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Fiction Short Story

by Edward McDermott

The Lady at the Grave

If one must wait for a delayed plane few places surpass the comfort of the first class lounge. While the economy passengers sat on crowded plastic seats, drank bad coffee and listened to loudspeakers bray, I relaxed in an overstuffed chair and sipped Glenlivet from a crystal glass. The smoky taste rested on my tongue as the ice cubes clinked against one another in my drink.

I sat with four strangers, each reluctant to retreat into our laptops and return to work. The morning papers held stale news. Our flight remained marked as delayed but not yet cancelled. To pass the time we chatted.

As casual conversation between business travelers often does, the topic of success and failure led the discussion. I espoused hard work, intelligence and the reading of ‘The Prince’ as cornerstones of success.

A man called Meriweather introduced himself and spoke. He struck me as older than the rest of us. He wore the confidence of a man who worked for joy, not the need for money.

“I once thought as you did,” he said, “but now I am convinced that luck is the single greatest determiner of success. We throw the dice, but do not control the outcome. Furthermore, gentlemen, I believe that luck rules every aspect of our lives. Let me prove my point with a personal anecdote.”

He shifted in his chair, sipped his drink and continued.

“In the months following my wife’s death, I sought comfort in visiting her grave. As winter gave way to spring, I wandered to the cemetery to insure that the staff performed the maintenance specified in the contract. When the azaleas bloomed, a flower I consider the Mother’s Day flower, I found the grass green and the sculptured lawn irresistible. The precise progression of headstones provided a sense of order to the view, and to my life. I always knew where I came from and now felt assured where I would go.

The old understand death far better than the young. It’s not so much wisdom as resignation that filters into the bones as parents, friends and relatives pass away. No one lives forever, and none will avoid the final journey to the grave. However the young are often caught unprepared and the shock makes them almost inconsolable.

One day I noticed a young woman, perhaps half my age, standing beside a newly filled grave, wiping tears from her eyes. I knew the grave was fresh because the loose, earthen mound protruded from the ground and no stone marked the spot.

Not wanting to intrude, I walked discretely around the grieving widow, or daughter. She remained oblivious to me as she expressed her pain, and I understood her sense of loss too well.

She turned from the grave and stumbled. I stepped closer and offered my hand. The wet spring grass offers treacherous footing, especially for leather soled shoes. Her eyes appeared red and puffy as she looked up at me. I thought I read surprise and gratitude. Sometimes the slightest gesture holds the greatest meaning.

She thanked me, took my hand and wavered as she stood. Her grip was strong, and I felt her lean on me as she found her balance. From there, we talked. I escorted her back to the tarmac path and offered to drive her home. We stopped for coffee and continued conversation.

She told me how her young husband, Henry Jamara, met his premature fate. On a stormy night, as torrential rain fell, his Honda Civic crossed the path of a Ford Explorer, and only mangled wreckage remained.

I shared how my Martha felt a little tired one day, and fell asleep early, a sleep from which she never woke. The doctors said she suffered an aneurysm, a painless death. As if the severing of two hearts and two souls could ever be painless.

Ludmilla, the young widow, met and married her husband in Europe and came home with him. Now he was dead and she had no family here. She had no profession, no skills and no job. The little insurance barely paid the undertaker’s tithe, and she felt torn. Should she return to her native land, in her widow’s weeds and abandon his grave, or struggle to stay close to it?

I found comfort as I talked to her and she listened well. She never imposed, but I observed frayed sleeves on her winter coat, and the way she gulped down dinner. I could afford to be generous, and willingly lent her a small sum to cover the landlord’s needs, for rent in arrears.

We talked over dinner and walked along the city streets. Our footfalls sidestepped the mounds of garbage thrown out by the restaurants as the crowds hurried from the cinema. I comforted her and held her hand. And when she cried, I pulled her close, and gave her a handkerchief. After her tears had subsided I jollied her up with a treat of some sort.

In June she visited me, distraught. Her father fell ill, on his deathbed, she said. She must travel home to see him, but could not afford the fare. She felt so like a beggar. All she could offer me was her mother’s broach as a surety against the loan for the airline tickets.

After I drove her to the airport and dropped her off at departures, I decided to visit the cemetery. I wanted to explain to my wife’s ghost that any impure thoughts existed as such. I spent a pleasant hour engaged in one-way conversation with my missing half and wandered back to my car.

On the way, I passed by the grave where I met Ludmilla. Fresh grass covered the hump that now almost sunk into the lawn’s flatness. A headstone marked the spot, which surprised me, and an ancient bent-over woman, stood beside the grave and placed stones on the four corners of the plot.

I asked what she was doing and she replied, ‘Why I’m weighting the corners of the grave. Me Harvey was a hard man, and he promised he’d come back to haunt me if’n I ever touched his things. Well, wish he may, wish he might, he’ll no more haunt me in the night. The stones will weigh his pockets down, and keep him where his soul has gone.’

She chanted those words in a sing-song monotone rhythm each time she placed a stone on the edge of the grave.

I stood astonished. I said, ‘Your Harvey? I know this man’s wife. I met her here not four weeks ago?’

‘So Harvey had another bit on the side? That’s no surprise to me. If it wasn’t the ponies, it was the birds, or the drink. But marry her, never. Besides, since he turned seventy, he hadn’t the heart for the girls, he didn’t, if you get my drift. He wasn’t up for it.’

Seventy? Why she said he was a young man. I questioned the old woman on this and she replied, ‘Well, if you’ll pay me no mind, read the headstone. Just don’t disturb the stones. I don’t want him haunting me.’

She turned and marched away from the grave. I stepped closer to the headstone, adjusted my glasses and read the simple carved words. ‘Harvey Smith, Born April 7, 1930.’”

Meriweather paused and sipped his drink. A good storyteller, he had us in the palm of his hand.

“Well man, go on,” I said.

“As I was saying,” he smiled, “luck took a hand. If the old woman hadn’t been there, I never would have noticed the gravestone’s words. Good luck for me. Back luck for Ludmilla, although I feel certain some other widower experienced a less fortunate outcome.

As for the broach. A piece of cheap costume jewelry. I framed it. It hangs on a wall above my desk.”


About the Author
Born in Toronto, Edward has pursued a professional career during the day, while taking writing courses, joining writer’s groups, and writing at night. When not writing, he spends his time sailing and fencing. Currently, he is planning to sail around the world and preparing his boat while sailing in the Caribbean.