Unlikely Animals by Annie Hartnett

Author:Annie Hartnett [Hartnett, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2022-04-12T00:00:00+00:00

At Maple Street, when Ralph Kelsey (b. 1923–d. 2014) finally stopped laughing, the remnants of his final earthly moments fading, he took to kissing his wife, Marilyn Boyd Kelsey (b. 1923–d. 1997), with nearly as much passion as the couple had as teenagers, although we could tell that Marilyn was faking it. She had liked it better when Ralph was still alive, because it had tied her closer to her own life. While they kissed, Absalom Kelsey (b. 1745–d. 1837) began to read his distant descendant the long list of Graveyard Rules, starting with the first rule, No Meddling in the Affairs of the Living, and the gravity of its consequence: if you meddle too much, your spirit can explode. “The second rule,” Absalom continued, “details the Importance of Caring for the People of Everton…”

Ralph Kelsey took a break from kissing Marilyn to interrupt Absalom. “But where do you go when your spirit explodes? There’s something after this?”

“No one knows.”

“So, it might be a much better place?”

We were all a little insulted. Marilyn Boyd Kelsey especially.

“There might be eternal nothingness after this,” Old Abe clarified. He gestured around him to the gaps in the hill, where gravestones had been returned to mere rocks. No soul perched above.

“Meddling might still be worth it, if it could help out your family,” Ralph Kelsey said, musing. He had long been prepared for nothingness after death. He wasn’t afraid of it.

“It’s harder than you think, to meddle,” Sara Ford (b. 1986–d. 2012) said, pointing out something we rarely like to admit. How little danger there is of meddling, when it’s so difficult to get anyone to listen to us. At the moment, Harold Baynes was the only one with a real chance of meddling, the only one in a haunting position, the only one with the attention of the living. We’d hoped to finally talk to Harold when he came to Ralph’s interment at Maple Street, give him some advice, but he’d stayed behind at the mansion, waiting for the after-funeral party to start. We loathe the cremated sometimes, how freewheeling they can be. A terribly cheap imitation of the living.

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