There is a third cemetery across the lane from the Dairy Barn. All the graves in that one have names and it goes up to 1949 or perhaps 1950—Gilkey can’t quite remember.
At Cemetery Number 2 the grounds are as well kept as in the others — thanks to The Ridges Restoration Project. Half of the graves only have numbers and the rest have names and numbers. Men were buried on one side and women on a separate side. The decorum of the age: no mixing and no hanky-panky even in death.
Margaret Tobias’s grave has no name, but it is not difficult to locate it because of Gilkey’s meticulous records.
“So now that you found it what’re you gonna do with it?” asks Gilkey.
“The relatives will construct a tombstone when they can afford it,” I tell him. “In the meantime I will mourn her death.”
“Hey, she died decades ago,” he says. He thinks I am joking.
“I mourn deaths. Even if they happened centuries ago,” I explain. “I am a professional mourner.”
He still thinks I am joking.
“Like the Aztecs? They used to have this funny guy who stood at the entrance of the pyramids and made a hell of a noise every time somebody died. Until the bereaved came and paid him money.”
“I am that guy.”
Sunday morning. September leaves are falling. Golden. Yellow. Red. The sun is shining starkly through the branches once hidden. The wind playfully picks up the leaves and lets them float in the air before dropping them on the grass. We stand around Margaret Tobias’s grave. There is Ruth in her blue sweats despite the hot weather, Obed in his khaki shorts and red plaid shirt, Orpah and Mahlon, both in denim jeans and T-shirts. I am, of course, in my professional mourner costume of black top hat, black cape and black pants.
The gravestone with the number is under a pile of assorted flowers bought from Kroger. There is a pile of pawpaws with their rough green skins next to the flowers. They are some kind of offering since one of the Native American ancestors used to grow the fruit. This one, however, is from the wild and was brought by Obed a few days ago.
“We should of invited Brother Michael to do them prayers,” says Obed.
“We ain’t gonna taint your grandma with no Brother Michael,” says Ruth. “We all know how to pray.”
Then she goes on to tell us about biracial kids. She is obviously referring to Mahlon because she is looking at him. It is good that her visitor found the grave. Biracial kids need to know their history because biracial kids pick up all sorts of diseases. Blacks give them black diseases such as diabetes and whites give them their own white diseases.
I don’t know why she says Mahlon is biracial. Maybe tri-racial is not in her vocabulary. No one questions her about how locating this grave will help Mahlon escape white diseases. She reminds her small congregation that her people come in all colors of the rainbow, and therefore they are the race of the future. Unfortunately during the days of the very same Margaret Tobias we are honoring today, those who had pale faces and blond hair changed their names and did not want to associate with those of color anymore. They tried to live like Caucasians among Caucasians. But guess what? Many are now coming back to claim their heritage. It is now fashionable to be a person of color.
“And you know why?” she asks looking at each one of us expectantly. But no one wants to provide the answer.
“Because of them programs,” says Ruth.
“It is more like they are drawn back by the ancestors, not some darn programs,” says Obed, getting fed up with his mother’s digressions.
I thought the young man had learned not to contradict Ruth unnecessarily. Otherwise he’ll get her started. Before she can lash out I appeal for calm in both of them. We have come here to return Margaret Tobias’s dignity. The discussion is important, but there will be time for it later.
“Today I am going to mourn for you like I’ve never mourned before,” I tell the small congregation. “Your culture frowns upon excessive display of crying at a funeral. You were taught to be embarrassed to show grief in public. I am therefore going to do it on your behalf. I am hoping that your genes still understand public wailing. After all, some of your ancestors came from Ireland and the Irish have mastered public mourning at wakes. They know how to keen and lament for all the world to witness. When the Irish bereaved can’t do it themselves they hire professional mourners to do it for them. Surely your genes have memory of this? Surely Mahlon’s stories have memory of this?”
“My memories ain’t got no memory of their own,” says Mahlon quietly. “I can only tell what the ghost trees tell me.”
He is defensive, but I was not trying to blame him for anything. I don’t want to agitate him. It was not easy to convince him to come here. He is still unhappy with Orpah and did not want to involve himself in anything that has to do with me. It was only after Obed sat out on the porch with him and showed him that he would not be coming here for me or for Orpah or for anybody else but his own mother. Ruth also helped to persuade him. When he got into the GMC this morning he kept on repeating that he was only doing this for his wife.
Ruth asks Obed to lead us in prayer. It is at this stage that I begin my mourning routine. I do not sit on the mound as I usually do. There is no mound to sit on. But also I want to perform the mourning. For the first time in my mourning career I want to perform. I want to dance to my wails. And I wail my laments so loud that the trees begin to shake and shed more leaves. I howl and growl and cry like the wind. Tears run from my eyes like the waters of the Hocking River. I incorporate some of the movements I saw Mahlon perform through the window. My whole performance routine, except for the sounds, is informed by his routine.
Mahlon recognizes himself in my movements and breaks out laughing. Everybody looks at him in astonishment. Mahlon has not laughed for ages.
I screech like an animal in pain. I am drenched in sweat and tears. I perform variations that draw from his movements. I can see that he is mesmerized. Orpah is open-mouthed. Obed is wide-eyed. Ruth is befuddled. This is the crowning glory of my mourning since I arrived in this country. I continue furiously for about an hour. Then I fall down in utter exhaustion.
Mahlon breaks out into applause. The others join him and they applaud for a long time. Even Ruth applauds, albeit briefly.
Mahlon helps me up. There is a glint in his eyes. He says, very softly as if he does not want the others to hear: “We must die so the earth should continue.” I whisper back: “The earth is a cannibal. It feeds on our corpses. That’s how it continues.”
Obed gives me a quarter.
“A professional mourner must be paid,” he says. The man has learned fast.
Orpah is jumping about in excitement.
“We should of brought our costumes, Daddy,” she screams. “I wanna be a mourner. I wanna mourn with you. We gonna mourn up a storm!”
Mahlon embraces her. The ice is melting.
“That was silly,” says Ruth laughing aloud. “Good, but silly.”
“Thank you, Son of Egypt,” says Mahlon.
It sounds like a term of endearment when it comes from Mahlon.
10. Once More the Pagans — Without the Saints