Cemetery of Angels by Noel Hynd

on Beverly Glen. A left. Then we’re going for a drive.”
    “Where to?”
    “Glendale.”
    “Melissa!”
    “Trust me, dear lady. You will not be disappointed.”
    “It’s a good thing I trust you.”
    “I’m watching over you, my dear. It’s a good thing you met me.”
    They came to a traffic light. Rebecca needed to make a left turn against traffic. She waited for the green arrow, thought for a moment, and reached to Melissa’s nicely tanned arm and placed a hand on it. Then she pinched Melissa’s arm.
    “Ow! What’s that?” Melissa asked.
    “You’re
too
interested in these graveyards,” Rebecca said. “I’m making sure you’re real.”
    “You’re not a crazy bitch or something, are you?” Melissa asked.
    “Some people think I might be. I’ll tell you about it some time.”
    Melissa raised an eyebrow and laughed.
    “You could tell me now, except your light just turned green.” An impatient car horn sounded. Probably a transplanted New Yorker. Rebecca hit her accelerator hard. Her tires screeched on the asphalt as she made her turn. Both women laughed. They were on their way out to the San Fernando Valley. In truth, Rebecca was having fun driving around with her new girlfriend.
    “Want to hear a politically incorrect California joke?” Melissa asked. “It’s a driving joke. Cars and drivers, you know?”
    “Go for it,” Rebecca answered.
    “How do you know Asians are moving into the neighborhood?”
    “Dunno. How?”
    “The Mexicans start buying car insurance.” In spite of herself, Rebecca laughed. Then,
    “What’s in Glendale?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
    “Forest Lawn,” Melissa answered. “The
big
cemetery.”
    “Oh, come on…” Melissa shrugged and giggled.
    “You’ve already made the turn,” she said. “You might as well listen to your guide.”
    Rebecca sighed then joined her friend in laughter. The drive took forty minutes. On the freeway, they passed one of the new Tata Nino imports, a car made in India. Naturally, Melissa had an opinion. Melissa opined on everything.
    “I’d feel better about riding in that piece of Indian crap,” Melissa said, “if it hadn’t been built by people who believe in reincarnation.”
    At the wheel, Rebecca laughed. “That’s cold,” she said. “Cold!”
    Then they entered the gates of what was more a vast park than a graveyard.
    Forest Lawn Memorial Park was three hundred meticulously landscaped acres of statues, sculptures, and various art treasures, including a replica of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, done entirely in stained glass. In the chapel, the Hall of the Crucifixion Resurrection, Rebecca stared at the world’s largest oil painting of the Crucifixion. It gave her shivers. Rebecca was silent. Melissa gave her a nudge when it was time to go.
    She led her outside.
    “This place was the inspiration for
The Loved One
,” Melissa said. “Evelyn Waugh. Ever read it?”
    “No,” Rebecca was embarrassed to admit.
    “You should.”
    Then there were the dead. Or merely the departed. Near the Freedom Mausoleum were markers for Walt Disney and Errol Flynn. But Melissa led Rebecca inside. In silence, within the cool mausoleum, Rebecca had never before been in the presence of so many celebrities. So what if they were dead? Crypts were everywhere: Nat King Cole, Gracie Allen, Clara Bow, and Alan Ladd. They took some time and visited the site where Michael Jackson lay. It was crowded and flooded with flowers.
    After a few more minutes, Melissa led her guest to the Great Mausoleum. There, among numerous others, Rebecca found herself communing with the departed spirits of Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, and Jean Harlow. Then they were back outside.
    “Over in the Hollywood Hills there’s a sister park to this one,” Melissa said. “Forest Lawn, Hollywood. They’ve got Stan Laurel, John Ritter, Liberace, and David Carradine over there.”
    “What do you do? Keep track?” Rebecca asked.
    “American Civ, my dear,”