As I No Longer Lay Dying (Part VIII)

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“Anybody that knows anything about Faulkner knows that he hated dealing with money. It was the bane of his life. He hated that he made more money from his short stories than he did from his novels. He hated having to go work in Hollywood to pay the bills. So what does Joe Average do when he gets to the poor guy’s grave? Throw pennies and dimes on it! I think it’s insulting, frankly.”

“Oh, come on,” said Renee. “Who knows? Maybe he’s grateful somebody gave him some money and he didn’t have to work for it for a change. Maybe he’s lying down there going ‘Thanks!’ You don’t know! This is a stupid conversation.”

“You’re right,” I said; I may have carried this on too long, as is usually the case, but I think I should be commended for not dragging Graceland into the argument, if for no other reason than it shows I’m not a complete numbskull. “I’ll drop it.” Renee warmed after that, taking my picture in front of the tombstone and patiently waiting while I struggled to enjoy the moment. It was the coins, spread out haphazardly over his slab like change at the bottom of a mall fountain, festering in my mind every time I looked down at it, that made me do it; soon Renee said she’d be waiting in the car, that she’d be looking at her magazines and I could take as long as I wanted. She walked down the steps out of the plot.

I joined her, after I finished, and promised her that the rest of the afternoon and the evening was hers. The skies suddenly began to darken; low-hanging clouds the color of steel wool tumbled in hurriedly from the horizon towards us. A strange light, electric and greenish-yellow, saturated the cemetery, the trees, our car. As I shut the car door, I cried “Damn! I think it’s going to rain hard! Look how nasty the sky is. Damn.” Renee nodded in silent agreement, watching the roiling clouds approach until she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew, but she asked anyway:

“What is that jingling sound?”

It was me. My cargo shorts were full of change.

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