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The graduation ceremony—as tedious as it was significant, Emma Lee supposed—was held on the football field under a cloudless, mid-morning sky. It ended, a murmuration of soaring mortarboards, a good hour before noon. May had parked her old Civic a few blocks from the high school because, she said, she wanted to be able to get away quickly. But, as Emma Lee predicted, May had to hug pretty much everyone before they left. By the time they got away, the parking lot and the streets were basically deserted.
They spent the rest of the day gathering things for the party: blankets to spread out on the dirt, lights and candles, snacks and ice. They got friends’ older siblings to buy beer and cheap liquor. May perfected her Halloween playlist, complete with eerie sound effects, and made sure her phone and Bluetooth speaker were fully charged.
Just before sunset, Emma Lee and May hauled an ice chest between them, headed for the far corner of the cemetery. The chest was heavy, packed with ice and bottled water and beer, and stacked high w ith folded blankets. They stopped to switch sides often, giving their hands and arms a rest.
They froze halfway across the circle drive as the wheezing pickup made its U-turn and chattered to the side of the road. The bent old man eased himself around the back of his truck and made his way to the open gate.
“Shit,” May said.
“He won’t look up,” Emma Lee said.
He freed the leaves from their posts and pulled them closed, wrapped the chain around them, and snapped shut the padlock. He paused, sending Emma Lee’s heart to her throat. But after a moment, he simply turned, made his way back to his truck, loaded himself in, and pulled away.
“Shit,” May said again. Emma Lee laughed, relieved.
They carried the ice chest behind the mausoleum, where they figured they’d be least visible, especially from the homes across the street. It was in one of the older parts of the cemetery, at the top of a rise that looked over crooked rows of tilted tombstones and broken concrete curbs separating family plots. It looked like the undead had tried to push their way to the surface but hadn’t quite made it.
“Creepy,” Emma Lee said.
“As fuck,” May agreed.
It took three more trips from Mr. Matsuo’s house to the site of the party: more blankets, a couple bottles of cheap liquor, cheap plastic lawn chairs, plastic cups, LED lanterns, candles, flashlights. The darkness deepened, a pale crescent moon suspended just above the mountains. Friends began to trickle in from various directions, the guys always sneaking in, appearing suddenly in the midst of the group, causing starts and shrieks. The lanterns were harsh and cast long shadows among the tombstones. Everyone made spooky noises and laughed, and toasted each other on their graduation.
Within an hour, everyone who was going to show up was there. One of the guys had hit the Jack Daniels a bit too quickly and couldn’t keep his voice down. Another kept shutting off the lights, which drew curses from the others. It really was a creepy place, even moderated by good company and alcohol.
Emma Lee zipped her jacket against the slight chill and slipped away, melting through an invisible gap in the hedge along the far wall of the mausoleum. She figured no one would notice, except maybe May, though even that was doubtful: while nose-pierced Mike was old news—he hadn’t been invited, in the end—her new object of desire, a jittery drummer named Taylor, was there, and May was already focused on keeping his attention.
So Emma Lee crossed the grounds, the sounds of the party growing distant behind her. She slipped through the gate, breathing a whispered apology to Mr. Matsuo as she left it open, and climbed up into the welcome warmth of the trailer. She poured a glass of water from the Brita pitcher, lit a pair of candles on the table, and settled onto the bench seat by the window.
She stared out into the darkness, letting her mind wander. She was good at that, comfortable with silence, with herself, with the random twists and turns of thought: scenes from Jane Austen, whose entire oeuvre she was again working through; replayed conversations with May; plans for replacing her tutoring income during the summer; speculation about her future; snippets of Kailee Morgue or Sylvia Plath.
Her reverie was broken by red and blue lights spilling across the cemetery lawn. She heard distant shouts and laughter and, a few moments later, a gaggle of graduates spilled through the gate into Mr. Matsuo’s yard, hushed and hurried, and whisked out the back gate and down the driveway.
There was a quiet knock, and the door opened. May slipped in, closed the door behind her, and blew out the candles. “Sorry,” she said.
“Where’s Taylor?” Emma Lee asked.
“Fucker saw the cops and ran. Didn’t even help me up. Not even a good-bye!”
“Chivalry is dead,” Emma Lee said.
“Fuck me,” May replied.
They watched as dark shapes roamed the cemetery, the long, tight beams of powerful flashlights dancing ahead of them. Radios crackled faintly.
One shape began to move in their direction.
“Did you lock the gate?” Emma Lee asked.
“Yep,” May answered. “Won’t stop them, but I thought it might slow them down.”
The officer found the Matsuo gate. For a moment, the flashlight pointed downwards—checking the lock, Emma Lee guessed—and then the beam swept across the yard. May ducked as the light briefly lit up the trailer. “Shit,” she said.
“They don’t care,” Emma Lee said. “Someone called them and they had to come.”
“You know they want to arrest somebody.”
“If they wanted to arrest somebody, they wouldn’t have shown up with their lights flashing.”
As if in confirmation, the cop turned back and headed, as did the others, toward the front gate. A few minutes later, the frantic red and blue lights shut down. May peered out the window. “I can’t see anything.”
“There’s nothing to see,” Emma Lee answered. She grabbed the lighter off the windowsill, relit the candles, and sat back to regard her friend.
May noticed her gaze. “What?”
“Nothing,” Emma Lee said.
They sat without speaking. Emma Lee enjoyed the quiet, but she knew May wouldn’t be able to stand it for long. Indeed, May was the first to speak: “Was your dad there?”
“At the party?” Emma Lee asked.
“At graduation. Stupid.”
Emma Lee laughed. “I’m kidding,” she said, and paused. “I didn’t see him. But who knows? Maybe it’ll be like the movies: someday, maybe on his death bed, he’ll send for me and tell me he was there, standing in the back. Proud of me.”
“I’m sorry,” May said.
Emma Lee crossed her arms. “I didn’t invite him, so I can’t expect him to show up, right? Even if all the mail still goes to the house.”
“Have you seen him? I mean, lately?”
Emma Lee shook her head. “No. Not since you got me out of there.”
“Do you miss him?”
Emma Lee watched one of the candles flickering as it burned down to the base of the candlestick, a mere wick on glass. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I mean, I miss my dad … growing up? But he changed, you know? It doesn’t feel like he’s the same person. So … yeah, I guess, but no?”
“I’m sorry, Emma,” May said again.
Emma Lee shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got your dad now.”
May laughed. “Yeah, well. He’s not perfect, but he’s predictable.”
“He’s great,” Emma Lee said. She yawned and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Long day.”
“They wouldn’t be so long if you didn’t get up so early,” May said. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s a gift,” Emma Lee said. She refilled her water glass and walked it to the back of the trailer.
“Hey,” May asked, “can I stay here tonight?”
“Sure,” Emma Lee said. “You know how to set up the bed.” She set the glass on the window ledge and walked to an overhead cabinet. She opened it and paused. “Oh,” she said.
“What?”
“The blankets… they’re all…” She nodded toward the window.
“Ah, shit,” May said.
Emma Lee snapped the cabinet shut. “You can sleep with me. Not with me,” she added hurriedly. “You know what I mean.”
“Girl, you’re cute, but you’re not that cute,” May laughed.
“Just keep your clothes on,” Emma Lee said.
“I’ll try,” May said, and laughed again.
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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