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Fiction Short Story

by Russell DeJarnette

The Millville Cemetery Incident

The Millville cemetery sits on a rolling plot of land covering 32 acres. It is not only large but old as well. According to a few of the old timers, some of the dates that are now no more than slightly raised irregular lines on the older stones go back to 1839. That was two years before Millville was incorporated.

The iron fence surrounding the cemetery was erected in the 1850s. It was made by the Millville Foundry for the princely sum of one hundred and thirty two dollars and encompassed the entire plot. Although only a small fraction contained graves at that time, the city fathers must have had considerable foresight. For today a few unfilled plots still remain.

The original double gates that opened into the cemetery have a story of their own. One of the foundry partners had returned from a recent trip to Italy. He had seen some fancy bronze doors. Really nice they were. Had lots of angels tooting long horns and chubby cherubs too. Inspired by this genius and being a benevolent sort he offered to design, make, and hang the gates at no cost.

It took the better part of a year. He must have been inhaling smelter fumes regularly during that time. When the molten iron cooled and the forms were knocked off it was a sight to behold. Seems like some of those long trumpet horns had gotten misplaced during the fabrication process. A cherub here and there was turned into a unicorn. And for the angels, well let's just say some of them looked sort of like lollipops. Few people attended the dedication. Fewer placed future orders for ornamental ironwork.

The gates had to be replaced in 1904. Someone stole the original ones right off the hinges. They were never found. Folks that hung around the pool hall thought whoever had done it should be awarded a medal. They were rumored to have been hid in twenty different places in the county. Every summer people would dive down into the depths of the abandoned Millville quarry thinking for sure they would discover those cherubs smiling up at them from the depths of the limestone colored water. Every time a farmer would bust a plow and bring it in to be repaired he would say "Yep, broke the dang thing when I plowed into some cherubs."

The city fathers immediately set about soliciting donations to get a new set of gates made at the foundry in Wolfsburg. They were rather fiscally conservative especially since the recent loss of their largest taxpayer, which happened to be the local foundry.

In the meantime a clumsy set of temporary wooden doors were erected. They served the purpose until the awful rainstorm. Look it up in the Millville Register. April 1st of that year it was. Awful. Lots of rain and to the dismay of the cemetery caretaker, lightning too.

People all the way downtown heard it hit. A lightning bolt must have struck those gates dead on, no pun intended. In a split second they were turned into an inferno. Some people who passed by right after it hit said they thought it must look something like the gates to hell. Apparently it was seen by some as a warning shot, because the next day the city fathers had enough pledges to contract for a new set of gates. For some reason they were mighty plain. Just vertical spikes with two pieces of iron running across near the top and three running across near the bottom.

Between the time of the lightning strike and installation of the new gates Millville residents were put on the honor system to obey closing time. This meant that the caretaker assumed a temporary new duty of collecting empty beer and whiskey bottles in the back of the cemetery around the mound where the wilted flowers were heaped.

The main road winds in sort of an irregular circle around the cemetery. It is intersected by gravel-covered lanes that provide access to the rest of the cemetery and it isn't wide enough for two cars to pass. It was first built when horse drawn hearses and caissons carried the dearly departed to freshly dug graves. Mourners followed in carriages or on horseback.

Then plots were sold up close to the narrow road ensuring that two people meeting a century later in vehicles had no option but for one of them to back up into the nearest gravel lane, which led off the macadam. In 1950 that narrow road created a conflict of sorts.

It was over where Herbert Linely was buried. Seems that his wife went to pay respects. It happened to be at the same time that the cause of Herb's untimely heart attack Shelley the bank teller decided to pay homage.

Unfortunately during the nine months that Herb rested peacefully, and no doubt smiling, Mrs. Herb had heard rumors of the real cause of her hubby's death. It just seemed too juicy for the old biddies to keep quiet. In small towns loose lips may not sink ships but they can wreak havoc in other ways. And one of those ways happened to pop up at Herb's grave.

It could have ended peacefully enough. Shelley, out of respect for the real Mrs. Herb, could have backed up into a gravel lane no more than twenty feet behind her and let the widow pass. But at the moment she looked up and saw who was driving that big Packard toward her Shelly thought that she should have gotten something from Herb other than the reputation of being a man killer. Two dresses from the Bon Ton shop were small compensation for what she had been put through in the intervening months. So she calmly brought her Chevrolet coupe to a stop and slid it into park, pulled out her compact and started to powder her nose.

Mrs. Herb felt Shelley's presence was enough to confirm her suspicions and started to go for the horn. But then she thought better of it. After all it was a cemetery. Staring at this impertinent hussy she knew retreat was out of the question. She and Herb had been talking about a trip to Hawaii the day before his demise. She had been doubly cheated, cheated on and cheated out of a trip. And the reason for both sat fifteen feet in front of her in that red and tan Chevy.

Mrs. Herb waited until Shelley glanced up and then summoned up her most withering stare. She must have tried to put too much into it. The look struck Shelley as one of those strained faces you make when you are sitting on the john trying to get the job done while wishing you had eaten more bran. She laughed. War was declared.

It happened quickly. The Packard came to life in an instant and roared full speed ahead, all of fifteen feet. The result was surely less than what Mrs. Herb wanted. Damage was confined to a slight dent in the front bumper of the Chevy and hardly a scratch on the Packard. Shaken, not from the collision but from the audacity of the other woman, Shelley put the car in reverse, slowly backed down the macadam road and up into the gravel lane and stopped.

Mrs. Herb leveled a stony gaze at Shelley then shifted the Packard into gear. She never took her eyes off Shelley as she drove up even with her. It seemed Mrs. Herb could swivel her head at an amazing angle because she continued to stare at Shelley even as she drove past.

Unbeknownst to the widow she started drifting off the narrow macadam road. At the full extension of her swivel, the front tires of the Packard found the edge of the hole dug that morning for poor old Mr. Driscoll. The car tilted downward at about 20 degrees and came to an abrupt halt. Unfortunately Mrs. Herb's neck continued its forward momentum and was stopped only by the Packard's large chrome steering wheel. Seems she blew the horn after all.

There was a sizeable crowd for the funeral; most of them there no doubt out of curiosity.

© Copyright 2003 Russell DeJarnette

About the Author:

Russell DeJarnette lives in North Carolina where he is in the process of restoring an ante-bellum house. A former native of Kentucky, he lives there with his cat, Mr. Puss, whose former residence was the local pound.