Certain things about the Minus-One Club remain cryptic. Unclear if that’s by design, or if it’s all simply kind of haphazard. Matt has me block off a three-hour window over lunchtime on Saturday for “club business.” Exactly that nebulous. No further explanation.
The drive soon becomes familiar. “What is this about?” I say, not liking the trajectory.
“Just a little errand,” Matt says.
The discomfort in me grows. “No. I don’t want to go.”
Matt glances at me. “What’s wrong? It’s for the club. We have to.”
“At the cemetery?”
“How did you know?”
My breathing shallows. I don’t answer.
“Oh,” Matt says. “Shit.”
“I don’t want to go.” My reaction is surprising even to me. Maybe I should want to go? We’re not a visit-the-grave kind of family, or at least, we’re not right now. Sheila isn’t there. Not really. That’s what we believe.
“We’re not going in,” Matt says. “We can wait at the gates.”
The gate sounds bad enough, but I can live with it. I don’t want to walk the grass or see the stone. I don’t know if I never will, or if it’s just too soon. “Wait for what?”
“For Celia. We celebrate anniversaries,” Matt says. “When we want to.”