Cemetery Street - Page 64/263

I was silent. The clatter of silverware and chatter spoke for me.

"Your friends, the cemetery people."

"The Lightmans."

"Yeah them. They're wonderful people but I don't like being around them.

"Why not?" I asked. I imagined them best of friends.

"They smell of the grave. They have that earthy odor - that oppressive, moist," he paused searching for the right word. "Decay, the smell of rot. It's on them, it's on their clothes, it's part of them. It makes me edgy. I imagine being in my box and hearing the worms working their way through my casket."

"You think too much. Everyone knows that when you're dead, you won't be able to hear the worms. You won't be able to hear anything. You'll be dead."

He smirked. "How do you know?"

"You'll be dead."

"How do you now a dead person doesn't hear anything?"

"I never met a stiff who complained about loud music."

"Good point." He sipped his coffee. "If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it does it make a sound?"

"What does that have to do with the price of apples in New York?"

"James, if your not there, how would you know? We don't know until we experience it." He changed the subject and didn't mention it until we pulled into the driveway on Cemetery Street. "James thanks for listening to the ramblings of a crazy old man."

***

"I don't believe you Just James," Shannie said on the other end of the phone.

"I saw him with my own two eyes," I whispered.

"You sure it was him?"

"You bet."

"Yeah, But it was dark. You could be wrong."

I almost said it was dark that night I saw Ms. Horne; I swallowed the thought. "I'm not wrong. I saw him there last night."

"That's impossible.

"It's not impossible.

"I was home last night and I didn't hear a thing. I was awake."

"Whatever. All I'm saying is he was in your house last night.

"Saw whom?" my mother asked as she walked into kitchen.

Shannie asked. "Did Mary the terrible walk in?" I tilted the mouthpiece away from my head so Shannie could have a better listen.

"Why are you whispering? There are no secrets in our house."

"I'm not whispering," I protested.