redhead.
“Well, can we give it a go anyway?”
“What sort of dog is that?”
“Rotty-shepherd cross.”
“He stinks a real bloody treat, mate. Don’t you wash him?”
“Of course I do.”
“Whoa.” He turns away, screwing up his face. “That’s diabolical.”
“The grave?” I ask.
His memory is jogged. “Oh yeah. Well, we can give it a shot. Any idea when the poor old sap died?”
“There’s no need to be disrespectful.”
He stops. “Look.” He’s getting a bit shirty now. “Do you want my help or not?”
“All right, I’m sorry.”
“This way.”
We walk almost half the cemetery and find a few Johnsons, but not the one I’m after.
“You’re a bit of a fussy bastard, aren’t you?” the security guard says at one point. “Won’t this one do?”
“This is Gertrude Johnson.”
“Who you after again?”
“Jimmy.” But this time I add something. “Wife’s name’s Milla.”
He jolts to a stop, looks at me, and says, “Milla? Shit, I think I know that one. I remember the name because she’s mentioned on the stone.” He mutters now as we walk quickly to the other end of the graveyard. “Milla, Milla…”
His flashlight slaps a stone, and it’s there.
JAMES JOHNSON
1917–1942
DIED SERVING HIS COUNTRY
BELOVED TO MILLA JOHNSON
For a good ten minutes or so we stand there with the flashlight burning the grave with light. The whole time, I’m trying to guess where and exactly how he died and, more to the point, realizing that poor old Milla’s been without him for sixty years.
I can tell.
No other man has entered her life. Not the way her Jimmy did.
She’s been waiting sixty years for Jimmy to come back.
And now he has.
Still, I have to move on.
Milla’s story is beautiful and tragic, but there are other messages to deliver. The next one is 6 Macedoni Street, 5:30 a.m. For a moment I consider going back to Edgar Street, but I’m still too frightened by what I’ve heard and seen there. I go there once more, just to check that things are still the same. They are.
I arrive with the sun on Macedoni Street, mid-October. Overall, this spring has been unusually hot and it’s already nice and warm as I hit the hilly street. I see the two-story house standing at the top.
Just after five-thirty, a lone figure comes from around the side of the house. I think it’s a girl but can’t be sure because the figure has a hood over its head. It wears red athletic shorts, a hooded gray sweatshirt, but no shoes. It’s about five foot nine.
I sit down between two parked cars, waiting for the figure to come back.
When I give up waiting and begin to leave for work, I finally see her (it’s definitely a her) come running around the corner. The sweatshirt’s off now, tied around her waist, so I can see her face and her hair.
She takes me by surprise because we both hit the corner together, from opposite directions.
We both stop, momentarily.
Her eyes land on me, only for a second.
She looks at me, and she has sunshine-colored hair in a ponytail and clear eyes, like water. The mildest blue I’ve ever seen. Soft lips that form a gentle shape of recognition.
And she keeps running.
I can only watch as she tilts her head and turns away.
Her legs are shaved, making me think I should have known earlier that it was a girl. They’re long and lovely. She’s one of those girls who are pretty much straight down. Skinny with a small but well-formed chest, long back, straight hips, and tall legs. Her bare feet are medium-sized, and they hit the ground lightly.
She’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful, and I’m ashamed.
She’s fifteen if she’s a day, and I’m being stepped on. I’m being crushed from the inside. Feelings of love and lust fight each other inside me, and I realize I’m drawn instantly to this girl who runs barefoot at five-thirty in the morning. I can’t escape it.
I walk home and think about what she needs—what I need to deliver. In a way,
“Well, can we give it a go anyway?”
“What sort of dog is that?”
“Rotty-shepherd cross.”
“He stinks a real bloody treat, mate. Don’t you wash him?”
“Of course I do.”
“Whoa.” He turns away, screwing up his face. “That’s diabolical.”
“The grave?” I ask.
His memory is jogged. “Oh yeah. Well, we can give it a shot. Any idea when the poor old sap died?”
“There’s no need to be disrespectful.”
He stops. “Look.” He’s getting a bit shirty now. “Do you want my help or not?”
“All right, I’m sorry.”
“This way.”
We walk almost half the cemetery and find a few Johnsons, but not the one I’m after.
“You’re a bit of a fussy bastard, aren’t you?” the security guard says at one point. “Won’t this one do?”
“This is Gertrude Johnson.”
“Who you after again?”
“Jimmy.” But this time I add something. “Wife’s name’s Milla.”
He jolts to a stop, looks at me, and says, “Milla? Shit, I think I know that one. I remember the name because she’s mentioned on the stone.” He mutters now as we walk quickly to the other end of the graveyard. “Milla, Milla…”
His flashlight slaps a stone, and it’s there.
JAMES JOHNSON
1917–1942
DIED SERVING HIS COUNTRY
BELOVED TO MILLA JOHNSON
For a good ten minutes or so we stand there with the flashlight burning the grave with light. The whole time, I’m trying to guess where and exactly how he died and, more to the point, realizing that poor old Milla’s been without him for sixty years.
I can tell.
No other man has entered her life. Not the way her Jimmy did.
She’s been waiting sixty years for Jimmy to come back.
And now he has.
Still, I have to move on.
Milla’s story is beautiful and tragic, but there are other messages to deliver. The next one is 6 Macedoni Street, 5:30 a.m. For a moment I consider going back to Edgar Street, but I’m still too frightened by what I’ve heard and seen there. I go there once more, just to check that things are still the same. They are.
I arrive with the sun on Macedoni Street, mid-October. Overall, this spring has been unusually hot and it’s already nice and warm as I hit the hilly street. I see the two-story house standing at the top.
Just after five-thirty, a lone figure comes from around the side of the house. I think it’s a girl but can’t be sure because the figure has a hood over its head. It wears red athletic shorts, a hooded gray sweatshirt, but no shoes. It’s about five foot nine.
I sit down between two parked cars, waiting for the figure to come back.
When I give up waiting and begin to leave for work, I finally see her (it’s definitely a her) come running around the corner. The sweatshirt’s off now, tied around her waist, so I can see her face and her hair.
She takes me by surprise because we both hit the corner together, from opposite directions.
We both stop, momentarily.
Her eyes land on me, only for a second.
She looks at me, and she has sunshine-colored hair in a ponytail and clear eyes, like water. The mildest blue I’ve ever seen. Soft lips that form a gentle shape of recognition.
And she keeps running.
I can only watch as she tilts her head and turns away.
Her legs are shaved, making me think I should have known earlier that it was a girl. They’re long and lovely. She’s one of those girls who are pretty much straight down. Skinny with a small but well-formed chest, long back, straight hips, and tall legs. Her bare feet are medium-sized, and they hit the ground lightly.
She’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful, and I’m ashamed.
She’s fifteen if she’s a day, and I’m being stepped on. I’m being crushed from the inside. Feelings of love and lust fight each other inside me, and I realize I’m drawn instantly to this girl who runs barefoot at five-thirty in the morning. I can’t escape it.
I walk home and think about what she needs—what I need to deliver. In a way,
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