Through the Hill

-for Meredith-

Back then, in his mythical childhood, the hill had been a place Dan was not to go, and in his desire to appear a good boy he never went there. Some of his friends did, and were caught or got away with it, but he never squeezed through the gap between the heavy iron gate sections. There was an older door, older even than the gate, which was old already--but it was a grave, an ornate boss in the hillside all stone and rusted iron, with an incongruously new lock set in. Even he pulled on the door once, nearly frantic with fear by the time the goading of his friends had moved him to action, frantic lest the door, which was loose in its opening, be pulled out of his grip suddenly by some occupant from the other side-- but there was no opposing movement, only a feeling of great weight and age and the certainty that if the door ever opened, he would not be the one to open it. Any number of improbable stories were told about the grave-- how there were zombies inside, or treasure, or Hitler's private journals-- and it was odd, this monument in a hillside topped by a tangle of broadleaf maples, blackberry canes and old man's beard-- but they had taken it for granted as they took everything else for granted.

Then, the summer before his senior year of college, he had come back to the neighborhood, still vaguely wishing to do well but with no corresponding plan on how best to do this. It was more delicious to walk out of his parents' house with some deliberately ambiguous cover about looking for work and simply strike out through the neighborhood. One of these days he took an unfamiliar turning and found himself in a back country of gravel streets and cottages set far back from the road, some of them on double lots, covered by pitted lawns and gleaming camellia bushes.

He wound his way through the maze of dead ends and courts to a broad, paved road with narrow shoulders. He recognized it as a thoroughfare he had seen as a child, from the car window. The badly-weathered signals and squat cherry trees had been landmarks to him then, to tell him he was close to home. Going out he had seen them with a pleasant anticipation, coming back, with a sense of tedium that settled in like a blanket.

The road climbed and left the neighborhood of trees and shaded drives and entered a region of large wooden signs, apartment blocks and churches. At the top of the climb, and here Dan was damp in his shirt and breathing hard, he could look down at a heavy wood, marching right up to the boulevard on both sides, and on his side, massive stone piers that punctuated an iron fence carefully maintained with glossy black machine enamel and topped with old-fashioned arrowhead palings. Between the piers the gate was open and a winding road snaked through a cemetery. Beyond the line of trees that started just downhill of the gate he could see the gray of the crypts and a hint of pink and white where the cherry and apple trees grew. He remembered the crypt door, its weathered green and brown front, the bright lock, the smell of brown betty blowing out from the cafeteria, the shouts of his friends in the schoolyard.

In a burst of nostalgia he walked through the gate and across the road, into the cropped grass between the monuments. He rolled up his sleeves and made for a line of maples that rose out of a canyon. As he approached the line of trees the graves grew more weathered, some almost illegible under their coverings of lichen and moss. At the trees a steep path, little more than an animal track, dove down to a region of cool shadows and running water. He took the path, picking his way between bleached limbs and the knuckles of roots. He saw what he thought was a stone, then another; one close to the trail he cleared and found a badly-weathered grave, one officer in the cavalry, died 1863. They covered the floor of the wood, some in rings of sunlight. At the creek the trail broadened and he noticed the ivory dots of recent cutting. In the trail he saw an angular shape and walked closer to see it. It was a pocket knife, its locking blade in the open position. It had an unusual inside curve and looked like a gardening tool. Initials were engraved on the blade. It looked as though it had been well-used for many years but well-maintained. He picked it up and heard a crash and rattle behind him. He turned and saw an old man cutting the twigs that grew into the trail with a pair of loppers.

The old man was the knife's owner, and when Dan showed it to him he accepted it gladly with an old-fashioned mannerism that reminded him of his own grandfather. The old man told him that the knife was a keepsake from his wife who had died years ago and it pained him to think that he may have lost it for good. The caretaker asked him if he was there to see a grave and Dan admitted that he was only passing through and that he went to school near there as a boy. The caretaker said that he had been here then, he had been there almost thirty years and had seen many of these trees grow from saplings. You see a lot of things in that time, he said. Like what, Dan said, what was the strangest thing you ever saw? The old man cut a branch. You mean ghosts, he said, with no inflection at the end. No, no ghosts, he said, but I did see a terrible electrical storm and the trees seemed to strain to the lightning. Even the blackberry canes seemed to straighten, as if they were trying to touch the sizzling cracks in the sky. Worst of all was in the civil war plot here, he said.

He explained to Dan that he had a theory about what happened after you put a person in the ground here and it had to do with an echo of their living self that remained to feed the trees and the flowers, that it was no mere handful of dust or bones or what have you, but spirit that strove in the things that grew. If the spirit was restless the trees would strive past their breaking point and come down with a vengeful crash when there was a storm; if the spirit was at peace the tree would put down roots as it should and strive as it should toward the sun and the winds. Here in this civil war plot he had seen a great many trees downed. Dan looked at the trees and saw most of them were broadleaf maples. He knew broadleaf maples were known for dropping limbs, but he didn't disagree with the old man. He wanted to hear more about his theory and what he thought about religion in general; he thought perhaps the old man had seen something stranger than what he had told but that he was holding it in reserve and Dan didn't want to spoil it. Everybody needs something to do, and if they can't have something to do they need somewhere to go, even the dead, the old man said. If they can't have that there's trouble. It makes sense to me, Dan said.

I have to see to some loose stones on the other end, the old man said. Can you find your way out? Dan said that he could and the old man told him to come back anytime.

That fall Dan returned to school and graduated as planned, because this was expected of him in a very specific way. What other things were expected of him he knew in a general way but this did not trouble him for the moment. He spent the next several years at a series of menial jobs and built a few relationships that ended in a way that he supposed could be seen as humiliating, though he had never thought so. But then he had never asked anyone straight out if they could be defined that way and now he thought it was just as well. He still thought of them all from time to time, for some reason, especially now, his first real attachment in college, perhaps because this was the one that seemed closest to whatever turning he had made to bring him to his current pass. She had been beautiful in an old-fashioned way, with pale skin and full cheeks and he had thought that he had loved her very much. Now he was not so sure exactly what form his emotions took but he still thought about her.

When Dan returned to the cemetery all of this was behind him and he was living alone. A friend from school days had written to him to tell him a mutual friend had died in a miserable way and instead of attending the funeral he had come to the cemetery. For some reason he found himself coming around to what the old man had told him more and more and he had to see if the old man was still there; he hoped that some of what he thought was age in that first meeting was a young man's self-absorption and that the caretaker was still puttering about the place. To his relief and surprise the old man was there; he found him oiling and rubbing down some gardening tools in a stuffy garage attached to a white cottage with dark green door.

The cottage stood just inside the gate and a respectful distance from the road, hedged in by tall laurels. The old man moved a little slower but did not seem materially older. He said he remembered Dan in such a way that Dan knew he was telling the truth and not simply speaking out of politeness. The old man told Dan that he was there basically as a watchman anymore; he had quit laying stone years ago and he managed only very specific and highly visible gardens. He had donated a sum to the remodel of the old chapel some years ago and he imagined they kept him on out of deference. The old man gestured and they sat on some wicker chairs on the porch and watched the limbs of the trees nod in the breeze.

Some weeks later Dan found himself out of a job and was feeling that something between relief, shame and languor that he always felt at such times and decided to rinse it out by visiting the cemetery. The old man was there, cutting the rubbery weeds around a monument with a pair of grass shears. Well, I'm out of a job, Dan said. Thought I'd come by. You out of work, the old man said without looking up. They need a guy. I'll tell them, put in a word for you.

Dan went to work for the cemetery then, coming every day to run the riding mowers and buzz the grass around the monuments with a heavy weed trimmer. Occasionally the old man would inspect his work and bring him instructions. Then one day he was gone. Dan went to the house with the green door and there was no answer. But there was an envelope under the door with his name on it. He opened the envelope and there was a key inside. There was also a note. The old man had gone, perhaps for quite a long time, but he wanted Dan to have this key. He was to go to his old school. He would find there what the old man wanted him to see. Dan turned the note over, looking for some further hint, some line of writing or map. There was nothing but blank paper.

The next day was a Saturday. Dan walked to his old school and wandered the playing fields, watching the tetherballs bong lazily against their posts, sat in a swing and watched the bands of grass, distant houses, trees and sky sweep up and down. He patted his pocket and heard the crinkle of paper. The note and key were inside. He felt something like a palpitation in his chest and a sudden feeling of unease, as if a falling stone had narrowly missed his head. He walked toward the back side of the fields, to the old door set into the hillside in its stone arch. He took the knob. It was warm. The door was as solid as ever. The lock was bright, freshly oiled even. He patted his pocket again. He pulled out the key and put it in the lock. It slid in easily. He turned the lock. The bolt slid back with a soft click. He turned the knob and stood there with his hand on it, breathing in the hot smell of steel, stone and grass. Then he opened the door.

There was a draft of cool air but it was fresh, with no hint of age. He stepped across the stone threshold and found himself in a tunnel of stone. At the end was an arch of green and spots of pink. A familiar smell blew into his face and he walked to the end. He passed into a clearing of cropped grass and cherry trees. Behind the trees was a black iron fence that described a circle closed by the earth wall he had passed through. The arch was the only access. In the center of the clearing was a flat stone. It was unmarked. By the stone was a bench, also made of stone. He sat on the bench and closed his eyes. He smelled the cherry blossoms and the familiar scent again. It was the scent of the girl he had left in college, and under it the scent of that night they had said what they had to say, the cool smell of bark and acorns and sluggish water. He tilted his face back into the sun. It was as though he had just left her. He cried a bit, then lay the note on the stone in the ground and walked back through the tunnel and locked the door behind him.

A breeze picked up the note and carried it fluttering over the fence and into the trees.