with cheese and crackers on the table.

Rachel hopped her way back to the table. “Can I paint them any color I want?”

“Dolphins are gray,” Noah said and quivered his chin, but then smiled. “Gray is a

boring color. I’m sure the dolphins wouldn’t mind if you painted them purple or green.”

He turned to Adam who was sipping tea and chewing a cracker. “Do you think they

would mind?”

“While I was carving them, the daddy said he wants to be gray,” Adam replied

and smiled at Rachel. “He feels gray is a respectable color. But the mother wants to be

pink.”

Rachel laughed and pointed to her dress. “I like pink.”

While Noah and Rachel delved into coloring the dolphins, Rebecca tended to

folding laundry, and Adam stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. He walked to the corral.
 19

Seymour, eyes tearing, stood gnawing on alfalfa. The animal lifted its head to greet him.

Adam held out a cigarette, filter in hand, in front of the mule’s mucus-stained snout.

Seymour sniffed, then curled his lower lip and bit off the cigarette from its filter.

Chewing the tobacco slowly, the mule let out a grunt and turned to sip from the trough.

“You’re a crusty old beast,” Adam said and recalled the oak tree on the wind-

swept hill, roots deep in dry earth in search of moisture. The mule wouldn’t be around

much longer, and neither would the oak tree, Adam thought, and then chuckled: he could

drop dead in Seymour’s corral, but that would be imposing upon company.

Late afternoon sunrays weaved through the pine trees when Adam walked back to

the mobile home. Paul was there, jeans and white T-shirt stained with oil. He stood

washing his hands at the kitchen sink. Noah and Rachel were almost done painting the

dolphins: father gray, mother pink, daughters red and purple. Rebecca had finished

folding the laundry and now stood by the stove stirring soup with a wooden ladle. “Please

stay for dinner,” she said. “We have chicken-cabbage soup with bread and butter.”

Noah saluted. “We would be honored.”

“Why do they put cabbage in chicken soup?” Rachel asked and wrinkled her nose.

“Because chickens like cabbage,” Noah said and winked at Adam.

Rachel laughed. “No, they don’t, Uncle Noah. You’re kidding, right?”

Noah slapped his thigh. “Oh, shucks. You got me.”

Paul sat in the metal chair across from the couch. He handed out beers and drank

deeply from his. “Hot day at the shop. They finally offered me a day’s work.”

“Time’s are tough,” Adam said. “Hang in there.”

Paul sighed. “I’m lucky to work two days a week.”

 20

Rebecca served the soup while Noah buttered Rachel’s bread.

“I love to dunk my bread in the soup,” Rachel said and speared the broth.

“It’s yummy,” Noah said and followed suit.

“I want to help Uncle Adam in his garden. I like finding worms,” Rachel said.

“Can you take me there, Daddy?”

“On Saturday I could,” Paul said. “If it’s all right with Adam.”

“Saturday it is,” Adam assured Rachel. “We’ll eat avocados with salt.”

“I love salty avocados,” Rachel said, “but I don’t want Seymour to take us there.

He’s too old.”

“How about I come get you in my golf cart?” Noah said.

“Yes!”

Noah leaned in and whispered: “I may even let you sit in my lap and drive it.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. But it’ll cost you a kiss on my forehead and one on each cheek.”

Rachel laughed and planted a kiss on Noah’s forehead and one on each cheek.

Noah wiped the kiss with a forefinger and tasted it. “Soup kisses,” he said, and smacked

his lips.

Rachel’s smile faded. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired, Mommy. I feel dizzy.”

“I warned you about overdoing it,” Rebecca said. “You’re still weak from the flu.

Go lie down and I’ll take your temperature.” She shrugged at her guests. “She’s had the

flu for a week, can’t seem to shake it off.”

“We’ll be on our way,” Noah said.

Twilight shrouded the landscape when Adam and Noah drove away. Rachel
 21

waved goodbye until the cart reached the top of the ridge and her darkening silhouette

vanished. “What a precious child,” Noah said.

“And growing up so quickly,” said Adam.

Noah puckered his lips. “I’m sorry I never had children.”

Adam smiled. “You would’ve been a great dad.”

“I believe I would have,” Noah said. “I guess I’m not the marrying type. Too

comfortable in my solitude.”

“I know the feeling,” Adam said, though he’d felt like the marrying type when

Naomi and he were together; but he didn’t want to think about those days.

“I remember when Rachel was a day old,” Noah said. “I truly believe I love her as

much as I’d love my own daughter. It’s difficult for me to imagine a deeper love.”

“And she loves you like her grandfather. It’s never too late to love,” Adam said,

though he sometimes felt that love was harder to come by as he aged. “I’m going to hose

down the paths tomorrow,” he said and got out of the golf cart now parked by Noah’s

house.

Noah nodded. “Excellent idea. They’ve become quite dusty. Would you care for

coffee?”

“I’m good,” Adam said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 22

Chapter Three

Adam’s arm guided the hose over the flagstone path. The water struck the trail

and sprung up in droplets that struck sunlight and lit up with the colors of the rainbow.

He raised the hose above his head and fastened his thumb over the spurting hole, so that a

colorful canopy of droplets rained on him. He shut his eyes and let the water trickle into

his mouth. He was stepping across the path and humming “I’m Singin’ in the Rain,”

when he saw the widow standing not far away, her arms wrapped around two potted pink

Kalanchoes. A few droplets had stained her sunglasses, while others had landed in her

auburn hair and sparkled like diamonds. Like a teenager caught still playing with toy

soldiers, Adam dropped the hose and muttered: “I’m sorry.”

Lips pursed, the widow seemed bothered. She placed the potted plants on the

pathway, took off her sunglasses, and wiped them on her dress. Adam, for the first time,

saw her eyes—sky blue and ocean deep. She put her glasses back on, ran her fingers

through her hair, and shook off the droplets with her fingertips, then lifted the potted

plants and walked up to Adam who stood rooted to the ground, hunched over like a

reprimanded child. “I want these planted by the grave,” she said.

Her voice was a raspy alto, with an accent, perhaps South American; the word

“planted” sounded like “plunted.”

“Of course.” He rushed the words. “I’ll get my garden tools.”

 23

Feeling the widow’s stare in his back, Adam slouched his way to the tool shed

and returned with a bucket half filled with fertilizer, a hose, and a short-handled shovel.

The widow had placed the potted plants on the tombstone, and was sitting with her head

bowed while the metronome ticked away.

Adam stood fidgeting. “Do you want me to plant them now or after you’ve left?”

he finally asked, feeling his voice strain.

“Now is okay,” she said, head still bowed.

“Where do you want me to plant them?”

The widow pointed two fingers to both sides of the tombstone parallel to the

headstone. Adam ran the hose to a tap and twisted the tap’s rusty handle. The hose made

a hollow sound, then sputtered and belched trickles of brown water before clear water

began to flow from it. Standing about four feet from the widow, Adam saturated the

ground at the assigned spots. He felt self-conscious, intruding on some ritual he had no

reason to partake in. Part of him wanted to straighten his shoulders and say, “It’ll be

better if I plant later. I’ll leave you to your privacy,” while another part of him—one

causing an unusual tremor in his heart, both pleasing and disconcerting—yearned to

remain in her presence where he could steal glances at her hair, the way her dress draped

her thighs, and the smooth whiteness of her neck.

The ground yielded easily and Adam quickly dug two holes. He loosened the

plants from their pots, smoothed out their dangling roots with his fingers, and placed

them in the one-foot-deep holes. He added water to the bucket with the fertilizer, mixed

the contents with the shovel, and slowly poured the concoction into the holes. While he

worked, he glanced at the headstone: Forrest Burns 1959-2009. That was a funny name.
 24

Had Forrest been a funny man? He’d been a lucky man, married to a beautiful woman

who visited his grave daily, rain or shine. Why had he died so young? Noah had

mentioned a traffic accident. Had he been driving drunk? Had his car had a blowout on

the freeway?

“They look nice,” the widow said.

“They do,” Adam said. “With proper care, pink Kalanchoes can grow two feet

and last for years.”

“Thank you for planting them,” the widow said, then bowed her head and

returned to commune with the metronome.

“You’re welcome,” Adam said. “I’ll make sure they take to the ground.

Sometimes the roots have a tough time.” His voice fighting the metronome, Adam

stopped talking. He unhooked the hose, gathered his tools, walked to the shed, and then

watched the widow, peeking through the cracks in the wooden walls. She placed the

metronome in her bag and walked away, her stride like a sleek yacht rocking upon gentle

seas.

For the remainder of the day Adam found himself operating in a haze that

prevented him from reading a book while sitting on the bench in his garden, and that had

him pleasurably noticing birds in flight and clouds morphing with the late afternoon

breeze.

Later that evening, after Noah arrived with salad and chicken breasts fried in

bread crumbs to complement the garlic mashed potatoes Adam had prepared, and after

they’d raised wine glasses in a toast, Adam said, “The widow,” he lingered and then

uttered her name, “Eva,” almost proudly enunciating the syllables, “had me plant two
 25

pink Kalanchoes by her husband’s grave today.”

Noah, who’d spent the day visiting a doctor in town about his arthritis, raised his

bushy eyebrows with great interest, perhaps almost disbelief. “How unusual,” he said and

twirled his fork in the leafy greens.

“Why do you say that?” Adam asked.

Noah shrugged. “She could have just as well left them on my porch with a note

stating her needs.”

Excitement rose in Adam’s gut. “Why do you think she didn’t do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Noah took a bite from the mashed potatoes and smacked his lips.

“The potatoes are perfectly mashed.”

“Thanks,” Adam said. “Your chicken and salad are great.”

Silence lingered while the men settled into eating dinner. Adam ate small bites,

heart and mind entangled in thoughts and emotions. He had almost convinced himself

that the widow had acted the way she had because she wanted to talk to him, that she had

used the plants as a decoy. Why the beautiful widow would care to meet him remained

dubious and caused Adam to scold himself for having such thoughts of self-delusion.

“She has blue eyes and a pleasant voice, maybe a South American accent,” he said.

“Argentinean,” Noah divulged, gaze fixed on his plate.

“What’s wrong?” Adam asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” Noah said, and lay down his fork. “Why does she come to

the cemetery so often?”

Adam leaned back in his chair. “She comes to mourn her husband.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “In more than forty years of living on the cemetery
 26

grounds, I’ve never witnessed such devotion.”

“Why does she then?” Adam asked, hiding his interest by stacking his fork with

mashed potatoes.

Noah shrugged.

“I think she wanted to talk to me,” Adam heard himself say. “Maybe the potted

plants were a decoy—” He stopped, embarrassed by the outburst caused by a futile search

for anything to fill his lonely life.

Rather than suggesting his friend was a bit soft in the head, and that the conduct

of a good groundskeeper was to remain inconspicuous as a shrub, Noah said, “Maybe she

does seek your company.”

“So it’s okay if I talk to her?” Adam was the youngster begging to use the family

car on a stormy night.

Noah shrugged. “I suppose it could do no harm if you did.”

Gaining begrudging yet formal leave to speak with Eva, no longer “the widow” in

Adam’s mind, caused him to almost break out in a jig. He sipped his wine and said,

“Maybe I will,” when Noah quickly said, “Don’t let your emotions become too

overbearing. By the way, the Robbinses are coming to lunch tomorrow.”

Adam chuckled, relieved to change the subject. “I’ll make sure to dig up some

insects for Rachel, though I won’t find worms this time of year.”

“Any crawling creature will do,” Noah said.

An hour later, after the two men had sat in the wicker chairs on the porch listening

to the sounds of darkness and engaging in small talk, Noah yawned and said, “I should

get some shuteye.”

 27

Alone on the porch after Noah’s departure, Adam lit a cigarette and let himself

fantasize about Eva. She’d sit in the cabin’s dining room, across the table from him,

while candles flickered and cast shadows on walls adorned with the native masks he’d

acquired in his travels. They’d sip red wine and Adam would serve pot roast with carrots

and baby red potatoes. Eva would comment on the devilish-looking mask hanging above

the mantle, so Adam would trace its origin to India, and share the humorous yet daring

anecdote of when he’d woken up in an Indian rainforest to find a four-foot python

wrapped around his thigh. He’d slept too close to where the snake had laid her eggs. It

took two men to unwrap the snake from his thigh, and the episode had since served as a

good conversation piece over dinner. Eva would toss back her head and laugh, and he’d

notice the sparkle of interest, a romantic one, flicker in her blue eyes.

The cuckoo clock above the fireplace chimed two in the morning, but Adam could

not sleep. The half moon shone in a cloudless sky, and Adam decided to take a walk

through the cemetery. Years earlier, he’d enjoyed frequent night strolls amidst the graves,

but with advancing age, sleep less tangible and more precious, he was less inclined to do

so. Set in orderly fashion, the graves tried hopelessly to lend comfort and logic to what,

over three millennia, the wisest scientists, philosophers, and theologians, diligently

writing countless reports, passionately penning numerous essays, feverishly delivering

God’s sermons, had failed to do, leaving the passage from life to death as

incomprehensible as it had appeared to the Neanderthal standing on a wind-swept hill,

gazing at the stars and shaking a fist in protest.

Adam walked to the back of the cemetery and leaned on the tomb wall. He
 28

reflected on the moan he’d imagined hearing and chuckled at his sensory gullibility,

mistaking the wind for a human voice. He entered the tomb and sat on the stone bench.

Soft moon rays shone through cobwebs dangling from the doorway. The tomb was dark,

with tiny spots of moonlight shimmering through cracks in the tired walls. In less than a

hundred years, these walls would crumble, Adam thought, when the idea to rehabilitate

the structure crossed his mind. Why such an obvious task hadn’t occurred to him in

fifteen years, he wasn’t sure. He was contemplating how to go about fixing the structure,

when a deep moan reverberated in the tomb.

Feeling the nonexistent hair on his head rise, Adam’s heart rattled his ribcage. He

jumped to his feet, ran outside, and settled into a rapid stroll that led him out of the

cemetery and to his cabin. Knees trembling, he sat in the wicker chair on his porch and

was smoking his third cigarette when he heard the distant rattle of a locomotive. He

sprung to his feet and hurried outside. He ran through the woods and reached the train

tracks in time to witness the angry mammoth breach the night, strobe light soaking the

tracks. The locomotive picked up speed as it rumbled by him. Adam loudly counted two

hundred and thirty-eight cars—flatbeds, rectangular, and cylinders—their ruthless pulse a

million times louder than Eva’s ticking metronome. He found no reprieve in counting

cars. Neither could he find comfort in sleep. Making a sandwich with leftover chicken

also failed to calm him. Only after drinking two cups of red wine, did Adam’s tension

ease somewhat. By then, watching dawn strangle the night, he was exhausted. He lay in

his bed and managed two hours of sleep.

Waking up, however, he found himself in the same predicament he’d faced the

night before: this time there had been no wind, and he alone had wandered the cemetery,
 29

yet the moan, clear and unequivocally human, had sounded in the tomb. Would the

memory of the moan abate with the rising sun? The hot August day allowed him to

snicker at his imagination, to pretend that nothing had happened in the tomb. The dead

were dead—they didn’t moan or talk, breathe or walk, or engage in any activity reserved

for the living. Ghosts did not populate cemeteries. Spirits did not haunt tombs.

Sitting on the wooden bench under the avocado tree and sipping coffee, Adam

had little time to contemplate the moan haunting the tomb when running feet sounded

from the path circling the cemetery. Wearing a red dress, dark curls in braids, Rachel ran

up to Adam’s cabin. She plopped herself beside him and reached out her frail arms to

circle his lanky torso. “Hi, Uncle Adam. Can we dig for worms?”

He forced a smile and mussed her hair. “We can try, but worms live only in the

rainy season.”

Rachel frowned. “Worms don’t make it to their birthday.”

“I’m not partial to worms,” Adam said. “I prefer beetles.”

Rachel laughed, a sound like bells on a sleigh. “I like it when they lie on their

back and wiggle their legs and can’t turn over.”

“I’ll be right back,” Adam said, and fetched spoons and a glass jar from the cabin.

Crouching in the garden, they carefully sifted through the earth.

“A spider, a spider!” Rachel shrieked and pointed to the black insect.

Adam spooned the spider and dropped it in the glass jar. The spider raced around

the surface and tried to scale the slippery walls, before it finally tired and stood wagging

its tiny tentacles. They’d captured two more spiders and a centipede when Adam asked:

“Ready for salty avocados?”

 30

“I’m not hungry,” Rachel said.

“How come? You’re always hungry for salty avocados. Maybe a few slices?”

They entered the cabin where Adam fished an avocado from a woven basket,

sliced it in two, and carved out the soft center from its shell. He sliced the fruit into strips,

sprinkled salt on them, and served the snack to Rachel who was sitting at the dining table,

eyes darting across the masks mounted on the wall. She pointed to a woman’s face

painted red and green, an angel etched in the middle of her forehead. “Who’s that one?”

“It’s a medicine woman from Sumatra.”

“Is that far?”

“Twenty hours on an airplane, halfway around the planet.”

Rachel nibbled a slice of avocado and placed it back on the plate. “But if the

Earth is round, how come people on the other side don’t fall off?”

“Gravity,” Adam said, knowing his answer wouldn’t satisfy his guest.

“And all the masks are dead people?”

“I’m not sure. Would you like orange juice?”

“Okay.”

When he returned with the orange juice, the plate with the avocado still lay full.

Rachel sipped from the cup, eyes fixated on the mask. “Does she know what happens to

dead people?”

“Maybe. I didn’t meet her. I only have the mask.”

Rachel’s innocent question forcefully returned the moan to the forefront of

Adam’s thoughts. He was certain about what happened to dead people: nothing. Their

bodies became worm food and, within a short amount of time, nothing of them remained,
 31

aside from crumbling bones, memories in the minds of the people who’d known them,

and whatever contributions they’d made while living—a painting, a statue, a book, a

musical instrument, a house, a scarf… Certainty of the impenetrable barrier separating

life and death, though disconcerting to some, served Adam well. He accepted living out

his allotted years and then sinking quietly into the abyss of history, where he’d be quickly

forgotten. The finality of his insignificant existence appeased him, allowed him to survive

without great spiritual turmoil. Now a moan had sounded, and a tormented one at that.

Had it risen from the afterlife? Adam’s mind could not accept that possibility. Where,

then, had it come from?

“Sometimes I hear a voice when there’s no one there,” Rachel said.

“What does the voice say?” he asked.

“That it’s okay to be dead,” Rachel said in ways confident beyond her years.

“Are you afraid to die?” he asked.

Rachel whispered, “No,” but her eyes clouded with tears.

“Don’t be afraid,” Adam said, when a knock sounded on the door and Rebecca’s

cheery face peeked in. She immediately noticed her daughter’s discomfort.

“What’s wrong sweetie?” she asked and caressed Rachel’s curls.

Adam pointed to the mask of the medicine woman. “I think the mask upset her.”

“She talks to dead people,” Rachel said, “just like I do.”

Tucking her daughter’s head into her bosom, Rebecca smiled at Adam and rolled

her eyes. “She’s been quite preoccupied with death since she had the high fever.”

“I talk to a man who wants to marry me. He says he loves me,” Rachel said.

“Please, Rachel,” Rebecca said. “Can we stop this nonsense?”

 32

“Children have active imaginations,” Adam said, glad to be in the company of an

adult, yearning for a room filled with laughter and activity, with windows open to the

sun, a room where guests united around a dinner table stacked with sumptuous food and

fine wine, where worries and doubts floated off in a swift river of sensory delight.

“Let’s walk to Noah’s house,” Rebecca said and held Rachel’s hand. “He has a

new set of watercolors for you to paint with.”

Adam walked beside a skipping Rachel who clutched her mother’s hand. It was

Saturday. Eva wouldn’t be visiting her husband’s grave, and even if she did, he was in no

mood to carry on flirty conversations. Instead, he wanted to return to the tomb, sit on the

bench, and wait for the moan to sound again. And when it did, he’d remain seated, light

up a cigarette, and say, “Stop your moaning and tell me who you are.” Maybe, as Eva had

done with the pink Kalanchoes, using them to befriend him, whatever inhabited the tomb

had moaned in need of his ear and company. The possibility pierced his mind: he was

going insane. He forcefully tucked that notion away.

Chatty and slightly drunk, Noah and Paul greeted them with smiles. As Adam had

yearned for, a table covered with white cloth and stacked with food awaited him.

Rotisserie chicken, corn on the cob, white rice, a Caesar salad, steamed carrots, and an

apple pie garnished with strawberries and whipped cream combined with four glasses of

red wine to soothe his questioning mind. Noah’s humorous and finely told anecdotes of

cemetery culture, Rebecca’s kind eyes, Paul’s impersonations of Robert de Niro and Al

Pacino, Rachel’s bell-like laughter, and the nurturing sound of clinking silverware, all

served to chase away the memory of the moan.

At nine in the evening, pleasantly drunk, stomach stretched from food, Adam
 33

returned to his cabin. He sat at the dining table and stared at the masks mounted on the

walls. The medicine woman from Sumatra; the Viking from Finland, white bearded, with

unkempt hair; the Fijian, an arrow thrust through his wide nostrils, dark eyes glowing

with murderous intent; the man-dog from Egypt, hieroglyphs etched on his cheeks and

forehead; the Kikuyu woman, face painted white with red streaks across her cheeks and

under her lucid eyes; the Japanese Samurai, slanted eyes but slits, dark hair pulled back

sharply in a braid.

Adam had more masks in storage. Had he mounted all his masks on the walls, the

cabin would look like an anthropological exhibit. Already the display seemed

overbearing. The masks revived memories of countries he’d visited and people he’d met

—an extension of him, proof he hadn’t wasted his life. “A wasted life,” he whispered.

Sometimes he thought that all life was wasted. That was the nature of life—to be wasted.

No bending words could change that. A life was like an asteroid streaking through the

atmosphere until, very quickly, battered and bruised, it disintegrated and burned up.

The masks snickered and stared him down, dead eyes beaming through dark slits.

Adam rushed the masks. He ripped them off the walls, threw them into a paper bag, and

tossed the bag into his bedroom closet.

He sat on the porch and was trying to catch his breath when he realized there was

only one thing left to do. Adam stood up. He would go to the tomb, sit on the bench by

the tombstone, and wait for the moan, wait to be called upon by a power he didn’t believe

in, but one that would haunt him and make his life hopelessly miserable unless he did.