Clementine’s Cache
At the top of a 49-foot pine, Clementine was able to see the entire land. She held tight, but never in fear. This was her place. Quiet, removed. Room, with a view. A warm breeze tousled her red hair across her freckled face. She squinted. She breathed in the scent of pineapple. Her arms warming in the late sunlight. Below, the land stretched away.
My beautiful land. And this, the center of the world.
Sierras to the East. Great valley to the West. Her town to the South. Its buildings sparkling white. Beyond, cemetery stones stretch out in bright rows. Glittering stones.
One stone was her mother’s.
Momma.
The slope behind the house rose up. To the outcroppings. The outcroppings to the peaks. Far, snowy peaks were the loftiest in a thousand miles.
A dark shape caught her eye. Something she had never noticed before.
There, near the outcroppings. A black silhouette near a small clearing. She caught her breath. Her mind was alert now.
Who could it be?! No movement. Very, very…still. Too still.
It was not that the figure had stopped. It was motionless. Clementine’s brain wanted to make the still figure move. And so, it seemed like it did.
She remembered the disturbing illusion of movement when watching a loved one. A loved one who had died.
Clemmie was too familiar with this illusion. And she was not happy about it. She thought…
A cruel trick of the mind.
The dark figure was like that. A person in the forest, unmoving, yet moving by the power of her mind.
Clementine adjusted her grip to look down and over her shoulder at her house. A dizzying movement. Her stomach fluttered.
Hold tight!
Her step-mother stepped out of the back door. Shielding her eyes, scanning the yard, ever the detective. She brushed back the wisps of brown hair from her face.
Clementine’s heart fluttered again.
Oh, no! Margaret.
Margaret puzzled. “Hmmm…”, she thought.
Bicycle is here…no Clementine in the woods…Wait…what’s this?…the ladder. The ladder leaning against the big tree!
She looked upward, spotted Clementine. “Clementine!…oh my god…get yourself down out of that tree right this minute!…Careful!”, she yelled. Her soft voice never reached Clementine.
Clementine pulled back into the pine knowing she had been spotted. She wondered…
If I only had a parachute I could jump. Better yet, I could fly. If I flapped my arms hard enough…
Five years ago, Clementine might have jumped, believing it would work. She remembers standing on the railing of the railroad bridge looking down, thinking.
If I flap my arms I could fly down there and land by the river.
“Clementine!”, her father had spoken. A measured tone that was far too calm. “Do. Not. Move.”
That was then. Now, Clementine had the wisdom of 11 years. She wasn’t about to flap her arms. With great care, she made her way down the very, very tall tree. The trunk and the branches got thicker the lower she got. It took some time. 10 or 15 minutes.
In the end, she swung from the lowest branch, reaching to top rung with her toes.
“Margaret, I saw something. I saw something very odd!”
“Please do not ever do that again. Get in the house.” She said with great focus.
“But, I saw a person in the woods!” she frowned.
Margaret pointed a straight arm toward the house. She took a breath.
She assumed a calm manner, “Clementine, you could have died.”
“I have put aside that possibility for the time being.” Clemmie was matter-of-fact.
“To your room. Speak to your father when he gets home.” Margaret ordered.
She awaited judgment in her room. She was not pleased…
Margaret. Not my favorite. Not my mother. Thinks she is. Inconceivable. Tries hard. But no.
Margaret stood in the yard trembling. 49 feet is a long way to fall. She pictured a cold Clementine lying at the base of that tree. Blank blue eyes staring up from pale freckled face. Red hair askew. Margaret’s fruitful imagination was helping her in her work. This was not helpful. A frightful vision that made her shiver…
Oh, Clementine.
John came home from work. Surprise. One fearful wife. One gloomy daughter.
“John. You have to tell her. No climbing that tree. It is too dangerous!”, said Margaret.
“I’ll talk to her.” John reassured her. His voice was deep and comforting. Clementine thought of his voice like a warm bath, a cup of hot chocolate, a cozy blanket. Margaret felt the same.
John knocked on Clementine’s door.
“Dad, you will not believe it! A person. In the forest. Not. Moving.”, She lowered her voice to sound like his. “Not moving!” Dripping with drama.
“Well, then. Let’s you and I hike up there this Saturday and see what it is.” John said.
Clementine jumped up and down clasping her hands in front of her face.
“Should still be there if is isn’t moving. Wonder what it was. Something. Something that looked like a person. But not moving. ”, he winked.
She smiled up at him.
“Maybe…” he said, “it was…a bear!”, he growled in a very deep voice.
Clemmie laughed at that. She growled back, though not as deep.
John became serious, “Margaret tells me you were up that tree again.”
“Margaret.” She frowned.
“Yes, Margret. Your loving step-mother.” He was firm. “She’s afraid you’ll fall and kill yourself.”
“I refuse to fall.” She crossed her arms. “It isn’t in the cards.”
“Accidents happen…” John said. “But I know why you like that tree. It smells good.”
“It smells like pineapple!,” it pleased her that he knew.
“It’s a Jeffrey pine. All Jeffrey pines smell like that.”
“Jeffrey,” she said. “I like the name. I like it up there on top of ol’ Jeffrey. Not only the smell. Up there I’m all alone. It’s quiet. I can see everything. Everything in my beautiful land. Best of all, I can think. ”
“That’s nice. Now find another place to think, Clementine. A place that won’t kill you if you slip. Hear me?”
“Aw…” she frowned.
John has a wonderful reading voice. That alone was enough for Clemmie. But together they shared an interest in myths. It had been Greek myths for some time now. Exploring the crazy stories.
“And what’s that?!” she pointed to what looked like an old painting in the book. Dark and somber painting. A man standing on the shore of a black river. Another man standing in the boat holds a long pole that he dipped down into the water. He kept the boat steady that way. The landscape was dark, disturbing, even dangerous looking. Rocky landscape, surly skies. Shadows everywhere.
The man on the shore handed the man in the boat something. Not clear what it is.
“That’s Charon. The ferryman. He will take you to the Underworld, the land of the dead. But you must pay.” John said.
“Me? I am fresh out of change.” she drolled.
“Not you. It’s an ancient. The family of the deceased put a coin on each eye or in the mouth. The coins were for the ferryman. No coins, no boat ride.”
“What happens then?” she looked alarmed.
“Well, you wander the world as a ghost.”
“Looks like he’s got coins. Good for him.”
“Bedtime, m’darlin.”
The next morning, Clementine rode her bike in circles in the side yard parking area. Round and round with a fierce look of determination.
Charon…charion…chair on…cherry on…CHAIR on. Charon. Ferry man.
She threw the bike down, propped the ladder against the tree, and climbed. She climbed to the very top of the tree.
At the top of the tree, Clemmie found her calm space. She smiled.
“Jeffrey. Such a lovely tree. Good friend.”, She whispered.
She wrapped her arm around the trunk. Then she unclasped her delicate necklace. “This is for you.”
“It’s gold. It was Momma’s.” Every time her mother leaned over to kiss her forehead that necklace had tickled her chin. She fastened it around the slim trunk. “Now it’s yours. And I’ll always know where it is.”
She looked away to the horizon and down into the valley of farms. “Let’s see what we can see.”
My beautiful land.
Away to the high mountains, the hawk soars. Stream dropping down the right. To the South, the town. Then the farmland spread out into distant haze. West to the wide valley ending at another range of hills far, far away. Beyond those hills, noisy civilization. Beyond that, the Pacific. She could picture the sparkling water.
There in the forest below, she spotted that dark, mysterious silhouette. An unmoving person. She laughed.
A bear? No. But we will find out soon. Can’t wait till tomorrow!
Saturday opened up like a big candy bar of fun for Clementine. She could not bear her excitement. Burning off energy peddling tight circles in a mad frenzy was the only solution.
“Finally!, she squealed as John came out the door flashing his famous smile.
“ Off we go then, young adventurer!,” he sang, “Off to the mystery that awaits!”
She sang back “Off to find the dark, unmoving person!” she laughed. “Sounds kinda scary!”
Clemmie reminded him that the person is near the house-sized boulder. The boulder sat up the hill from the house. Straight up through the pine wood a few hundred feet.
They sweated their way up the piney path. John had to rest several times. It took 20 minutes to reach the boulder.
Nearby, a large pine had fallen long ago. Its massive root system stood up into the air a good six feet. It was dark, almost black. The roots had eroded over decades to look, from a long distance, like a person in mid-stride. Up close? Old roots.
“Well, there’s our mystery person.” Said, John. “To tell the truth, I’m glad it wasn’t actually a person, Clemmie.”
“Hah. Yes. It’s like it disappeared. The closer we got.”, Clemmie mused. “It is a stick. A stick man.”
“But look here!”, said John, “Hey. I remember this! I remember this from when I was a boy.”
“What are we looking at?” asked Clemmie.
Under the fallen tree were artifacts, evidence of human habitation. One could make out an old cabin. Crushed by the fallen tree. Bits and pieces of a life scattered here and there over the pine forest floor.
Only one wall was standing. Three or four layers of stacked logs. But it held the remnants of a wooden shelf. So long ago destroyed yet a couple of items remained on the shelf. The rest lie scattered everywhere. Tin pots, rusted. Ceramic bowls and plates. The blue floral trim chipped away. The items were all in pieces. Littered here and there around the cabin and beyond.
You could make out what might have been a window frame. What might have been a table. Rusted iron things. No sign of the roof at all. It must have filled the room when it collapsed, covering everything.
The tree lay at a diagonal across the ruins. Ruins is not the right word. It was more of an imprint, a shadow of what was once there. Only the hard things survived, the post, the cups, and a rusty old can inside of a crushed box.
Clemmie pried the rusty can open. Something rattled around inside.
“Dad! Dad!” said held her breath. “There’s something!”
Clemmie and John, on their knees, pulled out a dry cloth wrapping. They unfolded the cloth. Their mouths open in big smiles, their eyes popping,
“It’s a little book!”, said Clemmie. “A journal! It’s still good! Hold old could it be?!…” Clementine had lots of questions. John was busy trying to answer them in his mind. In any case, it was astounding.
“It has writing in it!”, smiled Clemmie.
“Hot, dry climate helped it survive. Well over a hundred years. It must have belonged to your great great great grandfather who owned this land.” Said John.
“That’s great!” she smiled.
“Let’s not open it until we are home.”
“Aw.” Said Clemmie, “…makes sense.”
They sat there in the sun with the book for a while, savoring the moment, looking around. John was feeling weary. He dozed off for a few minutes.
He woke “Look at that boulder, Clemmie. It is as large as our house. Looks like it rolled down the mountain centuries ago.”
“Good thing it stopped here! It’s in a direct line for the house!”, Clemmie frowned.
John said, “Reminds me of the boulder that Sisyphus had to roll up the mountain. It’s a Greek myth. Every time he got to the top, it would roll back down.”
Clemmie wrinkled her brow, muttered “Sissyfits.”
Good name for a boulder!
“One day even that boulder will flow down the hill.”, He mused.
“Flow?” asked Clemmie.
“Everything flows, Clementine. You have noticed flow in water. But if you could speed up a movie of the mountain? You would see it flowing downhill, too. It takes a long time”
“Everything flows. Even our lives. The trick…” he gave Clementine a serious look “…is not to fight the flow. Go with it.”
Clemmie thought for a moment. “It reminds me of that song… ‘Row your boat gently down the stream, merrily, life is but a dream.”
John smiled at his wise little girl.
At dinner that night everyone talked about the local history. They told stories of the gold rush. John and Margaret knew a lot. They wondered about the great great great grandfather. How one day long ago he had just disappeared.
“Tell me about Sissyfits, Dad.”
“The Myth of Sisyphus….”
“Mrs. Sissyfits.” She says deadpan.
“…ha..” John continues “poor man, the gods punish him. He must roll a large rock to the top of a hill.”
Under her breath, she whispered “Mrs. Sissyfits.”
“I’m ignoring you, Clementine.” He said, “When Sisyphus…”
“Sissyfits.”
“…reaches the top, the rock rolls back down the hill. He must roll it up again. This happens over and over and never ends. Poor man.”
Clemmie looks at him, “Poor man? Your restraint is epic! I’d say ‘severely abused man!“
“What an annoying child you can be.” Smiled John.
“You’re welcome.” She answered.
Clementine pulled the covers over her head. She flicked on her little flashlight. She opened the little book. Turned the pages with scientific care. Jumbled lettering. Hard to read. Pages brown and fading. Some of the ink so faded. A few pages fell out of the little book. She put them back. So brittle after more than a century. Definitely a small journal with a black cover. Lots of notes about the cabin, food. Disappointing, mundane stuff. Not that much else. Except for one page.
That page made her stop. It held a crude little map. On the map, an arrow pointed to an X next to a drawing of a large rock. At the top of the page was the word “Cash”. She smiled and kicked her feet.
Cash?! Treasure! Buried treasure. A golden horde.
“It’s Mrs. Sissyfits, the boulder. He buried the treasure right there at the base of it. Yay, Mrs. Sissyfits!” she whispered to herself.
Clemmie noticed voices downstairs. Unusual for the house to be anything but quiet. And late at night?
She tip-toed out to the landing. From the top step, she could see down through the banister into the living room. She sat on the top step. It creaked in welcome. She could see the two couches and a fireplace with a sleepy fire. John and Margaret were not in view but Clemmie could tell they were in the kitchen. Out of sight. Their voices were very low and muffled.
She could only make out phrases and individual words. Hospital. Insurance. Money. What will I do…how do I tell her…how soon will it be?
Clemmie pulled backward on her hands and bottom. It was as if she had seen something fearful. The mumbling. The half words. The tone. It all reminded her of something. She tiptoed to her room and covered her head with the blanket. She couldn’t sleep.
After a while, John knocked on Clementine’s door. Clemmie was still trying to make sense of what she heard.
“Clem, what did you hear?” he asked. “The top step told me you were there.”
“I…I’m not sure…something about money…hospitals…something not good. Like when Momma was dying.” She whispered. “Please…?”
“I will tell you what is happening. What will happen soon.” He started.
“I am very sick.” he measured his words, “I will die.”
She turned away. “No.” She would not give permission. Let it be clear, she never would never give permission.
“Clementine, it’s something that takes you fast. So. No time to prepare. No time for secrets.”
“No. Never.” She reiterated. Several moments pass.
Clementine has an idea. “They can fix you.”
“Clemmie…”
“Best doctors money can buy. They can.” She insists.
“No. Not enough money in the world for that, Clemmie.” John said.
“The best ones can. They can!” She breaks down. Leans onto his chest, exhausted, weeping. She can hear the clock ticking. The heater whirring in the corner. His heart beating.
“What is it that’s wrong, Daddy?”
“My throat.” He said.
“Your beautiful voice…” she sobbed. His beautiful voice.
They lay there and drifted off to sleep. The room is dark. The little electric heater glows orange. A comfortable peace settles in.
She wakes with a start.
“I have money!!” she says obsessed with the idea. “I know where I can get it. I think. No. I’m sure!”
She tells him about the little journal. How she was reading it. How she found a map with an arrow pointing to an X near Mrs. Sissyfits.
“And at the top of the page it says ‘Cash’!” She said as if to prove her point. “Enough cash to fix anything.”
“Oh, Clemmie. Not that, honey. Not money. Why would it be? Why would he bury cash?”
“But he wrote the word ‘cash’, Daddy!”
“He was not educated. He wrote ‘cash’ but could have misspelled ‘cache’. There’s no money.”
“You’ll see.”, She furrows her brow.
“And if you go…it will be me…and Margaret.”
Next day, Margaret sat down at the kitchen table and folded her hands, cleared her voice. “Clementine. Let’s talk. About your father.”
“What is there to say that hasn’t?”, Clemmie said to the window. Her breath fogged the pane. She drew a face. A circle. Two dots for eyes.
“Darlin’, it’s going to be you and me one day.”
Clemmie drew a straight horizontal line for the mouth. “Do not say that.”
She turned to Margaret.
“Margaret, I don’t care if you call me ‘Clemmie’. You can. But don’t call me ‘darlin’. My m…” catching her breath “Momma called me that.”
“And I’m not your mother.”
“That’s right…”
When Margaret came into their lives, Momma had been gone only three years.
Too soon, too soon. Who is this woman who is not my mother?
For her father’s sake, she had determined to be a good girl. Accepting. Open-minded. Kind.
Right now, Clementine did not feel like being kind.
“…you aren’t. Never will be.”
John had seen a generous, loving person in Margaret. She allowed him to grieve. She allowed Clemmie to grieve.
“Don’t put Anna’s pictures away, John. Clementine needs them out. You need them out.” She had told him back then.
“Here is what you need to understand now, Clementine.” Her firm tone made Clementine pay attention.
“I will not try to be your mother” she paused.
“But I will mother you. You need it. I need it.”
Clementine turned away from the window to Margaret.
“I don’t think I need anything, Margaret.”
“Clemmie,” she sighed, “try to understand that both of us are losing.”
The following day, John and Margaret went to their appointment. Clementine lugged a shovel, a trowel, and a crowbar, water, and a lunch, uphill to the site of the cabin.
No time to lose. Find the cash. Won’t be paper money. Paper would have rotted. Hope it’s coin. Gold is best.
She stood at the base of the boulder she now called Mrs. Sissyfits. She turned to the page in the little black book that held the map.
“It is as clear as can be. The cash is right here, it is a foot or so downhill from Mrs. Sissyfits.” she said aloud.
Remember, everything flows. If he buried it here it may have flowed downhill some. Start at Mrs. Sissyfits and dig downhill.
With the heel of her shoe, she scratched a big X in the soil. She began digging in earnest. The soil is dark and moist. Full of smaller rocks. A pain to shovel. Her fierce determination resulted in some headway. After an hour there was a hole three feet square, 18 inches deep. Right where the X had been.
Taking a break to drink and rest Clemmie realized she had piled the dirt to the downhill side of the hole. Mistake. If the cash flowed then she would need to dig where the pile is.
“Ugh.” She moaned. Then she began removing the pile of dirt to a smarter location. That took some time. She was tired and sweating.
How deep would he have buried it? Not sure. 24 inches? I’ll go 24 to start. This is getting bigger and bigger.
Around 2 pm a very dirty, sweaty girl hobbled down the hill, past Jeffrey. Not a word to Jeffrey. Slamming the door as she entered the house.
That evening, after a shower and a nap, she cuddled up on the couch with John.
“How was your day, Clementine.” He asked.
“It was a day.”
Don’t let on. Do not whine. The cash is there. The gold is there. Better doctors. Stay strong.
She woke the next morning her body throbbing from sore muscles. It was hard to get out of bed. Putting clothes on was painful. The thought crossed her mind that she may have caused her own demise. But after a coffee, she came alive again. Within the hour, Clementine was knee-deep in the dig. Her determination was historic.
Get the gold. Get the gold. Buy the best doctors. Keep him alive. No more deaths. No more parents dying.
Clementine widened and deepened the dig using pure muscle, blood, and sweat. And a few tears. She ended the second day in worse shape and without a glimmer of gold.
The soil was in her nails. It was in her ears, her eyes, and in her mouth. No matter how much she showered, there was always more in a little stream flowing down the drain.
If the second morning was hard, the third morning was shocking.
Can one die of sore muscles? It seems possible. She wondered. Still, onward.
“Today will be the day I find the gold.” She told Jeffrey as she passed him on the way to the dig. “It has to be today. Another day and I will be dead myself.”
Ironic headline: Girl dies digging to save her dying father.
At the end of the third day of feverish digging, the hole was now enormous. Flanked by piles of rocky soil. 24 inches deep. 8 feet wide. 12 feet long. An adult would say no child could have dug this. But Clementine’s obsession knew no limits except the physical. And she had reached her limits. She was now a walking creature of scrapes, dirt, and pain. And bitter disappointment.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. It’s over. Dad.
Clemmie leaned against Mrs. Sissyfits and sobbed, tears streaking her dirty face. She slid down to the ground, into the bottom of the hole, and broke down. If tears could empty a mountain of its solitude, then Clemmie’s filled the hills with tremors. She fell asleep, defeated, depleted.
The sun passed overhead and reached the afternoon. As she slept in the hole in fits and dreams, her hands scratched at the soil. Fingers digging in. Nails embedded with grit.
When she awoke she found four coins in her soiled fingers, two in each hand. She sat up and puzzled at them, dazed, for a long time. She wanted to say to the hill ‘Thanks. But no thanks.’
What? This is the cash? No. It’s not the cash. A few lost coins. I’m done.
Clementine tucked the four coins into the front pocket on her overalls. She dragged her wretched self home.
Hospital rooms are the opposite of living rooms. Nothing comfortable or soft. Nothing colorful. Grays and pale colors on the verge of becoming grayer.
Instead of a fireplace, the television is stuck on some game show with no volume.
In place of regular tech, tech on steroids. Beeping, whooping, chiming, buzzing. Too much flickering cool light. Too little quiet. People in paper clothing coming and going.
Hospital rooms are the opposite of living rooms. Sometimes they are dying rooms. Mothers dying. Fathers dying…
“I couldn’t find it.” She told John. “The cash or the cache. Whatever.”
“No problem. Best girl.” His voice was raspy.
“What will I do without you…?” she tapered off.
In his best voice, he said “You will get up every morning. Make the best of every day. Most of all, be kind.”
The next time she visited he had a plastic breathing mask over his mouth and nose. He was not awake. She held his hand.
The last time she came everything was still noisy and moving. Except for him. All the tech was gone. The bedding straightened. The room was almost quiet. He lay there so still. Clementine and Margaret stared at him in a kind of amazement. Disbelief. Acceptance.
The mind plays a dirty trick. It makes fathers and mothers breathe when they are dead. So, when Clementine saw him breathe she was not startled. She’d seen this before.
From the top of Jeffrey this afternoon Clemmie could see the cemetery. Doused in orange light from the late sun. She could make out the fresh grave. She thought about Charon. The ferryman.
As Margaret came out she spotted the ladder against the tree…
“Clementine!”
Startled, Clemmie started down in too much of a hurry. Usually, she was careful, placing her feet with great care. This time, she was not placing with care. She put her weight on an old slender branch. It snapped.
The scratching. The tearing. The scraping. Branches cracking against her body as she fell. This was the end.
Goodbye Jeffrey, goodbye my beautiful land. Goodbye Mrs. Sissyfits! Ooof!
Something punched her in the stomach so hard she lost her breath. She had landed, stomach first, on a large limb several feet below the top.
Head swimming. Stomach aching. Bloody scratches all over her arms and face. She realized…
I’m going to live. Living hurts a lot sometimes.
She gathered her wits for a moment.
Clemmie climbed down as slow as possible. Sobbing all the way. It took about 10 minutes to get down to the ladder.
Margaret was holding the ladder. Clemmie stepped on it, slipped again, and slid down and onto Margaret. They both fell backward onto the matted pine needles of the forest floor. They lay there on their backs looking up.
After a minute or two, Margaret asked…
“Are you alive, Clementine?”
Clemmie thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”
“How do you know?” Margaret smiled.
“Pain.” She said in a soft voice.
They both broke into a laugh. They sat up and held each other at bottom of Jeffrey. A squirrel wondered what they were up to. A scrub jay was not pleased at all. A crow told the scrub jay to mind his own business. A car passed by down at the road. Another.
“I miss him…them.” Clementine says.
“Oh, my darlin’”.
Clemmie looks up at Margaret, then softens.
“Yes. I know you miss them.” Margaret said.
Clemmie settled into Margaret’s soft arms and stared off into the afternoon sun.
“Call me Maggie.” Maggie said.
“Ok…Maggie.”
Maggie absentmindedly began humming the old song ‘Oh My Darling, Clementine’.
After a moment Clemmie looks up at Maggie, “Really?”
“What? Oh! Sorry!”, Maggie says. “Don’t call you darlin’!”
But Clemmie wasn’t angry now. She laughed, and Maggie laughed, and pretty soon the two of them couldn’t stop laughing. They laughed until they didn’t know why they were laughing.
After a while, they just sat there together, holding each other.
Without any warning, Clemmie jumped up and vaults onto her bike.
“Where are you going all of a sudden, Clemmie?!”
“There’s something I need to do, Maggie. I’ll be right back.”She smiled.
She spewed gravel and rode off down the driveway to the road. Maggie thought she heard Clemmie whistling. Was it the first few notes of Oh My Darling, Clementine?
Maggie smiled, put her hand on her heart, and almost shook her head.
What a girl.
Clementine steps off the bike as it is still rolling. Lets it drop to the cemetery grass almost as if she had thrown it down.
Nearby was her mother’s grave. She kneeled in front of it. Wisps of red hair spider-webbed across her face. Serious, intense blue eyes traced her mother’s name. Anna.
“You’re fading, Anna.” She whispered. “Where is your face now?”
She pulled the coins out of her overalls breast pocket. Put two back. Sat back on her heels and was very still. One coin in each hand. She looked at them. Closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. A scrub jay scolded from a nearby pine.
She held one coin over each closed eye for a long moment.
After a while, she opened her eyes and tucked the coins under the turf near the stone. She got up and moved to John’s fresh grave.
She pulled out the last two coins. The stone was already in place but there was still a mound of fresh earth. So, she was careful to find a secure spot to bury them near the stone.
She stood up, looked at John’s gravestone and the fresh earth.
“Dreadful sorry.”
She walked her bike out of the cemetery. The air near dusk is cooling. Clemmie feels the air play over her smile. She looked up toward the house. Could tell exactly where it was because Jeffrey stood tall and beautiful right behind it.
She pulled the little book out of her pocket and turned to the map page. She smiled, put it back, and jumped on her bike.
Maggie will be fixing dinner.
Later that Spring there were heavy rains. Mrs. Sissyfits slipped several feet over the wet upended soil. Toward the house. Everything flows.
