A Stranger in My Grave Read online

  “I’m glad you came along,” Daisy said suddenly. “I would have been frightened by myself or depressed.”

  “Why? You’ve been here before.”

  “It never affected me much. Whenever I came with Jim and my mother, it was more like taking part in a pageant, a ritual that meant nothing to me. How could it? I never even met Jim’s par­ents or my mother’s cousin. People can’t seem dead to you unless they were once alive. It wasn’t real, the flowers, the tears, the prayers.”

  “Whose tears?”

  “Mother cries easily.”

  “Over a cousin so remote or so long dead that you hadn’t even met her?”

  Daisy leaned forward in the seat with a sigh of impatience or anxiety. “They were brought up together as children in Denver. Besides, the tears weren’t really for her, I guess. They were for— oh, life in general. Lacrimae rerum.”

  “Were you specifically invited to go on these excursions with your husband and mother?”

  “Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “I was invited. Jim thought it proper for me to go along, and Mother used me to lean on. It isn’t often she does. I suppose I—I rather enjoyed the feeling of being strong enough for anyone else to lean on, especially my mother.”

  “Where are Jim’s parents buried?”

  “The west end.”

  “Anywhere near where we’re headed?”

  “No.”

  “You said your husband has taken many pictures of the fig tree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you with him on some of those occasions?”

  “Yes.”

  They were approaching the cliff, and the sound of breakers was like the roar of a great wind through a distant forest, rising and falling. As the roar increased, the fig tree came into full view: a huge green umbrella, twice as wide as it was tall. The glossy, leathery leaves showed cinnamon color on the undersides, as if they, too, like the lock and the iron door of the gatehouse, were rusting away in the sea air. The trunk and larger branches resem­bled gray marble shapes of subhuman figures entwined in static love. There were no graves directly under the tree because part of the vast root system grew above ground. The monuments began at the periphery—all shapes and sizes, angels, rectangles, crosses, columns, polished and unpolished, gray and white and black and pink—but only one of them exactly matched the description of the tombstone in Daisy’s dream.

  Pinata saw it as soon as he got out of the car: a rough-hewn gray stone cross about five feet high.

  Daisy saw it, too. She said, with a look of terrible surprise, “It’s there. It’s—real.”

  He felt less surprise than she did. Everything in the dream was turning out to be real. He glanced toward the edge of the cliff as if he almost expected the dog Prince to come running up from the beach and start to howl.

  Daisy had stepped out of the car and was leaning against the hood of the engine for support or warmth.

  “I can’t see any name on it at this distance,” Pinata said. “Let’s go over and examine it.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Harker. What’s obviously happened is that you’ve seen this particular stone in this particu­lar location on one of your visits here. For some reason it impressed and interested you, you remembered it, and it cropped up in your dreams.”

  “Why should it have impressed me?”

  “For one thing, it’s a handsome and expensive piece of work. Or it might have reminded you of the old rugged cross in the hymn. But instead of standing here theorizing, why don’t we go over and check the facts?”

  “Facts?”

  “Surely the important fact,” Pinata said dryly, “is whose name is on it.”

  For a moment he thought she was going to turn and run for the exit gates. Instead, she straightened up, with a shake of her head, and stepped over the small lantana hedge onto the graveled path that wound around the periphery of the fig tree. She began walking toward the gray cross very quickly, as though she were putting her trust in momentum to keep her going if fear should try to stop her.

  She had almost reached her destination when she stumbled and fell forward on her knees. He caught up with her and helped her to her feet. There were grass stains on the front of her skirt, and prickly little pellets of burr clover.

  “It’s not mine,” she said in a whisper. “Thank God it’s not mine.”

  A small rectangular area in the center of the cross had been cut and polished to hold the inscription:

  carlos theodore camilla

  1907-1955

  Pinata was sure from her reaction that the name meant nothing to her beyond the fact that it was not her own. She was looking relieved and a little embarrassed, like a child who’s had the lights turned on and recognized the bogeyman for what it was, a dis­carded coat, a blowing curtain. Even with the lights on, there was one small bogeyman left that she apparently hadn’t noticed yet—the year of Camilla’s death. Perhaps from where she stood she couldn’t discern the numbers; he suspected from her actions in the newspaper library that she was nearsighted and either didn’t know it or didn’t want to admit it.

  He stepped directly in front of the tombstone to hide the inscription in case she came any closer. It made him feel uneasy, standing on this stranger’s coffin, right where his face would be, or had been. Carlos Camilla. What kind of face had he once had? Dark, certainly. It was a Mexican name. Few Mexicans were buried in this cemetery, both because it was too expensive and because the ground was not consecrated by their church. Fewer still had such elaborate monuments.

  “I feel guilty,” Daisy said, “at being so glad that it’s his and not mine. But I can’t help it.”

  “No need to feel guilty.”

  “It must have happened just as you said it did. I saw the tomb­stone, and for some reason it stuck in my memory—perhaps it was the name on it. Camilla, it’s a very pretty name. What does it mean, a camellia?”

  “No, it means a stretcher, a little bed.”

  “Oh. It doesn’t sound so pretty when you know what it means.”

  “That’s true of a lot of things.”

  Fog had started to drift in from the sea. It moved in aimless wisps across the lawns and hung like tatters of chiffon among the leather leaves of the fig tree. Pinata wondered how quietly Camilla was resting, with the roots of the vast tree growing inex­orably toward his little bed.

  “They’ll be closing the gates soon,” he said. “We’d better leave.”

  “All right.”

  She turned toward the car. He waited for her to take a few steps before he moved away from the tombstone, feeling a little ashamed of himself for the deception. He didn’t know it wasn’t a deception until they were back inside the car and Daisy said sud­denly, “Camilla died in 1955.”

  “So did a lot of other people.”

  “I’d like to find out the exact date, just out of curiosity. They must keep records of some kind on the premises—there’s an office marked ‘Superintendent’ just behind the chapel, and a care­taker’s cottage over on the east side.”

  “I was hoping you intended to drop this whole business.”

  “Why should I? Nothing’s really changed, if you’ll think about it.”

  He thought about it. Nothing had really changed, least of all Daisy baby’s mind.

  The superintendent’s office was closed for the day, but there were lights burning in the caretaker’s cottage. Through the living-room window Pinata could see a stout elderly man in suspenders watching a TV program: two cowboys were shooting freely at each other from behind two rocks. Both the cowboys and the rocks appeared exactly the same as the ones Pinata remembered from his boyhood.

  He pressed
the buzzer, and the old man got hurriedly to his feet and zigzagged across the living room as if he were dodging bullets. He turned off the TV set, with a furtive glance toward the window, and came running to open the door.

  “I hardly never watch the stuff,” he said, wheezing apology. “My son-in-law Harold don’t approve, says it’s bad for my heart, all them shootings.”

  “Are you the caretaker?”

  “No, that’s my son-in-law Harold. He’s at the dentist, got him­self an absence on the gum.”

  “Maybe you could give me some information?”

  “Can’t do no more than try. My name’s Finchley. Come in and close the door. That fog clogs up my tubes, can’t hardly breathe certain nights.” He squinted out at the car. “Don’t the lady care to come in out of the fog?”

  “No.”

  “She must have good serviceable tubes.” The old man closed the door. The small, neat living room was stifling hot and smelled of chocolate. “You looking for a particular gra—resting-place? Harold says never to say grave, customers don’t like it, but all the time I keep forgetting. Now right here I got a map of the whole location, tells you who’s buried where. That what you want?”

  “Not exactly. I know where the man’s buried, but I’d like some more information about the date and circumstances.”

  “Where’s he buried?”

  Pinata indicated the spot on the map while Finchley wheezed and grunted his disapproval. “That’s a bad place, what with the spring tides eating away at the cliff and that big old tree getting bigger every day and ‘tracting tourists that stomp on the grass. People buy there because of the view, but what’s a view good for if you can’t see it? Me, when I die, I want to lie safe and snug, not with no big old tree and them high tides coming after me hell-bent for leather.... What’s his name?”

  “Carlos Camilla.”

  “I’d have to go to the file to look that up, and I ain’t so sure I can find the key.”

  “You could try.”

  “I ain’t so sure I oughta. It’s near closing time, and I got to put supper on the stove. Absence or no absence, Harold likes to eat and eat good, same as me. All them dead people out there, they don’t bother me none. When it comes quitting time, I close the door on them, never think of them again till next morning. They don’t bother my sleep or my victuals none.” But he belched suddenly, in a genteel way, as if he had, unawares, swallowed a few indigestible fibers of fear. “Anyhow, maybe Harold wouldn’t like me messing with his file. That file’s mighty important to him; it’s exactly the same as the one the Super has in his office. You can tell from that how much the Super thinks of Harold.”

  Pinata was beginning to suspect that Finchley was stalling not because of his inability to find the key or any inhibitions about using it, but because he couldn’t spell.

  “You find the key,” he said, “and I’ll help you look up the name.”

  The old man looked relieved at having the burden of decision lifted from his shoulders. “Now that’s fair enough, ain’t it?”

  “It won’t take me a minute. Then you can turn on the TV again and catch the end of the program.”

  “I don’t mind admitting I ain’t sure which was the good guy and which was the bad guy. Now what’s that name again?”

  “Camilla.”

  “K-a—”

  “C-a-m-i-l-l-a.”

  “You write it down, just like it shows on the cards, eh?”

  Pinata wrote it down, and the old man took the paper and sped out of the room as if he’d been handed the baton in a relay race to the frontier where the bad guys were shooting it out with the good guys.

  He returned in less than a minute, put the file drawer on the table, turned on the TV set, and retired from the world.

  Pinata bent over the file. The card bearing the name Carlos Theodore Camilla bore little else: a technical description of his burial plot and the name of the funeral director, Roy Fondero. Next of kin, none. Address, none. Born April 3, 1907. Died December 2, 1955. Sui mano.

  Coincidence, he thought. The date of Camilla’s suicide must be just a crazy coincidence. After all, the chances were one in 365. Things a lot more coincidental than that happen every day.

  But he didn’t believe it, and he knew Daisy wouldn’t either if he told her. The question was whether to tell her, and if he decided not to, the problem was how to lie successfully. She wasn’t easily deceived. Her ears were quick to catch false notes, and her eyes were a good deal sharper than he’d thought.

  A new and disturbing idea had begun to gnaw at a corner of his brain: suppose Daisy already knew how and when Camilla had died, suppose she had invented the whole business of the dreams as a means of getting him interested in Camilla without reveal­ing her own connection with him. It seemed highly improbable, however. Her reaction to the name had been one of simple relief that it was not her own; she’d shown no signs of emotional involvement or confusion or guilt beyond the spoken artificial guilt over her gladness that the tombstone was Camilla’s instead of hers. Besides, he could think of no valid reason why Daisy would choose such a devious way of accomplishing her purpose. No, he thought, Daisy is a victim, not a manipulator of circumstances. She didn’t plan, couldn’t possibly have planned the sequence of events that led to his meeting her in the first place: the arrest of her father, the bail, her visit to his office. If any planning had been done, it was on Fielding’s part, but this was equally unlikely. Fielding seemed incapable of planning anything farther than the next minute and the next bottle.

  All right, he thought irritably. So nobody planned anything. Daisy had a dream, that’s all. Daisy had a dream.

  He said, “Thanks very much, Mr. Finchley.”

  “Eh?”

  “Thank you for letting me see the file.”

  “Oh my, look at him take that bullet right in the belly. I knew all along it was the bad guy in the black hat. You can always tell by the horse’s eyes. A horse looks mean and shifty, and you can bet he’s got a mean and shifty critter on his back. Well, he got his, yes sir, he got his.” Finchley wrenched his eyes from the screen. “Program’s changing, must be five o’clock. You better get a move on before Harold comes home and locks the gates. He won’t be in so good a humor with that absence on his gum and all. Harold’s fair,” he added with a grunt, “but he ain’t merciful. Not since his wife died. That’s what women are put in this world for, mercy, ain’t that right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Someday, you live long enough and you’ll know so.”

  “Good night, Mr. Finchley.”

  “You get out of them gates before Harold comes.”

  Daisy had turned on the radio and the heater in the car, but she didn’t look as though she were feeling any warmth or hear­ing any music. She said, “Please, let’s hurry and get out of here.”

  “You could have come inside the house.”

  “I didn’t want to interfere with your work. What did you find out?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to.”

  He told her, and she listened in silence while the car rolled noisily down the graveled hill past the chapel. It was dark. The organist was gone, leaving no echoes of music. The birds of par­adise were voiceless. The money on the silver dollar trees was spent; the bougainvillea wept in the fog.

  Harold, holding his swollen jaw, watched the car leave and closed the iron gates. The day was over; it was good to be home.

  9

  Even when she talked of love, her voice had bitterness in it, as if the relationship between us was the result of a physical defect she couldn’t help, a weakness of the body which her mind despised. .. .

  The lights of the city were going on, in strings and clusters along the sea and h
ighway, thinning out as they rose up the foothills until, at the very top, they looked like individual stars that had fallen on the mountains, still burning. Pinata knew that none of the lights belonged to him. His house was dark; there was no one in it, no Johnny, no Monica, not even Mrs. Dubrinski, who left at five o’clock to take care of her own family. He felt as excluded from life as Camilla in his grave under the great tree, as empty as Camilla’s mind, as deaf as his ears to the sound of the sea, as blind as his eyes to the spindrift.

  “What’s a view good for,” the old man had said, “if you can’t see it?”

  Well, the view’s there, Pinata thought. I’m looking at it, but I’m not part of it. None of those lights have been lit for me, and if anyone’s wait­ing for me, it’s some drunk in the city jail anxious to get out and buy another bottle.

  Beside him, Daisy was sitting mute and motionless, as if she were thinking of nothing at all or of so many things so quickly that they had crashed the sound barrier into silence. Glancing at her, he wanted suddenly to do something shocking, arresting, to force her to pay attention to him. But a second later the idea seemed so absurd that he went cold with anger at himself: Christ, what’s the matter with me? I must be losing my marbles. Johnny, I must think of Johnny. Or Camilla. That’s safe, think of Camilla, the stranger in Daisy’s grave.

  This stranger had died, and Daisy had dreamed the tombstone was her own—that much of it was explicable. The rest wasn’t, unless Daisy had extrasensory perception, which seemed highly improbable, or a singular ability to deceive herself as well as other people. The latter was more likely, but he didn’t believe it. As he became better acquainted with her, he was struck by her essential naïveté and innocence, as if she had somehow walked through life without touching anything or being touched, like a child wander­ing through a store where all the merchandise was out of reach and not for sale, and dummy clerks stood behind plate glass and sold nothing. Had Daisy baby been too well disciplined to protest, too docile to demand? And was she demanding now, through her dreams, for the plate glass to be removed and the dummy clerks put into action?