The Tesla Gate (15 page)

CHAPTER 17

Tears of the Recently Departed

“There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.”

—Henry Wordsworth

I sat and looked at the headstone nearest to me. It was weathered so badly that I could just make out the first letter of the last name and the date of death: August 8, 1881. The stones beside it and behind were not in much better shape; I couldn't make out any dates, but the last name was clearly visible on both. The one to the left belonged to a Nesbit and the one behind belonged to a Smith. I guess that outside of a family plot, there was probably not a single cemetery in the United States that did not have at least one Smith. I got up and strolled a little ways in. The next four stones presented different last names, which told me this probably was not a family plot but a long forgotten burial site of a town that had also slipped the recollection of the living, aside from a few caring souls in The Madison County Historical Society.

I passed two more rows of stones, all of which were so badly weathered that they could have been little more than smooth rocks protruding from the ground. As I approached the far wall of the little cemetery, I stopped in my tracks as a lump formed in my throat and my heart started to flutter. A single headstone had caught my eye, one that was probably in the best condition of any I had seen so far. It was not the condition of the stone that got my attention, it was the name on the stone:
Stan Pendleton.

I walked up and ran my hand over the smooth surface, reading the rest of the inscription. Stan was born in July of 1842 and passed away on February 3, 1884. He was a loving father and husband. That was it, nothing more.

I, at first, felt a flash of intense grief as I was reminded of a tombstone back home in Conway with the same last name, but it memorialized two names, not just one. It also displayed two epitaphs, not just one:
Beloved wife, mother and friend,
and the other short and to the point:
Sweet angel
. A tear streamed down my cheek as I absently knelt then sat in the grass. I pinched the bridge of my nose and wept for a few moments until the realization of where I was came back to me with a jolt. I looked around at the headstones with embarrassment, like I had just been caught weeping in a crowded room. Were any of these people around now, due to the storm? I didn't know, but I did know they definitely weren't here, not in this sad and lonely place.

It suddenly dawned on me just how woefully inadequate the living are when it comes to memorializing our fallen friends, family, and fellow people. This little cemetery was a perfect example of this shortcoming. How can a life lived be reduced to a name, dates, and a clichéd sentence or two carved into a rock? A life that will gradually be forgotten as those who do remember move on to receive their own carved epitaphs, until presently there are none that remain who remember … or care? We leave their memory to the mercy of time and the elements until nothing is left to remind us that they once lived, once laughed, and once loved, nothing but a weathered stone.

I thought of a play which I participated in high school.
Our Town
by Thornton Wilder was probably one of the most depressing stories I had ever read, but it got me an “A” in drama, which I desperately needed for my GPA. A woman named Ellen or Emily, I can't recall which, was allowed to return after her death and relive the day she had celebrated her twelfth birthday. She realizes just how much life should be valued, “every, every minute.” She poignantly asks the Stage Manager whether anyone realizes life while they live it, and is told, “No. The saints and poets, maybe – they do some.”

This conclusion to the famous stage play suggests that we have no value for life because we take it for granted every day, and there are only a few of us who harbor any appreciation of the gift at all. Wasn't this cemetery and thousands more around the world direct proof of that? Isn't our dealing with death a direct reflection of how we deal with life? Of course it is, both are forgotten and taken for granted.

As I leaned against the headstone behind me and rubbed my eyes, I heard Seth calling for Jackson in the distance. The unusual sound of his voice, like someone talking in a tin can, did not faze me anymore. He was my son, he was my buddy, he was my Seth … he was my sweet angel. The gift I had been granted was far better than the one the woman in the play received. Or was it the gift Seth had been granted? I wasn't sure, maybe both would be accurate.

Except what would have become of Seth if this cosmic storm had never come along? Would he have been relegated to an existence of vying for the attention of a father who could not see or hear him? I shuttered and quickly tossed the thought aside. Too many questions to ponder and I didn't have the answer to any of them. We were together now and that's what mattered. We needed to make every, every minute count, as the woman in the play realized.

I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand then got up and looked around. It was truly amazing how quickly a person can get used to something; the lavender sky now seemed completely prosaic to me, like it had always been that way. I gave the headstone that had prompted this emotional distraction a perfunctory glance. It didn't even occur to me that this could possibly be some long forgotten relative of mine, perhaps even an uncle or granddad from many generations ago. I wanted to get away from it as quickly as possible. I strolled past and carefully climbed the rock wall. Seth laughed in the distance and Jackson barked, so I headed in that direction.

We had no success finding Shasta that day. We stayed another hour combing the field; miraculously I saw no snakes, not even by the pond. Miss Chenowith told me that the plantation was part of a small community called Pascoe, which disappeared over 100 years ago when the town and plantation was leveled by a massive tornado. A short time later, before the inhabitants could rebuild, the town was consumed by a terrible flood that didn't recede for almost six months.

Everyone that was left moved on to seek work in Memphis or Nashville. The cemetery was mysteriously tended periodically until the mid-1950s when the Paladino family bought the property from the county and started the dairy farm. It was assumed that some of the surviving members of Pascoe had tended the burial site and had gotten too old to continue, or gave up when the barbed wire fence was constructed for the dairy.

If Shasta had been buried there, I doubt it was in the town cemetery. According to Miss Chenowith, he had been a slave, and sadly slaves were not afforded elaborate burials and not in a white cemetery. If there was any marker for poor Shasta, it was probably made out of wood, not stone, in a place that had now been erased by time and the elements. I pictured in my mind's eye a small makeshift wooden cross, wood that had probably rotted and washed away decades ago, probably in the flood that finished the town. I had no reason to believe that Shasta had any reason to hang out in such a sad, forgotten, and empty place.

The only thing the day had given to me was a rejuvenated desire for Seth and me to resume our trip. I felt for Miss Chenowith, I truly did, but I had to remember why I was here, why I was on this trip. I was on this trip for Seth, and I had to make the most of every, every minute because I knew that Seth could be gone again. If that happened I might never get another chance. I made up my mind that we would head out first thing in the morning – Shasta or no Shasta. I would use our drive back to Miss Chenowith's home to try and decide the best way to break the news to the sweet lady. I thought I would soften the blow by treating our gracious host and cook to dinner. She proclaimed that she wasn't fit to be seen in public, so I drove through a popular local Mexican food establishment that she recommended; it turned out that Tex-Mex is her favorite cuisine. I never would have guessed that. We took our meal back to her place for eating and squenching, leaving my vehicle smelling like refried beans and hot sauce.

Miss Chenowith was very quiet on the trip home and during dinner. I think I saw a tear slip down her cheek a few times. I felt sorry for her; I knew what it was like to lose someone. Well, maybe not in the same way as she did. The person she lost was already deceased. I knew, though, that it didn't make him any less a person or make her grief any less painful than mine. He wasn't gone, he couldn't be. He had to be somewhere close, didn't he? Again, more questions that I didn't have a clue how to answer.

I told Miss Chenowith after dinner of my intentions to resume our trip in the morning. She was noticeably upset, but she said she understood.

“I know you have to cherish every, every minute,” she said with a sad smile.

My heart leapt into my throat and my eyes felt like they bulged as big as saucers. “Why did you use that term?” I asked barely above a whisper. She said she was just a medium, but could she be more than that?

She looked at me, obviously a little surprised at my reaction.

“That was one of my favorite plays growing up,” she said. “It really puts things in perspective.”

She frowned.

“Why does that bother you?”

My heart was still racing but I felt stupid. What had I expected her to say?
I read your mind, Thomas. I know everything about you!

“It doesn't,” I said, mustering a smile. “It was one of mine, too. It really does make you think.”

She smiled, patted my arm, then drew a shawl around her shoulders.

“I'm not feeling well,” she said as she placed her hand over her stomach. “I think I got too much sunnin' today.”

She did look a little flushed, and now that she mentioned it, I kind of felt a little weathered. It had been an unusually sunny day, very few of the yellowish clouds could be seen. Of course, any day was unusual now whether it was sunny or not; the sky is lavender, for God's sake. I may have gotten used to it, but I was still aware of it. Maybe that had an effect on us, being out in the phenomenon all day; after all, they had warned everyone over the radio to stay inside until they had more information.

I suddenly realized that it had been almost two days since I had listened to a radio. I had no idea what was going on in the world right now. That gave me a pang of panic. Could they be reporting that the phenomenon had passed in Europe and would eventually pass here just hours or minutes from now, putting everything back to normal? The bottom line is that it did me no good to worry about my weathered skin or the passing of the phenomenon. I could do nothing about either one. I tried to push it out of my mind, but the searing flame of worry in my gut kept pushing back with a vengeance. I couldn't forget, no matter how hard I tried. I suddenly had an overpowering desire to see Seth.

“Y'all make yourselves at home,” she said pointing to the kitchen. “Give Seth a kiss for me and I'll see you in the morning.”

As she turned to go upstairs her tired expression and posture made her look every bit of her 70-plus years. It was the first time I had seen her like this and it took me back a little. I knew it had been a tiring day and she was stressed from the loss of Shasta. Hopefully, it was nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix, or at least make better. I could use a good forty winks myself, especially since I planned on hitting the road early in the morning.

I said goodnight to Miss Chenowith and went out to the backyard to find Seth and Jackson. The sun was beginning to set, and the weird, luminescent light show was once again descending over our side of the world, turning the outdoors into an enormous black-light painting. I was outside for just a few moments when I thought that worrisome flame was going to erupt from stomach – Seth and Jackson were gone.

I started to call out when they emerged sheepishly from behind the storage building.

“Hey, buddy, what are y'all doing?”

Seth shrugged and patted Jackson on the head as they approached me.

“Nuffin,' we was just playin',” he said.

I was a little curious to see what they were doing, especially since Seth was acting like I had just caught him with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. I might have pushed the matter if not for feeling the cold paws of Jackson on my thigh as he yipped for my attention. I stroked his equally frigid head and then beckoned them to follow me inside.

“We need to get some rest, buddy. We are heading out for the moozem in the morning,” I said with a weak impression of Seth's pronunciation. He wasn't impressed with my jest as he gave me an annoyed smirk but his face brightened when he realized what I had just told him.

“Really?!?” he beamed.

“Yes, really,” I said as he took my hand and started to pounce up and down with excitement. Jackson barked playfully and ran around Seth and me in a large circle, looking like a silver ring the faster he travelled.

“Can I see all the spaceships?” Seth asked as I led him toward the door.

“You bet!” I said, “Every one of them!”

We went in the house and Seth scored a couple of cookies from Miss Chenowith's teddy-bear-shaped cookie jar. He gave one to Jackson and trotted off happily toward the bedroom. I made a mental note to check the carpet for cookie fragments later. I didn't know if it was possible to teach an Impal dog to squench. I had seen only one, after all. But even if it was, Jackson sure didn't have the hang of it yet.

I made myself a glass of cold buttermilk. I was thirsty with an unsettled stomach, and buttermilk always seemed to do the trick. The worry that burned in the pit of my stomach, however, would have probably been best quenched with a stiff drink, but there was none to be found. Unless she had a secret cabinet somewhere, it seemed that Lizzy Chenowith was a teetotaler.

I searched for a piece of cornbread and found one wrapped up in the bread box next to the fridge. I crumbled it into my glass and swished it around until the crumbs were sufficiently saturated with fermented milk. It was a little trick I learned from my granddad. He did it every night before going to bed. He claimed that it enhanced the taste, settled his stomach faster, and helped him sleep better. I knew it settled my stomach, but I wasn't sure about the other two … but I needed all the help I could get tonight.