Chapter 13: Picking A Plot

By a/k/a Simon
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The land that would become the town of Putnam was first settled in 1673. The first person to be buried on that land, Increase Walther, died only a year into the settlement, after nearly surviving a particularly harsh winter before succumbing to pneumonia. He was buried by the side of the river, which would end up being named the Irving River, on the far end of the property he claimed. Walther, though well liked, was a single man, with no family in the New World to inherit his land. It became community property and, as a gesture of solidarity, early Putnamers, upon death requested burial near the Walther grave. Over time it became an official cemetery, eventually earning the name Willow Lawn.

“I think I should stay in the car this time,” Megan suggested as they neared the entrance to the cemetery. “I’ve already made enough of a jackass of myself at the funeral home. I’m sure that’s all around town by now. No need to go adding to the story of that crazy Kroeger girl who left town years ago, only to come back an hysterical nutjob.”

“Whatever you feel comfortable doing,” Greta assured. “I’m just glad for the ride. Besides, Eddie can help me pick out a proper plot.”

“Huh?” Eddie wasn’t paying attention. He was sitting in the backseat, thinking about the card in his pocket, thinking about the possibilities attached to a simple phone number. Just by dialing a series of digits he could have his life back the way it was, back to the way he knew how to live it. As his hope blossomed it came with a smattering of memories. They struck him hard and fast, much like they had been experienced, lightning quick battles between colorful adversaries out to cause extraordinary harm. He had done good things back then. Surprisingly, none of the praise he’d received in exchange flashed into his head during the collage down memory lane. It had never been about the gratitude or adulation. Had the scientists at Biotron maybe conditioned an appreciation of such things out of him? Was that even within their abilities? It was a passing thought, small and soon forgotten as another wave of action crashed over him.

He could still remember waking up in the ship, a strange feeling nesting within him, taking root, one that he would later come to realize as powerlessness. The trip back to Earth had been nerve-wracking, a study in neurotic response. Every nanosecond was spent wondering if what he was feeling was real, whether it could be some kind of post-traumatic waking dream, he was conscious but his senses were not responding properly. Informal test after informal test he would attempt to call upon the energy and power that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, but it never came. And then, when he finally made it back home, to endure the seemingly endless data collection and examination by the Biotron scientists, only to hear that message on his answering machine, Dr. Friedkin’s voice telling him his life as he knew it was over.

Eddie spent half the ride from Canton Market to Willow Lawn blinking through his entire career as a superhero, a career spanning nearly three decades. He spent the other half of the ride being assaulted by just the last few weeks. No matter the volume of good, the bad always occupies prime real estate in our minds.

“Megan is going to stay in the car,” Greta told him as she got out of the passenger seat of the Subaru. From the back seat he looked at his wife turned toward him. She flashed him a stiff grin, mildly despondent over her unfortunate outburst in the funeral home. He nodded, mouthing an are you sure, sympathetic eyes and a hand on her shoulder to show his concern. With a light squeeze of his hand she let him know it would be all right. Everything involving the funeral would be stressful, and it was expected that each of them would need a break from time to time.

Getting out of the car, Eddie joined Greta, who was shaking hands with Douglas Schenkman, the man in charge of the burial ground. Through the window of her car, Megan watched as Doug no doubt expressed his deep regret, displaying his compassion before leading them into the sales pitch. There was a collective acknowledgement of the person in the car, Eddie or Greta probably saying how she’d had a rough day so far and just needed a chance to relax. Doug nodded, most likely agreeing, adding something thoughtful about how hard a time this was. With that issue settled, Doug led them over to his car, a tastefully black Buick, and they drove off to view potential plots.

Before the dust had even settled in the unpaved, rock-covered driveway, a woman came trudging out of the large house nearby, waving her hand in the air, attempting to catch the departing Buick’s attention. She was unsuccessful and was left standing in front of Megan’s car holding a small stack of papers. Right from the start, the most obvious thing about her was how pregnant she was, easily near the end of her term. Part of that came from the clumsy way she descended the front stairs, clutching the handrail and landing carefully on each step despite her haste to stop Doug. But the clearest testament to the delicacy of her condition was how far her belly protruded from the rest of her slight frame. The woman was petite, with long slender arms, so slender that if she had gained any weight with the pregnancy, her arms prior to that event must have been sticks. Pregnant women always looked a little awkward, but the child growing inside of her looked to be far more than her diminutive body could carry.

At the same time, something about her face looked familiar. Megan couldn’t place it at first, the glare of the sun in late afternoon hitting her windshield in just the right spot to obscure a useful view. Something about Megan must have triggered a memory in the woman as well.

“Hello?” the woman said, tentatively approaching the driver’s side of the car. As she got closer her smile became more noticeable. “Megan?” she asked, tilting her head to look in the side window.

With a clear view Megan could finally make out the face, Wanda Mingolelli. Until high school they had been part of the same social circle, though their points were usually on opposite ends of the diameter. When freshman year rolled around Wanda was escalated to a higher echelon of popularity, while Megan settled into her mid-level position of general acceptance. Wanda had been part of the Prom Queen’s royal court, receiving the fourth highest amount of votes. She dated a hockey player and was the only popular girl to be in theater. After the age of fourteen they didn’t hang out much, though there never developed any contempt between them, like had happened with some of the other friends who had left Megan in the dust once the teenage hierarchy was established.

“Megan Kroeger, right?” Wanda asked, nearly sure she had the name right, though there was still some doubt.

“Wanda Mingolelli?” Megan returned, stepping out of the car.

“It’s Schenkman now,” Wanda corrected.

“Sanchez,” Megan informed, pointing to herself with her thumb.

“So you’re married too,” Wanda said, a hint cynicism in her tone.

“Sort of. Things are a bit up in the air right now.”

“I hear ya,” Wanda replied, a worrisome degree of empathy considering the life growing inside of her.

Caught in an awkward situation, grasping for topics to discuss with a barely-friend she hadn’t seen in over fifteen years, or spoken much to in nearly twenty, Megan went for the obvious. “When are you due?”, calling attention to the woman’s bulging stomach. It was a reliable question, asking a pregnant woman about the impending birth. Enough mothers had come to pick up their children from school with another one on the way. Megan had learned that, shy as some of them may normally be, they could all talk endlessly about the experience of becoming a new mother. Likewise she’d found that a surefire conversation starter for men was to ask them what it was like to be a father. This worked best for new fathers, men who had partied away their twenties and suddenly felt that everything was put into perspective with the arrival of a delicate, little child. It was a significant change for either sex and the only bad sign was when one of the parents wasn’t very chatty on the subject.

“Another month, thereabouts.” And then nothing. No follow-up, no long-winded dissertation involving liberal use of the words miracle or wonder. Just the simple information with no flowery elucidation.

Megan did what she could, she bobbed her head up and down, smiling politely, looking around the grounds. The house wasn’t all that different in appearance from the Trafalgar Brothers Funeral Home. It was a white two-story, with black shutters on either side of each window. Trees and other assorted shrubbery surrounded the base of the structure and lined the red brick path from the two low-rise porch steps to the driveway. A three-car garage was attached to the far, left side of the house. Megan assumed Doug and Wanda Schenkman each had their own, more stylish cars, and kept the tasteful Buick around for touring the graveyard with customers.

“You live here?” Megan asked, homeownership the second most dependable topic of conversation with renewed acquaintances.

Wanda dipped her head, swallowing. “It’s a great house, much bigger inside than it looks from here. You’d think having a cemetery as your backyard would be kind of creepy, but it’s actually not.” She was shaking her head soberly, then smiled and chuckled. “Okay, so it is sometimes. But it’s not so bad. And we’ve got a camp up in Maine that we go to in the summer for the beach and in the winter for skiing. Although I don’t know how much time I’m going to get on the slopes this season,” she joked, rubbing her belly, the first indication of a positive attitude toward her pregnancy. There was something not right with the situation, Megan decided. Not that she was entirely all that interested. But the mystery was a good distraction from the overwhelming theme as of late.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your mom,” Wanda said, her expression changing instantly. So much for distraction. “Don’t worry, Doug will make sure she gets a great spot.”


Doug was steering the Buick steadily over the empty roads of the Willow Lawn cemetery. There was no question where it got its name. Enormous willow trees were scattered throughout the sprawling green field, so many that it seemed nothing like a graveyard and more like an untouched pasture. The warm September breeze tossed the weeping branches back and forth, as the gusts came and went, creating the illusion of isolated golden blizzards. The Buick’s window was open and, other than the motor, the only noticeable sounds were a mingling collection of ducks and geese making the trip from the riverbed back to dry land, perpetually scrounging for food.

Next to the darkness of space, it was the most serene thing Eddie had ever witnessed. He thought, when he died, he wanted to end up somewhere like this. Suddenly he was aware of his mortality. He’d never given it much thought. Unlike most people who imagine living to around seventy-five, the scientists had never given him an expected lifespan to gauge things by. His powers were based in radioactivity, which maintained its kick for thousands of years. Somewhere inside he assumed death wouldn’t be something he would have to worry about. Besides, if he had been thinking about dying, there was a good chance he wouldn’t have attempted half the heroic deeds he’d done over the years. It was strange to know that his life now had a termination point, that one day someone would be placing his body in the ground of a place like this.

“I have this great plot over between the Richardson Willow and the river,” Doug said to Greta in the passenger seat.

“Which one is the Richardson Willow?” she asked, looking around.

“It’s the large one, over there,” pointing ahead and just to the right. “You’ll have a better view of it once we turn this corner.”

The car veered to the right as two smaller trees parted to reveal a gigantic willow swaying behind them. It had to be the biggest tree in the entire cemetery, looming over all others with its sad dominance. And yet it cast very little shadow, the branches so long that the wind spread them out far enough to let most of the sun through to the ground below. With every breeze it bounced and swayed, as if dancing for the corpses it protected, providing perpetual entertainment for the deceased.

Doug pulled to a stop and they emptied out. While Greta was accosted by Doug explaining the attributes of the spot through his standardized descriptions, Eddie wandered away from the car, attempting to take in the surroundings without human influence. The grass was freshly cut, with the intoxicating, if not a bit asphyxiating scent of the trimmed, wet blades filling the air. They were not all that far from the main road that lead through town and Eddie tried to filter out all other noise, attempting to catch a screeching tire or a honking horn or even the soft drone of passing automotive herds. There was nothing, like the dead had created a sound barrier around the cemetery. Final resting place, Eddie thought. If he ever fell asleep amidst such tranquility he doubted he’d ever wake up either.

Further from the car he was finally reminded that there were actual bodies under the ground. Until then he had yet to see any gravestones, expecting a field of cement and iron markers standing up out of the dirt. Instead, what he found was a rectangular plaque, set a few inches below the rest of the soil. Doug would later explain to him that Willow Lawn preferred memorial plaques to the more traditional gravestones for many reasons, but partly, and possibly primarily, because it made maintenance a great deal easier. He would also learn that there was a separate section of the cemetery fenced off, where the original settlers of Putnam were all buried, all of who had upright gravestones. Tours were offered to local school students of this area, usually as part of a history field trip, Doug or his wife acting as tour guide and fount of information about Putnam’s long dead. Megan had been on this tour when she was in elementary school, when she considered Wanda a closer friend.

The plaque at Eddie’s feet read:

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