Keeping
If there was one reliable source of information around here, it was the folks in Gatlin. On a day like today, you didn't have to look too hard to see
most everyone from the town in the same half mile. The cemetery was packed by the time we got there, late as usual thanks to the Sisters. Lucille
wouldn't get in the Cadillac, then we had to stop at Gardens of Eden because Aunt Prue wanted to get flowers for all her late husbands, only none of
the flowers looked good enough, and when we were finally back in the car, Aunt Mercy wouldn't let me drive over twenty miles an hour. I had been
dreading today for months. Now it was here.
I trudged up the sloping gravel path of His Garden of Perpetual Peace, pushing Aunt Mercy's wheelchair. Thelma was behind me, with Aunt
Prue on one arm and Aunt Grace on the other. Lucille was trailing after them, picking her way through the pebbles, careful to keep her distance.
Aunt Mercy's patent-leather purse swung on the handle of her wheelchair, jabbing me in the gut every second step. I was already sweating, thinking
about that wheelchair getting caught in the thick summer grass. There was a strong possibility Link and I would be doing the fireman's carry.
We made it up the rise in time to see Emily preening in her new white halter dress. Every girl got a new dress for All Souls. There were no flipflops
or tank tops, only your scrubbed Sunday best. It was like an extended family reunion, only ten times over because pretty much the whole town,
and for the most part the whole county, was in one way or another related to you, your neighbor, or your neighbor's neighbor.
Emily was giggling and hanging all over Emory. “Did you bring any beer?”
Emory opened his jacket, revealing a silver flask. “Better than that.”
Eden, Charlotte, and Savannah were holding court near the Snow family plot, which enjoyed a prime location in the center of the rows of
headstones. It was covered with bright plastic flowers and cherubs. There was even a little plastic fawn nibbling grass next to the tallest headstone.
Decorating graves was another one of Gatlin's contests — a way to prove that you and your family members, even the dead ones, were better than
your neighbors and theirs. People went all out. Plastic wreaths wrapped in green nylon vines, shiny rabbits and squirrels, even birdbaths, so hot
from the sun they could burn the skin right off your fingers. There was no overdoing it. The tackier, the better.
My mom used to laugh about her favorites. “They're still lifes, works of art like the ones painted by the Dutch and Flemish masters, only these
are made of plastic. The sentiment's the same.” My mom could laugh at the worst of Gatlin's traditions and respect the best of them. Maybe that's
how she survived around here.
She was particularly partial to the glow-in-the-dark crosses that lit up at night. Some summer evenings, the two of us would lie on the hill in the
cemetery and watch them light up at dusk, as if they were stars. Once I asked her why she liked to lie out there. “This is history, Ethan. The history of
families, the people they loved, the ones they lost. Those crosses, those silly plastic flowers and animals, they were put there to remind us of
someone who is missed. Which is a beautiful thing to see, and it's our job to see it.” We never told my dad about those nights in the cemetery. It
was one of those things we did alone.
I would have to walk past most of Jackson High and step over a plastic rabbit or two to get to the Wate family plot on the outskirts of the lawn.
That was the other thing about All Souls. There wasn't actually much remembering involved. In another hour, everyone over twenty-one would be
standing around gossiping about the living, right after they finished gossiping about the dead, and everyone under thirty would be getting wasted
behind the mausoleums. Everyone but me. I'd be too busy remembering.
“Hey, man.” Link jogged up alongside me and smiled at the Sisters. “Afternoon, ma'ams.”
“How are you today, Wesley? You're growin’ like a weed, aren't ya?” Aunt Prue was huffing and sweating.
“Yes, ma'am.” Rosalie Watkins was standing behind Link, waving at Aunt Prue.
“Ethan, why don't you go on with Wesley? I see Rosalie, and I need to ask her what kinda flour she uses in her hummingbird cake.” Aunt Prue
dug her cane into the grass, and Thelma helped Aunt Mercy out of her wheelchair.
“You sure you'll be all right?”
Aunt Prue scowled at me. “ ’Course we'll be all right. We've been lookin’ after ourselves since before you were born.”
“Since before your daddy was born,” Aunt Grace corrected.
“I almost forgot.” Aunt Prue opened her pocketbook and fished something out. “Found that darned cat's tag.” She looked down at Lucille
disapprovingly. “Not that it helped us any. Not like some people care about years a loyalty and all those walks on your very own clothesline. I reckon
it doesn't buy you a drop a gratitude, when it comes ta some people.” The cat wandered away without so much as a look back.
I looked at the metal tag with Lucille's name etched into it, and slipped it in my pocket. “The ring is missing.”
“Best put it in your wallet, in case you have ta prove she doesn't have rabies. She's a biter. Thelma'll see ’bout fetchin’ another one.”
“Thanks.”
The Sisters linked arms, and those three gargantuan hats knocked up against each other as they shuffled toward their friends. Even the Sisters
had friends. My life sucked.
“Shawn and Earl brought some beer and Jim Beam. Everyone's meetin’ behind the Honeycutt crypt.” At least I had Link.
We both knew I wouldn't be getting drunk anywhere. In a few minutes, I would be standing over my dead mother's grave. I'd be thinking about the
way she always laughed when I told her about Mr. Lee and his twisted version of U.S. History, or U.S. Hysteria, as she called it. How she and my
dad danced to James Taylor in our kitchen in bare feet. How she knew exactly what to say when everything was going wrong, like when my exgirlfriend
would rather be with some kind of mutant Supernatural than with me.
Link put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. Let's walk around.” I would be standing over her grave today, but I wasn't ready. Not yet.
L, where are —
I caught myself and tried to pull my mind away. I don't know why I still reached for her. Habit, I guess. But instead of Lena's voice, I heard
Savannah's. She stood in front of me, wearing way too much makeup but somehow still managing to look pretty. She was all glossy hair and gloppy
eyelashes and tied-up little straps on her sundress that were probably only there to make a guy think about untying them. I mean, if you didn't know
what a bitch she was, or didn't care.
“I'm real sorry about your mamma, Ethan.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. Her mother probably made her come over here, pillar of the
community that Mrs. Snow was. Tonight, though it was barely over a year since my mom died, I'd find more than one casserole on our doorstep, just
like the day after her funeral. Time passed slowly in Gatlin, kind of like dog years, only in reverse. And like the day after the funeral, Amma would
leave every one of them out there for the possums.
Seems possums never get tired of ham ’n’ apple casserole.
It was still the nicest thing Savannah had said to me since September. Even though I didn't care what she thought of me, today it was nice to
have one less thing to feel like crap about. “Thanks.”
Savannah smiled her fake smile and walked off, her high heels jerking as they got stuck in the grass. Link loosened his tie, which was crooked
and too short. I recognized it from sixth-grade graduation. Underneath it, he had snuck out of the house wearing a T-shirt that said I'M WITH STUPID,
with arrows pointing in all different directions. It pretty much summed up how I was feeling today, too. Surrounded by stupid.
The hits kept on coming. Maybe folks were feeling guilty because I had a crazy father and a dead mother. More likely, they were scared of
Amma. Anyway, I must have surpassed Loretta West, a three-time widow whose last husband died after a gator bit a hole in his stomach, as the
most pathetic person at All Souls. If they gave out prizes, I would've won the blue ribbon. I could tell by the way folks shook their heads when I walked
by. What a pity, Ethan Wate doesn't have a mamma anymore.
It was the same way Mrs. Lincoln was shaking her head right now, as she headed my way, with You Poor Misguided Motherless Boy written
on her face. Link ducked out before she hit her target. “Ethan, I wanted to say how much we all miss your mamma.” I wasn't sure who she was
talking about — her friends in the DAR, who couldn't stand my mom, or the women who sat around the Snip ’n’ Curl talking about how my mother
read too many books and no good could come from that. Mrs. Lincoln blotted a nonexistent tear from her eye. “She was a good woman. You know, I
remember how much she loved to garden. Always outside tendin’ her roses with her tender heart.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The closest my mom ever came to gardening was when she sprinkled cayenne pepper all over the tomatoes so my dad wouldn't kill the rabbit
that kept eating them. The roses were Amma's. Everyone knew that. I wished Mrs. Lincoln would try that “tender heart” comment to Amma's face. “I
like to think she's right up there with the angels, tendin’ that old, sweet Garden a Eden now. Prunin’ and trimmin’ the Tree a Knowledge, with the
cherubs and the —”
Snakes?
“I've gotta go find my dad, ma'am.” I had to get away from Link's mom before lightning struck her — or me, for wanting it to.
Her voice trailed after me. “Tell your daddy I'm gonna drop him off one a my famous ham ’n’ apple casseroles!” That sealed the deal. I was
getting the blue ribbon for sure. I couldn't get away from her fast enough. But at All Souls, there was no escape. As soon as you made it past one
creepy relative or neighbor, there was another one right around the corner. Or, in Link's case, another creepy parent.
Link's dad slung his arm around Tom Watkins’ neck. “Earl was the best of us. He had the best uniform, the best battle formations —” Link's dad
choked back a drunken sob. “And he made the best ammunition.” Coincidently, Big Earl was killed making some of that ammo, and Mr. Lincoln
had replaced him as the leader of the Cavalry, in the Reenactment of the Battle of Honey Hill. Some of that guilt was here today in the form of
whiskey.
“I wanted to bring my gun and give Earl a proper salute, but Dammit Doreen hid it from me.” Ronnie Weeks’ wife was generally known as
Dammit Doreen, sometimes shortened to DD, on account of that's all he ever said to her. He took another swig of whiskey.
“To Earl!” They grabbed each other around the neck, raising their cans and bottles over Earl's grave. Beer and Wild Turkey sloshed all over the
headstone, Gatlin's tribute to the fallen.
“Jeez, I hope we don't end up like that one day.” Link slunk away, and I followed. His parents never failed to embarrass him. “Why couldn't my
parents be like yours?”
“You mean mental? Or gone? No offense, but I think you've got the mental part covered.”
“Your dad's not mental anymore, at least not more than anyone else around here. No one cares if you walk around in your pajamas when your
wife just died. My folks don't have an excuse. They're a few pistons short of an engine.”
“We won't end up like that. Because you'll be a famous drummer in New York, and I'll be doing — I don't know, something that doesn't involve a
Confederate uniform and Wild Turkey.” I tried to sound convincing, but I didn't know which was more unlikely — Link becoming a famous musician
or me getting out of Gatlin.
I still had the map on my bedroom wall, the one with the thin green line connecting all the places I'd read about, the places I wanted to go. I'd
spent my whole life thinking about roads leading anywhere but Gatlin. Then I met Lena, and it was like the map never existed. I think I would've been
able to deal with getting stuck anywhere, even here, as long as we were together. Funny how the map seemed to have lost its appeal when I
needed it the most.
“I'd better get over to see my mom.” I said it like I was going by the library to see her in the archive. “You know what I mean.”
Link tapped his knuckles against mine. “I'll catch you later. I'm gonna walk around for a while.” Walk around? Link didn't walk around. He tried to
get drunk and hit on girls who wouldn't hook up with him.
“What's up? You're not going looking for the next Mrs. Wesley Jefferson Lincoln, are you?”
Link ran his hand over his spiky blond hair. “I wish. I know I'm an idiot, but there's only one girl in my head right now.” The one girl who shouldn't
be. What could I say? I knew how it felt to be in love with a girl who didn't want anything to do with you.
“Sorry, man. I guess Ridley's not that easy to forget.”
“Yeah, and seein’ her last night didn't help.” He shook his head, frustrated. “I know she's supposed to be Dark and all, but I can't shake the
feelin’ what we had was more than just an act.”
“I know what you mean.”
We were a couple of pathetic losers. Though I didn't think Ridley was capable of anything real, I didn't want to make him feel worse. Link wasn't
looking for an answer, anyway.
“You know all that stuff you told me about Casters and Mortals not bein’ able to be together ’cause it'll kill the Mortal?”
I nodded. It was only about eighty percent of what I thought about. “What about it?”
“We came close more than once.” He kicked the grass, making a brown spot on the perfectly manicured lawn.
“Too much information.”
“I'm makin’ a point here. I wasn't the one who put on the brakes. It was Rid. I figured she was slummin’ with me, like I was good enough to mess
around with, and that's it.” Link was pacing. “But now, when I think back on it, maybe I was wrong. Maybe she didn't want to hurt me.” Link had
clearly put a lot of thought into this.
“I don't know. She's still a Dark Caster.”
Link shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but a guy's gotta have a dream.”
I wanted to tell Link what was going on, that Ridley and Lena might already have taken off. I opened my mouth, then shut it without making a
single sound. If Lena had put a Cast on me, I didn't want to know.
I had only visited my mom's grave once since the funeral, but it wasn't on All Souls. I couldn't face it that soon. I didn't feel like she was actually here,
hanging around the graveyard like Genevieve or the Greats. The only place I sensed her was in the archive or the study at our house. Those were
the places she loved, the places I could imagine her spending her days wherever she was now.
But not here, not under the ground, where my dad was kneeling with his face in his hands. He'd been here for hours and it showed.
I cleared my throat so my dad would know I was there. It felt like I was eavesdropping on a private moment between them. He wiped his face
and stood up. “How are you holding up?”
“I'm okay, I guess.” I didn't know what I was feeling, but it wasn't okay.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring down at the headstone. A delicate white flower lay on the grass beneath it. Confederate jasmine. I
read the curving letters carved into the stone.
LILA EVERS WATE
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
SCIENTIAE CUSTOS
I repeated the last line. I'd noticed it the last time I was here, in the middle of July, a few weeks before my birthday. But I had come alone, and by
the time I got home I was so numb from staring at my mother's grave, I'd forgotten all about it. “Scientiae Custos.”
“It's Latin. It means ‘Keeper of Knowledge.’ Marian suggested it. It's fitting, don't you think?” If he only knew.
I forced a smile. “Yeah. It sounds like her.”
My dad put his arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze, the way he used to after my Little League team lost a game. “I really miss her. I
still can't believe she's gone.”
I couldn't say anything. My breath was caught in my throat, my chest so tight I thought I was going to pass out. My mom was dead. I would never
see her again, no matter how many pages she flipped open in her books or how many messages she sent me.
“I know this has been really hard for you, Ethan. I wanted to say I'm sorry I wasn't there for you this year the way I should've been. I just —”
“Dad.” I could feel my eyes watering, but I didn't want to cry. I wouldn't give the town casserole factory that kind of satisfaction. So I cut him off.
“It's okay.”
He gave my shoulder one last squeeze. “I'll give you some time alone with her. I'm going to take a walk.”
I kept staring at the headstone, with the tiny Celtic symbol of Awen etched into the stone. It was a symbol I knew, one my mother had always
loved. Three lines representing rays of light, converging at the top.
I heard Marian's voice behind me. “Awen. It's a Gaelic word that means ‘poetic inspiration’ or ‘spiritual illumination.’ Two things your mother
respected.” I thought about the symbols in the lintel at Ravenwood, the symbols on The Book of Moons, and the one on the door of Exile. Symbols
meant something. In some cases, more than words. My mom had known that. I wondered if it was the reason she became a Keeper, or if she
learned it from the Keepers before her. There was so much about her I would never know.
“Ethan, I'm sorry. Would you like to be alone?”
I let Marian hug me. “No. I don't really feel like she's here. You know what I mean?”
“I do.” She kissed my forehead and smiled, pulling a green tomato out of her pocket. She balanced it on the top of the tombstone.
I leaned back and smiled. “Now if you were a real friend, you would have fried it.”
Marian put her arm around me. She was in her best dress, like everyone else, but her best dress was somehow better. It was soft and yellow,
the color of butter, with a loose bow near the neck. The skirt folded into about a thousand crinkly pleats, like a dress from an old-fashioned movie. It
looked like something Lena would have worn.
“Lila knows I would do no such thing.” She squeezed me tighter. “I really only came out here to see you.”
“Thanks, Aunt Marian. It's been a rough couple of days.”
“Olivia told me. A Caster bar, an Incubus, and a Vex, all in the same night. I'm afraid Amma will never let you visit me again.” She didn't mention
the trouble I imagined Liv was in today.
“There's something else.” Lena. I couldn't bring myself to say her name.
Marian pushed my hair out of my eyes. “I heard, and I'm sorry. But I brought you something.” She opened her bag and took out a small wooden
box with a worn design carved into its surface. “As I said, I really came here to see you and give you this.” She held out the box. “It was your
mother's, one of her most valuable possessions. It's older than the rest of her collection. I think she would want you to have it.”
I took it. The box was heavier than it looked.
“Be careful. It's delicate.”
I lifted the lid gently, expecting to find another one of my mother's treasured Civil War relics — a scrap of a flag, a bullet, a piece of lace.
Something marked by history and time. But when I opened the box, it was something else, marked by a different kind of history and time. I knew
what it was, the second I saw it.
The Arclight, from the visions.
The Arclight Macon Ravenwood gave to the girl he loved.
Lila Jane Evers.
I had seen it stitched on an old pillow once that belonged to my mom when she was little. Jane. My Aunt Caroline said only my grandmother
called her that, but my grandmother died before I was born, so I'd never heard it myself. Aunt Caroline was wrong. My grandmother wasn't the only
one who had called her Jane.
Which meant —
My mom was the girl in the visions.
And Macon Ravenwood was the love of my mother's life.
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