Solomon's Grave

play it safe and give Nathan extra down time.

Upon returning from the Spring River nursing home in West Boylston, a warm-up of sorts for his visit to Elizabeth’s place tomorrow, Nathan had a wide break in his schedule between one and three o’clock. Hayden gave the pretense of needing to pack more items and suggested Nathan take a nap.

It had begun to rain, but this didn’t keep Nathan from taking a walk. The weather kept most people indoors, and no car passed him along Greenwood Street. He could just as easily have walked through the short patch of woodland separating the church from the cemetery, but after yesterday’s incident he didn’t want to be caught wandering in the woods alone. It wouldn’t help his already shaky image.

No sign of Tarretti’s Blazer. That was good. The fewer questions from him or anyone else, the better. The large umbrella Nathan had found in the back closet, smelling slightly of mold, and the long black slicker his parents had sent him two years ago when he was in Florida were good protection from the rain. He would likely wear the coat more often now that he was in a climate better suited to its purpose. He walked into the heart of the cemetery, along the same route they’d followed last week.

He did not stop when he saw the twin angels.

Just get this over with and move on, he told himself. The ground was soft, the damp air crisp with the smells of early leaves beginning to turn. Cold water leaked into his shoes when he stepped in a puddle. His gaze was riveted on the statues’ faces, as much as theirs seemed to be on each other. At last he stopped, looking up at their gray, lifeless expressions.

Rain dripped off stone noses and chins. Small details had worn thin by weather and time. Their wings stretched up from their backs and touched at the tips, blending into each other to become one solid piece. Nathan supposed this was deliberate, in order that one or the other did not tip too much to the side.

This was what he’d seen yesterday, and also in the dream his first night here. Was it a premonition, or could his imagination be strong enough to associate weather predictions with his plans to come here today?

As much as he tried to rationalize, no reason felt like truth. He was meant to come here, was sent here. It was the only rationale that worked. But sent by whom? God? He reflexively shook his head and examined the gravesite.

The headstone was a wide, square base supporting the stonework. Like the faces above it, the inscription was worn by seasons.

John Solomon, it read. 1852 – 1909.

Reading the name sent an electric buzz through his body. That feeling of something missing, of a detail lodged in his brain slowly coming loose.

Solomon. The name was biblical, of course. Nathan tried to recall any Jewish families in town by that name. Of course, this was a very old grave. He looked at the angels. The association between their posture and the name on the inscription was obvious. Solomon’s temple, housing the Ark of the Covenant. Two golden cherubs standing guard atop the mercy seat, or lid, protecting the tablets of the ten commandments. The association felt more than an artistic interpretation of the deceased’s name. The missing detail, perhaps, but its significance eluded him.

Nathan wondered, not for the last time, if he was simply going mad.

He walked around the base looking for additional writing, some sort of epitaph other than a name and dates. Nothing. Concrete scraped under his shoe, partly buried beneath years of dirt and leaves. The base was massive, more so toward the front.

Not just a simple grave, then, but a crypt?

He walked around the statue one more time, rain dripping from the umbrella down his back. No sign of an entrance. Judging from the dates, if one existed, it was buried under a century of sediment.

Like Peter Quinn the previous day, he had an urge to fall to his knees and dig, uncover the entrance, expose the truth.

If he did that, he surely was insane.

He stood a moment longer, staring down, listening passively to the rain above him, then turned and walked quickly away. The water-soaked ground was soft under his feet. He had faced his dreams, but felt no closer to a resolution. Maybe he should see a doctor. He emerged onto Greenwood Street and looked around. No one coming either way. That was good.

On the walk back to the church, Nathan again tried to find an association between the elaborate headstone and everything that had happened. He’d dreamt of a temple. It wasn’t anything like Solomon’s as far as he could tell.

He sighed. It would come to him eventually.

He hoped.

Chapter Sixteen

“Systems, Art Dinneck.”

“Hi, Dad. How’s work going?”

“Nate? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Dad, honest.” He reiterated what the EMTs had told him, keeping to the basics. His mother had likely covered the details with his father the night before. He’d been back from his walk only a few minutes but couldn’t relax. It seemed like as good a time as any to check in with his father, try to learn a little more about what was going on. “I’m just getting to a few bits of paperwork Pastor Hayden left for me. He says anything to do with red tape has officially been passed on to me.”

“Very generous.” From his voice, he knew his father was smiling.

Nathan asked, “What have they got you doing these days?” He wanted to jump in to the topic of the men’s club, but instincts told him to move slowly, keep his father from getting defensive.

“Oh, same old, same old. I’ll be a mainframe dinosaur until I retire. I’m too old to learn any of the GUI, object-oriented stuff the kids work on today. Besides, someone’s got to keep the lights on in this place.”

Nathan only understood half of what his father just said, but he didn’t care. The working world wasn’t something he’d ever have to worry about understanding, save for its effect on his parishioners.

“The pastor’s last service is next weekend; then I officially take over.”

“That’s good.” Then, as if Art couldn’t think of anything else to say he repeated, “That’s good, Nate.” No I’m proud of you, his trademark line. It seemed the right time to broach the reason he’d called.

“Listen, Dad. I know I’ve been away a lot with school, then my stint in Florida. Been kind of out of touch lately.”

“Naw,” Art said. “You called more than most children probably ever would in their lifetime. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, OK.” Nathan fiddled with a blue and white Bic pen he’d lifted off the desk. “Still, you’ve joined this new group in town and I don’t know anything about it. I have to admit it’s got me a little curious.”

The pause which followed made Nathan wonder if he’d already gone too far. His suspicions were confirmed when Art finally said, “Your mother put you up to this?”

“No, not at all. She doesn’t even know I’m calling. I’m just curious. You’re an adult; you can do whatever you want. I’m just wondering, like I said. I—”

“It’s just a bunch of us guys from town getting together, shooting the breeze. Nothing to get uptight about.” His voice was terse, without the comfortable warmth of a minute ago. Nathan knew he should just let it drop, but something pushed him on. Whatever his father was involved in suddenly felt bigger. Nathan wondered again if this change in behavior had less to do with the men’s club, than with something in the man himself. Drinking? God forbid, another woman? The latter seemed too out of place. Too much to swallow.

“Well,” Nathan said, hardening himself for a possible argument. “Let’s just say I like to know what my new congregation is up to.”

“I’m not part of your congregation, Reverend. I’m your father. Don’t forget that.”

The statement, and its cold, unfamiliar tone hit Nathan as if his father had physically punched him. He found himself without anything to say.

Art continued, “Listen, I have to get back to work. If there’s nothing else?”