It’s a dead cat. The smell. It’s just a dead cat. Everyone is reacting to the fetid decomposition by covering their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs, tissues, or, if nothing else, cupped palms. The foul odor, already terribly unpleasant, becomes utterly nauseating as the wind shifts. A warm gentle breeze whispers through wisteria and roses, collecting their fragrant perfume, but the foul stench of decay is overpowering. Charged air seems to move with malevolent purpose as it foments fits of coughing and dry heaves throughout the small gathering. Charlie smiles.
While the presiding minister speaks vividly of life on the other side and the joyous celebration the family’s beloved Billy is experiencing in the wonderful world beyond, Charlie revels in his own divergent pleasure. He finds himself morbidly entertained as he observes the contorted faces and clinched eyelids marking the mourners’ disgust. Charlie is struck by jealousy as he realizes how badly he wishes he could smell it, too.
He remembers the day he planted the wisteria and roses. He recalls the wonderful aroma they’d released during that first spring bloom. Again, Charlie turns his attention to the direction of the festering feline. The vibrancy of the purplish-blue wisteria blossoms contrast elegantly with the innocent pink flesh of rose petals. Together they usher in an ethereal serenity people have come to expect in a cemetery.
Charlie’s gaze shifts to the somber and mysterious live oak standing resolute in the middle of the large plot – a magnificent behemoth from another era. Sprawling, Spanish-moss-draped, scabrous arms of the old tree fill Charlie with a dreadfully foreboding sadness. History has a way of ensnaring the dreamer.
Surrounding the property is an elegant, weathered, wrought-iron fence. It offers the place an air of dignified charm. An explosion of red bougainvillea covers large sections of the fence. In other places, where the bougainvillea had been cut back, verdant patches of English ivy thrive. Intermittently bare regions reveal the intricacy of patterns woven into the black iron. It adds comfort through harmony – meant to console even the most restless of spirits. An old artisan off Magazine Street had designed it a long, long time ago. Back then, this “rest park” was simply known as a cemetery or graveyard. The old man had been summoned to task because of the ornately beautiful work he generated for French Quarter proprietors.
Charlie finds himself trying to remember the meaning of back then.
As he scans the fence line along the southern boundary, his attention is arrested by a cluster of tiny white butterflies. They are floating and flittering like mystical little fairies, dancing above the shallow reflecting pond. The serene surface of the pool ripples gently as the warm breath of spring kisses the clear water. A marshy area adjacent to the pond is awash with color. White and yellow and pink and lavender mingle together, swaying atop rich green stalks. Lilies. Charlie had spent weeks excavating the pond by hand; just one man with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. Many years later, someone added several Japanese koi fish to the pond where they continue to flourish. That area of the rest park, with its graceful inhabitants and lush, pastel-palette lilies, is a popular place for visitors to find peace. The pond had taken weeks to dig, but burying the brown bulbs that would perennially burst into gay blossoms to brighten mourners’ dispositions only took a few hours.
Charlie gazes intently at the vivid blossoms and the bumbling bees alighting amorously upon them. He feels a longing to be transported to a humid day in the middle of May so very long ago. There it was again. That confusing thought. Long ago. Charlie tries desperately to envisage a concept of time. Why must it be so fleeting? The confusion leaves him as he begins to remember why he chose to plant the lilies in the first place. Not only are they beautiful, but they care for themselves. Year after year they arise from their cradle in the earth, and all that is required of the surrounding world is adoration.
Charlie shifts his attention to the eastern border. As he resumes his nostalgic journey, he scrutinizes the rich pink and tender peach hues of the flowering azalea. The funnel-shaped rhododendrons sway together in subtle unison, waving in the breeze, guided by the hand of an invisible maestro. The thick row of azaleas on the eastern edge of the cemetery is complemented just as impressively to the west.
The northern fence line is alive with charismatic energy provided by lilacs and cockscomb and zinnias and irises, all contained in well-manicured beds complete with periwinkle and chrysanthemum groundcover. Enormous shrubs with beautiful, aromatic, snowy-white blooms separate the colorful beds. The gardenias’ wildness aesthetically complements the expert precision displayed within the flower gardens. Splashes of fuchsia finish the painting with a powerful stroke.
Throughout the park, oaks of various lineages stand mightily, intermingling with magnolia, red maple, and crepe myrtle. A small grove of cypress occupies a pleasant area near the entrance. Everything fits. The most recent groundskeeper has a keen eye for detail. Charlie is impressed. She doesn’t try to force the land to give her what she wants; instead, she takes notice of what the land has given her, then offers her personal touch as an obliging gift. Charlie likes Susan, but he knows that her tenure will be short-lived if she slips up again. A dead cat can completely ruin a funeral. The cat…
Charlie looks to the wisteria and roses, then moves quietly past the mourners on his way to the origin of the obscene odor. The breeze shifts again, allowing the little group to uncover their noses to take in more refreshing air. Sniffling and sobbing resume as the gagging and coughing cease. One peculiar little girl in a powder-blue sundress with antique-white lace quietly stares intently in Charlie’s direction. Unlike the others, her cheeks are not glistening, and her dress stands out from the depressingly dark-attired crowd. A nearly imperceptible smile restes upon her delicate lips. Charlie looks away.
Continuing on, he glides carefully through the roses, then stops as he comes to the blithe explosion of purplish-blue. The streaming wisteria vines, hanging from a trellis, tremble in the breeze, resembling a cascading fountain. Beneath the pulchritudinous blossoms lay the putrefying remains of the expired feline. Her once delicate coat of yellow, orange and black is mottled against a white canvas. The fur is now matted and marred by decay. Other evidence of life wiggles and squirms beneath the surface, but it is not her own.
He looks lamentably upon the corpse for a short while before turning again to the funeral. The gathering is dispersing, moving away from the grave. Sad, sullen faces are replaced with the backs of black suits and dark dresses. All but one head are bowed as they move away from Charlie. The peculiar little girl in the powder-blue dress, who seems oblivious to the surrounding sorrow, is looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes are fixed upon the wisteria waterfall and rose-pink mounds where Charlie remains with the moldering cat.
A penetrating sadness causes Charlie to turn away. Vexed, unable to look at her anymore, Charlie wishes he could cry. He fervently desires to smell the stout wisteria and lusty gardenia. He desperately wants to inhale the delicate aroma of sweet roses and redolent lilies – his favorite. Glancing down at the cat, Charlie yearns. He wants to dispose of the carcass so Susan doesn’t get chastised, but he can’t. He is no longer the gardener. And he hasn’t been for quite some time.
Time.
Leaving the wisteria and roses behind (and the cat he can’t smell), he drifts lazily in the direction of the dark, transmundane, moss-draped Live oak in the heart of the cemetery. The tree is Charlie’s only sanctuary. Cradled in the heart of the old sentry’s protective embrace, Charlie remembers when one of the tree’s thick, strong limbs secured the coarse hemp rope that held his body as he danced so defiantly with the devil. It is the tree from which they hanged the clumsy young gardener all those many years ago. An ancient oak that guards the rest park where people plant their dead. A place where time is perched on the ledge of something remembered.
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