Jacob Hughes was buried in an oak coffin painted glossy black; his family sent him off with a champagne toast. His daughter Elizabeth waited at the grave site until her family had piled into the shiny black town cars; she sipped from a bottle left by the forgetful or careless parents of the man in the ground. She called a cab as she crossed the graveyard, dew left from the morning gathered at the soles of her boots, crept up the cuffs of her black pants. She leaned against a nearby tombstone and lit a cigarette as she waited for the cab.
When the taxi arrived twenty minutes later she stashed the champagne bottle behind the grave. As she opened the door the smell of orange peels and burnt wood greeted her. She slid across the seat so she could see the driver. She lit another cigarette and rolled down the window. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No miss.” The driver’s accent placed him in sub-saharan Africa. He smiled a lot, revealing exceptionally white teeth against the contrast of his dark skin. “Where to?” He asked as he put his blinker on.
“Lake Harriet. Just drive around it.” She took a drag of her cigarette. “I’ll tell you when to stop.” She exhaled and tapped the cigarette against the glass.
The next few minutes were silent except for classical music in the background and the occasional laughter that entered through the open window as they passed nearby parks.
“Is it beautiful where you’re from?” Elizabeth watched the driver.
He smiled. “Oh yes miss, very beautiful. It looks like paradise.” He paused briefly. “Inside though, it is hell. Too much anger and too much suffering has made it paradise lost.”
Elizabeth watched him for a few moments before returning her gaze to the window to watch a child play frisbee with a golden retriever. “I thought people only gathered in graveyards to bury people in the movies.” Elizabeth inhaled and blew the smoke out the open window; she let the cigarette butt drop from her fingertips.
“Was it your friend or a family member?”
“Father.” Elizabeth replied without turning her gaze from the window.
“I’m so sorry.” The driver peered at Elizabeth in the rear view mirror. “I also lost my father when I was young. He was killed.”
Elizabeth looked at the driver. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She lit another cigarette and was silent for a while; she just watched the scenery of spring by the lakeside pass by. “He killed himself.”
The driver looked in the mirror again. “That is a great tragedy.”
“Is it?”
