Act 1, Chapter 1, Part 3: Slipping Away

Recapitulation: After watching the woman with emerald eyes leap into a grave, Barry decides to throw in with the grave robber, aiding and abetting her thievery of the deceased’s ring.

True to her word, the woman with the emerald eyes possessed the ring. She held it inbetween ragged fingers, gnawed fingernails surrounding the golden ring. The woman held it up to her eye, peered through it as though she could discern Barry’s true nature. He stared back at a very young face, unwrinkled and smooth, yet a very old face, tricky eyes, a knowing smirk hiding just behind her lips. And, of course, since she was looking through the ring like a spyglass, her one open eye resembled a planetary model of a hydrogen atom, save the giant ruby, so massive it threatened to topple the entire construct back into the earth, and take her with it.

The mud entrenched itself within her dress’ velvet fibers. The dress itself hung loose upon her frame, though it would have fit a supermodel’s body just fine. This was the second time an attendee sported more dirt than Barry. The first time, a homeless man stood at a respectful distance from the funeral. He doffed his mangled fedora, clutched it to his breast in a sign of defiant respect, even as he stood a long ways from the rest of them, resplendent in their K mart finery. He stood throughout the entire funeral, even as the rest of them sat, shuffling his feet, shuffling the sacks on his feet, tied with rusty baling wire. Was it they who repelled him, or did his presence repel all of them?

“Do you know how much your fifteen percent will be?” That smirk revealed itself, leaping to the forefront. She reverted to the mischievous pixie. A spin from her left hand, and the ring gyroscoped a few times. “This thing is great!.”

“Fifty, and that’s not the point, uh.” He proffered his hand like a dead squid. “Barry. And, let me guess, Esmerelda?”

Had she not been standing at the edge of an open grave, she would have stepped backwards. “Alright, twenty-five. And its Jenna.” She slapped his hand, then danced around him, now pocketing the ring. “If you give me your address, I’ll mail you your cut.”

“I don’t want it.” Barry stepped out from under the canopy, back into the light rain. Now the mud on both of them ran, staining them, marking them. “I’ll give you my share if you tell me what that was all about.”

“I told you, Grandma gave me that ring, and I lost it.” She gave him a thumbs up, then passed the ring over her thumb, back and forth. It never touched her knuckle.

“What’s Grandma’s name?” He creased his forehead, then reached into his back pocket. As he did this, she bolted. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was he thinking. He put the paper back and started a light jog. Somewhere along the line, he read that aborigines chasing a cheetah only had to keep the cheetah in eyesight, since they could only sprint for a couple of minutes. Once they tired out, they were ripe for the killing. As he only wanted some answers, this should have been easier. Why couldn’t she be dead? The only time they picked up any speed was on a downhill slope.

The rain softened the underlying ground. Grassroots, interlacing beneath the surface, kept the ground solid, prevented the attendees from sinking too deep with each solemn step. However, they could do little to withstand a young woman tearing across the graves like a beheaded chicken. Even the coffin interment facilitator following in her muddy divots sent dirt splotches flying upwards. Still, he had to remain calm. It wouldn’t do for Sal to catch and reprimand him for committing the cardinal sin, being heard as well as seen. If only Jenna worked here.

Millken Park rolled and heaved, a series of massive hills giving options for valley and hill burials. It also lent an extra edge of privacy whenever anyone came to visit the locations where their loved ones used to be buried, assuming decomposition carried away much of the bodies. Jenna crested hill 32, and disappeared behind it. Barry watched how her tracks never deviated from a straight line, plotted where she would turn up on the other side. Then, as he neared the top, he unfolded the wrinkled guide. Oh no.

Just on the other side, a white-collared priest held his hand over the open casket, chanting a prayer in ye olde Latin. Jenna stood quiet behind the assemblage, managing to blend in, despite the muddiness. Perhaps because she was so muddy, no one dared question her, for fear they might offend her. Barry wondered, why had she slowed down at the top. Maybe it was his mind wandering, or maybe it was the steady pace, or maybe it was the thick rut she’d carved out in trying to stop. Maybe he’d gained weight, maybe he’d lost it. Who knew what the exact cause of his slide was. The salient point, he slid at the apex of the hill, and just as Jenna’s tracks led unerring towards the funeral, so too did Barry’s path intersect with that open casket, and the unsuspecting priest, his back to Barry.