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Emma Lee managed to get herself untangled from the sheets and out of the bed without disturbing May.
She slipped out of her pajama bottoms, pulled on her jeans from the night before, and, after a tall glass of water, zipped up her white hoodie, laced up her shoes, and stepped quietly outside.
It was still early, still a little bit cool. But the sun was starting to clear the trees, and she could tell it was going to be a warm day.
She stopped by Mr. Matsuo’s bathroom, then headed to the garage to grab a couple large trash bags. A few moments later, she was ambling across the cemetery lawn, smiling faintly into the warm breeze.
The scene of the previous night’s festivities was about as chaotic as she’d expected. Everyone had pretty much dropped everything when they’d run off. The blankets were all bunched up, presumably from people scurrying to their feet. Most of the chairs were on their sides, with beer bottles and chips strewn in all directions. A near-empty fifth of Jack Daniels lay at the base of a tombstone. Two of the lanterns were open but dark, their batteries dead. May’s Bluetooth speaker had fallen behind the ice chest.
And there was one black Nike sneaker. Emma Lee smiled, imagining a person—Taylor, in her mind’s eye—limping off with only one shoe. She laid it atop a headstone so it would be visible if its owner returned for it.
She started putting the garbage into a trash bag. The loose chips were too hard to pick up, so she decided to leave any food for the squirrels and birds. She rounded up cans and bottles, candy wrappers and half-full bags of pretzels. She found a lighter and a cheap bong hidden in the shadows of a precariously tilted headstone, and decided just to toss them in with the rest of the trash.
The cheap plastic chairs stacked nicely, off to the side, against the wall. The ice in the ice chest had all melted, so she tipped it over and watched the water rush out and pool against the cracked cement curbing around the nearest plot. She used one of the blankets to wipe out the chest and set the lanterns and half-burned candles and May’s speaker inside. She closed it and began folding the blankets and stacking them on top.
As she shook out the last one, she heard the old guy’s pickup truck, clattering and wheezing in the distance, but drawing closer. She peered around the corner of the mausoleum and saw the truck making its way up the driveway, onto the gravel road, and then across the lawn, slipping among the flat grave markers.
She finished folding the blanket and hugged it to her chest. Should she try to slip away, to sneak around the side of the mausoleum as he rounded the corner? It wouldn’t be a big problem, but she wasn’t sure how she’d stay out of sight after that. If it were night, the shadows along the fence might provide cover, but she didn’t think she could remain hidden for long in daylight.
The truck turned around and backed up to the edge of the building. The engine shut off, rattling and coughing for a few seconds before falling silent. The door creaked open, then slammed. Emma Lee let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and stepped over to lay the blanket on top of the others.
The bent old man turned the corner and paused. She thought he was surprised to see her, but she wouldn’t have been able to explain that impression. He hadn’t stopped suddenly, as someone who was startled might do. He hadn’t straightened up; he hadn’t frozen in his tracks. She wasn’t responding to an expression on his face; he didn’t seem to have an expression. Still, she thought he seemed surprised.
She was sure that she looked startled, though. She’d never seen him close up before, and was taken aback by just how old he looked: leathered face, dark eyes squinting out from beneath the brim of his hat. He was even more bent than she had realized, too, stooped dramatically forward and a bit to his left. He wore dark blue jeans, a large turquoise-and-silver belt buckle, and a faded, button-up jeans shirt, the sleeves rolled up across tight, wiry forearms.
At some point, the silence became too uncomfortable even for her, and she felt she needed to say something: “I was walking by and saw the mess ….”
The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened and his mouth turned down a bit, but it seemed like he was amused. At least, that’s what she hoped. “Just happened to be walking by,” he said.
“I live over there,” she said, pointing toward the trailer. “I walk here most every day.”
“I’ve seen you.”
“You have?”
His smile, if it was a smile, broadened. “I’m old, not blind,” he said. He nodded toward the trash bag. “Trash?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. He limped over, picked it up, and hauled it, glass clinking loudly, to the back of the truck. He tossed it into the bed much more easily than his posture would have predicted.
He turned and nodded toward the chairs and ice chest. “You want some help with that?”
She hesitated. Part of her didn’t think she should acknowledge that these things belonged to her. But in the end, she couldn’t think of a denial that wouldn’t sound lame. Or, worse, a denial might encourage him to pack everything into his truck and drive it away.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
He lowered the tailgate, and they loaded the chairs. They carried over the ice chest with its pile of blankets. She couldn’t lift her side high enough, so they set it on the dirt and stacked the blankets in separately. He lifted the ice chest himself, slid it forward, and slammed the tailgate shut.
He walked back to where the party had been and wandered among the tombstones, returning with a half-full bag of Doritos that she had missed. That was it. He nodded, sticking out his lower lip. “Nice job,” he said. He limped back toward the truck, pausing to stare at the single shoe Emma Lee had placed on the tombstone.
“I know,” she said. “That’s not disrespectful, is it?”
The old guy grunted. “They’re dead. They don’t care.”
He headed for the truck, motioning for Emma Lee to go around to the passenger side. The door was unlocked. It screeched even louder than his door had.
The clutch creaked as he pushed it in to start the engine. The shifter was on the steering column; Emma Lee didn’t think she’d ever seen that before. They bounced in low gear across to Mr. Matsuo’s gate.
The old guy dropped the tailgate again, and they set the chairs and ice chest and blankets next to the gate. Emma Lee started to reach for the trash bag, but he grunted. “I’ll take that,” he said. “Unless you want it?”
“No, that’s okay.” She paused. “Thank you,” she said.
“No problem,” he said. He jerked his chin toward the house. “Tell Matsuo I said hi,” he said.
“You know him?” she asked.
He just grunted and raised his old, rugged hand in a vague wave and climbed back into his truck.
She watched him jostle back to the main driveway and down to the gate. He pulled out into the street just as a dark sedan pulled in. It parked on the far edge of the circle, and a woman and three kids stepped out onto the pavement. The kids were loud, laughing as kids do, as they ran off across the lawn. The woman stepped around the front of the car and wavered a moment, steadying herself with her hand on the hood, head bowed as the kids chased each other across the grass. After a moment, she lifted each foot in turn, slipping off her heels. She squared her shoulders and set off to join them.
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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