The Ancient Landmark

The wind was at his back, and the old man pulled his collar up to ward it off a bit. He stood and looked for a moment longer, then turned around into the wind and watched the deputy approach.

“Mr. Burton?”

The deputy put his gloved hand to his mouth, bit the tip of the middle finger, and tugged the glove off. He offered his hand, and when the old man took it, the younger man knew he was being measured and evaluated by means of that single, momentary grip.

“Yes, I’m Burl Burton. Big mess we got here.”

“I’m Mark O’Leary. The deputy.”

Glad you clarified that, thought Burl.

Deputy O’Leary put his glove back on, squinting across the grass at the shapes scattered along its surface. “Like you said, Mr. Burton, a big mess.” He began walking toward the shapes, and Burl walked with him. Before long, the two men stood next to a sizeable slab of rock. The deputy read the words, then turned to the old man.

“This would be your wife’s, then.”

Burl nodded.

O’Leary sighed. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare and looked around. After a minute, he spoke. “Looks like seventeen.”

“Eighteen, actually,” said Burl. “There’s another one over there behind that cedar tree that you can’t see from here.”

O’Leary had pulled out a notepad and was scribbling on it. “Eighteen, then. What time did you get here and find all this?”

Burl told the deputy everything that had happened from the time he had arrived at the cemetery an hour ago. He described how he’d seen the toppled tombstones from the parking lot, and how he’d said a silent prayer that Fritzi’s memorial hadn’t been toppled over, too. He described his trek through the cemetery to count the number of graves that had been hit, and then his trip to the gas station down the road to call and report what he’d found.

“Well, I appreciate you calling us, Mr. Burton. I just wish your wife’s grave hadn’t been one of the ones desecrated.”

Desecrated. That’s an old word. You never hear that one anymore, thought Burl. He nodded. “Wanted to ask you about something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a look over here.”

The two men walked several yards to where a tall obelisk had been knocked from its base. Two stone flower vases that had been attached to the base were shattered, as if by strong kicks. Burl knelt on the damp ground and pointed to a green smear on the side of the obelisk.

“See that? Any idea what that means?”

The deputy frowned, trying to mouth the garish green words on the stone. “No. No, I don’t know what it means. I think it’s Spanish, though. Either Spanish or Italian.”

“Well, I don’t know of anyone from Itly around here.”

O’Leary ignored the remark. “Well, I need to take some photos, and then I’ll need to phone the sheriff. Let me get your driver’s license, Mr. Burton.”

“My license? What for?”

The deputy clicked his pen rapidly several times. “Just a shortcut. I need to write down all your information, and I’m just in the habit of getting it from a license, as opposed to asking you for it verbally.” He clicked the pen again, smiling at the old man.

Burl looked over at Fritzi’s grave, then at the deputy and his pen. Finally, he reached into his pocket and produced his wallet. He removed his license from the wallet and handed it to the deputy, who clicked his pen four more times before he began writing. Burl stared at the stones scattered around the small graveyard. Who and why?

With a single snap, O’Leary clicked his pen again and handed Burl his license. He closed his notebook, then opened it again and clicked his pen at least a half-dozen times. “I forgot to get your phone number, Mr. Burton.”

Burl recited the number and watched the lawman write it down. While the pen was being clicked again and the notebook was being stowed again, he asked, “So what’s the next step?”

“Well. We’ll have to arrange to get these stones righted. I imagine most of ‘em weigh about five, six hundred pounds. Your wife’s might even go seven hundred or more. And that one with the graffiti on it, it’s a big one.”

Graffiti. “And who’ll do it?”

The deputy smiled. “Oh, I’m sure the cemetery’ll hire a crane operator to do the job. Unless you know of someone with a crane. You might be able to get a real good deal if you make the referral.”

“A ‘good deal’? You mean this is going to cost me?”

Still smiling, the deputy shrugged. “Oh, I doubt your burial insurance or upkeep fees cover this sort of thing, Mr. Burton. I imagine someone’s going to have to pay for this.”

“I can’t afford to pay for some crane to come in here and pick this thing up. Especially when I’m the victim of a crime. A desecration. “

“Well, Mr. Burton, that’s really out of my hands. Listen, I’m going to go get my camera and take some photos. Did you have any other questions?”

“Nothing besides how this is all going to be paid for.”

The deputy began walking toward his patrol car. “I’ll call you if I need more information, and when I hear how they’ll handle the repairs. And you call me if you think of anything you forgot to tell me.”

***

The afternoon phone calls all confirmed what the deputy had reported: none of Burl’s insurance covered such a situation, and there would indeed be a cost involved for repairing the vandals’ malicious work.

“Unless,” chortled Mr. Friedman, the cemetery supervisor, “You can manage to pick up that stone yourself.”

After talking to the burial company, the insurance company, and the helpful Mr. Friedman, Burl called the church and talked to the pastor. The pastor commiserated, but wasn’t sufficiently informed about such matters to be helpful, so sorry, and he asked Burl to call the chairman of the deacons’ board. The head deacon also commiserated, but offered no help.

“We’re pretty much tapped out, after buying Christmas gifts for the local underprivileged kids,” the head deacon explained.

“Local underprivileged kids? I didn’t know we had any of those in Tipp.”

“Well, they’re inner-city kids, but the city’s not far from here, Burl.”

“So the deacon’s fund is tapped out because we bought city kids some toys. And what if a widow has a pressing need?”

“Well, we’ll find a way, I suppose.”

Burl tried to loosen his grip on the receiver. “I have a pressing need now, George.” He hung up the phone.

Later in the afternoon, after he’d done all the inner repenting he could, Burl walked out to get the mail. He saw two people coming up the lane toward his house. He squinted and saw that it was Travis and Lindy. He waved, and they waved back. They walked up the driveway toward Burl.

“Mr. Burton, how you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Lindy. How’re y’all?”

Lindy looked over at her husband. “Well, Travis’s got that walkin’ pneu-mone-yuh, but I think it’s about done.”

Burt smiled at the lanky young man. “Done walked it off, Travis?”

Travis beamed a great Levi Garrett-painted grin. “Oh, it hadn’ been bad.”

The old man patted the younger’s with affection. “That water heater working all right?”

“Oh, yes, sir. We sure appreciate you putting a new one in. I prob’ly could’ve fixed that old one if I could’ve gotten down to see behind of it.”

“No, you’re good folks, and I’m just glad you’re in my trailer and so close to me. Makes me feel like there’s family on the property.”

The young ones both smiled. “We feel like you’re family, too, Mr. Burton,” said Lindy. She looked at Travis again before continuing. “Matter of fact, that’s why we came over.”

Burt looked from woman to man and back again. He lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

“Well we heard about what happened out at the graveyard,” said Lindy.

“And how’d you come to hear about that?”

“Well, you know how Mark O’Leary is.”

I wonder if he was clicking that pen while he was running his mouth. “Yes, I know how he is.”

Travis slid his hands into his back pockets like a farmer contemplating a crop. “We was wondering how we could help.”

Burt smiled. “I appreciate that, Travis. I don’t guess you’ve got a crane I could borrow?”

Travis laughed. “No, sir. No crane.” His smile was replaced by a thoughtful look. “But I think I could help you get your wife’s stone back in place.”

The old man crossed his arms and looked at the ground. “Son, I do appreciate you saying that. But that stone ways several hundred pounds. At least that’s O’Leary’s estimate.”

Travis crossed his arms, too. “I’m scrawny, but I can move just about anything. I got tools and things.”

Burl started to speak, but Travis continued, “I used to move storage buildin’s for a living. All by myself.”

He’s serious, thought Burt. “Even if you could pick it up, how would you get it to stay up on the base?”

The young man grinned his tobacco grin again. “Got me a big bucket of that adhesive they use to lay tile with. One glop of that on there and set that thang on there, it’ll hold.”

Burl stared at Travis, his mind and mouth both working. Before he could speak, Lindy did.

“I’ll help, too, Mr. Burton.”

“You?”

“Why, I’m stout, Mr. Burton!”

Burt managed a laugh. “I don’t doubt it. I just don’t know - “

“What I heard from our good deputy, it’s gonna cost money to pick them markers up. You been good to us. I’m trying to save you some money,” said Travis.

Burl had few options, and he knew it. “All right then.”

Travis brightened. “All right? Well, all right.”

The wind gusted hard, and Lindy bunched her sweatshirt close to her with a fist. Burl noticed - not for the first time - how thinly-clothed the Tazewells were. “When do you think we might do this, Travis?”

“Been thinking about that already. I figure Sunday’ll be best. All the folks’ll be in church, and that’ll give us a good couple of hours of quiet and privacy.”

Burl considered. “Two days away. Is that enough time to get ready?”

“Oh, my stuff is ready now, Mr. Burton. But Sunday’ll be best.”

***

By the time Burl arrived at the cemetery, the clouds were low and rich with moisture. Smells like rain, he thought as he parked and got out. Hope it holds off until we’re done.

He walked across the grass to where Travis and Lindy stood, near Fritzi’s grave. Their battered pickup truck was parked along the one-lane road that snaked through the cemetery, and both the Tazewells were unloading things from it.

“Morning, Mr. Burton.”

“Good morning. Been here long?”

“Nosir, we just got here. I’ll have everything ready in a minute.”

Burt watched the unloading. “Can I help?”

Lindy turned to the old man. “No, sir. You just hang on, and we’ll get goin’.”

The couple were unloading several bricks and a few cinderblocks, and Lindy tossed a crowbar onto the crushed wintergrass. There was a white plastic five-gallon pail - probably the adhesive Travis had mentioned. There was a pile of what looked like small logs next to one of the truck’s tires. When Burt looked closer, he realized that he was looking at rusted metal.

“What…what are those? Old sashweights?”

Travis laughed. “Yes, sir. Scrounged them from the Taylor place when they tore it down last summer. Them things come in handy more’n you might imagine.”

Burl shook his head, smiling. “I guess so.”

Travis moved with marvelous economy. He knelt by Fritzi’s tombstone and felt around the lower edge. Picking up the crowbar, he pulled a bandana from his pocket and wrapped it around the flat end of the bar. He positioned a brick a few inches from the tombstone, slid the crowbar under it with the brick acting as a fulcrum, and pushed down. He grunted and leaned all his weight on the bar. The stone moved up two inches but no farther.

Burl moved to Travis’ side and put his hands on the young man’s bony shoulders. He pushed down while Travis again straightened his arms against the bar. The stone rose up a few more inches. Lindy darted in with a brick wrapped in a piece of terrycloth and placed it under the tombstone. Travis relaxed the pressure, as did Burl. The tombstone was now off the ground.

The trio moved around to the other end of the tombstone and performed the same maneuver again, this time with Lindy placing two cloth-wrapped bricks under the stone - one under each corner. When she was done, the stone was now balanced off the ground on a three-point brick base.

Burl realized what Travis had planned, and the old man was impressed at the ingenuity of his tenant. He went over and picked up two sashweights and smiled at Travis. Travis nodded and picked up two weights as well. Lindy got two sashweights and joined the men at the stone. Travis placed the side of his face on the grass so that he could see under the stone. He started to feed one of the sashweights into the space beneath. He stopped, straightened up, and looked at Burl.

“Mr. Burton, I’m sorry. We thought to bring cloth to wrap them bricks in, but I didn’t even think about wrapping these sashweights. I’m afraid they’ll scratch the granite.”

Burl looked at the wind-reddened face of his friend. “Travis, don’t worry about that, son. There’s no inscription or anything on the back. A few scratches won’t matter. Fritzi wouldn’t mind.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Look how you’re helping me. What’s a few scratches on a stone?”

“Are you sure? We might be able to wrap ‘em somehow, but I worry that they’d come unwrapped as we roll ‘em on the ground.”

“Don’t worry about it, Travis. Really. It’s fine. Let’s use the sashweights.”

Travis nodded. “All right, then.” He bent again and fed one of the weights under the center of the stone. Then he placed one on either side of it, about a foot apart. Finally, he placed on at the edge closest to Fritzi’s grave. Travis positioned the crowbar under the front edge of the stone again, with a brick in place as fulcrum, and pushed down. This time, the stone rose with ease, and Lindy snatched the brick from under the edge of the marker. They moved around to the rear edge and did the same with the other two bricks. Now the marker was lying directly on the four sashweights.

“Let’s give her a roll, Mr. Burton,” said Travis.

Burl knelt on the other side of the stone, and touched the cold marker that bore the name and the years of a loved woman. He and Travis pushed together, and the stone rolled on the sashweights with a smooth motion that surprised the old man. They rolled the marker several inches until the sashweight in the rear of the stone was exposed. Lindy picked it up and moved it in front of the stone. By moving the stone a few inches at a time, and with Lindy replacing the sashweight in front as it was uncovered in the rear, the massive slab moved closer and closer to the grave. After a short while, the stone was right next to its base.

“All right.” Travis was breathing with slight effort, more from excitement than exertion. He looked around and saw the pail of adhesive, then went to retrieve it. “I’ll put this here so it’ll be ready.” He popped the lid loose from the lip and left it lying atop the pail, then turned back to Burl.

The old man rubbed his hands together; they were going numb from the cold. “What’s next, boss?”

Travis grinned. “Well, we’re gonna prop up the stone just like we did over yonder, except we’ll use them cinderblocks, too. That way, we can get the stone almost straight up. We’ll do it a brick at a time, a stone at a time, with the crowbar. When it’s just about standing up, we’ll put us some of that adhesive down on the base, and then we’ll rock ‘er forward and scoot her in place. I’ll wipe off any extra adhesive and we’ll be all set.”

Burl smiled, thinking of the warm feeling he’d have when he told the deputy and the cemetery custodian that there would be no need to attend to Fritzi’s stone, thank you very much. “All right. Let’s finish up.”

And so they went, just as Travis had described. Place the crowbar under the edge of the stone. Place bricks as fulcrum. Raise stone. Place bricks under stone to prop up. Raise fulcrum higher. Raise stone again. Place cinderblock under stone to prop up higher. Raise fulcrum higher. And so on. Once the stone was about forty-five degrees off the cold ground, Travis went to the pickup and got a seven foot-long pry bar from the bed.

“Better lev’ridge,” he said.

The trio of friends continued lifting and propping and placing and moving for several more minutes. By now, the bottom of the tombstone was against the edge of the granite base. All that remained was to slather some adhesive to the base, give one final, careful push, and settle the stone onto its resting place.

Travis walked around the stone, checking for stability. Behind the stone, he frowned. Burl noticed, and walked around to see what was wrong.

In green spray paint, the words “La Raza” were on the back of Fritzi’s stone. The friction of the sashweights had scraped off some of the paint, but the words were still clear. Travis looked at Burl, still frowning.

“What is that?” he asked.

Burl shook his head. “I don’t know. They painted the same thing on that big tall one over yonder,” he said, pointing. I guess they painted it on here, then knocked it over. I’ll get that paint off of there after we get the marker back in place.”

“Do you know what them words mean?”

Burl shook his head. “No. Do you?”

“No, sir. I think it’s Spanish. Looks like that stuff written in the window of one of them markets down in the old downtown area.” Rain began to fall from the cold sky, and both men looked at the sky, then back at the painted words.

Burl remembered Deputy O’Leary’s theory: either Spanish or Italian. He shook his head again. “Well, want to finish up?”

“Yes, sir.”

They moved back to where Lindy waited by the stone. She was shivering, and the rain was matting her hair against her head.

“Honey, don’t you want to wait in the truck?” asked Burl.

“No, sir. We’re almost done, ain’t we, Travis?”

“Almost done.”

“We’ll all get warm and dry when we’re done. What were y’all looking at?”

Travis shrugged. “Whoever knocked over Miz Burton’s stone painted something in Spanish on it.”

“Well, good Lord.”

The wind stopped just as the rain became fine sleet. Travis removed the lid from the pail of adhesive and reached for a trowel lying in the grass. He scooped a portion onto the blade and slapped it onto the monument base. He smeared the adhesive in smooth motions across the area where the stone would sit. He reached into the pail and got another bladeful and smoothed it onto the stone, and then straightened up. Sleet was pittering onto the adhesive, pocking its surface.

“Are we ready?”

Burl nodded. “Yes, let’s get it up there.”

Lindy moved around in front to watch and guide the men’s motions. The two men lowered themselves behind the stone. Burl’s face showed arthritic agony as he squatted. They braced their shoulders against the now-wet granite and made eye contact. Travis raised his eyebrows, and Burl nodded. They pushed together, and the stone rose higher. The bottom of the stone gritted against the edge of the base, then slipped over the lip and was on the base. The men pushed harder, and the stone was almost erect.

With great speed, the heavy stone slipped forward. Lindy tried to cry out, but the granite hurtled forward and downward, and the men lost their grips. Burl, decades of instinct in back of him, managed to jump back slightly. He could hear the hiss of the sleet in the trees and on the grass, and he could hear a heavy thump when the stone fell on Travis’ leg. A sickening wet snap accompanied the movement, and Travis screamed into the gray sky. The sleet continued to hiss down around the three friends as Travis went pale and limp on the ground.

“Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!” Lindy was screaming, kneeling beside Travis. She touched her husband’s face, but he didn’t move. Burl looked with horror at the young man, whose entire right leg was beneath hundreds of pounds of dark granite. He looked at the sky, at the pickup truck, at Lindy’s wet hair.

“Lindy. Lindy.” She looked up at him, tears mixing with sleet-melt. He moved to where she knelt and put his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, you’re going to have to go for help. Let me stay here with Travis.”

She blinked, looked back at her husband, didn’t move. Burl shook her. “Lindy. You’ve got to go for help. Now.”

“Where can I go?”

“Get to the church. Everyone’s there, and it’s not even half a mile. Half the ambulance crew is there.”

Lindy didn’t say a word. She rose and ran to the truck, slipping in the slick grass. She climbed into the cab, and then jumped out again. “He’s got the keys!” she screamed through the freezing air.

Burl’s numb fingers scrabbled against the rough denim, trying to feel for keys in Travis’ pocket. He felt something in one pocket. Is that his keys? He poked his fingers in and hooked the ring, then stood and shook the keys, showing Lindy. She took a step toward the men, but Burl threw the keys at her. She retrieved them from the ground, made her way back to the truck, and slammed the door. The engine fired right away, and Lindy turned the truck around in the soggy grass, headed for the cemetery exit, speeding for help from the churchmen.

Travis moaned. Burl pulled his sweater off and spread it across the young man, then squatted next to him. “Travis. Son, can you hear me?”

Travis didn’t respond, didn’t moan again. Burl touched the pale face. He stood and got his fingers under the edge of the tombstone and pulled with all his strength. A hot pain sliced through his groin, but the stone never shifted. Burl fell hard onto his bottom next to the young man. He held himself where he was hurting, and stretched himself over Travis to keep the sleet out of the prone man’s face, to keep him warm. He kept watch and waited for the sound of automobiles or sirens. He kept watch and waited, staring at the dark, marked stone.

~ Copyright 2007 by Wheeler MacPherson

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