Golden Time of Day

When the snow melted, the spring air brought the pungent smell of trees blooming. Their pinks and fuchsias and whites created a panoply of color. Sedgwick Vorman, 39, carried the flowers in the same way to the same grave at the turn of the season. His skin looked like chestnuts and his strong cheek bones and hands shot through the neck and the sleeves of his designer jacket. He dusted off the marker and replaced the flowers. He set up a blanket and a beach chair. He then opened the newspaper. News about the worst day in stock market history since the 1929 crash alerted his attention as he turned on the radio.

The sun had wheeled about and become a glowing ball which illuminated his newspaper. He read there with a cigar in his mouth. Only jazz issued forth from the radio. Vorman looked over to the grave and puffed on his cigar. The site remained on his one hundred and eighty acres of land. He carried a flask with him with a screwdriver cocktail in it. He sipped some, and then poured out a little bit on the blades of grass, surging up from the earth.

He returned the cap to the flask and continued on his journey through grief. The heavy medicine ball used to play basketball, he called it. His wallet held a picture of his wife. Her deep brown hair had been caught in the wind. She smiled with her cocoa colored skin and a hand outstretched. It looked like she beckoned Vorman to come with her to some stand or the stable or some destination. He cleared his throat as he replaced the photograph into his pocket.

He turned the jazz tune up a bit more. Then he stopped the cassette tape. He flipped it and played the other side this time. This Tuesday he had already tended to the cows, the pigs, the horses. He didn’t need to do too much, just enough. His Sussex County, Delaware home brought him great joy. It helped with the medicine ball. But he stayed out there until the thickness of the day. It was that golden time of day that he cherished the most. The squirrels ran up and down the oak tree that provided a shelter over the grave. The sun now became a drop on the horizon.

With a look at his watch, he decided he’d go and wrap up the newspaper, switch off and pick up the radio and fold his beach chair. He then looked at the grave and stuck an American flag into a place that marked the grave.

“44,” he said aloud and then burst into tears. Not a soul stood around him. Nothing but the Eastern Screech Owl preparing to fulfill their roles rustled about on the farmland.

His heels clicked and he performed a salute. He piled all of his paraphernalia into his pickup truck and drove back to the house.

*****

“52,” Vorman voiced. This time, he opened the newspaper to terrible news regarding a bombing, the worst domestic case like this ever. He played his jazz on his CD player and sipped from his flask as he sat down on the beach chair. The golden time of day came again. He watched the sun drop again. In the setting of the orb that gave life to the planet, he saw a flicker of gold on the edge of the grave marker. It must’ve been worth something significant. He looked around and smirked.

“Thanks, for this. I didn’t know you carried such bars.” Vorman looked around and held the gold bar in his left hand, really feeling the heft of it. “Huh,” he managed to express. Vorman turned around and loaded the truck and drove back again. This time, he traveled around the estate and then to the next part of town. He went into the jewelry shop and asked about the ingot.

“This is worth $2,500,” Jim Roswell pointed out. He possessed dark features and a large nose that looked camel-like and lips that appeared ready to blow a trumpet. His tone seemed even and evoked a man who had seen his fair share of gold, but not like this.

“The best thing you could do is––” Roswell started.

“Take it to a safety deposit box.”

“Yes. Precisely. We only carry and exchange baubles and chains and the like. But I can guarantee you that if you save this, you’ll be in good standing and you’re descendants will, too, Sedge.'”

“Thanks, Jim,” Vorman replied. A glint of wisdom lay in his eyes as he knew what Roswell related.

*****

“58,” Vorman made something like an atheist's solemn prayer, quiet this time. He looked down at the grave and noticed another gold bar. This block seemed quite larger and also appeared to have a sheen about it. On this go around, he just looked at the grave and strained his vocal chords.

“It’s something that happened. Horrific. Great scale. New York, Washington, Pennsylvania. We don’t have everything….But thank you for this piece. It’ll get you your Commendation Medal, anyway.” He held back tears. He looked up and the sun had not dipped just yet. The rumble of another pickup truck sounded behind him. A woman with silver hair and tan skin walked out of the vehicle. Her cheekbones looked like they were set by a watchmaker; each detail speaking of the harmony of her nose and cheekbones and chin. Her forehead showed some lines, but she appeared as if she moved like an apparition.

“Vorman,” she called.

He shielded his eyes as the sun continued its descent. “Ricki, Ricki Collums?”

She stepped forward. “It’s me.” That’s all she said. It’s all she had to say.

“I’m glad to see you. I’ve been coming back to this place all times of the year and I’ve––”

“The gold. I know. I’ve been putting it there. Mystery solved, sir,” She announced choking on tears of her own. “It’s uh, $18,000 worth of US gold. It’ll be enough for you to exhume the body.”

Color escaped from Vorman’s face. He looked at her for a long time. “Thank you.”

“You know, with what’s going on in the world and we don’t know what could happen next…I wanted to give you some assurance,” she intoned. No trace of tears or being choked up now existed in her voice.

“I didn’t know who or what. Usually I like to keep people off my property,” he mentioned, they shared a laugh. “Yes, well now you know. It’s about time we get her back up here to pin the medal on her chest. I will repay you. It is my obligation to ensure that you get recompense for this.”

“Make me your wife,” she said, her smile curling into a crooked smirk.

Vorman just looked at Ricki. His face looked like the oak, dark and strong. “Would you like some?” He reached for his flask and offered it to her. She sipped. Never asking what it was, she just knew after seeing so many years that he had not poisoned her. He took a swig himself.

“You knew the farm was gaining money….” Vorman admitted.

“The whole town knew. I just thought a couple of gifts would be great. I had saved those bars for just a moment like this,” she proclaimed.

“I’m still going to pay you back after, and not just with a wedding ring,” he retorted.

Their light laughter came in the evening, that sun playing tricks within the atmosphere. The glob disappeared behind the trees and the two of them just stood there basking in the vanishing glow.

They then returned to their respective trucks.

*****

“60,” Vorman and Ricki pushed forth the words with conviction and triumph. The exhumation process required the earth to be eaten by the yellow vehicles that now occupied Vorman’s property. A perfect rectangle had been sketched and laid out over the lush green. The brown of the earth and the trail it left looked like crumbs to the surrounding ground.

Ricki Vorman looked on with him as the machines drew Alexis Vorman’s remains from the hole. This actually took place early in the morning where the sun wheeled higher and dueled with the clouds for air supremacy.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, their pinky fingers interlocked.

The crew spent about two hours with the whole process. Their fee actually totalled $12,000.

“That leaves us with $6,000,” she pointed out.

“We can definitely invest that in oil, now,” Vorman quipped.

Ricki flashed a wry smile.

They watched as one of the workers cranked the casket up from the earth.

The funeral director Gessup Daly then looked at the couple. His gaze then fell solely on Vorman.

“I give you this key. Do you have the medal?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

With a key in one hand and the medal in the other, Vorman unlocked the casket. The smell was fierce but like house cleaning agents. He looked at his former wife in the face.

“You’ll always outrank me, but I’ll always be the provider,” Vorman announced. He took the medal and pinned it on her chest. He patted it and saluted once more. He then walked away from the site. Daly then finished business with Vorman.

“We’ve received the check and we thank you once again for choosing Daly Funeral Homes and Crematorium.”

“You think you could fit two more of those plots besides Alexis?”

Daly didn’t look puzzled. In fact, he seemed assured. He grinned.

“I could put ten plots out here and call it your family cemetery,” Daly pointed out. Ricki’s eyes got wide. Vorman just looked at the dying sun. It didn’t even strain his eyes.

“We can draw up plans back at the office,” Daly suggested. “I’m just curious, I should have asked you years ago…why not at Veterans Cemetery?”

“I thought of my land as my last stop. Of course I thought I’d go first….”

Daly and Ricki both looked straight ahead with the light sneaking away into the darkness.

“I’m just glad we used time to our advantage and the light had been sufficient enough to get everything done. Again, we can finish up paperwork later.”

Daly watched as Vorman and Ricki made steps to their pickup truck.

At Daly’s office he found the necessary papers and allowed them to be signed.

“We’ve already secured the deposit. That’s one worry you don’t have to harbor. The next is the protection of the actual plot in which you would like multiple places for your family’s final resting place.”

“All told, I can start at $6,000.”

Ricki and Vorman looked at each other and smiled.

“I guess that takes care of that.”

“What’s that?” Daly asked.

“We had wondered what we’d do with the remaining $6,000. You just made clear that it begins at that amount.”

“I see. Well, you’ve got time.”

“I thank you for allowing us to exhume and rebury Alexis. I know that her upgrade in medals means a great deal to you. To be able to pin that upon her chest, hopefully for eternity this time,” he flashed a subtle grin, “she will be squared away.”

“What arrangements do you have with Dover Air Force Base?” Ricki asked.

“We haven’t gotten too many military men and women. About three to four since all of this began.”

“And most of them opt for the Veterans Cemetery….” Vorman mentioned.

“That is correct. They’re young. Eighteen, nineteen. It’s tough on the soul to see such young ones go like that. Families who post pictures of when they were babies, in sports leagues, high school graduation photos, that sort of thing.”

“They never get to grow up to be artists or entrepreneurs, or both….” Ricki asserted.

“No,” Daly only stated one word. Then he perked up slightly, seeing that Vorman had completed the forms.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time and do hope that pinning that medal gives you peace of mind and sets your spirit at ease.”