Gil and I
immediately separated, moving to opposite corners of the cemetery. As I was walking
swiftly to the corner I wanted—down by a thick cluster of trees, the darkest
place in the entire lot—I turned back a couple of times to watch Gil hurrying
off the other way.
I also saw what
other kids were doing. Some had stayed as close to the entrance as possible (no
need to waste any energy on an English assignment!); others were moving in
little groups, together. I saw Harriet and one of the other cheerleaders settle
right in the center of the cemetery where they appeared to be taking notes on
gravestones that were right next to each other. Harriet saw me looking and gave
me the little wave she used when she wanted me to know that she was thinking of
me—but didn’t necessarily want whoever she was with to notice—or comment. She
was weird now, Harriet, trying to be both popular and loyal to very unpopular
me.
In the farthest
corner I found an old sandstone grave marker whose inscriptions time and
weather had nearly entirely smoothed over. I was barely able to make out the
name and other information:
FRANCIS WRIGHT[i]
Sept. 6, 1795 – Dec. 13, 1852
He tried—but failed.
I’m going to confess here that I’d
been to this cemetery before and already had done my best to read some of the
gravestones. But I’d picked this one because I thought the epitaph was about
the strangest I’d seen: He tried—but failed.
Tried what? Failed at what? I thought I could have some fun
with that idea in my poem.
I quickly copied
the information, then looked again over toward Gil, clear across the cemetery.
I saw him finish writing something, then move to another stone a few feet to
his left. I started walking toward him, then broke into a trot when I saw him staring
at the stone, then slumping to the ground, as if he’d fainted.
Other kids saw me
hurrying by but didn’t really do anything. A look at me; a look back at their
work. They were used to seeing me do weird stuff and had long ago quit
wondering about it. I did hear Harriet’s voice as I passed her. “Vickie …?”
As I got closer to
Gil, I saw him struggle to a sitting position, where he sat staring at the old
stone right in front of him.
I called out to
him.
He turned, smiling
weakly, his face as pale as paper. “Hi,” he said, his voice matching his face.
He sounded as if no breath carried his words.
“Getting a closer
look?” I asked him.
“Have you seen
this?” He pointed, and as I was reading it, I felt myself slump right beside
him.
LEON
Marguerite Damville Leon Jan. 1, 1818 – Feb. 1, 1851
Beloved Wife of S. T. Leon
“And flights of angels sing thee to thy
rest.” — Shakespeare
Mary W. Leon Feb.
1, 1851
Infant Daughter
“She lived but an hour.”
S. T. Leon 1822
–
A shadow fell over
us. I turned and looked. Harriet.
“You two all
right?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
[i]
Once again, Vickie seems to be playing with us. The long-ago feminist Frances
Wright was born and died on the exact dates that Vickie records here. She was
one of Mary Shelley’s friends, a woman who started a community in
Tennessee—Nashoba (near Memphis)—where she tried to teach former slaves (whom
she’d purchased) the skills they would need to survive in freedom. Begun in the
mid-1820s, it lasted only three years.
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