Grave on Grand Avenue Read Online Free

radio now, asking us where we are and telling us to get back to post.
    “We better go,” Johnny says.
    “I will,” I say. “Eventually. It’s my turn to pee.” Mac’s not my commanding officer; Tim Cherniss is. I’ll get back to the intersection when I’m good and ready.
    Johnny’s face colors slightly, and before he can stammer out anything else, I hand off my bike to him and walk past a series of concrete stairs in between a building for the artists’ entrance and the concert hall.
    The stairs lead to a small garden that’s wrapped around the oddly shaped building. The gardeners must be adding more plants because I see flats of seedlings and pots of flowers on the stairs. One gardener in maybe his thirties is using a gas-powered blower to brush away dead twigs and dirt from the walkway, and an older guy has his hand around a potted bush with pretty lavender flowers.
    My dad is always on some kind of environmental kick. His latest campaign is drought-resistant plants. He vows that he’s going to transform the front lawn into Joshua Tree. Noah, of course, is hoping to move out before that happens.
    “What do you call that?” I ask the older man about the lavender blooms, wondering whether it’s something Dad might be interested in. The blower that the other gardener is using a few feet away is pretty loud, so the man holding the plant doesn’t immediately respond.
    I repeat the question louder, and switch to Spanish.
    “What you say?” the man asks me—in English—when the younger one gives all of us a break from the blower.
    “The lavender plant. What is it?”
    The gardener smiles widely. I can tell that he’s really into plants. “Gracias.”
    Uh, what? Why is he thanking me? Maybe his English isn’t that great.
    The gardener must have read the puzzled look on my face. “That is the name. Gracias. Gracias sage. Don’t need much water. Grows real strong.”
    Oh. “I like that,” I say. “Well, gracias for Gracias.” I smile back at him, then continue to the restaurant. The maître d’ and I are acquainted with each other, and he knows why I’m there. I take off my helmet and head for the ladies’ room. Inside, it’s cool, the perfect temperature. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to have a regular day job. To wear cute outfits and carry a purse or leather bag to work. To be in an air-conditioned room twenty-four/seven. I consider it for a few seconds and then think, Naaah . I’d go stir-crazy. As I wash my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. My face is a little flushed from being outside all morning. Hair back in a messy French braid. Yup, I’m not meant for the corporate world, and it’s not losing anything by not having me in it.
    When I go through the restaurant, the maître d’ is no longer at the door.
    I soon find out why.
    It’s mass chaos outside.
    A crowd has gathered near where I left Johnny, who is now off of his bike and kneeling next to something on the ground.
    But that something is actually someone: the samegardener who told me about the bush with the lavender flowers. Though he’s not talking now. In fact, he’s not moving. His body is lying at the foot of the stairs, near the Gracias sage, now uprooted from its broken planter, brown soil spilled down the flight of stairs.
    *   *   *
    Leaping over our sprawled bicycles, I get close to Johnny, who’s kneeling down beside the gardener. “What the hell happened?”
    “I’m not exactly sure. Called it in already. The ambulance is on its way.” Johnny puts an ear to the man’s face. “He’s still breathing.”
    “Barely.” I take his pulse. Weak. “Mister—” I’m at a loss for what to call the gardener. “Sir, sir, can you hear me?”
    “Maybe you should try Spanish.”
    “No, he can speak English. We were talking just a few minutes ago.”
    The gardener’s eyes flutter open for a second. He mouths something, though I can’t quite make it out.
    “Ba-ra-baaaa,” he says.
    I hold his