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The Outer Gardens:
He stands frozen, holding his briefcase, at the pinnacle of the arch formed by the bridge. A moment ago, a heavy cloud passed over his head, bringing a gust of wind in its wake. The gust blew a damp, clean scent up from the water below. The planks of the wooden bridge that passed over the stream rose gently and then fell to form a curve. When he reached the top, he saw the outer garden in the distance where all the headstones were lined up in neat rows.
The stream running beneath the bridge had its origin in an artificially created waterfall built into the side of the terraced slope of the hill. An asphalt path transected down its face next to the stream. The water tumbling down the stone face of the waterfall fell in a single uniform sheet before separating into individual streams until it splashed into rivulets on the decorative stones in the basin. The water flowed over smooth polished stones imported to cover the cement ditch as it drained to feed the lake. The falling water, as it splashed on the rocks, produced a light mist that hovered over the basin to be caught up by the wind and swirled through the trees’ branches overhanging the streambed and the bridge where he stood.
In contrast to the inner garden, the outer garden was more traditional (that is to say, less expensive) but nevertheless reflected the grandiose pretensions of the Kensington family. In addition to the numerous flower beds, which a small regiment of groundskeepers were employed to take care of, the family had installed equipment for kids to play on (the live kids), picnic tables and benches (for school field trips), a baseball diamond, tennis courts and pavilions for family cook-outs. There were swings, seesaws, and slides. There was also a large artificial lake sporting a tall fountain in the middle and a small flock of swans with graceful curved necks to elegantly glide over its waters. Ringing this playground were neat rows of departed children, slowly encroaching inward, year by year as if drawn to the jubilant play within.
The outer garden couldn’t be completely seen until the apex of the bridge was mounted, but he wasn’t very impressed by the sight today. The sky that should’ve been high and blue and deep just seemed shallow and brittle. The flower gardens that populated his vision looked artificial and gaudy to his eye. The lake could never please him again to look at, all he saw now was a hateful system of pumping and sucking of water from the lake to the waterfall, or blowing water up the center of the lake creating ominous undertows in the water below.
From his perch on the bridge he saw in the distance a solitary figure, dressed in white, sitting on the shore of the lake. He knew who she was, even though she sat with her back to him. Her glance would occasionally be attracted by a ripple in the water or a glint of light off the surface, but mostly her gaze would float about like the mist thrown off by the fountain. She sat on a white blanket with one leg curled under her, the other drawn up to her chin. She held a cloth parasol resting on her shoulder to shade her from the sun. Even though he couldn’t see it, blocked from his vision by the parasol, he knew she was also wearing a white sun hat to shade her eyes. A cigarette might be dangling between her lips that she would draw on and blow out gray smoke. She would stab it out in the grass.
He would pass quietly behind this sorrowful woman on his way. Once he finished his task, having emptied his briefcase of its objects, he would come back to her. He would hold out his hand to her. She would glance at him and then to the water. She would reach up her hand and take his, or she might not. She might look away and not stir. He would wait for a moment and then quietly leave her never saying a word. If she did reach up and take his hand, he would help her to her feet and then walk her to her car. She would drive herself home. He would drive himself home soon after. If she didn’t take his hand, he would leave her to herself and drive to a nearby pub and have a beer or a whiskey. That would be later. He walked across the remainder of the bridge and out onto the grass.
.
Darby and Mitchell were the ones who dug your grave. They were so traumatized (bless them), those old coots when they saw your lifeless body. It was so unlike them. That pair of old-time-worn bachelors who hit the pubs after work going on beer-drinking binges and showing up the next day for work hung over. Darby, (you probably didn’t know I know this, I laugh thinking about it), had a habit of dropping his pants and taking a shit in the bushes if no one was looking, rather than walking all the way back to the maintenance building all straight legged and butt clenched. They took the motor boat out onto the lake, the roar of the engine adding to the commotion of everyone calling for you when someone yelled and pointed out some pink object floating in the water, the boat cutting waves in the lake’s surface.
I ran into the water. I was thigh-deep when the boat flew out onto the blue rippling surface, so I stood there. I stared; I made this humming noise in my head so as not to think. I held my hand to my mouth afraid that if I spoke or cried out those words would go out and cause you injury. I stifled them so they wouldn’t be answered back with the dreaded message carried on the cold waves that lapped against my waist, chilling me. When the words came, those awful words, I saw the sky turn white, deafening and blinding me; enveloping me.
Darby and Mitchell dragged your body out of the water. They used one of those long poles with a net on the end to pull you close and then hauled you into the boat. I watched them do it through the mist that shrouded my mind, through the tunnels that were my eyes. You were cold and blue and Darby and Mitchell were traumatized. Those old buzzards were even crying. They didn’t even try to hide their tears when they brought you ashore. When it came time to dig your grave, they refused to use the backhoe but dug all six feet with an old pair of shovels.
If I had known you would die that day (I would have stopped it) I would have looked closely into your eyes, deep into them to see the angels that danced in the glow and shone there. On that day, your eyes looked like glass beads. All I could think of was they looked like marbles, hard glass balls that boys scatter inside a circle in the dust, using the shooter ball to knock them out with a hard clack. That’s all I could think of as I knelt there in the grass brushing your wet hair from your face. My lips trembled and I petted your hair over and over.
Someone called mom; by the time she arrived--it seemed so fast--the paramedics had come (they couldn’t do anything). They strapped you on a gurney and drove you away. I drove your mother to the hospital where they took you, and she kept asking: “What happened?” All I did was mumble and shake my head. That was my big mistake. I should have embraced her and cried with her, but I didn’t; I just shook my head and mumbled. When she saw you, she embraced your pale white body, kissed your blue numb lips, looked into your marble eyes, and wailed. I should have embraced her, kissed her pale white cheeks, and wept. Now sometimes when she looks at me her eyes are like hard glass marbles, her lips numb to kisses.
Your mother says your spirit hovers over the lake. Hovers like God’s spirit over the waters? (In the beginning, your spirit moved in the void.) Your mother hovers too. She hovers in a white nightgown, hovers from room to room in the night, the soft padding of her bare feet on the carpet is so slight it’s almost inaudible. She seems to float, dragging the lacy edges of her gown over the tips of the carpet’s fibers. Sometimes, early in the morning, when I awaken to the light of dawn, she will be hovering at the foot of the bed gazing at me. I open my eyelids, just enough to see her so she will think I’m still asleep. She probably knows I’m awake. We pretend. The dawning light from the window behind her shimmers lightly on her nightgown. She radiates a faint iridescence, like the glimpse of an angel out of the corner of your eye. Her face is in shadow. I can’t see it. I look into that shadow and hope the expression hidden there has soft, gentle, sad eyes studying me while I sleep, but the expression may be as hard as a glare that would pierce me if I saw it. I close my eyes and wait. Some mornings I would almost welcome a blow to my chest, other mornings I long for a warm touch, a soft caress. Then I hear that almost imperceptible padding of naked feet and this angel floats away into darkness.
Your mom wanted you to believe in angels. She taught you all about angels and their luminous glow, how their mighty wings can stir up the air into a gust of wind with one mighty flap; these ever watchful and beneficent creatures that watch over children, ready to swoop down and catch them up out of danger. Those are not the kind of angels that haunt our house anymore.
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