The Man at the Cemetery
A short story about memory, regret, and family secrets
Back in October, I submitted a piece of short fiction to
magazine for their “nostalgia” themed chapbook. Now that exclusivity has expired, I thought I’d share the story with all of you. I hope you enjoy it!
I hadn’t planned on visiting the cemetery when I left for school that morning. Maybe it was the clear blue sky after a week of dismal rain, or the chickadee’s funny little song that greeted me as soon as I stepped outside (they had always been Nana’s favorite birds, after all), or perhaps I just couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting in a windowless lecture hall on such a beautiful day.
Regardless of the precise why, I find myself taking the cemetery exit at the last possible second. Nana’s been gone for over a month, but I can still hear her voice telling me: “You should be more spontaneous, Lizzie.” I only wish I had followed her advice while she’d still been alive.
I arrive at Forest Lawn Cemetery five minutes later. The leaves are a stunning kaleidoscope of orange, gold, and scarlet. As I make my way down the small incline, I think about autumn’s past. Nana and Grandpa had an old maple tree in their backyard, and every year, we’d rake the leaves into a great big pile for me to jump in. Then we’d go back inside for hot cocoa and pumpkin bread. Sometimes, there had even been a cozy fire for toasting marshmallows.
I’m still lost in thought when I arrive at my destination. It takes me a moment to register the elderly gentleman standing in front of Nana’s grave. The cemetery is so quiet that I can hear the creak of his knees as he crouches down. He stays like that for some time – head bowed as though praying. Then he kisses the palm of his hand and places it over her name. My nose tingles with unshed tears. This man must have loved my Nana, too.
He’s slow to rise, which gives me just enough time to duck behind an evergreen. I count silently to fifty – the way I used to do during childhood games of hide-and-seek. Then I steal a peek around the tree and spot him cresting the small hill. I wait until he’s out of view before I emerge from my hiding place.
There’s a bouquet of lilacs on Nana’s grave. As I bend to examine them, I notice something white tucked behind the vase. An envelope sealed with wax. I hold it in my hands a moment; consider what to do. I know I shouldn’t open a letter that isn’t mine, but the mystery of it is too tempting to resist. I break the seal and begin to read.
Dearest Marjorie,
Forgive me for writing this after your death, when my words will cease to matter; but even so, I must write them – long overdue as they are. When I learnt of your passing, the regrets I’d once managed to bury were again unearthed, and they have given me no peace since. Is it too late to apologise? I’d like to think it isn’t… that wherever you are, you know how sorry I am.
I was such a selfish boy back then; a poor excuse, I know. Joe did the right thing by you, and he was a year younger. No, the fault lies solely with me and my own cowardice. I was too afraid to take you back home with me – too afraid to see the disapproval in my father’s eyes. A young wife and child were not a part of his plans for me. I was meant to attend Oxford as he had done – to establish my law career before getting married. His dreams became my dreams, and for a while, I was convinced that I had made the right decision. By the time I realised my mistake, I was already trapped in a career that I despised – with a wife who never loved me. My children were the only good thing to come out of the miserable life I had chosen.
I know your marriage with Joe was a happy one. Yes, we stayed in touch over the years. He even sent me snapshots of Connie growing up – and later on, of little Lizzie. When he died ten years ago, I grieved not only for the loss of my friend, but for the severed connection I had with my daughter (and granddaughter) through him. I tried writing to you many times. I even put a stamp on a letter, but when it came time to post it, I lost my nerve. I’m sorry that I couldn’t find the courage to make amends until now.
Before I end this letter, I want you to know that the year I spent on exchange was the happiest of my life. You and Joe were the dearest friends I ever had. I can still remember our last night together, and how beautiful you looked in your lilac dress. We danced to “Unchained Melody,” and “Young Love,” and “What’ll I do.” I ought to have proposed to you when I found out about the baby, but would marrying me have made you happy? I’m all too aware of my flaws, and in the end, I truly believe that Joe was the better man for you. I may regret my own actions, but I don’t regret his. I’ll always be grateful for the love he gave to you and Connie.
Sincerely yours, Arthur
I have to read through the letter several times. Grandpa Joe isn’t related to me by blood? It seems absurd, but then I remember something I’d forgotten all about… a secret that I’d kept from Nana.
Shortly before he died, Grandpa had taken me to see a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. They’d won of course, and on the way back home, we’d stopped at a post office. I followed him all the way to the back – where the rows of mail boxes were kept. Grandpa used a little silver key to open his, but I was the one who reached inside to retrieve the letter.
Who’s this from? “An exchange student who stayed with me during high school.”
Why doesn’t he write to you at home? “Your Nana wouldn’t approve.”
Why not? “Because they had an argument before he left for England.”
What about? “Sorry, Lizzie-bear. I’m afraid that’s not my story to tell.”
Does he write to you a lot? “I usually get a letter every month.”
Where do you keep them? “In a secret place up in the attic.”
And Nana’s never found them? “If she has, she’s never mentioned it.”
And I can’t ever tell her? “Well, you could, but it might make her sad to remember him.”
Okay. Then I won’t say anything.
I had kept my promise, too; but now that I know the truth, I can’t stand idly by. I take off running. Please don’t leave, please don’t leave, I repeat over and over like a prayer. As out of shape as I am, I arrive at the parking lot in record time. Arthur is still there – crouching down, and examining his tire.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath. “Do you need some help?”
“I do, indeed. It seems I have a flat tire.”
When he stands up and smiles at me, I notice the dimple in his cheek is on the same side as my mother’s. The resemblance between them makes me blurt out, “I’m Lizzie Gallagher. I saw you at my Nana’s grave.” I wave the letter at him.
His expression is unreadable, but he doesn’t appear to be upset. “Ah, and I suppose you read it?”
I nod. “I’m sorry for being nosy.”
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “I was just on my way to see your mother. Perhaps you’d be so good as to drive me?”
“Yes, of course.” I hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Grandpa Arthur.”
He takes it – his smile even brighter than before. “The pleasure is mine, Lizzie-bear.”
Like Grandpa Joe before him, Arthur patiently answers my questions on the ride to Mom’s house. I don’t ask about their parting; I only want to hear about the good times they had together. When we stop at a red light, he shows me a black and white photograph. Arthur is in the middle: handsome and blond and smiling. Nana and Grandpa Joe look so young and happy on either side of him. This is the way I’ll choose to remember them – before heartbreak and distance tore them apart. No regrets, only fondness; just as it should be.
*Author’s note: Thank you for reading! Please share with a friend or restack so that others can discover it <3 Before I say goodbye, here is the 1950s song “What’ll I do,” which partially inspired my story. Questions or comments are always appreciated!
A beautiful story and so well-told. Loved it! <3
This is lovely! 💚