mother returned before long, the beleaguered Geoffrey sitting cross-legged in the middle of the battered stroller, triumphantly licking a sucker, while the disgraced marauders trailed behind, scuffing their feet on the ground with their frog boots and glowering, clearly plotting revenge. God help poor Geoffrey. He should have just let them run him over.
She smiled and thanked me and said they should be going. I swallowed hard and said it was my pleasure and handed the baby back. It wasn’t easy but I did. But when they walked away, trailing their overworked mother like a line of green-footed ducklings, and little Walt spun around as they reached the sidewalk, grinning and waving his arm over his head . . . that’s when I lost it.
When I got on the subway, I sat with my face turned toward the window and let the tears flow all the way from West 86th to West 168th Street, wiping my nose on my sleeve as I emerged from the station. I was so upset that when a call came in from an unknown number with a somewhat familiar area code, I actually ignored it. The way my life was going, it would only be bad news. And when I listened to the voicemail left by the man with the deep voice and slow drawl the next day, I found out my instincts were right. It was bad news, terrible news that made my tears fall anew.
But when I calmed down enough to listen to the message again, all the way through this time, and return the call of the man with the drawl, Trey Holcomb, I learned there was more to it than just bad news. By the time I hung up, I was feeling sad, guilty, hopeful, and confused. One phone call had turned my life upside down.
Twenty-four hours later, I was standing in a place I had never planned, or wanted, to see again.
Chapter Five
Fifteen years had passed since I’d last stood on that particular patch of ground. Everything was eerily familiar but in a way that was oddly comforting. The time-at-a-standstill nature of the surroundings gave rise to hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s something eternal after all.
Maybe that’s the purpose of cemeteries.
Charleston natives have always been deeply concerned with geography. Not on a wide scale, mind you, but only as it relates to their beloved city. Tell another Charlestonian that you live south of Broad, or in the French Quarter, or in Harleston Village or Radcliffeborough, and you’re halfway to relating your life story. The same holds true for cemeteries. To a Charlestonian, where one is buried in death says as much about a person as his or her street address did in life, supplying clues about family history, religious preference, and social status. When it comes to cemeteries, St. Philip’s Church is as desirable an address as can be found, at least that’s what Sterling had always told me.
“It’s an interesting graveyard,” my father would say whenever we came to put flowers on the graves. “With character. Why would anyone buy a plot in one of those awful ‘memorial gardens,’ where every slab looks like every other slab, when for the same money, you can pass the time among these beautiful green trees and in the company of all the best people?”
When Calvin saw me smiling, I told him about my dad and “the best people.”
“The best people? And they are?”
“Members of St. Philip’s and native Charlestonians. Not necessarily in that order.”
Calvin laughed, loudly. Considering the setting, it seemed slightly inappropriate. But that’s one of the things I love about Calvin. Yes, he may have invented himself but now that he knows who he is, he’s one hundred percent Calvin, one hundred percent of the time, no matter the setting.
I squatted down in front of my parents’ headstone, a low and wide granite marker engraved with a Grecian-style cross. It had rained recently and my kitten heels made two divots on the damp sod. Grandma Beebee’s marker, located only a few feet away, was engraved with a death date just four days later than my mother’s.
“You okay?” Calvin asked.
“Whenever Sterling and I would come here to put flowers on my mother’s grave, he’d point to that spot, right in front of where you’re standing, and remind me that he’d be there someday, buried next to her. It seemed creepy to me as a kid but I think I get it now. It must be comforting to know where you’ll