Grave Concern by Judith Millar

still on her back.
    â€œUh, Kate.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œAbout the dog. Doesn’t exist. I just thought it’d look kinda stupid, me being scared to come out here. That’s why I was considerin’ your services, like.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Hank? Not ghosts, is it?”
    â€œNow don’t think I’m crazy.”
    â€œI swear.”
    â€œSomethin’. Don’t know if it’s ghosts or what. Seen it along the fence, there. Coupla times.”
    â€œIt?”
    â€œMaybe an animal, but nothing you could name. Not a dog. Or a deer …” He laughed. “Not a werewolf either, if that’s what you’re thinking! Thing is, both times it was getting dark, like. Never got a real good look.”
    Kate considered her options. She could come clean and potentially confirm Hank’s worst fears and, when the inevitable gossip came down, be lumped in with the loony camp. Or she could keep her mouth shut and conduct further research.
    â€œYou’re laughin’ at me, aren’t you? Inside, like.”
    â€œNo. Definitely not.”
    Hank Dixon, a bear of a man, default owner (since Dixon senior had died) of Dixon RV Sales & Storage and New2U Auto, continued to stand like a penitent before her. Now he caught her eye and wouldn’t let go.
    Kate shifted uncomfortably. “Read my lips, Hank: I do NOT think you’re crazy. I — I just don’t know what to think. Really .”
    Kate could see Hank was counting on her in a big way. Painfully shy, he wouldn’t ask around himself. Not one to hang out at Tim Horton’s and jaw with the locals, Hank found it trying to consort with his fellow man.
    â€œOkay, okay, Hank. Here’s the thing. I’ll look into it and if I find out anything, I’ll give you a call.”
    Hank nodded.
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œOkay.” Hank headed toward a prehistoric Buick parked out on the road.
    Kate continued her walk, this time with a clear goal:

    More than once had her dad made it clear to Kate that when the time came there should be nothing but dates on his grave. No sappy poetry, he said. What about good poetry, Kate asked. No, nothing. Her mom had expressed no opinion either way. Still, Kate reasoned, who would be reading it anyway? Kate herself. And she found Donne’s poem comforting, especially the last line of that work: “Death, thou shalt die” — you couldn’t get more defiant than that. Into the granite went the famous phrase.
    Kate watched the belching Buick roar off and understood in an instant how important this graveyard was to someone like Hank. There was a lot to be said for a garden of the dead. Accepting of the future, yet holding to the past. Offering order and stability, making few demands. A reprieve from relentless change. Above ground, the bereaved rehashed memories again and again; below, the dreaming went on and on just the same. A traditional cemetery, complete with coffins and granite markers, was perhaps not sustainable , environmentally speaking. But it was sustaining . What drew Hank Dixon drew Kate, too: the simple comfort of talking with the dead.
    Kate had kept many secrets from her mother, both happy and sad, over the years, and she had sensed a similar withholding on her mother’s part: unsatisfied longings, unfulfilled dreams Molly had never confided to her only child. How else to mend death’s rift? Kate found a plastic bag in her jacket pocket, laid it on the muddy grass, sat down and began:
    Kate: So, Mom, what’s on your mind lately?
    Molly: Not much, as you might guess, dear. It’s boring as hell down here. Oops, I hope your father didn’t hear that.
    Kate : Why? It’s not like he can entertain you.
    Molly : I meant the swearing. He never liked me to swear, you remember. Not ladylike.
    Kate : Well, I guess I knew, but no one ever said it out loud. And “hell” doesn’t count as swearing