Past Perfect by Leila Sales Page B

approached us with a couple of young teenage boys in tow. “What a fabulous cemetery!” the mom enthused.
    Her sons rolled their eyes and looked like they wanted to die.
    “In fact, it’s called a burying ground or a graveyard,” Linda said. “The word ‘cemetery’ doesn’t come into use until the 1800s, during the Romantic period. In Colonial times, we 61

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    don’t use fancy words like that—we just call things what they are. Plus, cemeteries need not be connected to churches, but burying grounds almost always are.”
    “You hear that, boys?” the mom said. “Wow!” My heart went out to her poor children. They clearly wanted to be at home, playing video games. Couldn’t she have just let them play video games?
    “Do you have a question for the nice ladies?” the mom asked.
    The boys shook their heads.
    “Sure you do. Remember you were wondering why so many of the gravestones have skulls and crossbones carved into them?”
    “Oh, yeah.” One of the boys heaved a sigh. “Why do so many of the gravestones have skulls and crossbones carved into them? Like, are they pirates? Or what?”
    “Nay,” Linda said. “Colonial gravestones often have the skull and crossbones on them. It symbolizes mortality. We don’t think it’s scary.”
    “Oh.” The boys seemed depressed to learn that they were not walking on the remains of pirates.
    “While we may not have any pirates buried here, we do have two signers of the Declaration of Independence,” Linda said.
    This had no impact whatsoever on the boys, not even after their mother nudged them and said, “You know about the Declaration! Remember, you did that play about it in third grade?”
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    “Also,” Linda said, “you see that small grassy mound over there? With the metal door built into the side of it?” The boys shrugged their affirmation.
    “That’s where we bury the unbaptized babies. Every time an infant dies, we just open that door and stick it in. There are hundreds of dead babies in there.” The boys’ eyes lit up. “Dead babies!” one exclaimed.
    “Cool!” added the other.
    They ran off to inspect the hillock more closely. Whoever said history was boring knew nothing about sudden infant death syndrome.
    I went back to wandering atmospherically. I had never before spent much time in the burying ground, but I liked it here. It felt more peaceful than the silversmith’s ever did, and not just because my dad wasn’t stomping around, holding court. There was grass here, and big oak trees casting shade on the graves. I liked the slightly crumbling slate headstones and the engraved old-fashioned names. “Here lyes the body of Mary Jackson, wife to Jacob Jackson, aged 42 years.” “Samuel Otis, born in Essex, January, 1734. Died May, 1818.” “Here lyes the body of Elisabeth Connelly, daughter of Seamus Connelly, aged 15 years. Deceased February 12, 1706.” I stopped and reread it, in case I’d made a mistake. But no, that was the inscription, as clear as could be. Here lyes the body of Elisabeth Connelly . . .
    I wanted to show Fiona immediately, but she was working 63

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    down the road, so for now Linda would have to do. “Come here!” I called to her during a gap between moderners.
    “Do you have a question?” Linda hurried over. Historical interpreters love to answer questions.
    “Look at this headstone!” I pointed to Elisabeth Connelly’s grave.
    “I know,” Linda agreed. “It seems unusual for Irish Catho-lics to be buried in the graveyard adjoining a Protestant church, but this is more of a town burying ground than a religious one . . .”
    “Not that. She has my name! And she died when she was practically my age!”
    Linda squinted at me, then at the grave, then back at me.
    She seemed maybe not as excited by this coincidence as I was. Of course, it would be out of character for Linda to act excited about anything, be it a coincidence, a bouquet of balloons, or a free