Page 15 of Night Songs

The headstone was a single piece of marble the size of a beach towel nestled into the grass. Lipstick tubes in a spectrum of colors—onyx, jade, gold, silver—were scattered like jewels around the grave amid grocery store flowers and aging stuffed animals.

The stone read:

BELLE POWERS

MAY 16, 1949 - JULY 25, 1982

Oh, please meet me tonight in the moonlight

Please meet me tonight all alone

For I have a sad story to tell you

It’s a story that’s never been told

The marble was covered in kisses, all in her signature shade of pink.

I searched for a feeling that would make sense for the moment, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe it was because her body wasn’t actually there; it’d sunk to the bottom of the ocean after the crash. Or maybe it’s impossible to truly mourn someone you don’t remember.

All I could think was: I had come from a woman who inspired such devotion that strangers made out with her headstone. That had to mean something, didn’t it? At the very least it meant I wasn’t trash, as my aunt and some of the more sadistic kids at school had liked to imply.

I was not alone at the gravesite; about a dozen men and women hovered in the chill, clutching flowers or reverently clasping hands against their thighs. I watched them, hoping one would pull a tube of pink from their purse, apply it thickly, get to their knees, and kiss the stone in front of me. But they all remained at a respectful distance.

I made eye contact with a guy standing on the other side who’d clearly been staring at me. He gave me a nod, and I glared at him. I thought,Don’t leer at me over my mother’s grave. He, of course, didn’t know she was my mother, but the stare still seemed to belie a sort of derangement.

I lingered for a while longer, waiting for the gravity of it all to sink in, but eventually I gave up.

On my way back to the entrance, I accidentally fell into step with the leerer. I tried to lag behind, but it was like he’d had a similar thought, and we slowed to the same pace.

“Do you have a lighter?” he asked, holding up a pack of Marlboro Reds. His accent had a damp sweetness like syrup, different from the dry, grassy accents of Mr. Blau and the driver he’d hired for me.

I kept my head down, refusing to make eye contact. “No. I don’t smoke.”

“Me neither,” he said, and I raised my eyes to him.

He was sandy-haired with wily, fox-like features, and he looked about my age. He was short for a man, perhaps a few inches shorter than me, but muscular like an action figure. His lean biceps bulged from his white T-shirt.

I waited for him to elaborate about the smoking, but he stayed quiet as we walked along the path leading out of the cemetery.

“Have we met before?” he asked. “That’s why I was looking at you back there. I was trying to figure it out.”

“Oh, no. But I get that all the time.”

“People think they’ve met you before?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what it is. Something about my face.”

“Interesting.” He studied my features as if to discern what it might be. “Maybe you were famous in a past life.”

I smiled, amused by the synchronicity of the comment. When I peered into his light-green eyes, they didn’t have the same look as the other boys I often encountered, always searching my face for how they might weasel their way in. His eyes actually sparkled, as if he was in on a cosmic joke, an infinite mirth echoing deep into the recesses of his mind.

“Are you a Belle Powers fan?” I asked.

“No, not really.”

“Then why are you here?”

He gestured up ahead to another grave with a small crowd. “For Johnny Cash.” He paused. “But I’m not really a fan of his either.”