Behind His Lens(89)

“Here, let me get your coffee so you can get the newspaper too,” I offer, already reaching for her drink.

We don’t say a word on the cab ride over, but her shaking hand squeezes mine every now and then, reassuring me of my decision. She scans the road outside as the autumn leaves swirl like tiny tornadoes across the asphalt. Her head swivels as her gaze locks onto the people we pass on the sidewalk. She follows their movements until they’re out of sight as if their small cameos in her life is worth the effort. I don’t think that will ever change; I think Charley will always be tucked between two worlds, daydreaming and thoughtfully watching life move around her. Her gut instinct isn’t to participate, but then again, for the past four years, mine wasn’t either.

As we pass through the elaborate wrought iron gates of the cemetery, suddenly, I wish I had brought her in spring. Autumn hasn’t been kind to the cemetery grounds. The grass is dying and most of the leaves are falling off the trees, leaving them haunting and bare. It’s quite a bleak sight and since we’re early, no other visitors have arrived. The cemetery is quiet and completely empty, as though even the resting memories haven’t awoken yet.

“I know where the plot is. I’ve looked online a few times. They have a map of all the different sections, but I’ve never actually made it this far,” she mutters as the taxi begins to slow to a stop next to the first section of graves.

“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll find it.”

With one last timid smile, we hop out of the cab. I’ve got a pack of tissues in my back pocket and a silent plea that I’m doing the right thing for her. I hold the newspaper, she clutches the red roses, and we link our spare hands, stepping onto the desolate landscape in search of Charley’s peace.

Tombstones pop up every now and then. Gold and crimson leaves cover most of them, but we don’t bend to unbury any until we arrive in the section where she knows her father is buried. There, we start meticulously cleaning each stone, reading the name and moving on.

“Do you think he’d have a statue or anything?” I ask, trying to narrow down our search.

“No. He wouldn’t have wanted that,” she declares, scanning the bleak horizon for any tombstones that stand out.

I nod and continue searching, inspecting each tombstone we pass. Names and dates are etched in marble, commemorating the lost lives beneath us. Most of them are much older than the time frame we’re looking for and then it hits me that I don’t even know her father’s name. I’ve just been looking for a 2009 year of death.

“Charley, what was your father’s…” I begin to ask, but then I look up and see her slowly slide to the ground in front of a glistening slab of marble.

Beneath a giant oak tree, on the border of the cemetery, is a single tombstone: her father’s. The oak’s branches wind over our heads and a few of the heavier limbs bend gradually toward the ground. It hasn’t lost its leaves like many of the other trees in the cemetery. The blanket of leaves funnels the light in intricate shadows, cocooning us in a sliver of natural paradise.

Her trembling hand reaches out to brush away debris, and the movement catches my attention, drawing me toward her. I keep my distance at first, wanting her to process everything without my presence. But when her hand cups her mouth, and she reclines back onto her heels in silent study, I step closer, hoping my slow steps won’t disturb her.

When I’m a few feet away, I can finally discern the words written on the marble. The epitaph is much less elaborate than I was expecting, simply his name and years of life.

Charles Lock III

1957-2009

“His death made every single headline,” she begins softly. “My senior year of high school, it came to light that his company was participating in countless criminal acts: accounting fraud, insider trading, embezzlement. He got caught up in the riches, in providing for his family and having it all. He started out as mid-level management, and I remember noticing that he was under more and more pressure. His stress and irritability only worsened with each new promotion, but he never lost his temper with me. I’d hear snippets of hushed phone conversations that would turn into brutal yelling matches between him and the rest of the board.”

“Everything he did, or approved of, at least, cost a lot of families their livelihood. I had to change my name when I went to college, but I didn’t want to leave him behind.” Her voice descends into a soft murmur by the end of her sentence. She pauses to rebuild her courage.