The day is bright and fresh. The stifling humidity that’s had Port Royal in its chokehold has eased, and a gentle, cool breeze teases at the boughs of the huge live oak that presides over the cemetery at St. Regis of Martyr’s Catholic Church. It sounds like the wind is whispering to us as we gather by the tiny graveside, heads bowed, sad but light at the same time.
Friday, Tina and Shane were the only people we asked to attend. No one else really mattered. The only other person I would have wanted here is Jo. Callan’s sad that his mother isn’t with us now, too. I can read it all over him. In a way she is, though. The tiny grave we’ve had prepared for our son is right on top of hers. I know wherever she is, she’s watching over our baby in the same way that she watches over us every day.
Sam the Priest was a literal godsend when we told him what we wanted to do. He didn’t ask questions when we told him we had no paperwork. He didn’t say a word when we told him he couldn’t inspect the body.
He and Callan went out at first light and dug the hole on top of Jo’s grave, shallower, closer to the surface, but still right there with her. In time we’ll have a stonemason come and engrave our son’s name on the headstone beneath hers, but for now Callan asked me to paint a series of birds onto the polished marble. They’ll wash away. In a short space of time, the wind and the sun will wear at them until they disappear, but for now it’s a fitting tribute.
Tina sobs uncontrollably as Sam stands over the narrow maw of earth at his feet and speaks. Callan and I are one, his arms wrapped around me, my head resting on his chest. We take comfort in one another as we listen.
“I know none of you are churchgoers, so don’t even bother pretending,” Sam says, sending a bemused glance around our small group. “But I am a man of God, and I believe in his infinite mercy. Children are one of his most sublime gifts. There are many quotes that I could read right now, some that are directly relevant to the passing of the innocent, but I thought this particular piece of scripture was fitting. It’s from the Song of Solomon.” He clears his throat softly and continues in hushed tones. “My beloved speaks and says to me: "Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.” Sam turns to us, then, and smiles sadly.
“Callan, Coralie, your son was called away a long time ago but he remains with you still. When two souls come together to create life, they each dedicate a small part of themselves to their child. Once this is done, death can’t sever the ties between you. You don’t need to believe in God to believe that. This might not be a theory that my superiors would necessarily smile upon, but no matter what we are or who created us, we’re all energy. And energy that becomes bound together by love cannot be torn apart. Not by time. Not by grief and pain. Not even the veil of death.”
Callan grips me tighter, standing still as a statue as Sam finishes his sermon. He speaks eloquently, gently, and makes Friday turn and wander off, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief. Eventually, he says, “We inter the spirit of this child unto you, oh Lord. We entrust him into your care that you might watch over him into the eternities. May you bless him and keep him always. We name him…?” Sam gives Callan and me a questioning look. We both answer at the same time.
“We name him Joseph.”
*****
“So what now?” Shane slams back a shot of Jamison’s and grimaces. Tina hands him another one, which is surprising but I think she wants to get drunk. Since she can’t, she’s enabling her husband by pouring hard liquor down his throat. Shane points a finger at Callan and then swings it at me like it’s an offensive weapon. “Los Angeles? Or New York? And don’t tell me you guys aren’t gonna fucking sort this out once and for all and finally be together, ‘cause I will literally stab you.”
Three stools down, Sheriff Mason’s beer halts halfway to her mouth; she turns to look at Shane, frowning.
“Not literally, of course, Amanda. More figuratively,” Shane says.
“Glad to hear it.”
When he turns back around, third shot in his hand, he has a fierce scowl on his face, though. “I’ll do it,” he hisses. “I know all the best places to bury a body around here. Mmm. Speaking of which, does this mean you’re not sticking around for your father’s funeral now?”
“No fucking way she is,” Callan says. “She’s going back to LA in the morning and I’m going back to New York. We both have some…things to sort out. After that, we’re moving to Colorado.”
Shane nearly spits his whiskey out. “What now?”