From Festus, With Love
by Douglas Young
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
The conversation continued smoothly as they shifted to lighter subjects and learned about each other’s families and various interests. They became so engrossed and satisfied with his making her laugh that they neglected to leave the restaurant in time to make the seven o’clock show. Neither was wild about the film anyway, nor did either care to be quiet for a couple of hours. Since the restaurant was not crowded, they were comfortable staying put, and the next lull in the conversation was not heard until after seven-thirty.
“Now that was some mighty fine cuisine, indeed,” Huxley declared.
“And the conversation was even better,” Juniper added.
“You know we missed the movie,” he remarked as they exited the eatery. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go? A dessert place?” he asked as he held the restaurant’s front door open for her.
“It’s such a lovely evening. You fancy a walk?” She smiled at him on the sidewalk.
“Sure. But we’re not exactly in the best part of town,” he observed as they walked toward his car.
“Right. You want to walk on campus? Or maybe we could use a break from it?” she offered.
Thinking of various locales as they got in the car, he suddenly smiled but caught himself before speaking.
“Where?” she asked. “Come on. You’re enthused about somewhere.”
“It’s really pretty, with rolling hills, a variety of flowers, and terrific trees: dogwoods, magnolias, mimosas, and big oaks with Spanish moss.”
“Sounds great. Let’s go. We’ve got almost a full moon too.”
“Um. Most folks probably wouldn’t go there.”
“Because?”
“It’s a cemetery.”
Juniper laughed. “Cotton Springs?”
“Yes. Have you been?” he asked eagerly.
“I’ve just driven by it and seen the name on the big arch entrance. But it looks real pretty.”
“I hope suggesting a walk in a great big boneyard — especially at night — doesn’t creep you out.”
“No. It’d be a new experience and, when my girlfriends ask where we went Friday, I can tell them, ‘Oh, we went to this really hip cemetery.’”
“Only if you want to, Juniper. I just love graveyards and have enjoyed exploring Cotton Springs many times. It truly does have a lot of impressive tombstones and it’s so peaceful and pretty, and I bet even more so under a big moon. I’ve never been there at night.”
“Well, what gal could possibly turn down getting to see some ‘impressive tombstones’?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take you wherever you want,” he said as she laughed.
“No, let’s tour the tombstones. I’m up for something novel.”
* * *
They drove a short distance to the edge of town and parked in the empty lot at the arched entrance to Cotton Springs Cemetery, the oldest, biggest burial ground in town. Under a large moon and cloudless night sky, the vast property was bathed in a vaguely bright glow.
“Thanks for wanting to come here,” Huxley said as they got out of the car. “Cemeteries are the most tranquilly quiet and peaceful places I know. No matter what my mood, walking through one — day or night — always seems to soothe my soul.”
“Wow.” Juniper smiled at him. “Well. Lead on, my soulful cemetery guide.” She lit a Disque Bleu cigarette and exhaled looking at the moon as they walked down a winding road with loads of old graves on either side. She was struck by the wide variety of tombstone styles and sizes. Several large oak trees occasionally shadowed them from the moonlight that seemed to color their surroundings in a dreamy, slightly unfocused light.
Each oak’s branches were loosely wrapped in Spanish moss that hung like drapes below. Down to their left sat a lake with a gazebo, while a hillside decorated with rose bushes beckoned above to their right. Each gravestone cast a small shadow, and Juniper tried to recall anywhere else so still.
Huxley could not shake the notion that this entire evening was too enchanting to be real. He had been thrilled just to be out with the finest-looking, most enjoyable girl he knew. As pleasant as their pre- and post-class chats had been, they had not prepared him for the riveting dinner conversation. But now to be alone with Juniper strolling through one of his favorite haunts seemly almost heavenly.
Ever alert to how fleeting opportunities all too often proved to be, especially in the romantic realm, he slowly reached over and gently took her hand. To his joy, she casually received it, sending a jolt of endorphins felt throughout his whole person. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked over to see her eyes follow the tree line on the hill to the right.
She took a drag off her cigarette, exhaled, and looked at him with a smile. She chuckled at his wide eyes, locked arms with him, and leaned her head on his shoulder as the road wound to the right to reveal more hills and a valley below.
“So you take all your dates here?” She bent her head forward to stifle a laugh.
“You’re the first, babe,” he said truthfully. “Though I will confess to asking a couple of others. But you’re the only one to say ‘Yes,’ for which I’m right grateful, Juniper.” He squeezed her hand.
“So if we see a ghost, you definitely owe me,” she remarked. “Actually, that’d be pretty sweet.”
A faint breeze caused the Spanish moss overhead to stir ever so slowly as they approached the valley. There a few hundred graves stood out for all having such skinny, rectangular headstones, being the only ones to look exactly alike, and all arranged in seemingly perfect rows.
“What are those?” Juniper asked. “They look so much more humble than the rest.”
“That’s the Confederate section,” Huxley answered. “They were killed in battle and are actually from all over Dixie. A lot of them are unmarked.”
“You mind if we sit down? These sandals ain’t exactly ideal for hills.”
“No, of course not. Let’s sit wherever you want.”
She took off her sandals and began to walk on the grass among the rows of soldiers’ graves.
“I ’spect this one looks as good as any,” she announced and sat down to lean against the little headstone. He sat next to her and she moved over so they could share it. His hand slowly reached over to hers and she took it in both of hers as they looked up at the starry night sky. Nothing was said as they surveyed the hills, trees, graves, and grass, and each tried to remember ever feeling so peaceful with another person.
“The landscape looks like a moonlit impressionist painting with everything in soft focus,” Huxley observed. “Something Claude Monet might have painted.”
“You’re right,” Juniper exclaimed. Lifting her head to the moon and stars, she revealed, “Now I’m thinking of Vincent Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ painting.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. Seeing her moonlit face staring above with awe, Huxley thought Juniper resembled a silent film star. Noticing him admire her, she grinned and leaned her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head on top of hers.
He wanted to talk with her, but could think of nothing to say. Instead, they continued to lean on each other absorbing the sky and all their surroundings. He noticed her right foot now rested on his ankle.
For Huxley, time stood still and he wondered why he had found life so wanting. Though thrilled, he sought to avoid thought and just feel, content to enjoy the moment, knowing it would not last, but believing the evening would work out well and that they were creating a magnificent memory.
Miss Newmar had no memory of being so relaxed with a man — and on a first date, she marveled. She was satisfied just to savor such a placid scene, with no need for amusement or talk. How far she had come in the last month from feeling devastated to angry to cynical to now suddenly content. Part of her desperately wanted to evaluate it all, but she mainly relished her present profound sense of comfort, protection, and well-being. With only an occasional breeze, the setting was so silent that she felt her accelerated heartbeat all the more.
Without thinking, she gradually lifted her head to look at him. He turned to find himself lost in her brown-green eyes and detected the slightest smile across her moonlit face. He leaned forward to kiss her lips and envelop her in a full embrace. Slowly, they eagerly explored every part of each other’s mouth before he began kissing her face, neck and ear. She started to giggle and pulled him back to her mouth where they continued kissing a long time, content to carry on their slow-motion tongue ballet.
With an exaggerated comic gasp, she leaned back against the tombstone. He chuckled and took her right hand in both of his.
“Mr. Madison, I do declare your kissing is a far sight better than your Spanish.” She raised her eyebrows and giggled.
“Like with Spanish, I just need a good partner to help me learn,” he opined.
“Then we can just learn our way together.” She smiled and leaned her head against his. His left leg was now embraced by both her feet.
“I’m reminded of something the actress Ingrid Bergman said,” Juniper announced. “’A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.’ Isn’t that lovely and so, so true?”
“That is brilliant,” he agreed. “And I have no memory of ever feeling so calm. Excited, but so laid back.”
“Me too,” she replied. “I had no idea cemeteries could be so satisfying.”
“This is definitely now the best one I’ve ever visited,” he declared forthrightly, prompting a laugh.
“Hey,” he went on, “since it’s so quiet here, if we were in a movie now, what music would you play on the soundtrack?”
“Wow. What a neat question. Let me put my thinking cap on for a spell. But I’ll get back with you directly about that. How about you?”
“It’s not so much any particular song,” he mused, “but a whole slew of them blending into each other. There was this English singer and composer from the late 1960s and early ‘70s whose music is so... mysterious but melodic and even mesmerizing, haunting, hypnotic, and... enchantingly ethereal. At times it’s sad, but mostly so beautiful, completely captivating, and it all sounds timeless. It has such a delightful dreamy quality to it which is how I feel here with you.”
“Who is it?” she looked at him eagerly.
“He’s really obscure. Have you ever heard of Nick Drake? He’s—”
“Oh! I can’t believe you’re a Nick Drake fan. Actually, I can. Yes, and I adore his songs. My favorite high school English teacher played some in class when we were learning about lyrical poetry. Drake’s songs are lovely as all get out and poetic too. No matter my mood, whenever I put his music on, I’m always transported to another world of enticing, fleeting images and such sublime sounds. How super dope we’re both Nick Drake fans too.” She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him tightly.
“Being here with you feels like we’ve walked through the Looking Glass into a fantasy world where time doesn’t exist,” he observed, amused by his sudden spontaneity. “I don’t even know what time it is, or care.”
“How do you keep saying precisely what I’m feeling, Huxley?” She put her arms around him and put her cheek against his. “See? A ‘Vulcan mind meld’ can be pretty wonderful after all, huh?” She kissed his cheek and leaned her head back to look at him grinning at her.
They kissed again for a good while until both came up for air at the same time.
“More synchronicity, babe?” he asked.
“Indubitably, dude,” she answered.
“It is starting to get a little late,” he noted having at last seen his watch. “Although I wish this would never end.”
“It doesn’t have to,” she whispered in his ear and he pulled her closer.
“And I think I’ve settled on a Nick Drake song for our moonlight scene,” he announced. “It’s my favorite of his because it’s the happiest and most hopeful, and he sings of moons and trees ... and love: ‘Northern Sky.’”
“Mine too,” she exclaimed in a whisper and hugged him tight.
After a few more minutes holding each other, he slowly stood and extended his hand. She gathered her sandals in one hand and held his hand with the other as they stretched and surveyed the walk up the hill ahead.
“I’ll definitely be deep into dementia before forgetting any of this,” he remarked casually, prompting a chuckle from Juniper.
“You say that so seriously, Huxley. By the way, I really like your name, and I’ve never known a Huxley before.”
“Did you read the novel, Brave New World?”
“Didn’t everybody in high school? Oh, my Lord. Are you named for Aldous Huxley, the author?”
“Yep. My father wrote his doctoral dissertation on him.”
“Très cool, Huxley.” She lifted her hand and he high-fived her.
“As is ‘Juniper,’” he remarked. “What’s the story there?”
“Since you know about Nick Drake, I bet you’re familiar with Donovan Leitch’s music too,” she asserted.
“’Jennifer Juniper’!” he exclaimed. “I love that song. Super cool.”
“I’m kind of fond of it myself. My mother sang it to me when I was little.”
“How darling. Hey, speaking of names, let’s see who’s been our exceptionally hospitable host tonight,” he said leaning down to look closely at the tombstone. Holding up his phone to get some more light, he read the epitaph aloud:
“Festus Bullineaux
Born July 24, 1844
Died February 20, 1864
27th Georgia Infantry, CSA.”
“Gosh, not even out of his teens,” Juniper lamented. “Younger than us. Did he ever even get laid? Now I kinda’ feel a tad guilty like maybe we just desecrated his grave.”
“Really?” he asked.
“No.” She laughed.
“My guess is this is the most exciting night Mr. Festus has enjoyed in about near two centuries,” he pronounced.
“And it could be just the first of many,” she whispered in his ear as they sauntered arm in arm up the hill.
Copyright © 2024 by Douglas Young
