Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [83]
Sunday would have been her nineteenth birthday.
Chuck parked on Franklin Avenue and followed the sidewalk around the corner to the main entrance. Older than the city of Miami itself, and situated on a few silent acres in West Coconut Grove, Charlotte Jane Memorial Park was in some ways the departed soul of a neighborhood that was rich in history and plagued by crime. Multimillion-dollar estates lay between the bay to the east and, to the west, the old Grove ghetto, where gunfights in run-down bars and package stores were all too common, and the “have-nots” tried not to get caught in the crossfire. After dark, street corners on Grand Avenue could service just about anyone’s bad habit, from gangs with their random hits to doctors and lawyers who ventured out into the night in deference to their addictions. But within Charlotte Jane’s iron gates rested the early settlers who sailed across the Florida Straits from the Bahamas. Shada’s family was from the islands, and she had chosen this historic cemetery for McKenna. Chuck was ashamed to admit it, but he had been too distraught to make such decisions. The fact that it was within a stone’s throw of south Florida’s oldest African-American Baptist church hadn’t fazed his wife. Shada’s father was Muslim, but religion had never been important in her life.
Chuck stood beneath the arching ironwork at the entrance gate and drew a breath. Even by Coconut Grove standards, Charlotte Jane was a unique burial ground. As was the old Bahamian way, bodies rested aboveground in tombs that looked like stone caskets. Tombs were so close together that visitors barely had enough room to step between them. Some were their original stone color, but others were painted white or silver and looked brilliant in the Florida sun. Many were in disrepair, however, either deteriorating with age or the target of vandals. Spanish moss hung from sprawling oak limbs like dusty old spiderwebs from a chandelier, and the overall impression was more one of haunted than hallowed ground. Chuck was fine with it. McKenna probably would have found it cool that Michael Jackson had filmed part of his famous Thriller video here—or at least that was the Miami lore.
“You okay?” asked Vince.
“I guess so.”
A large sign at the entrance warned him to lock his car and take his valuables with him. He hadn’t bothered. Visiting his daughter’s grave made it impossible to give a hoot about petty theft.
“Damn it,” said Vince.
Chuck turned and saw his friend sitting on a tomb and rubbing his shin. Vince’s guide dog had a sorry look on his face.
“What happened?” asked Chuck.
“Either I tripped over a tomb or a dead guy jumped out and kicked me in the shin. What do you think happened?”
Chuck gave him a minute, but he didn’t dare help him up. He knew how much Vince hated that.
“Sorry,” Vince said, rising. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like a royal smart-ass. Especially here. Today of all days.”
“Forget it,” said Chuck. He turned and continued toward the north end of the cemetery. Sam followed, and Vince was right behind his guide dog.
McKenna was buried beneath two large oak trees in one of the oldest sections of the cemetery. Hers was among relatively few tombs from the twenty-first century. The cemetery had been essentially full for years. Space came available only as the oldest tombs, holding bodies unknown, disintegrated. But it wasn’t just the new tombs that were decorated with flowers. Even Mrs. Blackshear, “Asleep in Jesus” since 1927, had a vase filled with plastic carnations. It was a touching gesture,