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Unlike many of her peers, Emma Lee woke early. This had been true even before she left home at nearly seventeen, before she had moved into the trailer. Now, she woke even earlier, to make time before school for her early morning walks among the dead. In winter, when the days were short and the mornings near freezing, she’d shrug into her faux-fur-lined parka and make her rounds, sticking mostly to the main road and well-worn paths. In summer, though, she’d weave among the gravestones, worn and tilted and water-stained, and she would solemnly read, sometimes even aloud, the names and dates and epitaphs.
Her best friend, May—Mr. Matsuo’s only child—never understood any of it. She hated getting up early, hated going on walks. Well, she hated any exercise, to be honest. And the cemetery just creeped her out.
She didn’t like the trailer much, either. Too many annoying trips as a child, before her parents had split up. But she’d been glad that it was available for Emma Lee when she needed it, when Emma Lee needed to escape her father’s drinking, and her mother wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, protect her from his increasing temper.
May had been fierce: the first time Emma Lee couldn’t hide the bruises, May had dragged her—protesting, grieving, afraid—to Mr. Matsuo’s house. He’d listened, silent and nodding, with an empathy and sadness that almost broke Emma Lee’s heart. It had been too long since anyone had listened to her that way.
They discussed options. May lived with her mother and a roommate, and there wasn’t enough room for Emma Lee to join them there. May’s father’s place was no better: it had a big yard, but the house itself almost qualified as a tiny home.
But he had the trailer, so he aired it out, hooked up the electricity and propane, filled up the water tank. He handed her a ring of keys: to the trailer, the garage, and the back door, so she would have access to a bathroom. He added the gate key later.
May spent the first few nights in the trailer while Emma Lee learned to be less jumpy. It was summer, so she didn’t have to worry about her parents showing up at the school. But she was certain they’d call the police, who would find her and drag her home, maybe even arrest Mr. Matsuo for helping her. She left a message on her mom’s cell phone, just to let her know she was safe, that she wasn’t running off to the city to become a homeless waif, and then she took the battery out of her phone so no one could trace it.
They stopped by Emma Lee’s house, when her parents were certain to be at work, and picked up some clothes and a laptop, packed some toiletries and books—Jane Austen, mostly—and left a note where only her mother would find it, to emphasize that she really was safe.
When a week passed and the cops hadn’t shown up yet, her fear shifted from the authorities to her father. She couldn’t believe that he would just let her walk out like that.
It took him another week to find her. He entered Mr. Matsuo’s yard, shouting her name, his speech slurred and sloppy. May wasn’t there; Emma Lee shrank back into the corner of the bed, alone and trembling, as her father slammed his palm on the door, rattled the doorknob, yelled for her to open up.
She heard Mr. Matsuo, then—a single “Hey!”—and her father turned his drunken rage away from the door. She closed her eyes, imagining her father, all six-foot-two of him, storming toward the small, Japanese man, towering over him, spittle spraying as he shouted.
He really was shouting, too: insults, threats, accusations of interfering in family matters, of kidnapping, of pedophilia, of statutory rape. She wanted to die from shame.
But her father suddenly gave a sharp cry and fell silent. She heard Mr. Matsuo speaking in a low, calm voice. She held her breath, listening hard, trying to hear his words, but she couldn’t make them out.
A few moments later, her father started up again, but his voice was distant, more tremulous than threatening. He was walking away, she realized. His vague threats faded as he left the yard.
Mr. Matsuo knocked quietly on the door. She stumbled over and opened it, staring down, wide-eyed, into his placid face. “Are you okay?” he asked her. She nodded. He smiled and nodded back.
“I’m sorry?” she said, not sure why she intoned it as a question.
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said.
“Will he be back?”
“I doubt it.”
“But … police?”
“I doubt that, too.”
She lowered herself to the floor, her feet on the trailer steps. “What did you say to him?”
He smiled and gave a subtle bow, but he did not answer.
Despite Mr. Matsuo’s reassurances, Emma Lee expected her father to return, fortified by whiskey, or bolstered by friends with baseball bats or tire irons or guns. But he never did.
The cops never showed up, either.
Within a few weeks, Emma Lee received a letter from her mother, who wrote that she had tried to text but wasn’t sure the messages were getting through. Emma Lee’s courage and example had given her the strength to get away as well, to borrow money from friends and fly back to her own mama’s home in Alabama.
Emma Lee didn’t feel courageous, but she was glad for the news.
She dug her phone out of the drawer, replaced the battery, and plugged it into the wall to charge up. She turned it on, expecting that her father would have canceled the number. Apparently, he hadn’t; the phone found a signal immediately.
The messages from her mother pinged for several long seconds.
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Story by Greg Kemble. Art and animation by John David Irvine (thejohnirvine.com).
In addition to reading the series on the blog, you can enjoy “Emily’s Grave” in a few other formats (you’ll find links to all of these versions at the Emily’s Grave (a story) page):
- Videobook (YouTube) – I commissioned my friend and former student John David Irvine—now an award-winning animator—to create an atmospheric animation to accompany the audio version of the story.
- Audiobook (mp3) – Recorded by the author (that’s me!). You can listen to it on the blog or download it.
- Print version (PDF) – If you prefer to read written text, you can view or download a PDF version.
Tip Jar – Pay what you like, if you like.
A-and there’s merch! If you like John’s cover art, check out the shirts, coffee mugs, stickers (and more!) at Redbubble.
About the author (that’s me!)
Close-to-retirement English prof.
Occasional musician, blogger, and writer.
Mildly Introverted, mostly harmless.
About the artist
Multi award-winning artist/animator/filmmaker John David Irvine is known for his unique style of handcrafted animation and darkly surreal imagery. His cryptic work explores identity, queerness, and generational trauma, wading into the everyday horrors that undulate beneath the veneer of the mundane. His award-winning short film COMMON MONSTERS is currently being expanded into his feature film directorial debut.
Check him out at https://thejohnirvine.com.
“Emily’s Grave” © 2021 (text) and © 2023 (audio and video) by Greg Kemble are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0