Graveyard Shift

Chapter 2: Aunt Carrie

A little over a week later, I saw him again. Again it was at a cemetery, this one built around a hulking Norman church outside Seaborough, on the north-east coast of England, where Mum's family originally came from. We were there for Aunt Carrie's funeral.

The church service was well attended, but most of the congregation were strangers to me. The pastor spoke about Carrie's life and how we were here to celebrate it. He spoke about everything having an appointed time and place and being part of a larger plan, and a few mourners started sobbing when he read from Ecclesiastes and when Carrie's favorite Beatles song, "In My Life," began playing.

As we filed outside afterward, some of the strangers greeted Mum with hugs and kisses, and some shook my hand when we were introduced. It felt awkward meeting anyone for the first time when they had tears in their eyes. 

But I couldn't cry for someone I'd hardly known and barely remembered. If something had happened to cut Mum and Aunt Carrie off from each other for so long, no one was making anything of it. Mum's family had never been good at keeping in touch, but it had always been good at keeping secrets.

At the end of the burial ceremony, we moved in a slow procession past the grave, collecting handfuls of earth from the funeral director's assistant to sprinkle over the casket. I let mine fall and stood a moment, watching it settle, then followed the others to the gravel path between the church entrance and the gates, rubbing my hands together.

That was when I saw him. Mr. October stood some distance away beside a white granite plinth, head bowed and hands clasped together as if praying. A warm breeze cut across the churchyard, turning the air dusty with dandelion spores. The old man didn't move a muscle and didn't look up. If he sensed me watching, he didn't show it.

I had an urge to go to him, to leave the group and just walk over. For one thing, I wondered what he was doing here. For another, there was something important I needed to ask. But this wasn't the time or place. It would be too hard to explain to Mum.

Along the path, the others talked in small groups, saying how lovely Aunt Carrie was and how she'd gone before her time, and how sudden it must've been because a few short months ago she'd seemed such a picture of health. You never knew what was in the cards, they said, sniffing and wiping their noses.

In twos and threes, they began peeling themselves away and heading for their cars at the gates. There were farewells and promises to keep in touch from now on, and I wondered how many of them I'd ever see again.

Mum took my arm, steering me toward the gates.

"Our train leaves in twenty minutes," she said.

When I looked back at the church, Mr. October was moving away, his back toward me and his right hand reaching as if he were holding someone else's. As far as I could tell there was no one with him, but for a second the cloud of white spores seemed to arrange itself into a human shape and follow him step for step.

On the train to London, I skimmed an Iron Man comic while Mum opened a paperback book on the fold-down table in front of her and turned the pages, not really reading. She didn't look up at me as she said, "Well, there she goes. She's on her way."

"She's at peace now," I said. It was the kind of thing you were supposed to say.

"You must wonder why I brought you," she said. "Why I even came myself. We hadn't spoken for so long."

"She was your sister. It would've been odd if you hadn't gone."

She nodded, watching the last of the blue-gray coastline through the window before the train altered course, heading inland. "Yes, it would. And it wasn't so bad after all. They could've made me feel unwelcome, but they weren't there for that; they were there for her."

"Yeah."

"Do you remember when Dad left?" she asked.

"Not really. Not well."

"You were young. Just nine."

"Yeah. And we've hardly talked about it since."

"Only because I didn't want you to be hurt." 

"Did he leave because of me?"

She looked at me as if I'd just sworn. "God, no. Is that what you think? Don't ever think that, Ben. It wasn't anyone's fault - at least not yours."

"Then why did he go?"

A white butterfly had somehow found its way inside the car. It fluttered above our heads, tapped the window a couple of times, then dipped out of sight behind us.

"Everyone goes eventually," Mum said. "When they do, the timing never seems right. It always seems too soon."

But the pastor had said everything happens as part of some plan, always in the right way at the right time. Confusing. I didn't know who to believe. I thought about what Mr. October had told me, what Dad had never told me himself.

"Was Dad proud of me?" I said.

"Of course. What kind of question is that?"

I shrugged and turned in my seat. I couldn't see the butterlfy now. It must have followed us through the open door at Seaborough and stayed with us ever since. Mum read for a while, or pretended to, but she hadn't finished saying her piece yet.

"Anyway, I'm sorry," she said. "We were stupid, Carrie and I. We should't have let it drag on so long. We should've worked things out like grown-ups. And now I wish I could've seen her one last time to let her know everything's really all right."

"I'll bet she knows," I said. "Wherever she is, I'll bet she knows."

The train rolled on between small brown towns and across expanses of flat green country, and I imagined Aunt Carrie out there in the land, sitting by a shallow stream, dipping her feet in the water to cool them, happy and at peace and everything forgiven.

I still didn't know what the secret was or what should be forgiven. Maybe I wasn't meant to know. Closing my eyes, listening to the rhythm of the train, I thought, Suppose what i saw today, the figure made out of white pollen dust, was her? Where could Mr. October have been taking her? Why on earth was he there? And how come he knew what had happened to her so soon, before everyone else?

By the time we were back in London, I'd decided I had to find him again. As our train settled at its platform and the doors swung wide, the trapped butterfly shot out just ahead of us into the noise and steam two hundred miles from home.