Authors: Earlene Fowler
“Todd,” I said softly, taking a chance. “Do you want to ask me a question about death?”
“Sort of.” He stuck his finger in the mound of pepper and started making circles. “I was wondering if maybe you knew ... I mean, if you could tell me ...” He shoved the plate away irritably. “Never mind. It was stupid. Forget it.”
“No, I won’t forget it,” I said. “And I’m sure it’s not stupid. Look, just try me. Whatever you say is between you and me and that mountain of pepper there. Okay?”
Grave aqua eyes contemplated me for a moment. He gave a deep sigh. “Okay. I guess I was just wondering if you could tell me when it starts to ... uh ... feel ... you know, better. I mean, after someone, after they ... well, you know.”
“Oh, Todd,” I said. “I know losing your mom is a hard thing. And your grandmother too. I don’t know what to tell you, except for what it’s been like for me. Really, I guess it just depends on the person. It’s taken me longer with Jack than it did with my mother, but I was only six when she died. Sometimes she seems more like a dream than a real person. Emotions are a funny thing. To tell you the truth, there are still times when it feels like it was yesterday that Jack died and I’ll cry like it just happened. Then there are days when I don’t think of him at all.”
“I do that.” His face got that still, transparent look toddlers get right before they cry. “I go to bed at night and then I realize I haven’t thought of Mom all day. I hate myself for that. Except for me, there’s no one else to remember her, and like an asshole, even I forget.” He slammed his fist on the table, his mouth turned down in disgust.
“What about your grandfather?” I asked “Don’t you two ever talk about her?”
“Benni, I don’t
get
him. He goes on like it never happened. Go to the store. Come home. Buy the fish, clean the fish, sell the fish. He’s already put away all her pictures. I found them and asked him and he just said, it’s over now, forget it. So I put them up in
my
room. I think all he cares about is his stupid fish and his stupid customers.” He picked up his mustard-stained napkin and started tearing strips off it.
“Todd, everyone handles grief differently. Maybe your grandfather just couldn’t bear to look at her picture, especially so soon after your grandmother died.”
“He should sell that place.” He pushed the shredded napkin aside. “He’s too old and it doesn’t make money and if he thinks I’m going to—”
“That going to be all for you folks?” Our waitress gave us a large, baking-soda white smile, ripped our ticket off her pad and slapped it down on the table.
“That should do it,” I said. Todd slid out of the booth and headed for the door. I paid the bill and desperately tried to think of a way to continue our conversation. He obviously needed someone to talk to and I doubted that I’d be able to convince him to get counseling, so it looked like it would have to be me.
He sat in the truck waiting for me, his face blank as a cat’s. I started toward the museum, trying to figure a way to restart our earlier conversation. Finally, I just blurted out, “Todd, would you like to go to the cemetery with me?” I suspected his mom and grandmother were buried there too. Maybe that would make him feel better.
“No,” he answered, without turning his head. Then added, “Thanks, anyway.”
“Sure,” I said. Well, that’s that, I said to myself. Better stick to your quilts and samplers and leave human emotions to the professionals. My heart ached for what he was going through.
We didn’t say another word to each other the rest of the drive back. When I dropped him off, I told him since tomorrow was Saturday and I’d most likely be at the co-op’s Mardi Gras booth all day, he was free until Monday morning.
“Maybe I’ll see you at the festival or the parade?”
“Maybe,” he answered. “Thanks for ... uh, lunch.”
“No problem,” I said, watching him climb into his little car and drive out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
The sky was streaked with shades of mauve and red by the time I reached the cemetery. Surrounded by towering old Monterey pines and pale-barked Valley oaks, it was out past the county gun range on a road that eventually leads through the foothills to the ocean. Jack and I had passed this cemetery hundreds of times on the way to the beach, stopping occasionally so I could leave flowers on my mother’s grave.
“Make sure I get a good northern view when I check in here,” Jack always teased me while I arranged our grocery-store bouquets of odd-colored carnations and white daisies. “I don’t want to spend eternity with the sun in my eyes.”
He was buried in the newer section, where if you stood back and squinted your eyes, you could almost believe it was a park where children play Red Rover and a pickup baseball game could occur at any moment. It’s only when you’re actually walking on it that the little marble squares remind you that there are no games being played here. It had been almost a month since I’d last visited his grave. Even so, the grass around the stone was neatly trimmed.
“Hey, Dagwood,” I said, arranging Senora Aragon’s flowers in the in-ground vase in front of his black marble marker. “It’s Blondie.” I sat cross-legged on the damp lawn and faced the stone, brushing traces of grass off the letters of his name:
John William Harper II—Beloved Husband
,
Son and Brother—Born
February 25,
1958—Died February 19
,
1992—You Are Always in Our Hearts.
“Making some good sandwiches up there?”
Like his cartoon counterpart, his sandwiches were legend in the Harper family—odd combinations of ham, roast beef, bologna, peanut butter, pickles and pimento cheese spread. Weird mixtures that would turn most people’s stomachs. He always declared in his teasing tenor voice there wasn’t anything put between two pieces of bread that he wouldn’t eat. That remark predictably inspired somewhat raunchy suggestions from his brother, Wade, and the ranch hands.
The first few months after he died, I came to his grave every day. Before it happened to me, I had always looked in a slightly condescending way at people who seemed to worship the ground where their loved ones were buried. I couldn’t comprehend why they felt the need to decorate a piece of ground with flowers, flags, metallic balloons and Christmas trees. Their obsession was baffling to me.
“Nothing’s there,” I’d say to Jack. “Why do they keep coming back?”
“It’s somewhere to go,” he’d answered simply.
After he died, I realized how much better than me he understood human nature. I knew that the real Jack, the one I laughed with, fought with, made love with, wasn’t underneath that carpet of grass. But I kept coming back to it, the way you compulsively examine a wound as it slowly turns into a scar, checking to assure yourself that, yes, it happened, it really happened.
Then I would skip a day, then two, then Dove and Daddy needed my help at the ranch, or we had a busy day at the museum. Before I knew it, my daily life didn’t include this place anymore. It was probably something Daddy could have told me; he and I visit my mother’s grave together only once a year on Mother’s Day and had as long as I could remember. But I suppose he realized I had to break away in my own time and, without realizing it was happening, I had. I felt ashamed sitting there looking at Jack’s shiny headstone. It was almost as if he had died again, only this time it was me who pronounced his death. I closed my eyes and remembered the last time we made love, two days before he died. Nothing special about it, just the soft, comfortable lovemaking of two people who knew each other’s bodies as well as their own. Would we have felt more passion, made it last longer, said all the things we didn’t say anymore if we’d guessed it was the last time?
Thinking of last times, Todd came to mind. Ramon had told me Todd’s mother had died of cancer. I wondered what the circumstances were the last time he saw her. I picked up half of Señora Aragon’s flowers.
“You don’t mind sharing, do you, honey?” I asked Jack. I walked over to the cemetery office to ask for directions to Keiko Simmons’ grave. It was only a short distance from Jack’s. I set the flowers down in front of the rose-colored marble and read the headstone.
Keiko Rose Watanabe
Simmons—Born
September 20,
1942—Died
December 1, 1992.
Delicate lilies-of-the valley were carved on the four corners of the shiny pink stone. I stared at the headstone for a moment, then looked to the left of it. A matching headstone read:
Anthony Simmons—Born March 31,
1943—Died
September 12, 1985
. Todd had been nine years old when his father died. Old enough to feel the pain of loss, but not truly understand it. I wanted so badly to help him with his grief, but couldn’t think of one single thing I could do.
Thunder sounded in the foothills to the south, where the wispy clouds had thickened. I walked back toward my truck, my feet sinking slightly into grass still spongy from last night’s rain. Except for the cemetery’s maintenance truck, mine was the only vehicle left on the grounds. I looked across the wide expanse of lawn and could just make out the outline of the flowers I’d placed on Jack’s grave. The wind whipped the tops of the pines, releasing a clean, metallic smell into the air. A blue and gold Garfield balloon broke away from an arrangement and danced up into the swirling air.
I stood in front of the truck and watched the wind flatten the bouquets people had so carefully placed. A part of me didn’t want to leave. Somehow I knew this visit was different, that I wouldn’t return for a long time and that when I did, it wouldn’t be the same.
“We’ll be together forever,” Jack said to me on the day we got married. We had crept away from the reception at the Harper Ranch, from the well-wishers and joke-tellers and hid in the hay loft, feet dangling over the side. We drank from the stolen bottle of champagne that Dove, because we were only nineteen, wouldn’t let us drink toasts with and giggled at my uncle Arnie. He’d found Daddy’s old guitar and was treating the guests to a rather pitiful rendition of a Carpenters’ song—“Close to You.”
“Right,” I said, pushing him back in the loose hay. His chest was hard as iron from working cattle and bucking alfalfa bales. Touching it never failed to make me catch my breath. “Forever until I’m forty and you trade me in for two twenty-year-olds.”
“I’d never do that,” he said, reaching up and pulling me down to him. The sweet warmth of his kiss made me wish that moment would last forever. “I’ll never leave you, Benni.” He looked deeply into my eyes. “You do believe that, don’t you?” Before I could answer, his brother, Wade, found us and forced us to come back to the reception, where we kissed for the photographer, threw the bouquet, ate wedding cake made by Dove and Aunt Garnet, and started our life.
I still wonder what I would have answered if Wade had come just thirty seconds later.
15
BEFORE PULLING ON clean Wranglers the next morning, I received three phone calls from frantic artists. But even all the little emergencies of missing booth poles, broken pots and whose turn it was to get the front display area, didn’t fracture my peaceful frame of mind. By all rights, I should have felt terrible. After seeing Jack’s grave, I’d come home and curled up on the sofa, using Gabe’s sweatshirt for a pillow. Gabe’s comforting scent, memories of Jack and confused feelings about Clay muddled my brain most of the night, keeping me awake until almost dawn. But by the time the sun lit my window shades, for no logical reason, I felt strangely content, though a bit punchy from lack of sleep. Your goal, I told myself while pulling on my new pair of brown calfskin Nocona boots and soft chamois shirt, is to get through one whole day without going into emotional overload.
At the museum, I spent the first hour of my day putting the finishing touches on the cross-stitch exhibit: laying out the printed programs, rearranging a few samplers, choosing the cross-stitched items we’d sell in the gift shop. The L.A.
Times
reporter had called and we’d set up an appointment for the interview at eight o’clock Monday morning, right before the Oak Terrace group arrived at nine to continue work on the Steps to the Altar quilt. She’d liked the idea of incorporating the Oak Terrace quilting class into the article. Clay called twice. Luckily, both times someone else answered the phone and I didn’t return his calls. To tell the truth, I had absolutely no idea what to say to him.
I was sitting in the kitchen enjoying my third cup of coffee, when Jan, one of our fabric artists, walked in. A willowy blonde with a musical laugh and a gentle nature, her generous Scandinavian mouth drooped in an uncustomary scowl.
“It’s our turn, Benni,” she said. “The mud-slingers had the front display area at the last festival.” A conflict had been brewing all morning between the quilters and the potters, and though I felt guilty for avoiding what was part of my job, I’d been slipping around trying to stay away from both groups.
“Well,” I said, thinking that was just about all the opinion I had about anything this morning.
“They are so arrogant,” she continued. “Malcolm keeps calling it our potholder and blankie display. This from a Neanderthal who makes glorified ashtrays.”
“Well,” I said, more sympathetically this time and adding a concerned-looking tilt to my head.
“We’ll share the space,” she said firmly, pouring herself a cup of coffee and adding two heaping teaspoons of sugar. “That’s the most I’ll give in.”
“Sounds fair,” I said to her retreating back.
I volunteered to haul a load over to the booth, more to avoid the possibility of hearing the potters’ side of the display issue than for any virtuous reason. After dropping the pots and quilts off at the blue-and-white-striped booth, I nabbed one of the last spots in the public parking lot on Lopez Street. According to the pealing of the mission’s bell, it was nine o’clock. I walked down the already crowded sidewalk to Blind Harry’s to watch Elvia panic and perhaps steal one of Jose’s chocolate chip muffins. The bookstore wasn’t open yet, but peering through the front window, it was obvious by the frenzied activity that Elvia, in her General Patton-style of management, was gearing them up for the long, hopefully profitable day.