UNDER A BLACK UMBRELLA, ETHAN TRUMAN walked the grassy1 avenue of graves, his shoes squishing in the saturated2 turf.
Giant drooping3 cedars5 mourned with the weeping day, and birds, like spirits risen, stirred in the cloistered6 branches when he passed near enough to worry them.
As far as he could see, he alone walked in these mortal fields. Respect for the loved and lost was usually paid on sunny days, with remembrances as bright as the weather. No one would choose to visit a cemetery7 in a storm.
No one but a cop whose mainspring of curiosity had been wound tight, who had been born with a compulsive need to know the truth. A clockwork mechanism8 in his heart and soul, designed by fate and granted as a birthright, compelled him to follow wherever suspicion and logic9 might lead.
In this case, suspicion, logic, and dread10.
Intuition wove in him the strange conviction that he would prove to be not the first visitor of the day and that in this bastion of the dead, he would discover something disturbing, though he had no idea what it might be.
[134] Headstones of time-eaten granite11, mausoleums crusted with lichen12 and stained by settled smog, memorial columns and obelisks13 tilted14 by ground subsidence: None of that traditional architecture identified this as a cemetery. The marker at each of these graves—a bronze plaque15 on a pale granite plinth—had been set flush with the grass. From a distance the burial ground appeared to be an ordinary park.
Radiant and unique in life, Hannah was here remembered with the same drab bronze that memorialized the thousands of others who slept eternal in these fields.
Ethan visited her grave six or seven times a year, including once at Christmas. And always on their anniversary.
He didn’t know why he came that often. Hannah didn’t lie here, only her bones. She lived in his heart, always with him.
Sometimes he thought he traveled to this place less to remember her—for she was not in the least forgotten—than to gaze at the empty plot beside her, at the blank granite tablet on which a cast-bronze plaque with his name would one day be fixed16.
At thirty-seven, he was too young a man to welcome death, and life continued to hold the greater promise for him. Nevertheless, five years after losing Hannah, Ethan still felt that something of himself had died, as well.
Through twelve years of marriage, they delayed having children. They had been so young. No need to hurry.
No one expected a vibrant17, beautiful, thirty-two-year-old woman to be diagnosed with a virulent18 cancer, to be dead four months later. When it took her, the malignancy also claimed the children they might have brought into the world, and the grandchildren thereafter.
In a sense, Ethan had died with her: the Ethan who would have been a loving father to the children blessed with her grace, the Ethan who would have known the joy of her company for decades yet to come, who would have known the peace and the purpose of growing old at her side.
[135] Perhaps he would have been surprised to find her grave torn open, empty.
What he found instead of grave robbery, though unexpected, did not surprise him.
At the base of her bronze plaque lay two dozen fresh long-stemmed roses. The florist19 had wrapped them in a cone20 of stiff cellophane that partly protected the blooms from the pelting21 rain.
These were hybrid22 tea roses, a golden-red variety named Broadway. Of all the roses that Hannah loved and grew, Broadway had been her favorite.
Ethan turned slowly in a full circle, studying the cemetery. No figure moved anywhere on those gently sloped green acres.
He peered with special suspicion at every cedar4, every oak. As best he could tell, those trunks didn’t shelter a lurking23 observer.
No traffic moved on the narrow winding24 road that served the cemetery. Ethan’s Expedition—white as winter, glimmering25 like ice—was the only vehicle parked along the lane.
Beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, urban vistas26 loomed27 in veils of rain and fog, less like a real city than like a metropolis28 in a dream. No rumble29 of traffic, no bleat30 of horn penetrated31 from its maze32 of streets, as though all its citizens had long ago gone horizontal in these silent grassy acres surrounding Ethan.
He looked down at the bouquet33 once more. In addition to bright color, the Broadway rose offers a fine fragrance34. It flourishes in any sun-drenched garden and is more resistant35 to mildew36 than are many other varieties.
Two dozen roses found on a grave would not be admitted as evidence in a court of law. Yet Ethan regarded these colorful blooms as proof enough of a strange courtship of the dead, by the dead.
1 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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2 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
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3 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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4 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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5 cedars | |
雪松,西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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6 cloistered | |
adj.隐居的,躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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8 mechanism | |
n.机械装置;机构,结构 | |
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9 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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10 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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11 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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12 lichen | |
n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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13 obelisks | |
n.方尖石塔,短剑号,疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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14 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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15 plaque | |
n.饰板,匾,(医)血小板 | |
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16 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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17 vibrant | |
adj.震颤的,响亮的,充满活力的,精力充沛的,(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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18 virulent | |
adj.有毒的,有恶意的,充满敌意的 | |
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19 florist | |
n.花商;种花者 | |
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20 cone | |
n.圆锥体,圆锥形东西,球果 | |
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21 pelting | |
微不足道的,无价值的,盛怒的 | |
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22 hybrid | |
n.(动,植)杂种,混合物 | |
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23 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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24 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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25 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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26 vistas | |
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
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27 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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28 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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29 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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30 bleat | |
v.咩咩叫,(讲)废话,哭诉;n.咩咩叫,废话,哭诉 | |
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31 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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32 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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33 bouquet | |
n.花束,酒香 | |
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34 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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35 resistant | |
adj.(to)抵抗的,有抵抗力的 | |
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36 mildew | |
n.发霉;v.(使)发霉 | |
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