Shuffling down the sidewalk, as if intoxicated, between the library and the Meeting House, sun beating down, he reaches the rough concrete steps to the cemetery and stumbles into the cool shade among the stones. He walks the path between the ancient stones with really nowhere to go. The overgrown cemetery, with stones toppled here and there, and tall white obelisks catching the sun, suits the state he is in. Halfway through, weariness overtakes him and he sinks onto his knees atop a polished granite slab, deeply inscribed with the names of the dead. He curls into a fetal position and the sun pours down warming him. His eyes close as he grips his knees with both hands and squeezes.
The pen’s in his hand, poised over the legal pad as the Manager speaks, fist lying atop his bare high-gloss desk. His great belly shakes as he speaks and images swirl in the air about him; stones, some tall, some toppled—baking in the sun for all eternity. “Today is the day you’ve got to tell them the score, Frank—today is the day you call them in and give them their packages—I hope you’re ready for this.”
Family plots ringed with wrought iron contain sorrowful angels with weathered faces. “Here,” says the Manager, rising, “you can use my office. I need to go upstairs and see Peter for a meeting. Come, sit in my chair. Use the phone.” Shroud-draped granite urns atop pillars casting long shadows.
The Manager leaves and Frank takes the tall leather seat behind the desk, picks up the phone and dials. Pillars broken off before their time. “Marty, this is Frank. Come to Panko’s office. Okay.” He pulls himself tighter upon the slab, the heat in the dark granite rising through him.
Marty comes, sits down, and Frank tells him. “I can’t believe it,” stammors Marty, “—I—I just can’t believe it—after all these years.” Obelisks. Grasping bare spring trees. “I’m sorry Marty. If you want to talk to Panko I’m sure that he would—”
“To hell with you Frank.”
Burning eyes look away across the rolling vista of stones angels and crosses. Three more are brought in and told. Burning eyes look through tears at the springtime sun and the mist rising from the graves. “I won’t take this lying down—”
Vultures circle high above.
“I hope this happens to you someday Frank—I really hope so! You son of a bitch!”
The stones are all about him in the hazy air of the office. All at once, as though it had never started, it is finished.
Ancient brown stones, like rotted teeth, lean in the oldest, darkest, place. He lay his cheek, finally, against the cool of the slab, his finger tracing the recessed lettering of the names of the dead. At last, the bullet in his heart does its work. He sighs deeply, red liquid pumps, spreading under him, running off the slab, and the faces of the angels about him all rush away.
