- View, St. Louis Cemetery
Charles left for the graveyard to do on his homework. “There’s nothing crazy about it,” he told his friend Etienne who was flunking algebra. “Nobody minds, especially no one out there,” which was the only place where he could actually think straight away from the cries of his baby sister and the nightly domino game on the corner. All Charles had to do was walk past a row of pink crepe myrtle trees and find a spot on one of those marble vaults in the St. Louis Cemetery where he went every afternoon.
“That’s creepy,” said Etienne.
“You scared,” said Charles, who liked sitting on the head stones, sweet potato vines lifting their leaves almost translucent like green salamanders. “Anybody can see that.”
Charles’ father was buried in a cemetery. He’d been stabbed in front of a hotel when Charles was five. His mother always said that she’d take him to visit his plot, but he wasn’t counting on that happening any time soon, always saying she was gonna do stuff that she didn’t, too busy working shifts at the hospital. Now with his baby sister, there was even less time. But just as Charles had finished his history homework, he saw his friend who’d followed him to the cemetery.“Etienne, you said you weren’t gonna come!”
“This place gives me the creeps.”
Charles had explained to his friend many times before about the warmth of the marble against his skin. “There’s the first black mayor of New Orleans,” said Charles pointing to the headstone of Ernest Nathan Morial. And on the other side, there’s his friend Homer Plessy.” Charles didn’t know if they’d actually been friends, but was trying help Etienne relax.
“Who he?” asked Etienne, his shirt still damp from a quick downpour on the walk over.
“You don’t know?”
“If I knew, why would I ask?” Etienne scowled. “You tell me that.” Sometimes his best friend could be such a know-it-all.
In the meantime, Charles tried to remember what he had read in a history book. “He brought a big case to the court room.” He paused, trying to sound smart. “The separate but equal one.”
“And he buried right here?”
“Bingo,” said Charles. “He set a president.” Charles hoped Etienne wouldn’t ask him another questions. That’s all he knew, but he had a book to tell him more.
Once again, the sky started to cloud over. Etienne said. “Good that the man’s dead so he can’t help us with more presidents.” They laughed, rolled between the vaults as the sky darkened, boys who lived a block from each other in the seventh district and who’d grown up in each other’s houses, but as they laughed, Etienne gripped his friend’s hand. He saw something moving behind a stone angel, a mist that swirled around as it drifted in their direction. It began to take shape, a head and then arms, followed by two feet that were encased in tall black boots. “Who he? Another one of your friends?” The foul-smelling mist moved closer to the boys and seeped around the stone, singling out Charles with a pointed finger. It wore a braided jacket common to doormen of luxury hotels “Boy,” the figure said. “You ain’t right.”
“Dad?” It couldn’t be…his father was dead.
“Plessy didn’t set no president. He’s the reason you going to that fancy school cross-town. You get home right now and help your momma with your baby sister. You hear?” Charles rose to his feet and reached for Etienne’s hand. His knees felt like they were about to become unscrewed from his legs, they shook so badly.
“Yes, sir.”
Etienne backed away from the mist and right into the statue of a horse rearing on its two legs. “And you, young man, how you gonna pass your algebra unless you crack open a book instead of yammering here?”
Charles and Etienne ran as fast as they could. The rain drummed like applause on the wet sidewalk.
Holding on to the Fringes of Love
- Review of my poetry collection “Two Places” by Nina Serrano of Estuary Press.
New book New collection of flash fiction
You have the touch Bronx friend.
Thanks!
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