Page 451 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

An abrupt, harsh thunk-thunk-thunk of a knuckle hits my driver’s side glass, jolting me awake. Through the fogged windows, the sun’s fully up, pale light cutting across Jerome Avenue and the terrifying silhouette of an NYPD cruiser. The lights throw red and blue against the stone cemetery wall.

When I roll the window down, the freezing December chill slices through, and the 4 train rumbles overhead.

An officer from the 52nd Precinct stands there, a steaming paper cup of Dunkin’ in his other hand. “Morning. Everything alright in here?”

I rub my eyes, throat groggy.

“Yeah. Sorry. I… I fell asleep.

“Was waiting for the cemetery to open.”

He gestures toward the tall iron gates,

which are unlocked and opened wide.

“Gates opened seventeen minutes ago.”

My eyes dart to the dash.

The time glows 8:47 a.m.

“Look, sweetheart. You can’t be parking outside a cemetery and leave a car like this runnin’. First thing a cop thinks is an overdose. First thing a criminal thinks is an opportunity.”

I brush my hair back and sit up taller.

“Yeah. I know…”

“Right. Well, move it along.

“Put it in drive and get off the avenue.”

He taps his fist on the roof.

“Hey, and Merry Christmas.”

// 8:52 AM //

I drive through the winding, tree-lined ridges, to the highest point of Woodlawn, into the hills, where mausoleums rise out of the snow like a mini Gotham city.

I park the Benz on the asphalt path, retrieve my guitar from the back, then walk the rest of the way to Taylor Mausoleum that overlooks Jazz Corner.

I sweep snow from the stone bench under the tree, “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” then collapse in my usual spot and breathe in, the cold numbing my throat, eyes landing on the locked bronze doors.

“Merry Christmas.”

// 10:14 AM //

Crunching snow breaks the silence.

A man in a black puffer and beanie walks by, carrying a bouquet of red winter berries and carnations. He kneels in front of a newly carved headstone, his jeans soaking through instantly in the snow slush, every breath pumping out clouds into the gray morning.

He takes out the rotted stems from a plastic cone, tosses them aside, replaces them with the new flowers.

The weight of it seems to hit him all at once. He goes from tending to the grave, to collapsing against it, gripping the edges of the headstone. He presses his forehead against it, his shoulders shaking as he breaks down.

It’s a silent, violent kind of crying. A heartache that steals a tear from my eye.

I wipe it quickly.