The Walkers
by Rex Brooke
It had been over three months since Emmet had come home from the hospital, where the doctors had reset the clock to his heartbeat. Against the advice of everyone except his bar buddies at Dick’s at the Bridge, where Emmett was a regular patron, Emmet went right back to drinking and losing money in a myriad of online gambling venues. He was tired all the time, and his heart would frequently thump like a tuba, and he spent his days sitting in his recliner doing crossword puzzles, thumbing through the internet, and planning his return to his acting career, which, truth be told, had never been much of a career.
Then spring arrived. The days were warm enough for the sun to transform the snow drifts into small blue tendrils of water, which snaked down the sidewalks. Trash that had been buried in the long winter’s snow emerged like deformed tulips. The elms began to leaf out, and the songbirds returned, and Emmet felt for the first time since his operation the urge to try and get into some sort of physical shape. He was beginning to look like a water balloon. He thought about joining a gym but decided there would be too many self-absorbed people. Yoga classes were out of the question. Emmet could barely cross his legs. He finally settled on the idea of starting a regimen of going on walks. He would start slowly and work his way back up, running a 10K. The best part is that it wouldn’t cost a dime. Maybe exercise would help with his lack of energy and with his constant headaches.
On the first Monday in April, he got up from his afternoon nap, put on a clean T-shirt, pulled on a pair of blue jogging pants with a white stripe down the side, and laced up a pair of blue jogging shoes. Finally, he donned a black, zip-up hoodie, topped it all with a grey knit beanie that an old girlfriend had given him, took the elevator down to the parking garage, got into his 22-year-old Cadillac, and drove to the All-Saints Cemetery. This would be the first installment on his promise to walk, every day, on the sidewalk around the perimeter of the cemetery.
The cemetery was nestled on a hump of earth and was girded by an eight-foot-high chain link fence embedded with vines of ivy, which, once they had leafed out, would provide privacy for the dead and for the various groups of mourners who cued up daily to witness the postscript to the final act.
The chain link fence also deterred the teenagers and other romantics who liked to sneak in at night and make love on the graves.
Emmet parked near the front gate, where a uniformed bulldog of a guard, who looked like Cerberus himself, was sitting in a small kiosk, watching an array of live cameras on a computer screen. Emmet sat in his car waiting for a break in the steady stream of pedestrians flowing past: there was a group of four joggers followed by a woman trotting behind a rather aerodynamic pram, who was followed by a middle aged couple with walking sticks, who were followed by two skate boarders doing all variety of tricks which were being videoed on a third youth’s cellphone. Finally, Emmet got out of his car, retied his shoelaces, and began to walk slowly down the sidewalk, counterclockwise to the odd parade.
The four joggers and the pram lady passed by twice before he had completed one lap. He was exhausted. Panting, with his back aching, he was approaching the entrance gate again when he noted a woman coming toward him. He glanced at her ever so briefly. She was tall, full of right angles, and was wearing a beige, full-length, down coat. Her black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail under her blue visor, showing her small ears, in which were embedded a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds. She was wearing dark glasses and black leather gloves and was swinging her arms like a drum major as she glided past, almost as if she were on wheels. She did not seem to look at him.
Emmet continued to his car and opened the door, but before he got in, he looked in the direction in which she was walking and watched until she had gone around the corner.
That night, Emmet lay in bed thinking about her. She reminded him of a girl he had once dated, 15 years before. The one who gave him the beanie. There was something in the way she moved. He began to hum an old Beatles song: "attracts me like no other lover."
Every day, for the rest of the week, at 3:00, Emmet would put on his blue jogging pants and blue jogging shoes, drive to the cemetery, and park as close to the gate as possible. He would then walk in a counterclockwise fashion, one time around the cemetery, silently counting his steps. By the fourth day, the walk was not any easier. Every day, he looked for the woman in the long coat. But she was not there.
The following Monday, however, as he ended his lap and was leaning on the trunk of his car, he saw her, coming toward him, wearing the same outfit: an ankle-length down jacket, blue visor, red shoes, dark glasses, black gloves. This time, Emmet did not lower his gaze as she approached, noting her angular shoulders, her clavicle, thin as a birthday candle, and that walk, which reminded him of a square-masted sailing ship. She strode by, looking straight ahead, pumping her arms, hands swinging like a seal's flippers, counterbalancing her stride while she sang off-key in a low voice what sounded like an aria from La Traviata. Once again, Emmet stood with his car door open and watched her disappear around the corner. "She has a very unusual stride," he thought. He got in and started the car.
That night, as he lay in bed, he replayed her image in his mind--the way she swung her arms, her conscious gait, her red shoes. And he rehearsed how the next time he saw her, he would say something--exactly what, he couldn't decide upon. He didn't want to seem like a sleazy pick-up artist. "Do you mind if I ask you a question? What is your name?" No, that was too aggressive. Something more non-committal. A simple "good afternoon." With a smile. Without a smile. But what if she wasn't looking at him? He couldn't just interrupt whatever she was concentrating on. Maybe he would just nod if she looked his way. No smile. Definitely no smile.
It was raining the following Monday. Not hard, but enough to require windshield wipers when he drove to the cemetery. There were very few people out. Emmet parked in his usual spot, got out, and commenced on his walk. The sidewalk was wet, but the light rain had stopped. As he turned the final corner to his lap, he saw her in the distance, striding toward him. It seemed like she was looking at him, but he couldn't tell, and by the time she passed, she was definitely looking straight ahead. "Wow! Deja Vu," he said as she passed, but she either ignored him or couldn't hear him through her noise-cancelling ear buds, because she did not acknowledge his comment.
"Don't try to be ironic, idiot," he said to himself.
He continued with his exercise routine for the remainder of the week but never encountered her. Monday must be the only day she walked, he concluded.
The next Monday was the third day of a gradual warming trend. The snowbanks lining the street had now completely melted, and the vines on the chain link fence were beginning to obscure the view of the graveyard. All morning, Emmet sat thinking again of how to approach her. Because of the way in which she walked, he had thought about asking her if she was a dancer. Maybe she had injured herself, which caused her gait to be so deliberate. He tried a few lines. "Are you a dancer?" Or "You move like you were a dancer." Or "You move so gracefully. Were you a dancer?" Better to ask in the present tense. They can be so sensitive. Not were. Are. "Are you a dancer?” All his questions seemed to be so obnoxious. "Don't intrude," he said to himself. "It will just irritate her when she is obviously concentrating on her exercise routine." Still, what was it about her that was so intriguing?
That afternoon, Emmet dressed for the first time without his hoodie and beanie and waited by his front door until it was time to drive to the cemetery. Finding his regular parking spot taken, he had to park two blocks away from the entrance. He hurried back to the gate and, already out of breath, began his walk, fearful that being 10 minutes late would ruin his chances of an encounter.
However, as regular as a utility bill, when he came around the final corner, there she was, at the other end of the block, wearing the same uniform--the long coat, the gloves, the Jacqueline Kennedy dark glasses, moving toward him, on red shoes, arms swinging counterpoint to her stride. As they approached each other from opposite sides of the entrance gate, they had to stop and wait for the river of cars that was entering the cemetery. Between the vehicles flashed the stroboscopic image of her on the other side. She was walking in place. And she was looking right at him. Finally, the last of the funeral procession entered the gate, and Emmet and the woman resumed walking toward each other. "Must have been a big shot," Emmet blurted out as she passed.
She smiled over her shoulder as she continued on her way. "Not anymore."
Dark humor, he thought. A good sign. And what a smile! Surely it was some sort of invitation. Right then, Emmet decided that the following Monday, if they crossed paths, he would ask her name. How hard could that be? He would start with something clever. "I can set my watch by you, but I don't know your name." Or "We can't keep not meeting like this. I'm Emmet." At night, he practiced these lines, over and over, and wound up admonishing himself not to try to be clever or witty and to just be straightforward. Whatever that was.
The next Monday arrived. The spring day was fluffy and promising. In spite of not feeling well, Emmet started his usual walk at precisely the right time, stopping only once to watch a flock of ravens tumbling across the sky. Turning the last corner, he scanned to the end of the block and felt his feet get very heavy. There she was, standing still, looking through an opening in the ivied fence. He adjusted his gait and pressed forward. As he got closer, he could see that she was watching a group of mourners gathering around an open grave. As Emmet passed her, he stopped and, rather too loudly, said, "Hello!”
"Hello," she replied, glancing quickly at him before continuing to watch the internment.
"Nice day for a funeral," Emmet said, and immediately regretted it.
"Yes, it is," she answered.
"Yes," was all Emmet could think of saying.
"I'm Angela, by the way," she said suddenly.
"Perfect. Of course. Angela. Emmet here," he said, pointing to his head.
"I know, Emmet."
"That's me."
They stood looking at the burial ceremony for a few awkward moments. Suddenly, she looked at Emmet. “If you could, would you want to know exactly when you were going to die?”
"No." He laughed. "No way."
"That's what most people say, Emmet."
That was it. She looked away, put her earbuds back on, and resumed her walk.
That night, lying in bed, he wondered how she knew his name. Maybe it was just something she said. "I know, Emmet," meant to say, "I know someone named Emmet." But maybe she was really interested in him, and had somehow looked up his name, from his car license plate, probably. You could find anything on the internet. He said her name. “Angela.” She had pronounced it Aun-hel-la, with a foreign emphasis. So, they were on a first-name basis. Great. Finally. He then began to think of all sorts of answers he should have had for her question about knowing when he was going to die. "It is why capital punishment is so wrong." Not a very intimate topic. How about "I wonder what my last thought will be." Better. He decided he would use that as an opening the next time he saw her. He would then invite her to coffee.
The following Monday, Emmet arrived early at the cemetery and waited nervously in his car until it was 3:15 exactly. He leaned forward and looked in his rear-view mirror. He arranged his hair several times and then got out and proceeded on his walk. There was a tingling in his left arm, and it was harder than usual to breathe. He looked at his watch. It had stopped. He shook it, hoping to jar it to life, but it was still frozen at 3:23 p.m. He started walking again. He was dizzy. He thought about turning around and going home to bed, but he had to see her. He continued, with difficulty, down the sidewalk. Before he reached the first corner, there she was, coming toward him. She was walking with her characteristic stride. Her long coat was unzipped and was fluttering like a pair of wings. He stopped, held his arms out wide, his feet suddenly light, his heart beating rapidly. He was going to embrace her. She slowed to a stop before him. She took her earbuds out. "I am so glad to see you."
She peeled her gloves off and stuffed them into her coat pocket. Her hands were the color of uncooked bacon, with talon-like fingers. She looked at the silver watch on her wrist. "3:23," she said. "On the dot." She removed her dark glasses. She had dark purple bruises under her eyes.
"Oh, shit,” thought Emmet as he let his arms fall to his side.
Angela reached forward and, with a long fingernail, touched him lightly on his shoulder. "Emmet," she said with a slight smile. "It's now."
As she dragged her fingernail from his shoulder to his neck, Emmet felt his heart bang against his sternum. “Deja vu,” he said out loud. His eyes rolled back, his legs gave way, and he fell forward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Angela stepped around the body, zipped her coat back up, pulled her gloves and dark glasses back on, and, swinging her arms, strode to a long, black sedan that was parked near the entrance to the cemetery. The back door swung open. She folded herself into the back seat, pulled the door shut, and without looking back, pushed the button that rolled up the tinted window. The car slowly pulled out of the parking space, merged with the traffic, and disappeared down the road.
Then spring arrived. The days were warm enough for the sun to transform the snow drifts into small blue tendrils of water, which snaked down the sidewalks. Trash that had been buried in the long winter’s snow emerged like deformed tulips. The elms began to leaf out, and the songbirds returned, and Emmet felt for the first time since his operation the urge to try and get into some sort of physical shape. He was beginning to look like a water balloon. He thought about joining a gym but decided there would be too many self-absorbed people. Yoga classes were out of the question. Emmet could barely cross his legs. He finally settled on the idea of starting a regimen of going on walks. He would start slowly and work his way back up, running a 10K. The best part is that it wouldn’t cost a dime. Maybe exercise would help with his lack of energy and with his constant headaches.
On the first Monday in April, he got up from his afternoon nap, put on a clean T-shirt, pulled on a pair of blue jogging pants with a white stripe down the side, and laced up a pair of blue jogging shoes. Finally, he donned a black, zip-up hoodie, topped it all with a grey knit beanie that an old girlfriend had given him, took the elevator down to the parking garage, got into his 22-year-old Cadillac, and drove to the All-Saints Cemetery. This would be the first installment on his promise to walk, every day, on the sidewalk around the perimeter of the cemetery.
The cemetery was nestled on a hump of earth and was girded by an eight-foot-high chain link fence embedded with vines of ivy, which, once they had leafed out, would provide privacy for the dead and for the various groups of mourners who cued up daily to witness the postscript to the final act.
The chain link fence also deterred the teenagers and other romantics who liked to sneak in at night and make love on the graves.
Emmet parked near the front gate, where a uniformed bulldog of a guard, who looked like Cerberus himself, was sitting in a small kiosk, watching an array of live cameras on a computer screen. Emmet sat in his car waiting for a break in the steady stream of pedestrians flowing past: there was a group of four joggers followed by a woman trotting behind a rather aerodynamic pram, who was followed by a middle aged couple with walking sticks, who were followed by two skate boarders doing all variety of tricks which were being videoed on a third youth’s cellphone. Finally, Emmet got out of his car, retied his shoelaces, and began to walk slowly down the sidewalk, counterclockwise to the odd parade.
The four joggers and the pram lady passed by twice before he had completed one lap. He was exhausted. Panting, with his back aching, he was approaching the entrance gate again when he noted a woman coming toward him. He glanced at her ever so briefly. She was tall, full of right angles, and was wearing a beige, full-length, down coat. Her black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail under her blue visor, showing her small ears, in which were embedded a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds. She was wearing dark glasses and black leather gloves and was swinging her arms like a drum major as she glided past, almost as if she were on wheels. She did not seem to look at him.
Emmet continued to his car and opened the door, but before he got in, he looked in the direction in which she was walking and watched until she had gone around the corner.
That night, Emmet lay in bed thinking about her. She reminded him of a girl he had once dated, 15 years before. The one who gave him the beanie. There was something in the way she moved. He began to hum an old Beatles song: "attracts me like no other lover."
Every day, for the rest of the week, at 3:00, Emmet would put on his blue jogging pants and blue jogging shoes, drive to the cemetery, and park as close to the gate as possible. He would then walk in a counterclockwise fashion, one time around the cemetery, silently counting his steps. By the fourth day, the walk was not any easier. Every day, he looked for the woman in the long coat. But she was not there.
The following Monday, however, as he ended his lap and was leaning on the trunk of his car, he saw her, coming toward him, wearing the same outfit: an ankle-length down jacket, blue visor, red shoes, dark glasses, black gloves. This time, Emmet did not lower his gaze as she approached, noting her angular shoulders, her clavicle, thin as a birthday candle, and that walk, which reminded him of a square-masted sailing ship. She strode by, looking straight ahead, pumping her arms, hands swinging like a seal's flippers, counterbalancing her stride while she sang off-key in a low voice what sounded like an aria from La Traviata. Once again, Emmet stood with his car door open and watched her disappear around the corner. "She has a very unusual stride," he thought. He got in and started the car.
That night, as he lay in bed, he replayed her image in his mind--the way she swung her arms, her conscious gait, her red shoes. And he rehearsed how the next time he saw her, he would say something--exactly what, he couldn't decide upon. He didn't want to seem like a sleazy pick-up artist. "Do you mind if I ask you a question? What is your name?" No, that was too aggressive. Something more non-committal. A simple "good afternoon." With a smile. Without a smile. But what if she wasn't looking at him? He couldn't just interrupt whatever she was concentrating on. Maybe he would just nod if she looked his way. No smile. Definitely no smile.
It was raining the following Monday. Not hard, but enough to require windshield wipers when he drove to the cemetery. There were very few people out. Emmet parked in his usual spot, got out, and commenced on his walk. The sidewalk was wet, but the light rain had stopped. As he turned the final corner to his lap, he saw her in the distance, striding toward him. It seemed like she was looking at him, but he couldn't tell, and by the time she passed, she was definitely looking straight ahead. "Wow! Deja Vu," he said as she passed, but she either ignored him or couldn't hear him through her noise-cancelling ear buds, because she did not acknowledge his comment.
"Don't try to be ironic, idiot," he said to himself.
He continued with his exercise routine for the remainder of the week but never encountered her. Monday must be the only day she walked, he concluded.
The next Monday was the third day of a gradual warming trend. The snowbanks lining the street had now completely melted, and the vines on the chain link fence were beginning to obscure the view of the graveyard. All morning, Emmet sat thinking again of how to approach her. Because of the way in which she walked, he had thought about asking her if she was a dancer. Maybe she had injured herself, which caused her gait to be so deliberate. He tried a few lines. "Are you a dancer?" Or "You move like you were a dancer." Or "You move so gracefully. Were you a dancer?" Better to ask in the present tense. They can be so sensitive. Not were. Are. "Are you a dancer?” All his questions seemed to be so obnoxious. "Don't intrude," he said to himself. "It will just irritate her when she is obviously concentrating on her exercise routine." Still, what was it about her that was so intriguing?
That afternoon, Emmet dressed for the first time without his hoodie and beanie and waited by his front door until it was time to drive to the cemetery. Finding his regular parking spot taken, he had to park two blocks away from the entrance. He hurried back to the gate and, already out of breath, began his walk, fearful that being 10 minutes late would ruin his chances of an encounter.
However, as regular as a utility bill, when he came around the final corner, there she was, at the other end of the block, wearing the same uniform--the long coat, the gloves, the Jacqueline Kennedy dark glasses, moving toward him, on red shoes, arms swinging counterpoint to her stride. As they approached each other from opposite sides of the entrance gate, they had to stop and wait for the river of cars that was entering the cemetery. Between the vehicles flashed the stroboscopic image of her on the other side. She was walking in place. And she was looking right at him. Finally, the last of the funeral procession entered the gate, and Emmet and the woman resumed walking toward each other. "Must have been a big shot," Emmet blurted out as she passed.
She smiled over her shoulder as she continued on her way. "Not anymore."
Dark humor, he thought. A good sign. And what a smile! Surely it was some sort of invitation. Right then, Emmet decided that the following Monday, if they crossed paths, he would ask her name. How hard could that be? He would start with something clever. "I can set my watch by you, but I don't know your name." Or "We can't keep not meeting like this. I'm Emmet." At night, he practiced these lines, over and over, and wound up admonishing himself not to try to be clever or witty and to just be straightforward. Whatever that was.
The next Monday arrived. The spring day was fluffy and promising. In spite of not feeling well, Emmet started his usual walk at precisely the right time, stopping only once to watch a flock of ravens tumbling across the sky. Turning the last corner, he scanned to the end of the block and felt his feet get very heavy. There she was, standing still, looking through an opening in the ivied fence. He adjusted his gait and pressed forward. As he got closer, he could see that she was watching a group of mourners gathering around an open grave. As Emmet passed her, he stopped and, rather too loudly, said, "Hello!”
"Hello," she replied, glancing quickly at him before continuing to watch the internment.
"Nice day for a funeral," Emmet said, and immediately regretted it.
"Yes, it is," she answered.
"Yes," was all Emmet could think of saying.
"I'm Angela, by the way," she said suddenly.
"Perfect. Of course. Angela. Emmet here," he said, pointing to his head.
"I know, Emmet."
"That's me."
They stood looking at the burial ceremony for a few awkward moments. Suddenly, she looked at Emmet. “If you could, would you want to know exactly when you were going to die?”
"No." He laughed. "No way."
"That's what most people say, Emmet."
That was it. She looked away, put her earbuds back on, and resumed her walk.
That night, lying in bed, he wondered how she knew his name. Maybe it was just something she said. "I know, Emmet," meant to say, "I know someone named Emmet." But maybe she was really interested in him, and had somehow looked up his name, from his car license plate, probably. You could find anything on the internet. He said her name. “Angela.” She had pronounced it Aun-hel-la, with a foreign emphasis. So, they were on a first-name basis. Great. Finally. He then began to think of all sorts of answers he should have had for her question about knowing when he was going to die. "It is why capital punishment is so wrong." Not a very intimate topic. How about "I wonder what my last thought will be." Better. He decided he would use that as an opening the next time he saw her. He would then invite her to coffee.
The following Monday, Emmet arrived early at the cemetery and waited nervously in his car until it was 3:15 exactly. He leaned forward and looked in his rear-view mirror. He arranged his hair several times and then got out and proceeded on his walk. There was a tingling in his left arm, and it was harder than usual to breathe. He looked at his watch. It had stopped. He shook it, hoping to jar it to life, but it was still frozen at 3:23 p.m. He started walking again. He was dizzy. He thought about turning around and going home to bed, but he had to see her. He continued, with difficulty, down the sidewalk. Before he reached the first corner, there she was, coming toward him. She was walking with her characteristic stride. Her long coat was unzipped and was fluttering like a pair of wings. He stopped, held his arms out wide, his feet suddenly light, his heart beating rapidly. He was going to embrace her. She slowed to a stop before him. She took her earbuds out. "I am so glad to see you."
She peeled her gloves off and stuffed them into her coat pocket. Her hands were the color of uncooked bacon, with talon-like fingers. She looked at the silver watch on her wrist. "3:23," she said. "On the dot." She removed her dark glasses. She had dark purple bruises under her eyes.
"Oh, shit,” thought Emmet as he let his arms fall to his side.
Angela reached forward and, with a long fingernail, touched him lightly on his shoulder. "Emmet," she said with a slight smile. "It's now."
As she dragged her fingernail from his shoulder to his neck, Emmet felt his heart bang against his sternum. “Deja vu,” he said out loud. His eyes rolled back, his legs gave way, and he fell forward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Angela stepped around the body, zipped her coat back up, pulled her gloves and dark glasses back on, and, swinging her arms, strode to a long, black sedan that was parked near the entrance to the cemetery. The back door swung open. She folded herself into the back seat, pulled the door shut, and without looking back, pushed the button that rolled up the tinted window. The car slowly pulled out of the parking space, merged with the traffic, and disappeared down the road.
Rex Brooke, author of "The Walkers" is a former lifeguard, carpenter, and teacher, currently living in California.