The black Toyota SUV wheeled into the church parking lot and slowed to a halt. A satellite radio antenna was magnetically affixed to the roof, and the muffled sounds of a children 's program drifted from inside the vehicle. A man sat in the driver' s seat, gripping the wheel tightly. A woman sat next to him. After a moment, the Toyota slowly made its way down the graveyard ' s middle road. The path was wider than the man remembered it being, and looked as if it had recently been given a fresh coat of blacktop.
'Is this it, Daddy?'
The man nodded. 'Yep. This is it. This used to be my playground.' He shivered. His wife noticed and turned down the air conditioning. The man said nothing.
The SUV crawled past the graves, slowed again, and then stopped. The man got out, and smoothed his suit. His tie fluttered in the warm June breeze. He took a deep breath. He hadn' t been there in a long time. He glanced around. The old utility shed was gone, replaced with a more modern structure. Farmer Jones ' s pasture now held duplex housing instead of cattle. Things were different. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard the sound of children 's laughter. Old ghosts. They'd been good ghosts, once upon a time.
Not anymore.
As an adult, the man was reminded of how children laughing often sounded like children screaming.
He opened his eyes and moved on.
Inside the vehicle, his wife and kids watched him approach the grave. Then the woman made a call on her cell phone.
The man stood in front of the gravea fresh, open hole in the earth. A wound. It would be filled later that day, and then covered back over with sod. A brandnew tombstone sat at the head of the hole.
It said that Randy Graco was a loving husband and father. Dane Graco 's tombstone stood a few feet away.
'Hey, Timmy.'
Tim jumped in surprise. He'd thought he was alone. He looked up. The cemetery' s caretaker stepped out from behind a tall monument. A bashful young boy, around the same age as Tim ' s oldest son, crept out behind him, watching with curiosity. Both were dressed in work clothes, their jeans soiled with grass stains and dirt.
'Timmy?'
The caretaker pulled off his work gloves and walked toward him. Tim frowned. Nobody had called him Timmy since he'd graduated college. Not even his parents. He didn't recognize the caretaker at first. He was bald, and his skin looked weathered from too much sun or stressor both. There were dark circles under his eyes that most men didn ' t get until much later in life. But the scar was what gave his identity away: a narrow, pale line running up his cheek, carved years ago with a stolen ringa ring that was now on Tim' s right hand.
The scar had happened on a night neither man would ever forget. The scar, like the memories, had faded over time, but was still there.
Smiling in disbelief, Tim stepped forward. 'Barry? Jesus Christ…'
'Good to see you, too, man.' Barry laughed. 'Thought maybe you didn't recognize me.'
'I didn't. At first, anyway. Took me a second. It's been a while.'
'Yes, it has. Twenty years, give or take.'
Still surprised, Tim was speechless.
'I keep up on you,' Barry said, his voice filled with pride. 'The Hanover Evening Sun and the York Dispatch both had articles on you. I hear you' re a famous comic book writer now.'
Tim chuckled. 'Well, I wouldn't say I'm famous or anything. But I do all right.'
'You and your funny books.' Barry pulled out a can of Husky tobacco and loaded some into his lip. 'I remember you were crazy about those things when we were kids.'
'You were, too.'
Barry's brow furrowed. 'Yeah, I guess maybe I was. I'd forgotten about that. I don' t read much of anything these days, except the paper. But man, I remember how pissed you were when your dad ripped yours up.'
'I remember, too,' Timmy whispered. 'I don't think we'll ever forget.'
'No,' Barry agreed. 'We won't. But shit, I didn't mean to bring up your old man. I'm sorry.'
'It's okay.'
Barry pointed at the grave. 'I was sorry to hear about what happened. He was a good neighbor. Hell, I've been living next to him my whole life. It' ll be weird not seeing him down over the hill.'
Tim nodded sadly. 'Yeah. It was pretty sudden. The heart attack hit him while he was watching the game. Happened quick. Mom' s still in shock, I think. But at least he didn 't suffer.'
'Well, that's good.'
'Yeah.'
They stared at each other in silence, neither one knowing what to say. Barry spat a wad of brown tobacco juice onto the grass. 'That your family?'
'Yeah.' Tim turned back to the SUV. 'That's my wife, Mara, and my sons, Dane and Doug.'
Barry paused. 'Doug, huh? That's good. He'd have liked that.'
'I think so.'
'Wife's goodlooking,' Barry said, staring at the Toyota. 'You done good.'
'Yeah, I can't complain.'
'Ever hear from Katie Moore?'
'Not since graduation. I went to college. She had another year in school. You know how it is.'
'I always figured you two would get hitched. Young love and all that.'
'That only happens in songs, I guess.'
Barry nodded, and they fell silent again.
'That's my kid back there.' Barry turned, pointing at the shy boy, who'd crept back behind the monument again. 'Richie. Get your ass out here and say hello.' Tim frowned. Barry' s voice had taken on a rough, unpleasant tone. The boy, Richie, slunk out from behind the marker, eyes cast to the ground, shoulders slumped. Tim finally got a good look at the kid. He was skinny, and his arms stuck out of his Tshirt like twigs. Both of them were bruised, and his right forearm had a nasty circular mark. Tim tried to keep a straight face, but inside he was shocked. It looked like a cigarette burn.
'Get over here,' Barry shouted.
The boy jumped at the sound of his father's voice, and dutifully shuffled over to them. As he got closer, Tim noticed the scars.
'This here is Timmy Graco,' Barry said, introducing him. 'We was best friends when we were your age.'
'Hi.' Tim stuck out his hand.
Richie shook it. His grip was weak, his palms sweaty. He mumbled under his breath. Barry slapped the back of his head. 'Speak up. I told you before, nobody can understand shit when you mumble like that.'
'Sorry,' the boy apologized. 'Nice to meet you.' He didn't look into Tim's eyes, but kept his gaze focused on the ground.
'Get on back to work,' Barry commanded.
He prodded Richie with his boot. The boy ran off.
Barry grinned, looking sheepish.
'He don't listen sometimes. Got to teach him manners. Guess we did the same thing when we were kids.'
'Looks like he got hurt recently.' Tim kept his voice calm. Shrugging, Barry looked away. 'He's careless. Clumsy, like I was at that age. You know how it is. Boys have scars.'
Timmy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. He stared at the faded scar on Barry's cheek.
Boys have scars, he thought. Some of them fadeand others don't. Some scars stay with us for life.
'Listen, Barry… I should get going. The kids are restless, and I want to check in on my mom. It's been a long drive.'
'Sure.' Barry met his gaze again, and smiled. His face was sad. 'Funeral's tomorrow. You gonna stay in town long?'
'A few days, probably.'
