Beloved Evangeline (11 page)

Having someone care about me again after all this time gave me a bizarre, uneasy feeling. Confusion, maybe. Or maybe just a renewed sadness, reminding me of the cost involved to anyone who dared to love me. “I can’t promise that,” I whispered at last, not knowing what else to say. “Anyway, I think it’s time I moved on to someplace new.”

Simon didn’t speak. I could feel the anger, maybe even hatred, coming off of him. He truly hated me for what I’d unintentionally done to Gavin.
Gavin
. Realization seemed to settle over me. Simon had initially seemed very tender, which was very unlike his typical behavior of late.
He was not here of his own free will
.
He
did not care about my well being. The answer to my silent question was obvious, yet still I felt I needed to ask it.

“
Gavin
sent
you to come check on me, didn’t he?” The question blurted out before I had a chance to think it through.

“
Umm...
yeah
, actually. He
was
going a little crazy, said he couldn’t sleep these last few days worrying about you. I tried to tell him it was nothing, that you were probably just sick or something.
Obviously
, I was wrong. I’m just glad he didn’t come here himself. Hearing about Steve, seeing you like this... would probably push him over the edge,” he said, the cold tone in his voice was suddenly alarming to me. “So, yeah, I finally agreed to come by, since he just wouldn’t
shut up
about it.”

Although the words were not
deliberately
unkind, they still felt like a slap in the face. The sting of it reminding me of the time I thoughtlessly tried eating chips and salsa two days after having my wisdom teeth out. Yes, it hurt by accident, but, still, it was hellishly, jarringly painful and bewildering. Yet, after getting over the initial shock, I continued to try and eat the chips, only exercising a bit more caution. It was just in my nature to see most things through, no matter how searing the experience might be.

What was also surprising, and painful, was to see how this was affecting Simon. He looked unwell, sallow somehow. I knew how it felt to watch your best friend suffering, so I understood how he felt perfectly. Somehow I’d managed a two-for-one with my selfish aloofness: Simon by proxy through the anguish of his friend, and Gavin, who was so upset he couldn’t even bear to see me.

I didn’t know what else to say. There was really no appropriate response to that without invoking a fight or sounding pathetic. So I nodded instead, trying desperately not to let the hurt show on my face.

I saw a strange look in Simon’s eye for a moment. He leaned forward and started to say something, but stopped himself. Instead
,
he smiled sadly and said, “I hope you’ll take care of yourself.” Then he squeezed my shoulder slightly, in what might’ve appeared to be a gesture of friendship to an outsider, though the both of us knew better.

6.

After Simon left, wallowing on the couch any longer somehow seemed too pathetic, but I hadn’t quite worked up the courage to return to my bed, where the night terrors continue to plague me. Instead of either option, I grabbed a sweater and bolted out the door. Unlatching my back gate quickly, before any internal debate had a chance to gain footing, I began meandering through the wooded path behind my house. Of course I already knew where that path would lead me, but avidly refused to acknowledge it.

As the looming, melancholy shadows of the graveyard gradually began to take shape through the wrought iron fence on the path ahead before me, I felt
warm
inside. With a quick guilty glance over my shoulder, all at once giving me the feeling of being 12 all over again, I swiftly climbed the fence and bounded over onto the other side. I drew in a long, satisfyingly deep breath—the first truly refreshing breath I’d had in weeks, if not longer.

I had reached my morbid sanctuary. I was all alone here and… at peace. Here there would be no one else to worry over, not anyone who could still be harmed, anyway. Only after soaking in that peace for a few moments did I reach into my sweater pocket and retrieve my iPod. I shuffled through the music library to my favorite classical playlist: Bach, Dvorak, Boccherini, Debussy, Beethoven—all the ones who seem to have understood my sadness and transcendental yearning. I wove through the headstones of all shapes and sizes as the music began working its magic on my soul. One of the most amazing aspects of this graveyard was the interspersion of larger, intricately carved stones and statutes with simple, unadorned head markers. The famous and infamous, rich and poor, proudly buried alongside one another—as it should be.

The somber music, together with this quiet place, had just the right soothing effect on me, just as they always did whenever I wasn’t too embarrassed by my bizarre tastes to let them.

Another aspect I’d always found fascinating was the age of this cemetery. The most recent death I’d found here was 1867. I liked coming here to this locked, abandoned cemetery, where no one else seemed to visit, to ensure that these people were not completely forgotten. I have difficulty reconciling the fact that people work their whole lives, struggling for enlightenment or to leave some sort of legacy for their children, but whatever truths are found or lessons are learned, are gone again as soon as that person dies.

Most of the headstones are overgrown with vines and weeds. Still others are crumbling. The futility of it all at times is overwhelmingly depressing—we never get anywhere at all, our struggles on this earth, completely pointless.

Nicky, Jonathan, and I ran wild through this place when we were kids, building forts and climbing trees in the surrounding woods and competing with one another to be the first to find signs of supernatural activity. Of course we never really saw anything, though all three of us swore up and down that we had.

The only true story in any of that boasting was the event that took place near dear Mr. Bogmeyer’s grave. I was climbing a nearby tree, my favorite spot for ghost hunting, when a dead limb snapped beneath me. I was easily twenty feet from the ground. As I fell, all I could see was a sizeable stone cross rushing toward me. I closed my eyes. But, instead of hitting the cross—and dying—my back hit the ground, landing on moist earth. The wind was knocked from me, thereby taking me several moments to realize I’d landed yards and yards from that cross. As I turned my head, I found myself eye level with Mr. Bogmeyer’s headstone, just inches from my face.

His stone was simple, yet elegantly carved. The headstone has a unique quality, a loveliness that’s hard to articulate. The inscription read:
Hugo Bogmeyer
.
Father and brother
.
May your afterlife hold more joy for you than your life on earth. Your money is being well spent.

Nicky and Jonathan had both heard my scream and had seen my fall. Their only explanation for what had happened was simply that I hadn’t fallen in a straight line. Jumping from trees and rooftops became a kind of hobby of mine after that, but never again did anything unusual happen, aside from me getting hurt.

Since my childhood, I’ve always drawn strength from visits to this graveyard, returning whenever I feel I’ve hit bottom. Though the older I’ve gotten, the more aware I’ve become that this is far from normal behavior and consequently learned to save this respite for the rare occasions when I’m truly in need. Right now, it’s nearly dark, after sunset, and I’m totally alone in a decrepit old graveyard—but I feel no fear. I feel
alive
.

I knelt down beside Mr. Bogmeyer’s grave and waited. Nothing happened. Not that I expected it would, it’s just that the small hope burning within me cannot be extinguished. A change of music was in order—
The Smiths.
If any music were capable of evoking the supernatural, surely this is it.

Show yourself. I know you’re out there… I think.

Every movement of the surrounding forest commanded my attention. Every flitting bird, every gently falling leaf—nothing escaped my notice. Yet—for all its beauty—nothing was beyond the commonplace.

7.

That night I did manage to move from the couch to my bed, a small measure of progress. I was just drifting off to sleep when the door bell rang. I confusedly looked at the clock—exactly midnight.
Who rings the doorbell at midnight?

I stumbled my way to the door, thinking all the while that I really should put on a robe on or something, but whoever it was ringing the doorbell at this hour didn’t really deserve that courtesy, did they? So what if they see me in my t-shirt and Hong Kong Phooey pajama bottoms at midnight? Through the peephole I saw an extremely well-dressed elderly gentleman. He looked like he was at least 90, possibly older.
Maybe he’s lost?

As I opened the door, he politely removed his hat, “Good evening, young lady, I’m Sir Lawrence Talbot. I’m looking for Miss Evangeline Johnson? I’m quite sorry about the late hour... is she at home?”

Suddenly I was hesitant and strangely alarmed. Maybe it was because of the British accent.

I answered slowly, “I’m Evangeline...”

His face lit up in warm smile, “My dear Evangeline! You’re so grown up, and... look how lovely you are!” He seemed to tip backwards a little and grabbed my arm to steady himself. “Sorry, about that,” he mused, “I guess I’m not really accustomed to being out this late. As much as I hate to bother you at this hour, I desperately need your help. I did phone ahead, left several messages—might I have the wrong number? If that is the case, my apologies. Might I come in?”

Wow, two strange visitors in one day, a new record for me. Strange as it seemed, I couldn’t see the harm in letting this frail little old man into the house. I looked around for his car or some sign of someone having dropped him off, but saw none. I couldn’t let him walk home or wherever he came from at this hour and in his condition. “Sure, Mr. Talbot, um...” I raised my hands and looked around. “How about you come in and have a seat?”

“
Thank you ever so, I’m very grateful to have a sit down.” He sort of limped through the door and then eased remarkably slowly onto my love seat. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for anyone to take that long to “have a sit down.”

“
Might a tired old man trouble you for a cup of tea?”

I looked at him a little wide-eyed. He had some nerve, showing up and demanding a cup of tea at this hour. Nonetheless, I shook the thought away and replied, “Uh... sure. I’ll be right back?”

Once we were comfortably settled, he seemed to just stare at me for a long moment. I didn’t want to be rude, so I smiled slightly but couldn’t keep my forehead from wrinkling.

He laughed. “I guess I should get on with telling you what I’m doing here. I just can’t get over seeing you again, after all these years.” He turned to look at my shelves and curios, “And all these glorious things, your mother’s no doubt. Do you know what that black sphere behind you is?”

I turned around to look at it. “Not really. I’ve always liked it, though.”

He had retrieved his tea from the coffee table by the time I turned back, and was busying himself with taking a long sip. He was moving suspiciously quicker than he had a moment ago. My eyes narrowed.

“
Some folks believe that it’s a window allowing a glimpse into the afterlife, for the right person, if you can believe that.” He winked.

What was this crazy old man up to, wandering around at midnight, demanding tea, feigning frailty and bothering people in the middle of the night with preposterous stories? I nodded, though, and sipped my tea, still trying my best not to seem rude, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. “I’m sorry, but you said, ‘Seeing me
again
?’”

“
Of course, you were so little you wouldn’t remember. You see, I work for your grandfather. Well, more than that really, we’ve been friends for a long, long time.”

“
Grandfather? I don’t understand—my grandfather lived in New Mexico. He died years ago...” I was suddenly feeling hot, groggy, and angry at this little man. Possibly, that’s the price you pay for not leaving the house or interacting with anyone for seven or eight days.

“
No, no, that was your father’s father, I believe. I’m talking about your maternal grandfather. Heinrich Von Olnheisen.”