Page 16 of Night Songs

I stayed quiet once again, clearly waiting for him to say more.

“My brother was. He always wanted to come here and visit Johnny’s grave, but he never got the chance, so I told myself I would.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, thanks, it’s fine.” I could feel him wanting to say more, but instead he swallowed the words.

“What?” I asked. I was not one for engaging strangers, but I was genuinely curious.

“I haven’t actually gone to see the grave yet.”

“Why not?”

He took a deep breath. “I drove all night from Myrtle Beach, and now I’m here, and I feel this pressure for it to mean something. I’ve been wandering around this cemetery for an hour, too chickenshit to go over there.”

I understood that more than he knew.

He held up the Marlboros. “Plus, I can’t go until I find a lighter. I’m going to smoke one of his old cigarettes in his honor.”

We kept strolling, and I spotted a white plastic lighter lying in the grass. I picked it up and pressed it into his palm. “It’s a sign. Now you have to go.”

He stared down at the lighter but didn’t make a move.

“I’ll go with you,” I offered, shocked by my own friendliness.

“Really?” He gazed over at the gravesite and stuck his hands in his jeans. “Okay, you’re right. It’s time.”

We walked in purposeful silence toward the crowd and found a small hole in which to wedge ourselves. There were two headstones laid side by side—one for “John R. Cash” and another for “June Carter Cash.” A similar spread of flowers and memorabilia adorned their graves, but there were no lip prints on the marble.

We stood there side by side in the quiet, and I told myself not to look at him. I wanted him to have his privacy while he tried to feel whatever he wanted to feel.

Instead, I gazed at the twin stones and wondered why my own parents hadn’t been buried in the same place. I knew there’d been five years between their deaths, but hadn’t they wanted to be together? My father was buried at the family plot in Minnesota where I’d lived with my grandparents before they died.

When I could no longer resist, I snuck a glance at the leerer and saw tears running down his face. God, I envied him. He wiped them away, and then abruptly turned and walked toward a bench at the edge of the grass.

I followed and sat a few inches away while he bent over and put his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and I wondered if I should touch him, or if he’d rather I just fuck off. I hated when people touched me when I was upset. But I didn’t want to leave—the intensity of his mourning wasstrangely appealing, like if I stayed close enough, some of it might leak into me, too.

He took a few deep breaths and raised his head, then pulled out a cigarette from the pack. He lit the end and puffed it to life, and began violently coughing. An old woman walked by and sneered. “There’s no smoking here.” He tried to respond, but he choked on the words, and instead held up a hand and frantically stubbed the cigarette against the side of the bench. She muttered under her breath and walked on.

I gave him the soda I’d saved from the hired car, and he took a large sip. “Jesus, that was a terrible idea.” I couldn’t help but giggle, and he gave me a half smile as he rubbed his face dry with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry. My brother’s been gone for a year, so most of the time I feel nothing. But sometimes, this wave hits me, and I can’t control it.”

I shook my head gently. “I think it’s beautiful. Or, I mean, it’s beautiful that you loved him so much that you feel this way.”

He gazed out over the cemetery. “I was thinking about how much he loved Johnny Cash and wanted to see Nashville. The only reason he never visited was because he thought it seemed too gay or something, and that suddenly struck me as profoundly sad. He was this hard, sort of angry dude, but he also had that in him, too.”

I thought about all of the thoughts and emotions I suppressed, afraid they would scare people off. I understood the impulse.

“I’m sorry, I know that’s kind of heavy, and you don’t even know me—”

“No, I get it,” I said, cutting him off. I had learned at an early age not to talk about my mom and dad—it could really clear a room. “Both of my parents are dead.”

He coughed again, his face contorted with genuine concern.

“It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. I never even met my dad. And I don’t remember my mom. I was too young when she died. I couldn’t even feel something at her grave earlier—I wanted to, but I just didn’t,” I confessed. “I’m envious.”

His brow furrowed more deeply. “Hold on. Are you saying your mother is Belle Powers?”

I nodded hesitantly, not meaning to have revealed this so easily to a stranger.