Ghost Times Two Read Free Page B

cemetery adjacent to the church. It seemed an odd destination for an angry woman on a hot summer evening. Not that I don’t enjoy the cemetery. Some graves date back to the early nineteen hundreds with dull gray granite stones tilted to one side. Mausoleums mark the final resting places for a family of means. Much more modest was the cheerful memorial our daughter, Dil, erected for Bobby Mac and me.
    The Dodge picked up speed, rather too much for a cemetery. As the car curved around a hill, I knew Megan was heading for the more recent grave sites. I took an instant to visit the Prichard mausoleum, gleaming in the late slanting sun. The Prichard mausoleum was a favorite spot for Adelaideans down on their luck. At the head of Maurice Prichard’s tomb a carved greyhound stares forever ahead. A carved Abyssinian cat curls atop Hannah’s tomb. Legend has it that stroking the greyhound and the Abyssinian with proper reverence, noble dog, regal cat, will right foundering lives in a flash and good fortune is sure to follow.
    I ducked inside, respectfully patted the greyhound’s head, slid my hand across the back of the stone cat.
    Tires screeched outside.
    I popped into the sunshine.
    In a plume of dust, the Dodge pulled up to a gentle slope withshining urns and bright granite stones. Several Bradford pear trees, their leaves deep green, offered a smidgeon of shade.
    Megan jumped out, slammed the car door, marched, I can only describe her progress as a march—shoulders forward, hands clenched—up a slight incline to a grave site. She looked over her shoulder at the car. “Get out, Jimmy. I know you were on the pier and rode here with me even if you wouldn’t say a word. You’re always where I am, and right now I’m where you should be.” She pointed at the headstone. Her curly black hair quivered with fury.
    I dropped down beside her. I was reminded of a small black cat who came to our house as a stray. In peril or anger, her fur increased her stature from the size of folded socks to a ferocious miniature hedgehog.
    â€œJimmy, you’ve got to stop.” Her deep voice seemed too large for her height, possibly five-two. She stood taller on those pink stiletto heels.
    â€œJimmy, please!”
    She stared straight at a white headstone.
    JAMES NICHOLAS TAYLOR
    July 4, 1990–July 4, 2014
    To the next great adventure . . .
    â€œJimmy, how could you do it?” She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the stone.
    â€œYou can do better than that dweeb.” The voice was undeniably male and young, a warm tenor with charm.
    No one stood near us. A male voice, the girl in the pink suit, and, unknown to her, me. No one else. I looked at the stone. James Taylor. Jimmy?
    â€œBlaine is not a dweeb.” Her deep voice was adamant.
    â€œBlaine is a pain. In the rain. Or sun. Or whatever.”
    She stamped a foot. “You made me look like an idiot. I freaked out. I couldn’t believe that song started. I knew it was you.”
    â€œYeah, well, kind of rude to act nuts.” His voice exuded hurt. “That was our song.”
    â€œHe starts to kiss me and all of a sudden my cell phone blares Sam Smith singing ‘Stay with Me.’” A pause. “Jimmy, how’d you do that?”
    â€œOh,” he said, sounding pleased with himself, “I planned it. If you’d turned on iTunes that’s what you would have got. I had the song ready to play. See”—and now his voice drooped—“I figured he’d want to kiss you and when he tried . . .”
    â€œOh, Jimmy, what am I going to do about you?”
    â€œI have your best interests at heart.”
    â€œYou sound like my friend Janey.
Megan, don’t you think you could do better? After all, he isn’t very handsome.
” Clearly she was quoting.
    â€œThere’s an astute woman. I heard the rest of it, too.” His voice oozed