Abbey Burning Love. Donan Ph.D. Berg
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hadn’t changed in either beauty or persuasive ability.
“You wouldn’t know it, but I have a copy of what the newspaper reporter wrote of your commission appearance in my office desk. He characterized it as your assuming the biblical battlefield role of David facing Goliath.”
Deflated by a lack of a response, he believed she toyed with him again. She gazed toward a huge power crane lifting a section of twisted metal. What else could he do, but wait.
“Think I have a copy of that article too. I’d spent a great deal of time composing that speech. It set forth principles still important to me. I believe I said the Malone family has for decades supported the goals and desires of this community to restore and maintain our sense of history, including turn-of-the-century houses. That, and its location six blocks from downtown, motivated me to buy my home in the historic district. I have great neighbors.”
“And, in your favor the commission voted to destroy regulations they were duty bound to uphold.” Rob’s feet planted squarely.
“That’s sour grapes. The city had the power to appeal the commission’s decision and didn’t.”
Rob stared at her. What arrogance. She knew the city wouldn’t spend scare tax dollars to fight a porch worth less than ten thousand dollars. If she’s counting on that with regards to The Abbey she’ll be in for a surprise. He sheathed the argumentative daggers for festering anger would only consume him, not undo a commission decision two years old. If there existed a way for him to gracefully withdraw from this conversation, he should opt for it now. “Can’t debate what the city attorney decided to pursue or not pursue two years ago nor debate what he decided to ignore. But I can give you my opinion.”
Melissa angled three steps sideways before the sound of a loud crash. Rob turned to see where a front-end loader apparently missed its dump into a truck. Thankfully no worker injured.
“Again, why rehash a two year old event? You planning to visit with a sledgehammer and bash my porch.”
“Heavens no. That’s absurd!” Rob gazed into Melissa’s eyes and mentally conjured up the grace, determination, and suffocating commission appeal she’d demonstrated. Today she radiated an identical beauty, but no boyfriend Rob talked to could explain why each romantic relationship eventually ended in the dumpster. Beneath the glamour, he concluded Melissa’s heart must pump ice cubes into veins. More important, if destiny demanded he battle the Malone family, he needed a stronger grip on his emotions. “I’ve seen enough here. Have a great day.”
“Thanks. I could give you a ride to City Hall.”
After a deliberate headshake no, he walked away. He passed hardhat construction workers carting large chunks of charred Abbey debris to a waiting flatbed truck with staked wooden sides. He stopped abruptly when he heard one worker call out, “What’s this door? It’s got a new padlock.” A worker in a different colored hardhat unrolled a set of building plans. The supervisor’s loud shout confirmed Carol’s earlier tearful statement. “That’s the entrance to a family burial crypt. Leave it alone.”
* * *
Melissa the next day returned to The Abbey grounds to insert a key Father had into the padlock near the Sacred Heart Chapel ruins. When the plated-steel crypt door swung out, an exposed flight of descending concrete stairs disappeared into darkness behind hanging cobwebs dotted with decayed insects. Prepared with a flashlight in hand, she bent low, swatted cobwebs with a gloved hand, and slowly entered into the eerie, rarely entered mausoleum crypt. Carol followed. Father’s journal records stated twelve Malone family members were buried beneath The Abbey chapel.
At the bottom of the stairs, she entered the main crypt chamber and found no organization whatsoever. A flashlight beam landed on caskets pointing every which way, one casket even stacked upon another.
“Who’d ever decide to be buried down here?” Carol’s words echoed Melissa’s thoughts. “Unless, of course, they desired their remains never to be visited or absolutely detested plastic Wal-Mart flowers being spiked every now and then next to any above ground headstone.”
“Beats me.” Melissa’s flashlight beam retraced original crisscross.
“Look here. Here’s a handwritten cardboard sign that says this space reserved for Dad.” Carol picked it up for inspection. “Sign appears relatively new. Do you think he was down here? What about what he told us about the other cemetery burial plot?”
Melissa shook head. The mustiness began to trigger allergies and she desired to bolt. “We can’t leave his body in the funeral home forever.”
“Right. That hole dug in the church cemetery for the graveside service has to be filled in with or without his casket. It’s been twenty years or so since I’ve been down here. You know who wrote this sign about Dad?” Carol leaned it against the casket where she found it.
“Don’t know, never saw it before, and don’t like it down here. It’s spooky.” She rotated a flashlight beam around the crypt’s interior. To Melissa’s eyes it contained plenty of space, could even be considered spacious. The concrete exterior walls appeared intact, the floor dry. She should have worn a surgical mask. Beginning at the entrance she walked counterclockwise and began to count aloud the visible wooden and metal caskets: “One, two, three ... eleven, twelve, thirteen.” By her count Father would be the fourteenth person or casket to be entombed and his triskaidekaphobia fear totally unfounded.
“Carol, didn’t Dad’s written funeral instructions have a personal footnote saying, if he became the next Malone to die, he’d have the dubious distinction of being the unlucky thirteenth person buried in this crypt?”
“Yes, and he often joked because of his age he earned a head start to be the family’s unlucky thirteen curse.” Carol tiptoed around Melissa for what Melissa believed to be Carol’s own count and noticed Carol squeezed her nose nostrils closed as she passed. Melissa held her breath and pointed flashlight at the casket her sister tried to lift to presumably assure all contained remains. Carol’s hand slid under coffin lids to test for seal breaches. Melissa stepped back as Carol clapped hands to knock the dirt and grime from brown, cloth gloves. “Your count’s accurate. Dad makes fourteen, not thirteen. The superstitious fear troubled him for no good reason. I say we call the funeral home and bring Dad here for burial with his ancestors and sell or save the other cemetery lot he purchased for a cousin or someone.”
Carol edged past a coffin to reach the ascending stairs. Melissa hurried to follow. At the bottom step, Melissa abruptly stopped. Could the extra casket contain her mother? A reason had to exist for the new padlock. Father told her Mother ran off in a manic rage triggered by depression a month after Melissa graduated high school. Yet, Melissa heard the ambulance sirens. Twice before, Mother, strapped onto a gurney and hoisted into an awaiting ambulance, would return several days later. The first time Melissa had been but seven years old and totally mortified. The third time occurred almost fourteen years ago and Mother never returned. A maid scrubbed the hallway leading from her parent’s bedroom for days. Father refused to talk about it and waited a year to divorce Mother in absentia.
Carol pivoted halfway up the stairs. “You okay?”
“Just thinking. Father’s missed the unlucky-thirteen curse if all are Malone family members. This metal casket, near the stairs, bears no name or identity inscription. What if down here rests a freeloader whose heirs didn’t want to shell out for a public cemetery plot?”
Carol didn’t offer a response. The sisters in silence ascended to breathe in above ground fresh air. Melissa’s question left unanswered.
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