Page 29 of The Happy Month
“It’ll be okay,” I said, reflexively. He’d told me a milliontimes I needed to see a doctor about it. I really didn’t need to hear it again.
“Oh, I did find something. Probably nothing but…” From just inside 1019, he grabbed a big stack of greeting cards. “These were stuck in books. It’s hard to say how old they are, there weren’t any envelopes and it’s first names only.”
“Throw them in the Fred Segal bag. You never know.”
Ten minutes later, everything was locked up and we carried our findings down the elevator and out to the Jeep. It’s probably just as well I didn’t find more, what we did have filled up the tiny space behind the back seat and the spot next to John. My Wrangler was hardly what you’d call spacious.
I suppose I could have gotten on the 101, but that was risky, rush hour would be starting soon. I took Beverly over to Western, cut up to Santa Monica, and took Cahuenga through the pass to Barham. It was the same way I’d come to see Sheila Karpinski at her Burbank stable. Before reaching Warner Brothers Studio, we turned right on to the aptly named Forest Lawn Boulevard.
We found the entrance, then immediately stopped at the information booth. A gentleman in his mid-sixties came out. Thinning hair, slight paunch, he looked straight out of central casting.
“Hi. Can you help us find Lot 2077, space 3?”
“You got a name with that?”
“Vera Korenko,” I said.
“One second.”
He went back into his booth and pulled out a large notebook. He opened it on a shelf which also housed a telephone and the book he was reading by Tom Clancy. He came back out and said, “Nope.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, not knowing what no meant.
“Vera Korenko is in 2077. Space 1.”
“Okay. Is there someone in space 3?”
He went back in, examined the page, then came out and said, “Ivan Melchor.”
“And space 2?”
“Empty.”
Ronnie leaned over me and asked, “Can you tell us who owns the empty plot.”
“Nope. I can only give out information on the dead.”
“And where are these?” I asked.
“Go down two streets, in the section called Eternal Love. East side.”
“Thank you.”
I drove on, his directions easy to follow. We got out of the Jeep and soon realized that, while we were in the right area the graves still weren’t easy to find. We spread out and wandered around until John called out, “Over here.”
It was almost ninety degrees and I’d begun to sweat. The cemetery was on a hill and rather than having markers standing up, there were plaques laid flat into the ground. The grass was well-watered and a brilliant green that went well with the bright blue sky, not to mention the few rabbit-like clouds floating by.
When I reached John, Ronnie was already there with him. They were looking down at Vera Korenko’s marker. It looked just like it did in the book, except in color. There was an empty space and then the marker for Ivan Melchor, the man to whom Patrick had sent flowers for years. His marker read:
Ivan Melchor
my Hadrian
1906-1972
“Who’s Hadrian?” Ronnie asked.
“Beats me,” John said. “Greek God?”
