The man’s skin was as dark as mine, but he didn’t look black to me. Maybe Native, tall and lean with a way about him that made me think military. The woman was slim and girlish in a pale pink skirt, a white blouse, and sandals, and as they turned toward the exit and I got a look at her profile, I realized I knew her.
When I was a little kid, Gigi had made me go to church whenever I visited. One Sunday, when I was about nine, a girl had played the organ. She was maybe only thirteen or fourteen at the time, but the way she played was something else. Her name was Josie.
Her name came to me in my grandmother’s voice and I smiled a little.
The music Josie had made was soul-stirring and beautiful. And best of all, it made me feel safe and calm. Gi picked up on that right away and we started walking to the church when Josie was practicing and we would listen in the back. Sometimes she would play the piano, often she would play the organ, but whatever it was, I would be still. I remembered Gi sighing and saying, “That Josie Jensen is a musical wonder.”
And then Gi had told me I was a wonder too. She whispered in my ear, with Josie’s music in the background, that I created music when I painted, just like Josie made music when she played. Both were gifts, both were special, and both should be cherished. I’d forgotten all about it. Until now. The woman’s name was Josie Jensen and the grave she visited must be her mother.
I watched the couple walk away, lost in the memory of her music when, at the last minute, Josie stopped and turned. She said something to the man with her, who then glanced back at me and nodded.
Then she walked back toward me, picking her way around the tombstones until she stood a few feet in front of me. She smiled sweetly and extended her hand in greeting. I took it and held it briefly before letting go.
“It’s Moses, right?”
“Yes. Josie Jensen, correct?” She smiled, obviously pleased that I had recognized her too. “I’m Josie Yates now. My husband, Samuel, doesn’t like cemeteries. It’s a Navajo thing. He comes with me, but waits under the trees.”
Navajo. I was right.
“I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your grandmother . . . your great grandmother, actually, yes?” I nodded as she continued. “Kathleen had a way about her that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. After my mom died when I was little, she was one of the ladies in the church who looked after my family, and she looked after me too, teaching me things and letting me hang out in her kitchen when I needed to figure out how to do this or that. She was wonderful.” Josie’s voice rang with sincerity and I nodded, agreeing.
“She was like that. She always made me feel that way too.” I swallowed and looked away awkwardly, realizing I was having an intimate moment with a stranger. “Thank you,” I said, meeting her eyes briefly. “That means a lot to me.”
She nodded once, smiled a sad little smile, and turned away again.
“Moses?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know who Edgar Allen Poe is?”
I raised my eyebrows, puzzled. I did. But it was an odd question. I nodded and she continued.
“He wrote something that I’ve never forgotten, and I love words. You can ask my husband. I buried him in words and music until he begged for mercy and married me.” She winked. “Edgar Allen Poe said many beautiful things—and many disturbing things—but they often go together, you know.”
I waited, wondering what this woman wanted me to hear.
“Poe said, ‘There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.’” Josie tipped her head to the side and looked back at her husband who hadn’t moved at all. Then she murmured, “I think your work is strange and beautiful, Moses. Like a discordant melody that resolves itself as you listen. I just wanted you to know that.”
I was a little speechless, wondering where and when she’d seen my work, flabbergasted that she knew of me at all, and still wasn’t afraid to approach me. Of course, her husband stood fifty feet away, and I highly doubted anyone messed with Josie Jensen on his watch.
Then they were gone, and no one remained but me. Levan Cemetery had the feel of a well-maintained pioneer cemetery—not very big, but big enough and constantly getting bigger as the town grew and buried their dead. It faced west, sitting above the rest of the valley on a rise beneath Tuckaway Hill, looking out over farmland and pasture. From where I stood I could see the old highway, a long silver strip, cutting through fields as far as the eye could see. The view was serene and peaceful, and I liked that Gi’s remains were here.
I walked down rows of stones, past Josie’s mother, until I reached a long line of Wrights, generations of them, four at least. I stopped for a moment at Gigi’s stone, laid a reverent hand on her name, but then moved on, searching for the reason I came. New stones, old stones, stones that were glossy, stones that were flat. Flowers and pinwheels and wreaths and candles decorated many graves. I wondered why people did that. Their dead didn’t need crap covering their names. But like anything, that was mostly about the living. The living needed to prove to themselves and to others that they hadn’t forgotten. And, in a small town like this there was always a little competition going on at the cemetery. It was a mentality that said, “I love the most, I’m suffering the most, and so I’m going to create a huge display every time I come so everyone knows and feels sorry for me.” I knew I was a cynic. I was definitely a bastard. But I didn’t like it. And I didn’t especially think the dead needed it.