Cancel the Wedding (18 page)

When we opened the door a bell chimed overhead and the cold, dry air hit us like a wall. The reception area was done in shades of maroon and royal blue with dusty plastic and silk flower arrangements on every shiny faux-cherry tabletop. One wall held tiny replica coffins propped open to display their plush interiors. Each coffin had a name like Eternal Slumber or the Regent Rest in bold script letters on copper plaques.

Elliott pointed to them and whispered, “Creepy tiny coffins.”

I poked him in the ribs to get him to behave just as a woman came scurrying to the front.

“Hello there. May I help you all?” She led us into an office and motioned for us to sit down as she wedged herself behind the desk.

The woman was wearing such a thick mask of makeup that it looked as though the right amount of perspiration would cause the whole thing to slide off in one piece and land with a plop on the desk. Her blond, frosted bangs were teased up and sprayed with a lacquer that held them perfectly still no matter how much she moved her head. And she was swimming in a cloud of what must have been twenty squirts of perfume. She introduced herself as Mary Frances and spoke in a delicate whisper with an air of understanding and import that must come with the position of being the first contact in the cemetery.

I explained what we were doing there, about my mother's request, and asked about searching through the old section. The whole time I was speaking Mary Frances nodded her head with a genuine look of sympathy on her face. She frequently closed her eyes and sighed.

I wanted permission from the cemetery to scatter my mother's ashes. Logan thought we could just sneak in and do what we pleased with her. But I was worried that there could be some regulation against it. Some rule or law forbidding the spreading of ashes of human remains over the open ground with the potential of getting into the groundwater. I had a million strange things go through my head about toxins and contamination.

Elliott interrupted me and turned to Mary Frances. “Olivia likes to make sure that everything is in proper order.”

Mary Frances leaned in and put her pudgy pale hand on mine. “Honey, there isn't anything wrong with it. This is a cemetery for goodness sake.” She pulled her hand away, making the bevy of gold bangles jingle as it went.

Mary Frances kept talking as she pushed her chair back and wiggled her way around the desk. “The only thing we can't do is leave the flowers. You know the bouquets after the funeral? You turn your back on those things for one minute and the deer come straight down from the hills and start eating them.”

She was walking out of the office and fluttered her hand behind her. “Well, c'mon then. Let's go find your plot for you.”

As we followed Mary Frances out of the office I leaned in to Elliott. “You make me sound like a neurotic nutcase.”

He whispered back. “You are neurotic.”

“I am not.”

“Neurotic.”

I turned to face him. “Are you planning to make fun of me all day?”

He leaned down to meet my eyes. “No. I'm actually planning on making fun of you all week.”

He was awfully cute when he was being snarky.

Mary Frances pulled out a detailed map of the cemetery and highlighted our route from the office to the old section. It felt very similar to a rental car agency directing you out of the airport, which seemed very wrong for some reason.

Mary Frances said, “Now which plot is it that you need?”

I answered her. “It's thirty-four B. But that's all I know. I don't have a name or anything.”

Mary Frances had a contemplative look on her face. It contorted the features of her pudgy cheeks and made her look as if she were in a bit of pain.

She said, “If you want I could pull the files for you and see if there's anything in there that might help you. I'll need to get permission from Mr. Heard first but it shouldn't be a problem.” She flicked her bejeweled hand at me conspiratorially. “It's not like it's top secret or anything.”

As Elliott and I made our way across the cemetery I said, “I am not neurotic.”

“Yes, you are or you wouldn't feel the need to keep telling me that.”

So then would saying it one more time prove his point that I am neurotic?

Elliott looked me up and down. “I am an excellent observer of people.”

“And so modest too.” I consulted the map and led us farther back into the cemetery.

He ignored that little quip and kept talking. “Along with your very slight neurotic tendencies, you're an obsessive compulsive desk organizer. You gnaw on your pens like a squirrel. You like your coffee dark and sweet. You will eat anything that anyone hands you, except for boiled peanuts. You adore your niece. You miss your mom. And probably your dad although you don't talk about him as much. When anything happens the first person you call is your sister. You prefer extra limes in your vodka tonic but you seem to feel bad about asking for them. You hate your job and you want to sell your house.”

I was stunned by all of these little things Elliott had noticed about me, not because he had noticed them—we had been in that bar talking all night after all—but because he felt so comfortable listing them out like that. It caused my pace to slow. When he noticed that I was lagging behind he stopped and looked at me.

My eyes narrowed in concentration as I responded. “You compulsively fix the broken things you come across. There was the boat cleat, the chair at the Circle J, the sugar shaker at Jimmy's. When you talk about your brothers and sisters you get this little smile on one side of your face. You run your hands through your hair when you're thinking. You need glasses but don't like to use them, probably because you keep losing them. You would rather be fishing with your dad than fishing alone. And I still don't know your last name.”

He smiled then reached out and took my hand. “Tate. It's Elliott Michael Tate.”

The thirteen-year-old girl who lived in my brain began scribbling
Olivia Tate
on the front of her three-ring binder.

My phone rang, interrupting us, and I knew before I even looked at it that it was Georgia. I picked up without a proper greeting and said, “I'm at the cemetery.”

She said, “Call me when you find the plot.”

“Yep.” I hung up, put the phone in my pocket, and followed Elliott.

The cemetery had little paths lined with gravel and each path had a name. It was as if they had laid the cemetery out like a little city and these pathways were the streets. We followed Calhoun Avenue until it intersected with Church Street and then turned left. The street names were hung on signs from small wrought-iron posts and the pathways were lined with swags of low chain. It was just enough of a hint of a boundary to keep me squarely on the pathways. Why wasn't I the kind of girl who would just step over the chain and walk the direct route?

At the front of the cemetery, where the newer plots were located, the headstones were basically all the same. Rectangular marble stones lying flat on the ground. It probably made it easier to mow the grass with flat headstones.

As we worked our way back into the older part of the cemetery the headstones became much more elaborate and much more diverse. There were all shapes and sizes. Tall monolithic obelisks, elegantly carved angels and lambs, granite crosses, and then scattered about were a few memorial marble benches. Each of the different family sections were arranged around a centrally located large crypt made of marble or granite with a chained iron gate. There was a part of me that wanted to break in to one of the crypts to see what was inside. But like Elliott had hinted, I'm not a rule breaker.

We had walked for about five minutes when we reached the section where 34B should be located. There was a rusting metal fence surrounding section 30. The gate was broken and hanging askew from one hinge.

We entered the section, which held about forty graves, and walked around trying to orient ourselves. I was looking for something familiar. Some name that would hit me so that I could think,
Ah-ha! That's why she wanted to be put to rest here.

The oldest headstones dated from the late eighteen hundreds and the latest one that we could find was dated nineteen seventy-three. But I was baffled. I didn't recognize a single name.

Elliott looked at me and I shrugged. I said, “I don't know any of these people.”

He looked around the little family plot. “Are we in the right place?”

I consulted the map and double-checked the names on the pathways lining the section we were standing in. “Yes, this is definitely section 30.”

Elliott came to stand next to me as we gazed around at the headstones surrounding us. I sat down on the marble bench and threw my hands up, frustrated. Another dead end. “Who are these people?”

Elliott sat down next to me. He read a few of the headstones. “Apparently these are the Joneses.”

“Well, who the hell are the Joneses?”

I called Georgia and told her that I was standing among the Joneses. She said the same thing I had said. “Who the hell are the Joneses?”

“I don't know. I'm getting kind of irritated with Mom. What is this wild-goose chase she's sent me on down here?”

Georgia tried to calm me down. “Look, she just wanted to be left there. She never asked us to figure out why. That's our own problem.”

“It's weird. You don't tell your children to sprinkle your ashes over some random grave and a lake and not tell them why.”

She asked, “Who was in thirty-four B?”

I realized that I hadn't even figured out which person we were supposed to be finding. I was just so miffed about once again not knowing what was going on. Elliott was doing the same thing he had done at the family graveyard behind my mother's old house. He was writing down all of the names and dates from every headstone.

“Hang on let me check the map again.” I went back to the front of the family plot and counted over until I was in front of the headstone that should be 34B.

I looked at the inscription and told my sister what I saw:

G
EORGE
K
IPP
J
ONES
III

J
ULY
12, 1946–F
EBRUARY
27, 1972

Y
OU
ARE MISSED AND LOVED EVERY DAY
.

Georgia was quiet for a minute. I could tell she was wracking her brain, trying to remember if she had ever heard that name before. Then she sighed. “I have no clue. Who is George Jones?”

I kicked at a clump of dandelions growing on the edge of the pathway. “Isn't he the lounge singer from Vegas?”

“Funny, but no, that's Tom Jones. I think George Jones was a country singer.”

Elliott was walking back toward me so I wanted to hang up before Georgia realized I was with him. “I'll call you later, Gigi.”

I pointed to the headstone of 34B. Elliott said, “George Jones?”

“Yes, most fans just throw their bras on stage but my mom is having us deposit her ashes.”

“You're terrible.”

“I know. I'm just annoyed that she never told us what this was all about.” I pointed to the small notebook he was holding. “You wrote them all down?”

“Yes, can't hurt. Maybe we can find something that will fill in the blanks for you.”

The two of us stood side by side staring down at the gravestone of Mr. Jones, who was neither a lounge singer nor a country singer. Suddenly I heard a distant whooshing sound. It almost sounded like an oncoming rainstorm or maybe a swarm of locusts. I couldn't quite make it out.

Elliott and I both turned to see massive sprinklers shooting water a hundred feet out into the cemetery. They were coming on in succession and they seemed to be working their way toward where we were standing.

We snapped a glance at each other just as the sprinklers in our section sprang to life. We started running back toward the entrance of the cemetery where our car was parked. I was trying to beat the sprinklers or we would get drenched. I realized Elliott wasn't running next to me anymore and turned to see that he had stopped and was doubled over laughing.

“Elliott!” I waved at him to keep running and get out of the deluge. He stood up and threw his head back as the water overtook him. His eyes were closed; he spread his arms out and just let the water rain down on him.

I looked in every direction and realized what Elliott had already deduced: the sprinklers were spraying the entire graveyard. Fighting it and trying to stay dry was futile. It was no use. I braced for it as the water assaulted me.

Elliott was laughing as he walked slowly over to me, splashing in the newly made mud puddles. I just held my arms up in a gesture that asked,
Why?
Why would they water the graves like this in the middle of the day? Why didn't Mary Frances give us a little warning that the irrigation system was about to erupt?

He didn't really seem to mind that he had just been attacked by sprinklers in the middle of the day, fully clothed. If this had happened to Leo, he probably would've sued someone. Elliott was just rolling with it. He held his hands up, surrendering. “There doesn't seem to be any point in fighting it.”

I had to agree. I had managed to turn away from the first wave, keeping my left side dry, but it wasn't much of a victory. “That's exactly what I was thinking.”

He pointed to my face. I could feel the stream of water dripping off the tip of my nose. “You have a tiny bit of water right there.”

I laughed. “You look like you just fell in the lake.” He was completely soaked through.

He sauntered over to me. “Oh, am I wet?”

I put my hands up, backing away. “Don't.”

“Don't what?” He jumped into me and picked me up squeezing the water from his shirt into mine. The water was cold and his skin was hot. He shook his head spraying water all over me. Now I was soaked too. “No use fighting it, Liv.”