The Time and the Place

Long past the hour he could convince himself he was still dreaming, Reginald Carson stood at his bedroom window and gazed with envy at the sleeping neighbourhood.

All the houses and cars, the trees, and the street lights slumbered under the warm blanket of a summer night. Yet there he stood at his window, a phone at his ear, wishing he wasn’t awake and the nephew of a strange old Aunt.

“Dot, are you feeling okay?” he said.

“Oh, quite good, as it goes. Never felt better.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Reginald.”

She didn’t sound frail, or lost, or scared, or anything that prompted a call so far on the other side of sleep. Hard to imagine the old girl twisted and broken at the bottom of the stairs, or losing her mind, with her voice so clear and…happy? Did she sound happy, or was it some trick of the late hour and his brain still left behind on the pillow?

Reginald wiped at his face as though it might bring some sense to the conversation.

“You do know what time it is, don’t you, Dot?”

“I do. Do you, Reginald?”

“Yes…of course…I mean…” He pulled the phone from his ear to check the front of the screen: 04:30. “It’s very late,” he said.

“Oh, but there’s still a little time left, Reginald. A little time. Enough time, at any rate, to make a few calls before I go.”

“Go?”

“Yes. Go. Not yet though, not quite, got a few last things to do.”

Maybe Dot had lost her mind? Or, perhaps she’d fallen into that time machine of a disease which transported people to better times and other places without moving them at all.

No, that couldn’t be. She was as sturdy as the old tree in her garden, maybe more so. If anything, the tree in the garden had weathered worse over time with one single limb still hanging on and leafless no matter the season.

“Where is it you think you’re going, Dot?”

“Where we all go! It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“And where would that be?”

“Oh, you know, Reginald. Don’t play silly beggars with me.”

He had an idea.

He didn’t want to have an idea.

“Stop this now. You’re scaring me.”

“Everyone goes Reginald, it’s the way of things. Especially when you get old.”

A cold creature lay its hands upon Reginald’s stomach.

“Don’t say that, Dot. You’re not old, you’re not—”

“Shush. I’m older than I ever dared think I might be. And just old enough to know when I need some assistance. And that’s why I’m calling. I need a lift, Reginald.”

“Oh no, not on your lif—not a chance,” he said. “You can stop this right now. I’ll come over and—”

“If you’re not going to give me a lift, then I’ll find some other way to get there.”

“Stop it, now, Dot.”

“I won’t be late for my date, Reginald.”

“Date?”

“I’m not all dressed up to dance alone now, am I?”

He opened his mouth and didn’t close it.

One interrupted dream ago, his Aunt Dot was that old tree of a woman who’d planted herself in a wild garden on the other side of town with her wilder cat, Tonk, for company.

Now?

He didn’t want to imagine, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Wait, don’t do anything yet. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

“You promise? Don’t let me down now.”

Reginald crossed his pyjama-clad heart.

“Cross my heart and hope to di – just don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there shortly.”

Reginald hopped, skipped, and jumped into his jeans, then put two left shoes on his two left feet, before he left the house and headed out into the sleeping summer night.

#

Dot’s house rose from a wilderness of plants and bric-a-brac. A plastic flamingo without its beak or its pink watched over a pond where only tossed copper and silver coins ever swam. A division of motley toy soldiers guarded the broken path to the house, each one armed now with daffodil or dandelion. To the right of the door, a bird table was planted that no bird had ever visited, but where a cat now roosted.

Tonk.

He was of no distinguishable breed and midnight in colour, but like everything in Dot’s world, he was missing some piece. In Tonk’s case, a left eye, which left him with a permanent wink.

“Evening, Tonk,” Reginald said, holding out a hand, forgetting their painful past.

Tonk reminded him. A claw to the back of the hand.

“I guess that’s some sort of hello.”

Tonk winked as always, licked at a paw, and returned to ignoring the guest.

Reginald reached the front door and closed his scratched fist just before the wood. There he held it.

What waited on the other side of a knock? A different woman? A woman he didn’t recognize any more? A woman who didn’t recognize herself?

The cold creature brushed against his stomach again.

He wanted to run and return to the dream Auntie Dot had woken him from.

No time.

The door swung open and a swirl of colours and fabric rushed past him into the garden. It twirled and twirled again; an excited squeal emanating from its centre, like the hum from a spinning top. When it stopped spinning, Auntie Dot remained.

“Ta-da!” she said. “How do I look?”

Her dress was a patchwork of a hundred other dresses. Blue here and red there. Gold and silver in another spot. Around the hem a bright garden of stitched flowers grew. Across her midriff, zebra stripes and leopard spots.

In her presence, Reginald forgot what had brought him to the house. He saw only the same bright woman in amongst the colourful confusion of cloth he’d always known. Nothing lost. Nothing needing to be found.

“You look wonderful, Dot,” he said.

She held her hem and curtsied.

“I think you might be right. Good enough for my purpose in any case.”

“Did you make it yourself?”

“Of course. You don’t imagine there’s a shop that sells something so unique, do you? This is a once in a lifetime kind of dress. See?” She traced the patches of fabric, one to the next. “This is from a summer that was too short and needed to be longer. Here’s a winter that was too long and needed to be shorter. This here,” she said, patting a Halloween orange patch over her ribs, “from an autumn that was just about right.”

The cold hand warmed on Reginald’s stomach.

“It’s beautiful,” he said

“In some parts, yes.”

“Some?”

“No biography is all sunshine and flowers now, is it?”

“Biography?”

Auntie Dot patted down the material of her once-in-a-lifetime dress.

“Some write a memoir, others take photographs, but I stitched this dress together. From the time I could first thread a needle, I collected a scrap from every dress I wore. Every good moment and every bad. And all for the time when I would finally have an occasion fit for such a dress. Look here.” She ran her finger through the flowers upon her hem. “A bouquet from my first love, and here my second, and here a single rose from when I finally stopped counting.” She reached and ruffled a ghost of white satin haunting her shoulder. “And this from when I was bridesmaid to a jilted bride. And here from when I suffered the same fate. And this, this…”

She pointed to a square patch of black stitched over her heart. Her smile became a shadow.

“Dot?”

“…this is for my date tonight,” she said.

“Date? You can’t be serious?”

She pointed to the shadow where her smile once was. “Is this not a serious face?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re not thinking of going back on your promise, are you?” she said.

“Yes, I mean, no. But listen, Dot, this is all crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

“I know it, but that doesn’t matter. You must always keep your promises, Reginald. Always, no matter what anybody thinks of them. I keep mine and you, you must keep yours.”

“But—”

She crossed her arms over the black square of fabric.

“I’ll walk if I must.”

“You shouldn’t be out walking alone at this time of night.”

She hooked an arm under his.

“Luckily for me, I won’t be alone. I’ll have my big, tall nephew for company, won’t I?”

He couldn’t say no. Not even to this kind of madness.

But he didn’t have to mean it.

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” he said.

“No.”

You will, he promised himself. A baby would sleep with the lullaby of a car’s engine beneath them and the shades pulled down on the world, why not an aunt? Why not a crazy idea?

“Okay, okay. Where exactly am I taking you on this date of yours?”

She ran to him, flung her arms around his body, and hugged him tight. When the hugging was over, she gave her directions. Only one direction, not so hard to find in a small town with no cars on the road and the time long past midnight.

“The graveyard,” she said.

#

Even the smallest of towns had their short cuts and a long way home. Reginald took every wrong turn he could find, and asked every question that came to mind as they drove on through the night, until he came to the question he’d wanted to ask from the start.

“What’s to see in the graveyard, Dot?”

“Depends which side of the earth you’re on.”

“What was that?”

She brushed his hand.

“Those who are in the ground, those who are out.”

“Oh.”

“Buried don’t see much, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Lot of worms, whispering. Lot of earth. Boring, really.”

“And those who aren’t buried?”

Aunt Dot looked out into the night and its passing lights, and there between the flickers, she found her answer.

“They come for the stories,” she said.

Reginald couldn’t imagine what stories a graveyard contained. There was lots of silence, and when there wasn’t silence, there was sobbing. But stories?

“What stories?” he said.

“Graveyards are libraries. Lots of people there reading. Born when, died then, and all that comes between. Short stories. Large text.”

Reginald turned a corner and another, and headed back from where he’d come from a second time. He could loop around until dawn, and hopefully first light would cure the madness.

But not his curiosity.

“A graveyard is a library?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Well, some come for the company.”

“The company?” He didn’t see what company could be had in a graveyard after midnight, none that he’d want to meet, at any rate. And the only company in the day was other mourners, and the occasional crow or two. “You mean other mourners visiting the graveyard?”

In the backwash of the town’s light, she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Ghosts,” she said.

“Ghosts?”

“You know? Spirits. Spectres. Things that go bump in the night, but don’t make as much noise in the day.”

Reginald squinted, and he wasn’t sure if it was the scant light, or confusion which caused it.

“I didn’t think ghosts came out in the day?”

She slapped him playfully on the hand. “They’re not badgers, Reginald. Best time to see a ghost is in the middle of the day.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yes. Just after lunch. That’s when they get to haunting.”

Despite the madness, and the night, and the hoping for dawn, and everything to be just a dream he hadn’t woken from, Reginald found himself curious.

“I’ve never heard of that before. I thought they just hung around old mansions and hotels. I thought they only came out at night.”

She tutted.

“What’s the use of haunting at night when everybody’s already asleep? Doesn’t matter how many chains you rattle if you’re around a heavy sleeper.”

He chuckled. He’d never thought about it before. The only thing that could raise him from his sleep was an aunt calling him up late into the evening. Chains, probably not.

“ I suppose you’re right,” he said.

“I know I am.”

“So why has nobody taken a picture of a ghost in the day?”

She slapped his arm playfully. “Because ghosts only come out at night. Isn’t that so?”

Reginald forgot his purpose and why he was riding around in circles. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Nobody’s out in the day looking for ghosts, Reginald. And if they saw one, what would they think, you think?”

He thought.

He thunk.

“That it’s not a ghost?”

“Because?”

Reginald giggled. “Because ghosts only come out at night.”

Aunt Dot giggled. “Now, let’s stop going around in circles, and get to the graveyard. I don’t want to miss my date.”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—I—”

She grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Her grip thirty years younger than the years she’d measured on a calendar.

“I may be old, Reginald, but I’m not now, nor have I ever been a fool. Driving around and around and trying to get me to sleep like a little baby isn’t going to work.”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—I—”

“You think I’ve gone a bit doolally, don’t you?” Aunt Dot twisted a circle with a finger around her temple.

“No,” he said, but it was a weak word on numb lips.

“Oh, yes you do. Can’t fool me. You think I’m a foolish old woman who’s lost her marbles. Well I’m not.”

“I don’t think that, Dot. I just—”

“I’m an elephant,” she said, matter-of-factly.

He stopped the car.

He stared at his Aunt Dot, her face framed by the light from the street lamps.

It was a kind face, a warm face, a face with a wide smile and bright eyes. A face without worry or concern. A face that showed no madness.

But the face was only a door, he knew, to a hidden room piled up with who knew what crazy kinds of things.

She’s gone, he thought. I’m losing her. I’m watching her mind slip away, and I can’t do anything about it.

Except speak.

“Dot, you’re not an elephant. Now, let’s get you home and—” he said, his voice as soft as if he was cooing a child in a crib.

“You fool!” She slapped him hard across the cheek. “Of course, I’m not a real elephant. And if you say it again, I’ve got another slap waiting for your other cheek..”

Reginald rubbed his sore cheek. “Sorry.”

“I’m like an elephant,” Dot said.

“You are? How?”

She pinched the cheek she’d slapped, and it was only slightly less painful.

“Do I have to explain everything?”

“It’d be nice if you explained something.”

“What do elephants do when they know they’re dying, Reginald?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t even know the difference between African and Indian elephants, only that there was a difference, and it might have something to do with their ears.

“I haven’t got a clue.”

“When an elephant knows its time is up, it trundles off far away from the herd to its final resting place.”

“Resting place?”

“Where we’re supposed to be going, if you didn’t keep driving around and around in circles.”

“The graveyard?”

“In their case, an elephant graveyard. We won’t find any elephants where we’re going, though, unless you count me. Now start up the car.”

He put his hand on the car’s ignition key and kept it there without turning.

“You’re not an elephant, Dot.”

Dot showed him her hand. A good hand for slapping someone with. “I already told you—”

“I mean, you’re not dying. You’re in perfect health.”

“Health! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” he said.

She pinched his other cheek. “You’ll learn when you get older.”

“Learn?”

“When you’re young, tomorrows are countless. When you’re old, today is always your last.”

He didn’t want this to be a last day, or night for that matter. But he could sense that’s just what it would be.

She wasn’t dying, but in the days that followed, it would feel that way, he knew. She’d forget his name, and his face. He’d become a stranger when he visited. Worse, a flickering memory; a candle in a dark room that blew out all too quickly.

“I—”

“I know the time and the place, Reginald. I’m an elephant. Now start up the car.”

“Dot, please...”

“Start the car, Reginald. Or do you want me to walk?”

He didn’t want her to walk. He wanted to lock all the doors and drive as fast as he could back to that house in the middle of the wilderness on the opposite side of town. He wanted her to go to her bed and waked up the old Aunt Dot he knew and loved. He wanted—

Reginald turned the key and started the car.

I’ll drive her there, and let her walk off this madness, he thought. It’ll all be over in an hour or two.

It’ll all be over.

The thought haunted him as he drove through the midnight dark of the town and into the graveyard.

There, with no ghosts for company, he walked his aunt through the summer-warmed night to the benches overlooking a miniature city of headstones. They sat together, the headlights from a few lonely cars in the far distance turning on lights in that land of the dead.

He uhmmed a few times before he could find a question.

“Can we go home now, Dot?”

She kissed him on the cheek.

“You may. I still have to make my date. Did you forget?”

“No, but—”

“Elephants never forget. And what am I, Reginald?”

“You’re not an elephant, Dot. Please, don’t—”

She jumped up from the bench and twirled.

“Goodbye, Reginald. Feed Tonk for me, will you?”

“You’re not going anywhere, Dot. Don’t be silly,” he said, the cold hand of the creature returning, snaking its way up to his throat.

“It’s okay.”

“No, no, it isn’t, stop this, please just—” His eyes swam.

She wiped a tear from his cheek before it could drop and stain the bench.

“Not now, Reginald. Save the tears for later, much later. Do you hear me?”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Reginald.”

He opened his mouth to speak and found nothing but a choked breath.

Dot danced off along the path, through the tiny city of the dead, and stopped before a tall marbled angel. She spoke softly to the statue in words that he couldn’t hear. She laughed. The laugh of a girl falling in love for the first time. A girl in an autumn that was just right. In a dress stitched together from more good memories than bad.

And then she danced.

She danced alone amongst the headstones, her arms embracing the night.

She danced and danced some more.

And then she danced no more.