Chapter 6: The Last of Them Are Gone

Clay was the only child living with his mother, who never mentioned nor welcome any conversation about his father. It was a taboo subject. The only time his mother mentioned his father was that he died many years ago, leaving them an abundant life-style that made life comfortable for Clay and his mother.

Several weeks ago, when Clay returned home to pick up something, he found his mother sitting quietly by the sun-drenched window. She had been drinking a little, displaying an unusually good mood that Clay seldom saw. His mother was a stoic person. Never one to laugh or make fun. She kept to herself mostly, surrounding only by a few close friends and associates. She volunteered her services around the community, never staying too long in one job or the other. Apparently Clay’s father left an inheritance, so she said, that allowed her and him to live a pleasant life without the troublesome worries of food and want.

As Clay sat down near his mother, apparently striking up a conversation before returning to school, his mother began talking about times long ago. She spoke of her family, whom Clay never met, her nefarious mother and abusive father. She spoke of her sister, her only sibling, whom she spoke by phone but never in person. It appeared she missed at the moment. His mother then, almost surprisingly, without any prompting from Clay, spoke of her late husband, Clay’s father. Clay leaned forward, not wanting to miss a single word. He wanted to take advantage of every work she spoke knowing that it may be a very long time before any other reference made of his father may ever come forth from her mouth.

She spoke in simple sentences, making quib quotes such as their brief encounter, his strikingly black hair, and his apparent sudden death. No mention of how they met, their wedding, their brief lives together. Only that he died, long before Clay was born, leaving her alone in a world that doesn’t want nor respect her.

“He was buried in the cemetary outside of town. Did you know that?”, she finally invites Clay into her conversation.

“No!,” Clay quickly responds, “You never mention him when I asked. I would like to visit him, with your permission.”

Clay respected his mother. He never did anything without first discussing his intentions and seeking her advice and permission. She was a good mother to him. Showering him with just about everything he wanted. But she was also distant. What Clay wanted more than anything was his mother holding him tight, embracing him close, showering him with love instead to toys and money. But she kept her distance. Perhaps, Clay thought through the years, that he reminded her of a man she did not love but is now beholding of a child that was part of him.

Clay repeated his question, hoping his mother would rise from her chain and invite him to drive them both to the cementary. But she sat motionless, staring out the window, sipping her glass of wine in the most bizarre way.
“Not right now, my dear,” she finally quoted. “I will take you soon. But for now, you need to get back to school. Kiss your mommy!”

Clay became despondent, not understanding why she kept the past deep inside her heart. It was his past too, he had felt, feeling somewhat betrayed by her persistant refusal to share with him something so simple. But he didn’t question nor oppose. It was of no use. She cannot be persuaded to change an opinion or answer. He had attempted it many times in his youth, resulting into a fury that he wanted to avoid. Someday she will relent, he hoped. Perhaps he will remind her of the promise when the time is right.

Since that time with his mother, at the start of the new semester, is when the dreams of his father began. It occured each evening, the same dream, he meeting his father for the first time, then abruptly, the dream faded away. One weekend Clay paid a visit to the cementary where he now stood, hoping that some devine intervention will lead him to his father’s crypt. But he didn’t share his father’s name — in fact, he didn’t even know his father’s name. He walked among tombs of tombs hoping that something unusual will point the way. But nothing. He sat one afternoon for a long time, wondering aloud if his father, just like in the dream, would suddenly appear. But nothing.

Then one night, about three fornights from today, Clay had the exact dream again. Clay standing in the night, his father coming out of the mist, calling him over, and then, like the dreams before, an abrupt cancellation of the dream. As Clay stood there, listening to the sobs of his best friend, the scene surrounding him, the large granite stone, the deep inside depth of the cementary, the shadows from the trees, started to come back. This scene, almost surprisingly, was the exact scene in his dream. It was all coming back. The dream, the spot where he is now standing, some inches from this large erect monument where Cole is kneeling. It is all here. Everything from his dream. As though he has been here many times before. This is the place, the exact place, where Clay was to meet his father.

Clay stood silently, waiting for the scene to unfold, exactly as it has in the same reoccuring dream. The sobs from a friend, the twicle of a breeze across his forehead, the reflection of the moon against the tomb. It was exactly like his dream — he roiled in his mind. Exactly. In fact, as he stood silently, he can foretell that a Fall-season leaf will fall in front of his feet. He waits patiently. Then on cue, just as he predicted, a oak leaf is carry by the breeze from a distance tree and lands exactly as he predicted. Clays stands quiet. The next scene should be the voice of his father. Faintly at first; then more audible later on.

Clay waited for the sound, but nothing happened. It was quiet, strangly quiet except for brief rustle of the leaves. Now what, he thought. He didn’t know what his next move should be. Cole remained crouched at the tomb, refusing to move. And Mark . . . where was Mark.

Clay walked back to the parking lot to locate Mark. Perhaps he crawled inside one of the cars. Clay looked inside each car. Nothing. He tried to start each car, nothing again. Mark was correct about the autos. Not a single crank in either car.

‘What now?,’ Clayed pondered in his mind. Perhaps this whole nightmare has something to do with Halloween night. Clays checks his watch. Five past eleven. In a little under a hour, Halloween will change to November 1.
Clay’s best hope, he analyzed, was to stay on safe ground and wait for the stroke of midnight and perhaps the breaking of the dawn. He was looking at some 50 minutes or more. But first, his friend Cole must be brought back to the safety of the parking lot.

Clay rushes over to Cole to drag him if necessary, back to the safety of the parking lot. Everything that happened tonight happened while standing on the ground of the dead. The parking lot made the most sense now given this disturbing chain of events. But Cole refused to move. His fate seem determined by an inscription that subconsciously kept him bound. It read:

Hear lies Cole Maxwell Davis
Birth: March 24, 1980
Died:

“Cole, don’t let that bother you,” Clay interjected, trying his best to made sense of this crazy evening,” it means nothing. Let’s go back to the car and wait for the dawn. If anything should happen, then both you and I, including Mark, will go down together.”

But Cole refused to move. It seemed that that his fate has been written. It was a matter of time now. Clay continued his pleads, “this is nonsense. We will be safe on the parking lot. Inside our cars. Waiting for midnight. It’s only 45 minutes away. C’mon, Cole. Don’t do this. You, Mark, and me binding together. C’mon!”

“Mark!,” Cole finally whispered, breaking a long-record of silence. “Mark who?,” Cole repeats, pointing to the back-side of the tomb. Clay walks around the back side of Cole and reads the inscription:

Hear lies Mark Jacob Garriott
Birth: April 3, 1981
Died: October 31, 2000

Clay looks back towards the parking lot where he left Mark. He was standing next to the car, shivering as though the night air suddenly dropped 20 degrees. Clay looks back up at the inscription.

Hear lies Mark Jacob Garriott
Birth: April 3, 1981
Died: October 31, 2000

“Mark!” Clay returns to the automobile to query his friend, “Mark!, what’s going on?” He approached slowly, taking every precaution needed. Mark looked up, smiled, but didn’t say anything.