I have heard rumors of a guild of men who guard and protect as their sworn duty. It is said they are the ones who deliver the resting stones to our graves.
Meridian Laine Fulbright
February 1994
We got to Riverside Cemetery after a quick Arni’s Pizza lunch. Behind us lay railroad tracks, and grave markers checkerboarded the hillsides, rising above us with only huge old trees breaking up the expanse of lawn.
I opened the gate while Rumi drove the car through. Stone angels, cherubim, and lambs knelt, guarded, or prayed by headstones. Some were so worn they were missing the tops of wings or hands, smoothed like they’d melted in the elements. There were newer, shinier markers with etchings of faces, names, or personal things like motorcycles or horses running in pastures.
“How old is this place?” I asked as I got back into the car.
“I don’t really know. Maybe it dates from the time of the Civil War? Graves date back to the mid–eighteen hundreds. Beyond, over there, you see that mound?” Rumi turned down a car path. Barely wide enough to drive on, it ran across the center of the yard, taking us farther up the hill.
“The hilly thing?”
“It’s man-made, a Native American ancestral burial site. My guess is it was sacred when the settlers arrived and they began being buried here too. The remains of a small stone chapel are in that direction. Used to be you were simply buried on your land.”
“How big is this place?” I asked as we parked and got out of the car.
“I don’t know. Acres in three directions. My family plots are up this way.”
I stopped by the bumper. “Do you want me to wait here?”
Rumi took a bottle of whiskey and a bouquet of flowers out of his trunk. “Oh no. I’ll introduce you around. I’m curious to see what you make of my family’s headstones. I think there might be a connection to the artwork. This place is full of peonies and wild roses in the summer. It’s beautiful. And every Memorial Day it takes on a picnic atmosphere.”
“Picnics?” In a cemetery?
He nodded. “Families come, all generations, and clean the grave markers, plant flowers or bring fresh ones. If it’s nice weather there are Ultimate Frisbee games and touch football.”
“In a graveyard?”
“You’ve heard of All Saints’ Day? Day of the Dead, in Mexico?”
“In social studies classes.” I think.
“Well, take those ideas, jumble them together with immigrant wakes, sitting shivah, and the American Memorial Day, and you get generations of families who meet with their ancestors to pay respects. Also has a bit of family reunion, ‘summer is here’ vibe. It’s nice. Very eclectic and American.”
I nodded. “How’d your family end up here?”
“In the states, or Indiana?”
“Indiana.”
“Grandparents made their way to Chicago. It was possible for immigrants to find work. I’m sure the stories were better than the reality.”
“Probably.”
“When my grandparents married they wanted to get out of the big city, away from all the commotion. My nain needed space around her, doctors said she had weak lungs. So my taid bought a farm here sight unseen. They up and moved, called it an adventure.”
“That’s gutsy.”
“I think it was more desperate. She was very ill, and the country air was all that the doctors thought might help. But I think we know there was more to it now, don’t we?”
He nodded.
Thoughtful, I answered, “The country would have been easier—not as many people crowding toward the windows. Makes sense she would have felt better out here. Learned better how to do it.”
“And my grandfather knew that, I think. Was he her Tens?”
“I don’t know. He might have been a Fenestra too. At least what you’ve translated so far seems like they both might be.” This was fast moving outside my range of knowledge. I wish I had Auntie to ask. “This place is gorgeous. So peaceful and almost—”
“Healing?”
I nodded. “Refreshing. What is that feeling?” Like a warm bubble bath or comfort food for the soul. It felt nice.
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought it had something to do with it being sacred ground for so long. That there’s a reason for that.”
I saw a few shadows moving in the distance toward us. Uh-oh. “Rumi, I think I need to sit down. I’ll be okay, don’t freak out.”
“We’re almost there—” He gestured to a group of stones ahead.
“No, I mean now.” I grabbed a headstone with one hand and slid to a seated position, my back braced, closing my eyes to see the window. A breeze rustled the curtains and it was my window, the one Auntie taught me. I smiled.
Spirits who hadn’t moved on, who’d been blocked or chose not to go during their actual death, now reunited with their families, one after another. Lots of freshly plowed fields filled with cheering greeters, and a raucous crowd in an old basketball field house welcomed those passing through me. I even saw a racetrack with cars speeding by. No Auntie, though.
I opened my eyes. Rumi was holding my hand and peering at me. “I’m okay.” And I was. Maybe I’d begun to get the hang of it?
“W-were you—?” he stuttered, pale but very interested. “Was that—?”
“ ‘Ghosts’ is the easiest word to describe them. Those who were ready to go are no longer late for their reunions. They can find me when they’re ready. I guess maybe they’ve been waiting here for the Memorial Day party.” I tried to smile while brushing my hair out of my eyes. It was curly, not the least bit limp.
He sat down hard. “Wow. Meridian, you glowed like the Stones.”
“What?” I asked.
“Softly. Not like a beacon. But even these ancient eyes picked up on the change.”
“I don’t think that’s ever happened.” But I didn’t feel exhausted or ill; I felt refreshed, renewed, whole. “Sorry,” I said, while Rumi helped me to my feet. “I’ve got a long way to go before I can open the window and keep moving in the real world.”
“A bit like walking while patting your head and rubbing your stomach?”
“Something like that.” I smiled.
“Look behind you at the headstone. I’m seeing—”
I turned. “Your nain’s paintings?” The headstone I’d leaned against was an exact replica of all his family’s drawings and paintings. The round top of a half sun unfurling its rays like the petals of a flower sat on top of a window. I checked the name and date, curious to know if this person was a relative. “Are you related?”
“Come on.” Rumi broke into a jog.
“What is it?” Why is an old man beating me at sprints?
He stopped and pointed. “I assumed they were the style of the time. It’s more than that, isn’t it?”
I followed his finger. Two window headstones. “Your grandparents?”
“Yes.”
“They match perfectly.”
“Exactly.”
“So is that one over there—is that a relative of yours?”
“No. My family is all in this parcel. I’ll be buried in that bare spot over there.”
I cringed, unable to face or comment on Rumi’s death. “Who put these here?”
“My parents? I don’t know. They’ve always been here.”
The gravestones curved like windows, like an orange slice on top of a rectangle. Stone carvers had cut the crosspieces like the pane separators. At the top of each half circle was a sun with rays like the petals of a daisy. Each was decorated with a first name, a last name, and a quote.
I knelt down at the little stones about six feet away, parallel to the headstones. “What are these?”
“Footstones,” Rumi answered.
There was carving, weathered and smoothed, with lichen and moss growing in the crevices. “What do they say?”
“I’ve never been able to read it.”
“Is it Gaelic?”
“Can’t tell. I don’t think so.” Flames burned at the bottom, almost flickering in their intricacy. “Why the fire?”
“My best guess is that fire used to equate life. Without fire, without light, there was no life.” I leaned closer, trying to make out the words. I guess I wanted a big “This person was also a Fenestra” flashing at me in red neon. So not going to happen. “Could it be Arabic, or Sanskrit, or Russian?” I desperately wanted to know the language written on the stones.
“I really don’t know.” Rumi frowned in concentration. “It’s nothing I’ve ever seen elsewhere.”
“Would your siblings know?”
“No, I’m the only one who comes here anymore. They don’t talk about death, or life, for that matter. They dwell in the hard facts.” His face was so full of regret and grief that I stood up and hugged him.
“I’m sorry,” I said into his sweater.
“People either fear or accept what they can’t explain. They fear it. I accept it.”
The rest of the markers in the immediate vicinity were plain stones, small lambs, or kneeling angels, but farther down the line was another large window beside a smaller stone carved with a shield.
Rumi walked me down to them. “These belong to my parents, my ma and my da.”
“Is that a sword?” I asked, stooping to get a closer look. “And a shield. What’s on the shield?”
Rumi nudged me. “Go closer, she won’t mind.”
I tried to stay in the scant few inches between where I thought was safe and where the dead might lie, in a bizarre, ungainly attempt to stay respectful.
Rumi guffawed. “You can step on the graves, Meridian, you can’t hurt ’em.”
I edged my feet more firmly. “Isn’t that bad luck or something?”
“I think it used to be because you could fall into the graves as they settled. These days they’re concrete, steel; there’s not a risk.”
“That would count as bad luck. The shield carries the window shape at the top and the flames at the bottom, doesn’t it?” I traced it with my fingers.
He nodded. “That’s what I see.”
“Did you put these here?”
“No, I picked out plain granite stones. My parents weren’t fussy and would have gasped at the cost for death, so I kept it simple, thinking they’d want frugality over froufrou.”
These were anything but simple gravestones.
“I don’t know who did it.” Rumi sat cross-legged in the grass. “I came the day they were supposed to be installed. I was on time for the appointment, but they were already finished. They weren’t the right ones, but the names and dates were right.”
“Did you ask?”
“Of course. I called the stonemason and he said they’d delivered rectangular stones just like I’d ordered. He even came out here to see them because he didn’t believe me.”
“And?”
“And he couldn’t explain it. I thought maybe my sister ordered them instead, to match the other family ones, perhaps? She wouldn’t admit it, but she’s not the type who would. Nothing sentimental in that one. The mason would have redone them for me, but I left ’em. I liked ’em. Like I said, I accept the inexplicable quite well.”
“Is your mom’s like any others?”
“No, I guess I always came out here to talk to them and saw them, not the graves themselves, you know. Over the years I’ve accepted the headstones as there, but now?”
“Now we have to wonder who put them there.”
“And why,” he said.
* * *
Rumi and I had gotten no further trying to understand the grave markers when he dropped me back at the cottage. Tens’s truck was in the driveway, so I assumed he was inside. Arguments aside, I needed to tell him this new piece of the puzzle. We could argue later.
I threw open the cottage door. “Tens?”
I tried again, my pulse accelerating, a million bad things going through my mind. “Tens? Where are you? Are you here?”
No Tens, no note, no Custos.
“Meridian?” Joi called from the path. “Are you okay?”
“Have you seen Tens?” I called to her.
“He and the wolf left here about an hour ago on foot. Running?”
“Oh.” In the past, he’d have left me a note. He wouldn’t have wanted me to worry.
Joi motioned me toward her. “Can you come inside? I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”
“Sure.” I blew out a frustrated sigh and headed toward the tearoom.
Joi waited until I got to the kitchen to say more. “Miss Howard is turning one hundred and one today. She’s a spitfire. You’ll love her; she reminds me of you.”
The dining area was decorated with pink and purple balloon bouquets, and streamers dangled between picture frames and wreaths. Lilies and lilacs in huge arrangements filled the room with the scent of spring. A large hand-lettered sign that said Happy Birthday, Judith! graced the far windows.
“Everyone, this is Meridian.” Joi introduced me to the group but led me closer to a shrunken lady in a wheelchair at the far end.
By far the youngest one in the room, I felt every set of eyes smile at me.
“Oh, isn’t she pretty?” Miss Howard reached out toward me.
Joi made introductions. “Miss Howard, this is my new friend Meridian.”
She squinted at me and motioned with her hand. “Come closer, dear, I can’t see you with the light in my eyes.”
Another woman announced it was time for cake and the singing of the birthday song.
The hair on my neck raised and my alarm system went off as I touched Miss Howard’s hand. “Oh—”
We stood at the window, side by side. She no longer needed her wheelchair and her gnarled, arthritic fingers were straight and strong as her spine.
“You are pretty, aren’t you?” She paused, tall and vital next to me, still holding my hand. “Do you have a beau?”
“Um, yes.” I think. Maybe. Can soul mates break up? Or is it like an arranged marriage where you’re stuck regardless?
“Oh, there are my boys.” She turned from me and watched out the window. “What a lovely birthday surprise. There’s my husband—he served in three wars, you know. And my sons, Teddy, Billy, and Ike, they served as infantrymen too. But they’re gone now. Is this a movie, dear?”
I watched the men stride forward and begin to unroll a bright scroll of paper. “No, this isn’t a movie.” I didn’t know how else to say it.
“Well then, oh, look at that.” She giggled and pointed. “It says Welcome home, we’ve missed you. I always held up signs at the airport for them. Every time they got leave and came to visit me, a new sign. But why does it say that?”
She turned to me, puzzled. I’d never had a soul so unaware of what she was supposed to do. Maybe it wasn’t always instinctive.
“Miss Howard, you’re dead. I’m sorry.” I swallowed.
“I am? Are you sure?” She blinked with surprise.
I nodded.
“Forty years I’ve waited for this. Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. What do you mean you’ve waited?”
“I lost Teddy to Korea, Billy to Vietnam, Ike to a drunk driver, and my husband to cancer all before I was sixty. It was hard enough burying my husband, but seeing each of my children in the ground before me, that just isn’t right. I kept thinking I was an old lady and I’d die soon. But that never happened. And here it’s been another lifetime.”
I teared up. It was impossible not to react to the emotion in her voice. Her joy, relief, and sense of release were immeasurable.
“What do I do? Do I fly?”
“You go to them. Through the window.”
“I haven’t walked that far in ages.” She looked at me skeptically, then down at her feet.
“I don’t know exactly how it works, but you’ll be able to.”
“This is real?”
“Yes.”
She squeezed my hand and then let go. Carefully, with mincing steps, she made her way to the window. She picked up one leg, slung it over the window frame, and then did the same with the other. She steadied herself with both hands against the frame, but she didn’t need to. The more she moved, the better she got, until she was running toward the figures across the farmed land, spritely and fit as a twentysomething. The boys waved to me.
Colorful scarves caught my eye and I glanced to the side, away from the reunion.
“Meridian!” Auntie waved to get my attention. Beside her was the young woman. She was still terribly disfigured, but her appearance was less transparent, more opaque, almost solid.
She held a sign.
I felt the real world tugging at me. I had to read the sign. I gripped the curtains resisting the pull.
The sign said JULIET’S MOTHER LOVES HER. DIED & TRIED TO PROTECT.
I blinked and saw Joi staring down at me. My face was cold and wet.
“You fainted,” she said.
Sirens stopped nearby and I heard the scurry of feet.
“Just lie still,” Joi instructed. I heard wailing and sniffles around me.
“They’re in here.”
I heard voices I couldn’t identify talking loudly. I sat up. “I’m fine. It just happens sometimes.”
Joi tried to push me back to the floor. “You shouldn’t get up.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I moved out of the way as paramedics carrying a backboard walked in.
“That’s her. She’s not breathing.” Joi moved the EMTs toward Ms. Howard’s remains in the wheelchair.
I snuck out in all the chaos. Auntie had more for me. It made sense to me now. The side of the woman’s face that was undamaged looked just like a thirtysomething Juliet. I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen it before.
Tens still wasn’t back at the cottage, but the truck keys were on the kitchen table. I grabbed them before I could talk myself out of going to Dunklebarger.