At a Crossroads
Donald Margolis stuck his hands further into the pockets of his black parka, hoping again for warmth he knew would not come.
The cemetery was a crest of quiet on a wave of eerie presence of so many restless souls that must be wandering… if Donald believed in that, that is. If he did, that meant a lot of restless souls were chasing after him.
He believed it.
He turned a corner, passed a few scurrying rabbits and a grazing deer. It was peaceful here.
He turned another, keeping his gait slow as he finally neared the location he was headed. He couldn't believe that it had been just a week since they had installed the headstone, and three and four months since it had all happened – it was still too recent but the time seemed to be going by quicker than Donald could handle.
The stone was granite, dark silver, or maybe gray (Donald had never really understood the difference), engraved in block letters: Jane Elizabeth Margolis, 1982 – 2008. She would have found it less than exciting; there were no looping designs or striking flourishes. Just stone and text.
As he looked over the stone – it was making it real, again, too real – Donald noticed at the foot of the grave there was a pile of clothing.
He stared at it for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of weird cultural tradition that he had no knowledge of, before he realized that the clothes were moving up and down – breathing.
His first thought was that some asshole junkie had passed out in front of her grave, and was filled with fury at just how completely goddamn disrespectful that was, especially considering –
He moved to kick the form before he realized two things, as the light hit the figure's face – one, that the man was not passed out but sleeping, and two, that the body belonged to Jesse, the tenant, Jane's… boyfriend, or whatever he was.
Jesse had a hand slung over his face, but when it slipped to his side as he shifted in his sleep, Donald could catch a glimpse of tear-streaks imprinted on his cheeks, looking as if they were frozen solid.
The animosity that Donald had felt dissipated at the sight, and he moved his foot back in favor of reaching down to gently nudge Jesse in the shoulder to wake him.
Jesse opened his eyes slowly, before jumping up in a panic and yelping.
"Mr. Margolis – shit! I'm sorry! Shit!" He raised his hands to his face as if to protect them, and Donald stuck his hands back in his parka as he watched.
"Jesse," that was his name, wasn't it? "You don't have to go… You just looked like you were freezing…" He trailed off before he could add "to death".
"I fell… asleep…" Jesse stammered out, hands still in front of his face. "I shouldn't be here, shit, I'm sorry."
"No… Stay." A sad smile crept across Donald's face, and he surveyed the boy again. How stupid could he be, going out into this weather (which might not have been cold for the Northeast, maybe, but was definitely freezing for New Mexico) in just a thin hoodie and a pair of khakis?
Donald's hands left his pockets and moved up to the zipper of his parka, and, watching as Jesse finally put his hands down, unzipped it and pulled it off. He curled it up in his arms and extended them before nodding. Jesse looked at him, utterly baffled, before finally reaching out and taking the parka from him.
"Uh? What?" Jesse asked. "Aren't you gonna be cold now? Uh… what?"
Donald shrugged.
"I'm not going to need it," he replied simply, and turned and walked away, leaving Jesse staring at his disappearing form. Pulling on the coat, Jesse crouched down, starring at the spot below him. Maybe he should just go on home, or maybe he should follow the man who clearly wasn't thinking quite as he should.
Or maybe he should stay a while.
He sat down.
Yeah… Maybe he'd just stay.
