the meeting

It was again that time of year for the trip to the cemetery. Autumn, Chloe's favorite season, had settled in with a whisper, scurrying the dead remnants of summer's growth over the earth. The air was chill, and it tore through the buttonholes of her cardigan as she pedalled fast, careening down the slope of 5th Avenue, past Union and 1st, then up, and then down again.

The sun had already begun its descent into New Jersey, but it was still bright in a clear sky, and Chloe had a few hours yet. She was always late, even to her own planned-upon outings. At what point will she finally change her ways? She imagined she'd finally learn, someday, to be one of those who always arrives early, calm and collected, having perhaps spent the past half hour at the bar with a scotch, or having taken a stroll in the nearby park. Chloe always envied those people, as if this issue were something she couldn't actually, easily, change (she couldn't).

Having finally reached 25th street, and nearly run over twice by speeding Mack trucks, Chloe arrived at the iron gates of Greenwood. They towered over her in all their Gothic glory. Locking up the bike, she crossed the pathway and headed straight for the first grassy hill. Days on end of nothing but hostile pavement made the soft earth seem cloudlike under her moccasins. It gave way to her weight, and felt natural, serene.

Having walked ten minutes now into the vast graveyard, Chloe realized she hadn't seen another person since she entered. Looking around it appeared deserted, and she figured that maybe it was too chilly a day to be out at a cemetery. Maybe she shouldn't be here, either. The sun was ever descending, and the cold ever more biting. (Of course, she forgot her coat.)

A sudden gust blew over the tops of the hills, and among the whirlwind of leaves, a flash of bright green. Chloe turned her head quickly to follow it, and watched a green parrot alight on a low branch. Of course, everyone knows the story of the green parrots of Greenwood. Sometime back in the 70s, someone at JFK opened a suspicious crate, letting escape hundreds of exotic monk parrots, who eventually found their way to Greenwood, where they made the cemetery their home.

The wild bird looked at Chloe with the one-eye bird stare, cocking its head to one side, then took flight towards a mass of trees around a mausoleum at the top of a nearby hill. Chloe followed, thinking with slight amusement that this scene would be a nicelead-in sequence to a horror film.

Nearing the mausoleum, she noticed the door ajar, and the bird, peering down at her, sat atop a cornice above the engraved name "JENKINS." She craned her neck to better see inside the cavernous space. It was dark, and a hint of stained glass light shone on the floor. As she drew closer, she could feel the damp, cold air.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Startled, Chloe jumped, turning around abruptly.

Elderly and staring with uncomfortable intent at Chloe, she wore a fuchsia silk dress with covered buttons, her hair pulled back neatly, a cashmere coat over her shoulders, with a bouquet of peonies in both hands. She stood still, feet clad in black pumps planted equally firm in the soft ground.

"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here..."

"Do you think that means you may go barging into strangers' resting places? For shame!"

Chloe clutched at the camera strung about her neck.

"You young people are always coming out here, up to no good with your cameras and such nonsense, making pictures where you oughtn't."

"I'm very sorry..." As Chloe started walking away from this horrible situation, the woman held her pose, turning her head to follow Chloe with her eyes, until Chloe was just beyond a large old tree. After about twenty uneasy paces, Chloe turned to gaze back at the woman, and she hadn't moved an inch, rigid as a gravestone.