RUSTY GATES

The Sweet Olive or "Osmanthus fragrans" has a fragrance that is like stepping into a bakery shop. Up close it is somewhat overpowering, but put some distance between you and this tree/shrub and be transported back to a time that existed when my grandparents were children.

In Louisiana's heavy humid evenings, the air is filled with the sugary-hint-of-vanilla sweetness and when I catch that perfume it makes me pause and think of gentle quiet times my grandmother and grandfather spoke about when they were children.

At family gatherings, my elders would gather and relax in the growing twilight and speak of times past. They would talk and let the twilight come and give way to the night. They would tell stories, their voices moving through the darkness creating images of times long gone. Then someone would light citronella candles that burned in jewel-colored glass globes and the stories would turn more adventurous. They would laugh at their folly, and sigh in resignation at lost opportunities.

Today I'm am a storyteller and I will tell you a story from those evenings.

RUSTY GATES

“Hey Dad, what’s this creepy old place?” The young boy slammed the door of the SUV and leaned against it with his arms crossed.

“Creepy?” The man murmured, as he turned in a slow circle. “No Carl, this is a place of natural beauty!”

Carl joined his father where he stood under the dilapidated cemetery gates. He wrinkled his nose up in mild disgust, “It looks creepy to me!”

A gentle afternoon breeze blew the scent of a sweet olive tree around them and the man drew in a deep breath and glanced at his son, “Come on, let’s give a look around.”

Aw man!” Carl groaned and reluctantly followed behind his father kicking at the oyster shells as he went. The man paused and looked back over his shoulder expectantly; a memory of a late summer day many years ago, drifted back to him...

“Aw man!” Curtis raced his bicycle down the street, legs pumping like pistons. A half a block away, six boys steamed behind him on their bicycles. “Can’t let them get me!” he thought. “Not again!” Rounding the corner of Webster Avenue, Curtis bounced over the curb and skidded off down an alleyway thinking he could lose the boys that pursued him. He pedaled quickly down to the end of the alley and swung back onto Webster Avenue. He braked hard and slid to a halt, shouldering the sweat from his face as he looked up the street. Absently Curtis fingered the rabbits’ foot key chain he had attached to a belt loop. His grandfather had given it to him last Christmas. Just six weeks later, his grandfather died of cancer, leaving a big empty hurt spot in his heart. Curtis now carried it with him everywhere. He fancied it helped make him one of the fastest boys on the school track team. He caught his breath, thinking he had lost them -- but no; like bloodhounds after a fox, they appeared again in a loose pack, yelling taunts and fists in the air!

In a panic, Curtis pushed off once more. If he could only make it to Whitehall Street! He had just enough energy to make it up the steep grade of the street. Once over the top he could coast down and be well ahead of the boys. Whitehall was his neighborhood, and those boys would never follow him there!

Suddenly at the end of Lincoln Street Curtis’s heart sank; there at the intersection, his tormentors waited! Curtis moaned in his mind. “Oh man, if I come home bloody again ...” He had to think of something quick! Where could he go? Then just ahead and to the right was the old cemetery lane. The white oyster shell road leading into the old cemetery was his way out! Not even the bravest of the boys chasing him would step foot into the cemetery.

Seeing their quarry getting away, the boys started speeding toward Curtis. He pulled up in front of the cemetery drive and weighed his options one last time. It was either the boys speeding toward him or into the cemetery. He glanced up at the wrought-iron gateway. In the ornate script, the words “The Shadows” peeped from under a tangle of honeysuckle. Curtis took a deep breath and pushed off down the cemetery drive. His bicycle tires crunched over the white oyster shells used in the place of the more expensive pea gravel. Looking quickly around, he felt a cold chill spill down his backbone. Maybe he hadn’t been so smart after all? From all the stories he had heard, this place was haunted!

He glanced furtively over his shoulder and saw that the boys were not following him but were shouting and shaking their fists at him. Curtis smiled grimly and pedaled further into the cemetery.

“Hey boy! What you doin’ in here!”

Curtis’s heart froze mid-beat. He snapped his head around and looked down between the stone pillars and marble angels. He spotted an old man dressed in faded denim overalls and an equally faded denim work shirt. Over one shoulder he carried a shovel, the wooden handle shiny in spots from years of use.

“Just passin’ through,” Curtis answered.

“From the look of ya, I’d say you runnin’ from the devil his self!” remarked the man with a wry smile.

Curtis looked back down the road; an angry blush rose under his brown skin. “Bunch of kids chasin’ me.”

“What did ya do to get ‘em all riled up at ya?”

“Nuthin’!” Curtis growled. He scowled back over his shoulder from the way he had been, “I hate ‘em!”

The man looked in the direction Curtis had come from. “Gave them the slip ‘cause them boys won’t be comin’ up in here.”

Curtis smiled triumphantly and nodded. “Yeah I know!” he exclaimed.

“I’m Gravy Wilkins, what they call you?”

“Curtis Thompson.”

Gravy rested his arm on the handle of his shovel and pointed out over the grounds of the cemetery. “I’m just startin’ myself a six by six. You welcome ta tag along if you want.”

Curtis considered his options. The boys from school would hang around for a while before giving up and going home. He dismounted his bicycle and pushed it along beside him as he followed Gravy. “You dig graves? Kinda creepy ya know!”

Gravy’s dry raspy laugh was like the rustle of leaves blowing in the wind. “Diggin’ graves ain’t creepy, boy -- it’s work.”

“Is that why they call you Gravy?” Curtis asked. “Cause you dig graves?”

Gravy chuckled softly. “Naw, I’m called Gravy, ‘cause I’m the color of gravy.” The man held his forearm out and grinned. “See? The color of ‘dee-lishi-us’ gravy – like my mama usta make!”

Curtis nodded thinking the nickname was silly, and then angled a sharp look at the man, “Hey; you ever dig up somebody by accident?” Suddenly intrigued by the notion of finding old bones, Curtis smiled, hopeful for something gruesome!

“You a right kinda peculiar boy ain’t ya?”

Curtis grinned up at Gravy. “Naw, Just curious.” He propped his bicycle against an oak tree and joined Gravy at the gravesite. “With all these people buried up in here I bet it would be easy to dig up somebody by accident.”

Gravy stepped down into the rectangular hole and slipped the shovel blade into the dark soil. He leaned on the handle and squinted up at Curtis. “I reckon so, but I ain’t never done it.”

Curtis wrinkled his nose up as the pungent odor of dirt drifted up to him. “What happens if you do find old bones?”

“You just move over a mite and keep diggin’. It don’t happen much.” Gravy replied lifting a shovel full of earth out and piling it to one side.

Curtis watched for a few minutes, intent on catching a glimpse of old weathered bones poking from the earth. Gravy clucked his tongue in reproach. “Boy, why don’t you go look around? There’s plenty of natural beauty all around this place!”

“In a cemetery?” Curtis looked around incredulously. “I don’t see anything but broken-down old graves!”

Gravy grinned, his teeth brilliant white against his dark skin. “You ain’t lookin’ right. You go on out there and look for yourself.” He bent over his shovel once again and added. “’Cides you ain’t aimin’ to meet up with them boys, are ya?”

Curtis kicked a clod of dirt and watched it roll back into the grave. No, he did not want to meet the boys waiting for him. “What should I look for?”

Gravy paused once again in his digging and waved his arm to encompass the entire cemetery. “Don’t be lookin’ with your eyes! Look with your whole self!”

Curtis shrugged his shoulders and retrieved his bicycle. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to find. He pushed his bicycle along beside him and headed deeper into the cemetery.

Gravy called after him, “Be along directly to see how you makin’ out!”

The cemetery was not the kind Curtis had seen before. It was not laid out in neatly sculpted plots but wild and rebellious. Nature had reclaimed the land and covered its somber use with every kind of flower and vine imaginable. He studied the headstones. It was like a granite library; thousands of brief histories were carved into the stones. He wondered if the people buried beneath the grass had had the same hopes and dreams as he did. After a few minutes, he remounted his bicycle and rode around the wide spiraling track into the ancient heart of the cemetery.

Years of weathering had changed the wrought iron gates from shiny black to a deep russet orange. In the heat of the sun, the iron gates gave off a sharp acrid odor that permeated the air. Curtis wrinkled his nose up; they smelled just like the old cars in his Uncle Raymond’s junkyard. The hinges no longer supported the weight of the heavily decorative gates, so they sat open permanently in welcome.

Curtis got off his bicycle and left it at the entrance of the ‘McCleary’ gates and stepped into the overgrown area. A snarl of late-blooming wisteria cascaded over the side of the rusty archway. Wild trumpet vines entangled themselves among the wisteria, their saffron blossoms tumbling among the clusters of pastel violet.

Among the fragrant flowers, tiny hummingbirds darted in and out, iridescent throats flashing hungrily in the sunlight. Twittering happily, they moved about sampling nectar from each open blossom.

“Visitors don’t come to this place no more. Ain’t no body left alive to come and visit.”

Curtis jumped and turned sharply around. He had not heard Gravy coming. “Kind of sad,” he told Gravy, “They’re all alone.”

“Only mother nature remembers to decorate their graves with wildflowers.” Gravy answered.

Curtis turned in a slow circle. Wildflowers were everywhere! They sprouted in chinks of graves and tumbled happily from urns meant for more sedate flowers of mourning. These wildflowers had an almost irreverent way of popping up. They seemed only to need a spot of soil to take root. Wherever there was space; there was a patch of wildflowers!

“Come with me,” Gravy said pulling a faded red bandana from the back pocket of his overalls. He mopped his face and laid the cloth loose around his neck. “I’m needin’ a piece of shade!”

Once again Curtis set out with Gravy. As the boy pushed his bicycle along the road, he noticed that while his own sneakers kicked up dust and loose shells on the road, Gravy’s footsteps did not even disturb a blade of grass. How did he do that?

They strolled to the far side of the cemetery where ancient live oak trees grew, their muscular limbs shaggy with resurrection fern. These trees grew together and formed a cool leafy canopy. Gravy stopped before an impressive family plot. “Yep, them O’Shea’s sure were rich folks!” He patted the gigantic slab of gray polished stone. “They made sure they won’t be forgotten; not in a thousand years!”

Curtis ran a hand over the carved sides of a tall pillar of dark granite that stood like a sentinel over the resting O’Shea’s. He traced a finger along the bas relief of a thorny rose. Unaffected by the austere magnificence, Gravy sat down and pressed his back against the marble enclosure. “Ah now, ain’t that a pretty sight?”

Curtis turned to look in the direction Gravy indicated. From the gentle swell of land where the O’Shea plot sat, was a large open field. It had once been a pasture but was now completely overgrown with waist-high grass and sticker bushes. There were thousands of dragonflies darting and hovering over the field. Occasionally the sun struck exactly right on a translucent pane of a wing and a flare of color would spark red or blue. It was a beautiful sight.

“It’s sure peaceful here,” Curtis murmured almost to himself. He did not have run all the time. He did not have to act tough or pretend the taunts from the boys at school didn’t hurt his feelings. Here he felt almost safe.

“It’s time you got home, boy!” Gravy said getting stiffly to his feet. “You live over on the hill don’t’ ya?”

Curtis nodded. “On Chapel Hill, next to the Rose of Sharon Baptist Church,” he replied with a measure of pride, “My daddy’s the pastor there.”

Gravy nodded with a smile. “Well, come on then, I’ll show you a shortcut. You’ll be home for supper in no time!”

The crickets were beginning to chirp steadily, a signal the day was swiftly coming to an end. Curtis rose and brushed the seat of his jeans off and retrieved his bike where it leaned against an ever-vigilant angel that knelt at the entrance of another family plot. As Curtis caught up the handlebars and pulled the bike to him, he noticed a jaunty clump of wildflowers had sprung up in the crack where the marble base had shifted with the settling earth. It appeared the angel was not guarding the wealthy family, but the wildflowers. That was as it should be Curtis thought. “Maybe I can drop by tomorrow?”

Gravy grinned over at Curtis as they walked toward the Chapel Hill side of the cemetery. “Could be you findin’ you like this creepy ol’ place?”

Curtis shrugged lightly as he pushed his bike along beside him. “I guess so. It’s not too creepy during the day, but I bet it’s spooky at night!”

Gravy chuckled, his laugh sounding like the rustle of autumn leaves in the wind.

Curtis grinned over at the man and together they walked to a small gate that was nearly covered over by honeysuckle. “This little footpath here is gonna take you right down to Chapel Hill Road.” Gravy replied.

“This is far as I go.”

Curtis rolled his bike up and turned to say goodbye, but Gravy had disappeared. Thinking the old man was playing a trick on him, Curtis dropped the kickstand on his bike and went back to peer around the hedges. “Hey, you hidin’ in here?” When no answer came, he turned and checked the other side of the path where a privet hedge grew untamed. He half expected to see Gravy emerge from behind a tree with a brilliant toothy grin on his face. There was no sign of Gravy, but Curtis did see something poking up from the grass. He stepped off the path to investigate. Something reached up and tangled around his feet sending him sprawling into a tall patch of grass. He cried out as he imagined all sorts of horrible old bony skeletons were grabbing him! Rolling over Curtis sat up, slapping away leaves and pine straw off his shirt. What had grabbed his feet was a wisteria runner and he scoffed at himself for being such a scaredy-cat!

From under a collection of dead pine needles, an old, weathered headstone jutted up at an odd angle. Curtis leaned forward and pulled some of the debris away. A thick layer of red clay dust had filled in the deeply etched writing. Curious to what lay beneath, he began picking the dirt away with his fingers.

A sudden icy chill raced up Curtis’ spine as the name slowly began to take form. “George ‘Gravy’ Wilkins?” he whispered to himself, “That can’t be right!” With his heart pounding Curtis yanked handfuls of grass and dirt away from the sunken headstone. Slowly the birth date was exposed followed by the death date. Curtis shook his head in stunned disbelief as he read aloud: “Born, April 25, 1872; died June 29, 1929. Gone but not forgotten.”

A sudden gust of wind stirred the leaves in the trees and Curtis heard the unmistakable raspy chuckle of Gravy Wilkins! He scrambled away, scooting back on his rump through the grass. As another gust of wind swirled around, Curtis was on his feet and racing to snatch his bike up. He mounted and as another raspy chuckling breeze swirled through the trees Curtis pedaled quickly away…

PRESENT DAY

“Dad? Hey, Dad! Come look at what I found!”

Curtis turned to look in the direction his son called. “What is it?”

The boy had plucked something from the tall grass and was examining it. “It’s yours Dad!”

Curious he joined his son and bent over to look at what his son held. An icy finger ran up his spine. In his son’s hand was a rabbit’s foot! The gold cap had his name “Curtis Thompson” engraved around the band. It was his rabbit’s foot! “That’s impossible, after all this time?”

“How long ago was that Dad?”

Curtis shook his head and laughed in disbelief. “More than thirty years ago, I guess!”

“It looks brand new.” The boy murmured then looked in the grass again. “There’s a marker here.”

Curtis looked where his son pointed. It wasn’t the worn gravestone he remembered, but a brass plaque. “What’s it say, Carl?”

The boy knelt to read the plaque, turning his head to one side to read the inscription. “George ‘Gravy’ Wilkins. Born April 25, 1872; died June 29, 1929. George Wilkins, caretaker, and groundskeeper of the Shadows cemetery. Wilkins took the position as caretaker after the death of his wife and son to influenza. Wilkins was employed for forty years until his death at age of fifty-two. Wilkins is gone but he shall never be forgotten.” Carl looked up at his father and frowned. “Dad, how did your rabbit’s foot get here?”

Curtis smiled down at his son. “Well, that’s an interesting tale. Something I’ve never told anyone about.”

Carl grinned up at his father. “Yeah? Tell me!”

Curtis chuckled. “Okay, but I warn you – it’s kind of scary! It’s a ghost story!”

“Yeah!” Carl breathed, his dark eyes sparkling merrily. Slowly they strolled back to the waiting SUV. They passed under the rusty gates of the old cemetery; a little breeze blew through the trees. For a moment, Curtis thought he heard the raspy laughter of Gravy Wilkins.