herself, and I have to do something about it.
8
Because it was the Friday before Halloween, the noises out back had been awful all day, and even more awful once it got to be dark. Martin Chandling found himself having to go out back to take a look at least once every half hour. He wouldnât have bothered, except that a couple of years ago they had had real trouble. That was when Jackey Hargrove had gone in with two of his friends and tipped over half a dozen gravestones and then tried to dig up a grave. It only went to prove that Jackey was just as stupid as everybody thought he was, because the grave he had tried to dig up had a cremated man in it, and if he had managed to get down to the box, all he would have found was a marble urn with a pile of ashes in it. Still, Martin thought, you had to be careful. There had been a couple of incidents in other parts of the state in recent years. Down in Danbury, there had been a real mess, complete with desecrations. All Martin needed now was to have one of his two-hundred-year-old skeletons pulled out of the ground and dragged into Washington Depot All he needed now was to have something come along and make him lose this job, which he had had as far back as he could remember, maybe as far back as time. Other people might have found it disturbing, living in a little house right next to the cemetery grounds, but Martin rather liked it. It was quiet, and cool, too, even in the summer, because of all the shade trees. He thought he would have felt differently about one of those new cemeteries, run by a corporation, with professional landscaping and paved roads between the graves. This cemetery went all the way back to 1697. One whole section of it, up in the back near the rotting wood building that had once been a church, was given over to the members of a single family. That was why this was called the Fairchild Family Cemetery, even though there were other people besides Fairchilds in it. Martin often wondered what it hadbeen like for them, when they were still almost the only family here.
Actually, Martin could remember a lot of his life before coming to the Fairchild Family Cemetery. He couldnât have forgotten it if heâd wanted to, because his brother Henry lived at the cemetery with him, and always had. Sometimes it seemed to Martin as if he and Henry had done everything together all his fifty-six years. They had even gotten married together, once, back in 1962, but it hadnât lasted long for either of them.
âI could understand it if you were twins,â Martinâs wife had told him when she left. âI still wouldnât like it, but at least I would understand it. But you arenât even close. Thereâs three years between the two of you and your sister Esther besides. I donât understand what it is you think youâre doing.â
It was Henry who was the older. He would be fifty-nine in November. Martinâs wife had been a schoolteacher, and Martin had always thought that that was the real problem there. It was a mistake to get involved with an educated woman. They always wanted to be someplace they werenât, and they ran a manâs life ragged in the process. Martinâs wife had taken a job in Westportââwhere Iâll be halfway close to civilization,â as she put itâand then married a professor at NYU. Martin thought about her sometimes, during all those crazy riots in the late 1960s. He hadnât been able to decide whether she would like them or hate them. She had liked flowers growing in flower boxes in the spring, and instrumental music with a high twangy sound to it she bought in record albums put out by some outfit in Germany. She liked Christmas at her motherâs, too, which Martin had never been able to stand.
He was standing on his own back porch, trying to listen to any sounds that might be coming from the cemetery. All he heard was his brother Henry, tramping along on the frosted grass
8
Because it was the Friday before Halloween, the noises out back had been awful all day, and even more awful once it got to be dark. Martin Chandling found himself having to go out back to take a look at least once every half hour. He wouldnât have bothered, except that a couple of years ago they had had real trouble. That was when Jackey Hargrove had gone in with two of his friends and tipped over half a dozen gravestones and then tried to dig up a grave. It only went to prove that Jackey was just as stupid as everybody thought he was, because the grave he had tried to dig up had a cremated man in it, and if he had managed to get down to the box, all he would have found was a marble urn with a pile of ashes in it. Still, Martin thought, you had to be careful. There had been a couple of incidents in other parts of the state in recent years. Down in Danbury, there had been a real mess, complete with desecrations. All Martin needed now was to have one of his two-hundred-year-old skeletons pulled out of the ground and dragged into Washington Depot All he needed now was to have something come along and make him lose this job, which he had had as far back as he could remember, maybe as far back as time. Other people might have found it disturbing, living in a little house right next to the cemetery grounds, but Martin rather liked it. It was quiet, and cool, too, even in the summer, because of all the shade trees. He thought he would have felt differently about one of those new cemeteries, run by a corporation, with professional landscaping and paved roads between the graves. This cemetery went all the way back to 1697. One whole section of it, up in the back near the rotting wood building that had once been a church, was given over to the members of a single family. That was why this was called the Fairchild Family Cemetery, even though there were other people besides Fairchilds in it. Martin often wondered what it hadbeen like for them, when they were still almost the only family here.
Actually, Martin could remember a lot of his life before coming to the Fairchild Family Cemetery. He couldnât have forgotten it if heâd wanted to, because his brother Henry lived at the cemetery with him, and always had. Sometimes it seemed to Martin as if he and Henry had done everything together all his fifty-six years. They had even gotten married together, once, back in 1962, but it hadnât lasted long for either of them.
âI could understand it if you were twins,â Martinâs wife had told him when she left. âI still wouldnât like it, but at least I would understand it. But you arenât even close. Thereâs three years between the two of you and your sister Esther besides. I donât understand what it is you think youâre doing.â
It was Henry who was the older. He would be fifty-nine in November. Martinâs wife had been a schoolteacher, and Martin had always thought that that was the real problem there. It was a mistake to get involved with an educated woman. They always wanted to be someplace they werenât, and they ran a manâs life ragged in the process. Martinâs wife had taken a job in Westportââwhere Iâll be halfway close to civilization,â as she put itâand then married a professor at NYU. Martin thought about her sometimes, during all those crazy riots in the late 1960s. He hadnât been able to decide whether she would like them or hate them. She had liked flowers growing in flower boxes in the spring, and instrumental music with a high twangy sound to it she bought in record albums put out by some outfit in Germany. She liked Christmas at her motherâs, too, which Martin had never been able to stand.
He was standing on his own back porch, trying to listen to any sounds that might be coming from the cemetery. All he heard was his brother Henry, tramping along on the frosted grass
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