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Margaret Takes a Walk
by: Sara Seyfarth There is a girl who sits on a gravestone across the street. I can see her from my window, plain as day, when I’m sitting in my easy chair taking the afternoon sun. There’s a graveyard across the way, you see, but though I can see the whole northern slope, there’s never anyone but that one girl, sitting on that gravestone every afternoon. She hasn’t always been there. At least, not since our sons decided the home my Ed and I had lived in together for 64 years was too much for us to handle and shuttled us off to this purgatory. This “condo,” they call it, but I know bullshit when I hear it. Anyway, the girl wasn’t there two years ago when the boys finally convinced Ed to sell the house. She only showed up a few weeks back. I told Ed that very first night. He hadn’t seen her, you understand. He spends his afternoons up to the Clubhouse playing cards with the boys. Time was, I used to join him and play bridge with my friends, but they all up and died on me. Oh, there are a few left, I suppose, but going anymore tires me, so I’ve taken to sitting in my chair and watching the world instead. “I saw the strangest thing,” I told Ed that night when he came home. He’d stopped to get a couple chicken pot pies from KFC--he still drives, although our boys are trying to get him to give that up too--and we were eating them at the two-seater in the kitchen that pretends to be a proper place for dining. I do miss fried chicken, but KFC makes a mean pot pie, I’ll give them that. Ed said nothing, but the shift in his posture told me I had his attention. “There was a girl on a gravestone in the cemetery. Just sitting there, like it was a couch in her own living room. Can you imagine that? I had a mind to walk over there and pull her off of it, give her a talking-to about the sanctity of holy ground. But she just plonked her butt there, the whole afternoon, doing nothing but braid flowers into her hair. I tell you, Ed, I’ve never seen a thing like it in all my life.” It wasn’t until I’d finished my speech that I noticed he was gaping at me like I’d just dropped my top in front of Wade Jamison, the smarmy supervisor he’d had at the factory for some ten years until they finally fired him for harassment of some kind or other. He’d always reeked of Old Spice and cigar smoke and leered at me like I was one of those calendar girls they hung on the back wall. Come to think of it, old Wade is probably dead, too. Ed didn’t say much of anything that night, but I guess I wasn’t terribly surprised to be treated to a visit from the friendly neighborhood “condo” nursing staff first thing the next morning. Betsy fluttered around the room the way she always does, only taking a break from adjusting dials and checking tubes so she can squeeze and poke me. That morning, though, after her regular routine, she turned her big green eyes on me with more scrutiny than usual. For once, she didn’t even look like she’d just been poked with a stick. That’s when the questions started. Lots of questions. Was I feverish? Did I see spots? Was I hearing voices? I still find the whole thing very odd. “Why on earth did you call Heavens to Betsy?” I asked Ed later that night. “Why do you insist on calling her that?” I could hear the frustration in his voice, but I knew it couldn’t be about the nickname. I’ve been calling her that since we met her, nearly a year ago now. “It’s not an insult.” “It’s not nice.” This, from the man who calls me Magpie. Sometimes I think I should tell him what a magpie really is. What they’re known for. But he’s the only person in the world who’s ever called me that, and maybe that’s something. “Maggie?” “Because she’s the phrase made flesh,” I told him then, and it’s the truth. The woman is perpetually surprised. Ed sighed. “I called her because I was concerned. You’ve been very tired lately, and what you described sounded...unusual.” “Of course it sounded unusual. That was the point.” Ed left early for the Clubhouse this morning. One of his friends has a nephew who figured out Ed is a font of knowledge, and every once in a while he comes up to tap into it. Ed may have spent his life working in a factory, you see, but his true talent was making things. He could take a piece of wood and shape it into anything you could imagine. They won’t let him anymore--I think even with his worn out hands, he would if he could--but they say the tools are too dangerous. The boy is good for him. Sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking, I see his hands moving in the air and I know he’s making something beautiful that no one will ever see. I’ve been waiting for a morning to myself. I see the girl every day now, but never when anyone else is around. Heavens to Betsy comes more often too, and Ed holds out his arms behind me when I walk, as if he might need to catch me. As if I might fall at any moment. He thinks I don’t notice. I considered not talking about the girl anymore. I thought, maybe if I stop telling them I see her, they’ll leave me alone. But the girl is there, you see, and if I pretend she isn’t, it’s like admitting they’re right. I need to talk to her, to find out why she goes to that grave. The graveyard is further than I’ve walked in a long time, though, and now I’m exhausted. The other problem is, everything looks the same now that I’m inside the gates and not looking at it from my window. The headstones are all old and pockmarked, and most are either tilted or have fallen and already overtaken by weeds. I wonder if anyone cares for the dead here anymore. Anyone other than the girl. I try to force myself to take a few more steps. My walker helps some, but I have to lean on it more than I should. Then I see a bench. In fact, there are several benches lining the walkway so people can sit properly to visit their dead. I hobble to the nearest one, swallow my pride, and call Ed to come pick me up. I may be stubborn and occasionally reckless, but I’m not stupid. He’s not as angry as I thought, but I have a feeling I’ll be seeing my friend Betsy again soon. It won’t take Ed long to drive here from the Clubhouse, and I’m going to have to get my butt to the car. The road isn’t much of a walk, but it’ll still take time. I heave myself up off the bench to get started, and there it is. Right in front of me. I recognize the tree, which is funny because I never paid it much attention before. But it hangs over the gravestone in a way that none of the others do here, and the stone stands tall and solid where most of the others don’t. The girl is not there. The intensity of my sadness surprises me, especially because now that I’ve called Ed to pick me up, I’m sure she won’t come. I’ve always felt sorry for that Murphy fellow, whoever he was, but he was spot on with his damn law. Maybe the headstone will tell me something, anyway. It’s worth a look. But it is more of a disappointment than I could have imagined, with stone as smooth as any I might have pulled from a running stream. Ed will tell me the name has worn away with time, but the others here are rough, with partial names and chisel marks and traces of human touch. This grave feels as if it is waiting for something. Ed arrives and helps me in to the car and asks if I’m all right. Do I need anything? Am I hurt? As if I’ve been attacked instead of walked across the street. I chuckle a little, but feel badly about it right away. He’s so concerned. “I’m fine,” I say. “I walked too far and tired myself out. That’s all.” “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks. I puzzle over that. Did I? Then I see her, in the rearview mirror. My sudden intake of breath shocks even me, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when Ed slams on the brakes. I have to admit though, it does scare me a little and I’m sorry to have caused it. “Are you okay?” Ed is pawing at me, oblivious to whatever traffic may be coming up behind us, but I just want him to look. “Look!” I’m pawing him right back, trying to get him to focus on the mirror, then to turn around. “Look, she’s there!” He freezes and gives me an incredulous look, but then, thank heavens, he does turn and peer into the graveyard. I follow his gaze, but the girl is gone. “She--” Ed sighs. I hate that sound. “I’ll call the nursing service. You probably just need some rest, but I’m worried about these...” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. Instead, he just starts driving again. “Just don’t call Heavens to Betsy,” I say. He chuckles, as I knew he would. “You love Betsy,” he says. “I most certainly do not.” “You wouldn’t call her that if you didn’t,” he says, and of course he’s right. Those big, shocked eyes of hers look too much like the ones that stared up at me from a crib for such a short, precious time so long ago not to love her a little. But I will not mention our lost daughter to Ed. “Maybe a little” is all I say. I’ve decided to walk over again, to try to catch the girl while she’s there. This time, I’m waiting to leave until I see her. I’m not going to miss her the way I did before. I know it tired me out, but it’s worth it. It is. She’s driving me crazy, this girl. Showing up so only I can see her. I have to find out who she is and what she wants. There she is now. It’s funny how quickly she appears; I didn’t even see where she came from. I must have closed my eyes and fallen asleep for a minute. Ed’s right that I’ve been tired lately. She’s not sitting, though, the way she normally does. She’s twirling under the tree that shades the gravestone. Dappled sunlight bounces off her black dress and makes me feel a little dizzy, but she’s smiling. She’s dancing on the grave and smiling. I should be horrified, but instead I find it beautiful. I hope someday someone will dance on my grave. It would not be Ed. He’ll be too devastated, and I don’t blame him for that. The boys won’t dance at all. I don’t know why. When they were young, I danced all the time. Every chance I got, I would throw open the windows to let the sunshine in, crank up the music, and dance. I danced while I cooked; I danced while I cleaned; I danced Eddie in the door from work. If I have any regrets in my life--and there are few--it is that at some point I turned my back on my boys just for a second, and sadness crept in. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out when, or how. I wonder if our wide-eyed girl would have danced for me on my grave. Ed has been taking such good care of me. I’ve been so tired, you see, so very tired. He hasn’t even gone to play cards with his friends for the past couple of days. I keep asking him to go, telling him that I’m fine and he shouldn’t fuss so, but he won’t hear it. He’s in the next room with Heavens to Betsy whispering as if I don’t know they’re talking about me. The girl on the gravestone comes more often now. Or, I see her more often, maybe because I stay in my chair. I like it here. I like to watch the birds in the feeder outside the window, and some time ago, Ethel’s grandchildren were playing out in the yard. The little girl had golden hair, and the boy looked so much like my oldest that I thought for a moment they were mine. That my girl had...But I know better, of course I do. It was nice to imagine for a moment. I like to see the girl now, even if she is sitting on a gravestone, braiding her hair. “There!” I call to Ed. “There she is. Finally, you’ll stop arguing with me about this.” Ed kneels next to my chair and leans forward, making a real show of squinting at the graveyard. I smack his shoulder. “Quit playing around. She’s right there, smiling at us.” “Maggie...” He says it slowly, as if he’s afraid the words will break me. “There’s no one there. I can’t see a soul.” The girl’s smile turns into a grin that somehow puts me in mind of a skull, and I shut my eyes to block the image. I expect my heartbeat to quicken, but instead it slows. “Don’t you see her, Eddie?” The softness of my voice should surprise me, but sudden exhaustion makes it insignificant. Ed’s fingers squeeze mine. “Oh my dear,” he whispers from what seems like further away than he ought to be. I’ve loved him for so very long that the hoarseness in his voice makes me ache. “Oh my darling Magpie.” |
Sara Seyfarth likes to nerd out with spreadsheets, still uses a flip-phone, and is lucky enough to have a day job doing something that matters. She wrote her first (short!) book at age nine and has been concocting stories ever since. Check out her website here
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