Fiction Fix Sixteen

Essence
Gil passed St. Joseph’s Cemetery every day on the way to his job at the community
center and again on the way home. The cemetery settled onto the rolling hills beside
Canal Street. Gil imagined the expansive plot of headstones as a quilt tossed over the
landscape, its gray bumps like nubs of fabric pulled from the ground.
A few days after Desirée mentioned Jacob, Gil drove through the cemetery, staying
on the outermost dirt road. Where would he walk when it came time? Where exactly had
Gil stared at the picture on the fridge in the white kitchen, at the
bosom of Desirée’s red blouse, which poured out from within her
leather jacket. It was her heart, and it had been oversized and
pulsing madly that day at the Atlantic.
Desirée walked? Had she met Jacob there? Had they walked together? Had they snuck
behind a storage building to feel the earth on their backs?
Gil shook the thought away. Where would he walk? He could stick to this path on
the edge of the cemetery, slowly working his way toward the center, covering every inch
even if it took all night.
Desirée would be proud, wouldn’t she? Would she look at him with soft eyes and
caress his hips when he returned to her?
But what would everyone else think? Would old women weeding flower beds see
his bare feet and think Gil disrespectful for walking among the dead? Would they glare at
him? Would they call to the groundskeepers to chase him off?
If he walked close to Canal Street, what would drivers think? Would they say, “Look
at the hippy-freak with no shoes on”? Or would they say, “Now there’s a spiritual young
man. There’s a young man who feels the world and is unafraid of it”?
Would anyone even notice?
He wanted not to care about all that. He told himself not to. But it wasn’t as easy as
flipping off some switch in his brain.
Desirée had once said his anxiety was probably because of something in his childhood
– some embarrassing moment. He told her about the time he had leaned against the
chalkboard during a third grade spelling bee, leaving behind a damp oval of sweat when
he misspelled “enough.” And the time when he wore green khakis in seventh grade and
was called “Goon” from then on. “There are so many times,” he told Desirée, and they
laughed and drank.
She smiled at him when he spilled wine on his shirt. “To hell with them, baby. Who
cares what anyone else thinks? Just live.”
On his way home from work the next afternoon, he slowed down behind a funeral
procession. The cars inched toward the entrance of St. Joseph’s, then turned and crawled
68 Fiction Fix