A Grave Wonder

GET IT WHILE YOU CAN

If gravel were gold I'd be stinkin' rich,chuckled Jimmy Tumbler whilst kicking at the loose dirt underfoot. He picked up a small chunk and threw it across the road. Waiting for the bus would never make him rich.

A car whizzed cutting just off the road enough to spray bits of gravel onto his worn boots. He spat and lit a cigarette. That could have been him driving by taunting folk who'd had their licenses suspended. He muttered and inhaled.

Hunger was gnawing. The cigarette suppressed its advance but conjured up memories of his pa, whose definitive warnings about sating hunger had stuck with him. Pa Tumbler, experienced by many years in the kitchen of a popular roadside food chain cautioned, Don't eat in restaurants. You don't know what they do in them kitchens. I do. They spit in food, drop your dinner on the floor and scoop it back up onto the plate. Further to that, they will shortchange you every ding dong time they can on quantity and quality. The exception to the eating out rule of course, was if the meal was free—like on Veteran's Day. But it weren't November yet.

Reflecting on this universal truth, he had barely taken three drags of his cigarette when the bus approached. Jimmy flicked off the lit end of his Lucky Strike against the public transit pole and dipped into his pocket for a fist full of change that he had previously counted out as being very close to the full Honored Citizen's fare.

His favorite seat was taken—the raised inside portion of the double chair just before the rear door. To the left, a veritable fossil of a woman taking up a seat and a half with her cane and groceries. To the right, an Hispanic woman with a grinning toddler who addressed him with a pulse of its grubby fingers. Further down the aisle a woman with giant spectacles producing loud clicking noises on her cellphone and then a smartly dressed woman with short hair who tried to conceal her bristling as he approached. He had half a mind to sit next to her.

His compensation was at the back. Jimmy wasn't bothered by the indignant teenage boys snickering at his scruffy attire. Perhaps, accidentally the back of their seat would get kicked. Before implementing the old sorry 'bout that maneuver he paused to eavesdrop.

No, I sold it for way more than that.

But c'mon man, that was Billy's stuff.

He doesn't need it, he's dead.

Hmm, true say.

In an instant--the boys' casual talk, the view from the bus window, and a relatively shallow memory of a news report--short circuited into a cracker of an notion. Jimmy's heart rate increased, his eyes bugged out, and he rose instantly to get off the number 35. The trip to the Goodwill depot was canceled.

It was just a little past rush hour when Jimmy Tumbler slapped the entrance columns to the Riverview Cemetery. There are better things to do than wrestle with the vintage clothing hyenas for scraps in the giant bulk thrift bins. As he walked the winding roadway up to the bone yard he recalled the soppy face of a fleshy senior being interviewed about a loved one's pillaged grave. The woman had not looked unlike Janis Joplin from the short hair and crochet cap period. Humming a bit of Get it While you Can he continued.

Somewhere in the cemetery woods was the remainder of small secluded campsite. There would be an elevated platform made out of wood pallets taken from the utility yard. Under the pallets would be a stash of tools gleaned from the same location—a rake and a rusty crowbar. And on the fine rolling hills stippled with marble angels and granite pillows were at least two sites where visitors often left bottles of beer for their dearly departed friends. A home away from home.

TAKEN BY CHANCE

Maryann sunk her knife between the worn granite and the soft earth. Guiding the blade along the side of the sunken head stone she cut the moss from its moorings and pulled back a damp clump revealing the name of Timothy Beacon, 1897-1907, Taken at Sea. What was Timothy to her, or she to Timothy that she should be cleaning his headstone? He was an anonymous stand-in for a relative she didn't have. So Timothy, along with hundreds of other forgotten headstones received her undivided attention. As she dug the knife in again it slipped and nicked her finger. Drawing in a quick breath she sucked on the bleeding wound. It was survivable.

While sweeping the debris from the grave inscription she noticed a small drop of dark red on the face of marble. Was this self-assigned grave cleaning operation doing more harm than good? She massaged her furrowed brow with the injured hand and continued. The cool moist air carrying the essences of pine, oak and earth provided a balm. A clump of moss removed the blood splatter from the cold marble. History is so easy to erase.

If only grief were removed that easy. At least here, surrounded by the breathing greenery, distant thoughts dissolved quickly. Senses were readily soothed in the sylvan glades of Riverview cemetery--over one hundred acres of rolling wooded hills and manicured lawns rich with giant trees and flowering magnolias and camellias. Cyclists and cars enjoyed the smooth pathways weaving through the graveyard. Come for the untended graves but linger for the garden.

Moved by the surroundings, Maryann occasionally addressed the phantom mother resting without a gravestone somewhere in Mexico. Always the gentle sighing and faint memories were followed by a wince at the indifference of a father who had abandoned her to the local Sisters of Christ Almighty following his wife's death. But, better not to dwell on that for as Saint Francis said, sadness is cowardice of the soul.

In this furtive volunteer position there was no one to report to, no one to judge or reprimand. She could work, sigh and remember at her own pace amid the tranquility. Although, when she wasn't communing with gentle spirits she had to consider real dangers—a stone chip flying in her eye, a slice through a finger or even having to explain her unauthorized activities to a gardener or perhaps a police officer. In the clear autumn morning she stroked the grave stone. Worrying and wondering aside--this section was clean. She collected her tools and walked uphill to the next resting place.

Suddenly a distinct hammering on granite broke the silence. Maryann stiffened. She advanced cautiously. Illuminated in the rosy morning sun a lone young man in jeans and a pale blue shirt was sweeping a headstone. She took a small step backwards then slipped and fell on the dewy grass. As soon as she stumbled the man pushed his protective goggles up on his head. For a moment they were both frozen in position—the crouching Maryann silhouetted among the scattered gravestones and the chiseler, one hand holding a hammer, the other a chisel.

Ma'am? Are you alright?

The southern drawl was unexpected as was his handsomeness in spite of the chunky protective bug-like eye wear poised on his forehead. She waved a palm in deference, nonchalantly brushing the debris from her skirt.

Oh no, thanks. I'm fine. Just a slip. She slowly advanced.

The young man struggled to see her against the brightening morning sun. He held up a hand to deflect the glare. Underneath this hand shadow she could see concerned eyes and a soft brown mustache bending to either side of his face in slightly uneven waves. She stammered,

I was..., startled by the noise. Usually it's dead quiet here this early in the morning. The pun slowly settled in the quietude.

The chiseler came to the rescue, Ma'am, I'll bet it's dead quiet here just about all times of day.

Maryann was stammered, So true, it doesn't take... m, much. The slight pause between 'take and 'much' was to prevent her blurting out mustache.

The gentleman nodded and returned to conversation to the living, Apologies for startling you. I wasn't considering the noise. He took the goggles off and used them to gesticulate towards the headstones. I just can't stand it when the letters get all worn down.

Maryann asked if they were family graves.

Yes, ma'am. Father, mother and the old one I was working on was a great uncle. All Marshalls, he smiled and offered his hand, I'm Jefferson Marshall.

After releasing his firm grip she shared her story. I'm Maryann, Maryann DeFrancis. We're kinda doing the same thing. I come out here to clean the lettering as well. She reached into the pocket on her tunic to show the knife. As soon as she saw it she realized what a horrible mistake it is to introduce oneself by way of a sharp blade. She stammered a bit and dropped the knife back into her pocket. I mean, I cut the moss and weeds overgrowing ...

He was about to acknowledge the shared interest when a humming bird suddenly appeared hovering between them. Maryann didn't notice at first but Jefferson smiled and gently raised a finger to where the tiny bird was.

It likes your red blouse.

As soon as Maryann turned to see the bird it was gone. Perhaps she caught a glimpse as it darted away. It's nice that you come to tend your parents' grave.

Well there ain't no one else to do it. And I feel, as I barely knew them, the least I can do is to keep the graves looking fine. He looked towards his handiwork. In fact I like to keep the whole area around them clean. Then he asked, Was that your mother's grave?

No, I … well. She had never explained her doings in the graveyard to a stranger. She rubbed the St. Christopher medal hanging on a slim chain around her neck and continued, I lost my mother when I was very young. She died far away and I don't know exactly where she's buried. I suppose it's kind of a therapy, coming here to clean other people's headstones.

It shows a lot of compassion, he said solemnly. I'm sorry about your mother.

Slipping the medallion into her blouse she continued, Let's not dwell on the dead though. The day looks so promising.

Yes, yes it does. I'm going to finish a gardening job in the South West hills and then, hopefully, I'm heading out to the John Day River to pan for gold.

Maryann could only smile, her mouth slightly agape at the notion.

Would you like to see some gold? I'm just parked over there.

The suggestion was so unguarded and natural. She hesitated such a short while that she was sure he never noticed. As his car was in the open it would present no more danger than she was facing at the moment. They walked over the dewy grass to a faded red hatch-back that was crammed full of what looked mostly like camping equipment. Among the jumble was a jumbo size box of Corn Flakes squished under an old plastic milk carton filled with horse shoes. The oddness was intriguing. Jefferson placed his tools in with the horseshoes and opened the passenger door. He gently removed a red paisley bandanna and unwrapped it revealing the small glass tube topped with a cork stopper.

It took me the better part of two days to get that. He said gently turning the tube to display the gold flakes that filled the lower third.

Maryann carefully took the vial as he offered it to her for closer inspection. The gold dust itself was fascinating but his guilelessness was more intriguing. Who shows a stranger armed with a knife a cache of gold?

I've never seen real gold dust before. She returned the vial. Jefferson re-admired it briefly and then carefully wrapped it and placed it back in the car.

Before the gold was gone she declared, I'd like to learn how to pan for gold one day.

Maryann, I can show you how to make your own sluice box. I sometimes teach classes on how to pan and such out in Sumpter and ... The hummingbird interrupted.

Oh I saw it this time! she exclaimed. The following pause was pierced by the distant sound of a lawn mower starting up. Well, you probably have to get to work.

Jefferson extended his hand, It was a pleasure meeting you and ... a pleasant surprise.

Yes, and, she fumbled a bit in her pocket and handed him a business card with her name and phone number. I'm freelancing at the moment, so I had these made up. By all means, let me know about your next class.

He took the card, bowed slightly and then nodded. I will, he carefully articulated, Mary Ann De Francis.

Well... good. And, have a good one. She shook his hand and turned down the road. In the distance Mount Hood stood out a peachy pink against the shadowy city hills. While walking towards her car the new found joy of the chance meeting was pierced by tiny doubts. Why did he take so long to pronounce her last name? Was he simple? Was this incredible chance doomed? She dared not turn back to wave. After getting into the car she checked herself in the rear view mirror. A light smudge of blood and dirt decorated her brow. Doomed. She spat on a paper napkin and rubbed until all that remained was a red blotch of irritated skin. Gold seemed a distant probability.

Jefferson watched the woman in the red flowery blouse and blue skirt walking down the hill. Her short dark hair bounced and her hem swayed just a bit from the weight of the tools in her pockets. The card defined her as a researcher and editor but he was curious about a woman who cleaned the graves of strangers. She worked hard, he could tell by the blood, sweat and dirt on her brow. He wedged the card into his back pocket. What would she make of him? He was so enthralled with the encounter he never noticed a twenty dollar bill had gotten loose from his pocket and fluttered away towards the woods.

ONE MAN'S LOSS

Jimmy Tumbler was just emerging from the cemetery woods. He had spent the night crumpled up under a filthy camouflage tarp tied by one end to a tree and supported on the other sides by crooked branches and old aluminum tubing. Damp and ever so slightly hungover, he scratched at his facial stubble and cursed his busted boots. Stupid damn fucking boots, he muttered as leaf debris and gravel entered through an opening between the sole and the top of the discount footwear. This frustration was compounded by the jarring noise of chiseling on granite. Suddenly the noise ceased. Jimmy shook off the brain fog and crept to the edge of the tree line and scrutinized the green expanse beyond.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. After positioning the baseball cap atop his still-throbbing head, he directed his gaze towards the clamor. A couple were in silhouette up on the ridge. Jimmy chuckled a little when he saw the woman take a stab at the man. In no time they broke off their dispute and departed in separate vehicles. The woman headed downhill but the man was close to Tumbler's encampment and he could see that in his frustrated condition he hadn't noticed a twenty dollar bill falling out of his back pocket. Oh, yes! muttered Jimmy Tumbler. His whole being was focused on securing that money. If only that motherfucker would get moving! Jimmy punched his thigh as the long process of the man getting in his car and driving away continued. What's your problem!? Finally the car took off and Jimmy bolted towards the quarry.

As the twenty dollar note began to unfold it caught the breeze and drifted towards a very large mower cresting the hill. Since when did the lawn tending start so early? Jimmy shouted out for him to stop just as he slipped on the wet grass. The driver couldn't hear him. The young college boy was nodding and smiling to the beat pulsing through his headphones. Just as Jimmy lifted his head from the cold damp ground he saw the twenty dollar bill shredded into a thousand useless pieces. He scrambled like a crab over hot sand to where the ruins lay. Hopeless.

Jimmy kicked and punched as he stomped in circles over the green clippings. He cursed the groundskeeper as well as the person who had abandoned the busted shoes he was wearing. Now he was more thirsty than ever. His predicament, though no more dire than on any other day of the week, still called for fast action. He was not homeless, he was just camping out to explore an opportunity. Singling out a small fragment of the money, he picked it up, hoping for a complete unbroken serial number. Damaged banknotes were redeemable for full face value at a Federal Reserve office, provided they contained this information. However, his hopes