The Second Line

On the first Tuesday of November, the leaves had turned to rust and the sky was the color of old cement. That was the day my grandmother, Elara, stopped breathing in her sleep, two weeks shy of her eighty-ninth birthday. I remember the date because we buried her under a bare maple, and the ground was hard enough that the gravediggers had to use a pickaxe.

Then, on a wet April morning in 2016, my grandfather, Aldous, followed her. He had been failing since Elara left, his mind drifting to places we couldn’t follow, his body slowly giving up. We buried him on a Saturday, the fourth of that month, in the same cemetery, next to the same maple, now leafing out in pale green. The service was at the old stone church on Pemberton Road, and after the final hymn, the funeral director motioned for the pallbearers to gather. I was one of them, and my mother, Greta, and I hung back, letting the crowd thin, then slipped into the second car in the procession.

As the line of cars began to move, I glanced out the passenger window. Across the street, by the fence that bordered the old Harlow property, I saw an old man and woman standing side by side. They were too far to make out faces, but there was something familiar in the way the man stood, one hand resting on the fence post, the other holding a dark hat against his chest. The woman leaned slightly into him, as if sharing a secret. I blinked, and they were gone, probably lost behind a passing truck. But my skin prickled, and I felt a cold draft inside the warm car.

Mother was quiet, her hands folded in her lap. She hadn’t spoken since the church. I wanted to ask if she had seen them, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I watched the road, the familiar stretch of asphalt that led to the cemetery, my mind replaying the image of that couple. It couldn’t have been them, I told myself. They were both dead and buried. But the man’s posture, the way he held his hat, was the spitting image of Aldous.

At the graveside, we lowered the casket, said our final goodbyes, and dispersed. As I walked back to the car, I noticed a small, tarnished object on the ground near the grave, half-hidden in the grass. I picked it up: it was a silver pocket watch, its face cracked, the hands frozen at 4:17. I had never seen it before, but it felt warm in my palm, as if it had been held recently. I slipped it into my jacket pocket without telling anyone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the watch, and about the old couple. At 4:17 AM, I woke from a restless doze to the sound of a car engine idling outside. I went to the window. Below, in the streetlight’s glow, a black hearse was parked in front of my house. The driver’s door was open, but no one was inside. I watched, my breath fogging the glass, as a figure emerged from the shadows of the porch across the street—the house where my grandmother and grandfather had lived. It was a tall man in a long coat, and he walked slowly toward the hearse, opened the back door, and climbed in. The engine cut off. Silence.

I went back to bed, convinced I had been dreaming. But when I woke the next morning, the watch was on my nightstand, not in my jacket. I hadn’t placed it there. I called my mother, and before I could speak, she said, ‘I saw them too.’ Her voice was thin, like it was coming from far away. ‘At the funeral. They waved at you. I thought I was losing my mind.’

I drove to the old house that afternoon. It was up for sale, a forlorn ‘For Sale’ sign leaning in the overgrown lawn. The door was unlocked, and I let myself in. The rooms were empty, stripped of furniture, but the walls still bore the ghosts of picture hooks. In the back bedroom, which had been my grandfather’s study, I found a drawer in the desk that had been left open. Inside was a stack of photographs, all of them taken on the same day: October 31, 1995. They showed my grandparents at a Halloween party, laughing, dressed as a king and queen. In each photo, behind them, there was a dark figure, its face obscured, always the same height.

The last photo was different. It was taken in the church, during my grandmother’s funeral. There was a crowd of mourners, but in the corner, a man and woman stood apart, wearing black, their faces turned toward the camera. I studied the photo, and my blood went cold. The man was my grandfather, but younger, and the woman was my grandmother, but she was alive, looking straight into the lens with a small, sad smile. I flipped it over. On the back, in pencil, was written: ‘We’ll be waiting at the fence.’

Then I noticed something else in the drawer: a faded, yellowed newspaper clipping from February 2008. It was an obituary for someone named ‘Thomas Harlow,’ who had died on February 19, 2008—the same date as my grandfather. I had never heard of him. I took the clipping, the photos, and the watch, and left.

That night, I placed the watch on my windowsill. At 4:17 AM, I heard the hearse again. This time, I went outside. The vehicle was idling in front of the house, and the back door was open. I approached cautiously. Inside, on the floor, was a single item: a black umbrella, folded, with a brass handle. I picked it up, and when I straightened, I saw the old couple standing at the end of the driveway, under the streetlight. They were not ghosts of my relatives, but they were not entirely real either. The man raised his hand and pointed toward the cemetery. Then they turned and walked away, and the hearse’s engine died.

I drove to the cemetery, my hands trembling on the wheel. The gate was locked, but I climbed over. The graves of my grandparents were quiet, the fresh earth of my grandfather’s grave still mounded. I stood there, the umbrella in my hand, and I saw them again, at the edge of the cemetery, by the same fence that bordered the old Harlow property. They were waving, just as they had waved at the funeral. I walked toward them, and as I got closer, I saw that they were not old at all, but young, perhaps in their thirties, and they were dressed in clothes from decades past. The man was holding a watch, and the woman was holding a photograph. They pointed at my hand, at the umbrella. I looked down. The umbrella was now open, and in its shadow, I saw a third figure, darker, watching me.

I dropped the umbrella and fled. I drove home, locked every door, and sat in the dark until dawn. The watch is still on my windowsill. It still reads 4:17. And every night, I hear the hearse. I think they are waiting for me to take my place. But I don’t know what they want, or why they chose me. All I know is that on the first Tuesday of November, the sky was the color of old cement, and I saw my grandparents one last time. They were standing at the fence, waving, and they were not alone.