Nevermore by Sue Weems

Seated on the bakery bench, Emily tore her carrot muffin in half and picked the raisins out carefully, flicking them onto the sidewalk. The warm cinnamon smell reminded her of cider and hayrides; things she had nearly forgotten existed. Within minutes, the crumbling mess looked inedible and without taking a bite, she dropped the pieces back in the bag. A glossy raven landed a few feet away.

“Figures,” she muttered, glancing up at the shop across the street. The gold and white lettering on the window read:

“The Marker. Monuments and Memorials.”

The raven stared at her.

“It’s madness. Picking out your own grave stone. Don’t you agree?” she said to the bird, checking to make sure no one was watching from the street.

She looked down, blushing at her own foolishness. Raisins littered the ground, and Emily sighed. She opened the bakery bag and plucked the raisins off the sidewalk with a napkin, dropping them back into the bag. She watched the raven from the corner of her eye. Tossing the bag in the trash bin, she marched across the street into the grave maker’s shop.

 

The shop’s cool air swirled around her. A broad man in a blue flannel shirt stood behind the counter.

“Did you get all the raisins?” he asked. He smiled playfully, and she frowned in response.

“You were spying.”

“I’m sorry. I have terrible manners. Can I help you?” He spread his fingers out on the glass-topped counter.

“I’d like to order a grave marker.”

“Ready-made? Or custom?” he said.

“I’m not sure.”

He let the silence hang between them.

“Let me get the book.” He disappeared into a back room.

She slid onto a stool at the counter to wait, tugging her denim shirttail free from under her.

He returned with a leather bound book much like a family photo album. He set it in front of her. Pictures of gravestones in varying materials and styles lined the pages, a portable graveyard of sorts, strange and solemn.

“Did you make all of these?”

“Most.”

“You see a lot of death.”

“Not really.  The marker’s just a symbol. I see people deal with death, though. The death of those they love and hate and everyone in between.”

“Why would anyone buy a marker for someone they hate?”

He shrugged. “No accounting for people.”

“My grandfather used to say that.” She continued to flip through the pictures.  “What’s the hardest part?”

“The words.”

She straightened on the stool and stared into his face. He was clean-shaven with dark brown eyes. Her chest tightened.

“Words are hard,” she said, her voice cracking. He let several moments pass. She finally looked back down at the book.

“Why didn’t you leave the raisins for the birds?” he said.

She stiffened.

“I’m only teasing you. Sorry. I shouldn’t be joking when you are… Forgive me.”

“I’m not really in mourning. I’m just…done.” The words tasted like ash. It was the first time she had said them aloud. Her cool tone surprised her, almost as if someone else was speaking.

“Where will the stone be placed? Sometimes knowing the setting helps choose a design.”

“I have a cabin out in the woods.”

A flash of recognition crossed his face.

“Do you run that writer’s retreat?”

Emily felt the heat rise on her neck.

“I used to, yes.”

“I’m Johnathan.”

“Emily.” She shook his outstretched hand.

“You all keep to yourselves out there. I rarely see a stranger in town outside the summer months.”

“I haven’t had a writer in two years.” She thumbed through a few more pages, her eyes blurring with tears. “Not since… Stein. He’s rather a legend and he…let’s just say he published an awful review.”

“Haven’t heard of him. Is the stone in memory of the retreat?”

She looked back at him. She knew he would see the tears but she didn’t care.

“Not exactly. I think I should go. Do you have a brochure?” She stood, nearly toppling off the stool.

“Well, at least you still write out there, right?”

“Not anymore. Maybe that’s what I will have you put on my stone, ‘Nevermore.’ ” A morbid laugh escaped her and she covered her mouth. “This was a mistake.”

He reached out and caught her sleeve. She bristled under his touch.

“Words are hard,” he said, his voice was soft, but firm. “Come back tomorrow, I might have just the thing you want.”

“I may be busy.”

“Just come. I’ll have some ideas for you. Please.” He released her sleeve and she rushed from the shop.

 

The next morning, she rolled over and took a long look at the bottle of pills next to her bed. Her mind drifted to the grave maker. A little light crept under the shades in her room. The small three room cabin had once been full of creative minds, booked years in advance. Then with a few words, it was gone. She traced the bitter memory in her mind, a well-rehearsed script of the shock, anger, and shame that had followed Stein’s venomous article. He had been a terrible guest, expecting to share her bed. She refused him and sent him packing. He exacted his revenge in writing. She knew she should spin the entire incident to her advantage. Her agent was thrilled, claiming the incident would be great publicity and encouraged her to finish her latest poetry collection immediately. But the words never came, writers stopped coming, and as days and weeks and months piled up, she felt everything slide away from her.

 

She sighed and swung her feet over the side of the bed. The wooden planks were smooth beneath her feet. Fatigue knotted between her shoulder blades, and she considered going back to sleep. The grave maker had said he might have ideas, though. His eyes were such a velvet brown. Maybe she would go, just to cancel the order. After a shower and a cup of coffee, she headed back into town.

 

Pausing outside the grave maker’s shop, Emily took a deep breath and then pushed open the door. Johnathan straightened behind the counter. A smile lit up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Hungry? I picked up some muffins this morning, but the ravens just wouldn’t eat the one without raisins. I thought you might…?”

She paused and then accepted the bag.

“I’m sorry for yesterday,” she said.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Let me get my sketches.” He hustled to the back room before she could stop him. She pulled out the muffin and took a bite. The soft cinnamon cake melted leaving the soft carrot bits clinging to her tongue. Johnathan returned, sketches in hand.

“Here you go.” He set them on the counter in front of her.

She set the bakery bag aside and leaned over the first drawing. The stone had intricately shaded waves curling in from the edges and melding together into a raven’s head in the center. The thick black script below simply stated, “Nevermore.” It was a dark and ominous stone, perfectly capturing the finality of death. She refused to look up at Johnathan, but she could feel his solid presence, inches away.

She slid the first sketch aside. With a sharp intake of breath and shaking hands, she picked up the second sketch.

It was a water lily pond captured in stone. The top was light and airy, with a fly caught mid-flight. Lily pads littered the pond’s surface, and two flowers rested together on one edge. Buds reached toward the sun. But it was the bottom of the pool that commanded her attention. Beneath the deep-creased lily pads floating across the top of the pool, in the shaded dark, half buried in the sand sat the same-scripted words, “Nevermore.”

She exhaled and dared to meet his eyes. He reached an open hand across the counter, and she grasped it. Her pulse and breathing slowed as she studied the two drawings, her hand firmly inside the grave maker’s grip. Several minutes passed. A clock struck the hour and she startled.

“May I buy these?” she asked.

“The stones?”

“No,” she said. “The drawings are enough. I’ve got to get back to work.”

He grinned and she smiled through her tears. Releasing her hand, he pulled an envelope from beneath the counter and slid the two drawings inside.

“No charge for renderings. As payment, maybe you could stop by and leave me some words from time to time, you know, to help customers with the hard parts.”

“Thank you, Johnathan. I will.”

She stepped into the sun and looked around the street, seeing it with new eyes. Walking to her car, a dark raven squawked from the trees above her. She waved him away with a smile, anxious to get home.