Eden, Charlotte, and Savannah were holding court near the Snow family plot, which enjoyed a prime location in the center of the rows of headstones. It was covered with bright plastic flowers and cherubs. There was even a little plastic fawn nibbling grass next to the tallest headstone. Decorating graves was another one of Gatlin's contests — a way to prove that you and your family members, even the dead ones, were better than your neighbors and theirs. People went all out. Plastic wreaths wrapped in green nylon vines, shiny rabbits and squirrels, even birdbaths, so hot from the sun they could burn the skin right off your fingers. There was no overdoing it. The tackier, the better.
My mom used to laugh about her favorites. “They're still lifes, works of art like the ones painted by the Dutch and Flemish masters, only these are made of plastic. The sentiment's the same.” My mom could laugh at the worst of Gatlin's traditions and respect the best of them. Maybe that's how she survived around here.
She was particularly partial to the glow-in-the-dark crosses that lit up at night. Some summer evenings, the two of us would lie on the hill in the cemetery and watch them light up at dusk, as if they were stars. Once I asked her why she liked to lie out there. “This is history, Ethan. The history of families, the people they loved, the ones they lost. Those crosses, those silly plastic flowers and animals, they were put there to remind us of someone who is missed. Which is a beautiful thing to see, and it's our job to see it.” We never told my dad about those nights in the cemetery. It was one of those things we did alone.
I would have to walk past most of Jackson High and step over a plastic rabbit or two to get to the Wate family plot on the outskirts of the lawn. That was the other thing about All Souls. There wasn't actually much remembering involved. In another hour, everyone over twenty-one would be standing around gossiping about the living, right after they finished gossiping about the dead, and everyone under thirty would be getting wasted behind the mausoleums. Everyone but me. I'd be too busy remembering.
“Hey, man.” Link jogged up alongside me and smiled at the Sisters. “Afternoon, ma'ams.”
“How are you today, Wesley? You're growin’ like a weed, aren't ya?” Aunt Prue was huffing and sweating.
“Yes, ma'am.” Rosalie Watkins was standing behind Link, waving at Aunt Prue.
“Ethan, why don't you go on with Wesley? I see Rosalie, and I need to ask her what kinda flour she uses in her hummingbird cake.” Aunt Prue dug her cane into the grass, and Thelma helped Aunt Mercy out of her wheelchair.
“You sure you'll be all right?”
Aunt Prue scowled at me. “ ’Course we'll be all right. We've been lookin’ after ourselves since before you were born.”
“Since before your daddy was born,” Aunt Grace corrected.
“I almost forgot.” Aunt Prue opened her pocketbook and fished something out. “Found that darned cat's tag.” She looked down at Lucille disapprovingly. “Not that it helped us any. Not like some people care about years a loyalty and all those walks on your very own clothesline. I reckon it doesn't buy you a drop a gratitude, when it comes ta some people.” The cat wandered away without so much as a look back.
I looked at the metal tag with Lucille's name etched into it, and slipped it in my pocket. “The ring is missing.”
“Best put it in your wallet, in case you have ta prove she doesn't have rabies. She's a biter. Thelma'll see ’bout fetchin’ another one.”
“Thanks.”
The Sisters linked arms, and those three gargantuan hats knocked up against each other as they shuffled toward their friends. Even the Sisters had friends. My life sucked.
“Shawn and Earl brought some beer and Jim Beam. Everyone's meetin’ behind the Honeycutt crypt.” At least I had Link.
We both knew I wouldn't be getting drunk anywhere. In a few minutes, I would be standing over my dead mother's grave. I'd be thinking about the way she always laughed when I told her about Mr. Lee and his twisted version of U.S. History, or U.S. Hysteria, as she called it. How she and my dad danced to James Taylor in our kitchen in bare feet. How she knew exactly what to say when everything was going wrong, like when my ex-girlfriend would rather be with some kind of mutant Supernatural than with me.
Link put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. Let's walk around.” I would be standing over her grave today, but I wasn't ready. Not yet.
L, where are —
I caught myself and tried to pull my mind away. I don't know why I still reached for her. Habit, I guess. But instead of Lena's voice, I heard Savannah's. She stood in front of me, wearing way too much makeup but somehow still managing to look pretty. She was all glossy hair and gloppy eyelashes and tied-up little straps on her sundress that were probably only there to make a guy think about untying them. I mean, if you didn't know what a bitch she was, or didn't care.
“I'm real sorry about your mamma, Ethan.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. Her mother probably made her come over here, pillar of the community that Mrs. Snow was. Tonight, though it was barely over a year since my mom died, I'd find more than one casserole on our doorstep, just like the day after her funeral. Time passed slowly in Gatlin, kind of like dog years, only in reverse. And like the day after the funeral, Amma would leave every one of them out there for the possums.