Matecumbe (24 page)

And while Joe himself was feeling nothing but positive vibes as to his promising employment leads, Melissa’s own job picture was also brightening. Twice in the past month she had been questioned by her superiors, informally, as to whether she had any interest in assuming the duties of associate library director, the position that recent retiree Olga Hines had held for so many years.

Overall, the atmosphere surrounding Joe during this busy period was likewise upbeat. Being a house husband provided him with a refreshing break from his years of police work. As well, the prospect of landing a casino security job added immeasurably to his mental well-being.

And even though he didn’t reap the same conscious thrill that Melissa seemed to experience from the seemingly hundreds of pre-nuptial preparations, there was one aspect of his pending marriage that brought a smile to his face whenever his thoughts centered on the subject—his wedding gift to Melissa.

Joe’s choice consisted of a pair of white porcelain coffee mugs molded into the shape of swans, with their curved necks servings as cup handles. He had read that in nineteenth century Europe, swans were the preferred gift for newlyweds. The elegance of swans—especially in tandem—was seen as symbolic of marital bliss, since they are faithful, monogamous birds that will always suffer tremendous grief at the loss of a partner.

When Joe told Uncle Steve the history behind the gift of swans, Steve pointed out that a better-than-average intelligence level was necessary to key such a selection.

“The gift you chose for Melissa,” Uncle Steve told him, “is one more bit of proof that you’re not as dumb as your bulging muscles may make you look. College degree or not, you’ve showed your class. I would say that not too many of those friends of Melissa’s you’ve told me about could put as much thought or knowledge into a gift as you have.”

Uncle Steve, in fact, was also in the unique position of knowing exactly what Melissa had selected as her wedding gift to Joe.

“I took your advice,” Melissa told Uncle Steve. “Binoculars and a calculator. He’ll be the best equipped horse player ever to set foot on a racetrack.”

To his credit, Uncle Steve made other notable contributions to the upcoming wedding. It was he who contracted for the reception hall.

“My long-time friend, Len Rossen, has one of the neatest and bestlooking places in all of Camden County,” Uncle Steve told his favorite couple. “You can leave it to Len to make sure that every detail is taken care of.”

Uncle Steve also arranged for the wedding day entertainment. Several members of his senior citizen club had formed a utensil band. Using only forks, knives, spoons, and glasses filled with water, they consistently struck up a delightful brand of music that was equal to or better than the much spiffier instrument bands—the kind that would have booked for five times as much money.

During the countdown to their wedding date, Melissa and Joe made a loyal practice of visiting Uncle Steve regularly every Sunday afternoon. They would either bring along a high-caloric dessert to complement the dish that Uncle Steve was cooking or would visit a local restaurant with Uncle Steve as their guest.

On June 8th, only forty-one days before their wedding, Melissa and Joe were basking in their usual good spirits while driving into New Jersey for another Sunday with Uncle Steve.

Soon after they opened the door to his house, however, they realized that they would never be able to share the happiest day in their lives with the one person whom they both loved so dearly.

Sprawled on his living room floor, Uncle Steve lay dead—from a sudden heart attack.

In the kitchen at the same time, the dinner he had cooked was still bubbling in its containers.

Gone forever would be Sundays with Uncle Steve.

And although Melissa and Joe were equally distraught, it was Melissa who, in so short a time, had unexpectedly grown to love this kindly old man—much more than she could have imagined.

“No more sparkle in those clear, blue eyes. No more life in that wrinkled, infectious smile,” she realized. “No more light-hearted Sundays, and no more luncheon visits alone when I could pour out my feelings to a man who seemed to understand so well.”

Together in tears of sorrow for the first time, Melissa and Joe held onto each other tightly, continuing to weep for the longest period. They prayed for the soul of a man who had truly signified the word “family” for each of them—a man who had exemplified the meanings of care, compassion, and above all, joy.

When Paul took off his sneakers, the unmistakable sound of Velcro fasteners punched the bedroom air. That 6 a.m. “swip, swip” sound had the same effect as an alarm clock—waking Mary Ann every morning that Paul returned from his sunrise jog.

After she awoke, Mary Ann would always spend another fifteen minutes or so lying in bed—staring at the ceiling and thinking. As her wedding date drew closer, she seemed to focus more and more on realizing that she was, indeed, a lucky woman.

A little over two years ago, she had her suicide note written, and she was ready to end it all. The bills she couldn’t pay, her desire for the kids to have a better life than she could give them, the long hours at work, the loneliness at night after she put the girls to bed—all of those things played a part in how miserable she felt back then.

She burned that suicide note after she fell in love with Paul, but she could still see the letters and words of the last line she wrote, right above where she signed her name: “—I hope my kids will remember their Mom, wherever their dreams take them—”

She found it hard to believe that right now she was about to become a happily married lady.

“Those baby suits are a great idea,” Paul interrupted, as he readied himself for work. “You’re absolutely right. The girls mustn’t feel left out. They should also get gifts on our wedding day.”

Paul was referring to the infant-sized clothing that Mary Ann’s daughters were wearing right after they were born—when they came home from the hospital. Mary Ann had saved these one-piece jumpsuits as well as all of the girls’ nametag bracelets.

“It’s time I gave them their baby clothes,” Mary Ann told Paul. “They’re old enough now to care about history, keepsakes, and mortality.”

“Years from now,” Paul noted, “when the girls look down at these tiny suits, they’ll feel a wee bit humble. And when we’re not around any more, the baby suits will help them remember us.”

“Forget about us,” Mary Ann added. “What’s better for them is that they’ll have a sense of where they came from. They’ll need just one glance, and a few seconds of thought. That’s all it will take.”

The sign read Golgotha Street, but there were no brownstones looming over early morning visitors, no children playing games, no adults scurrying past purposefully, with their minds attached to a daily agenda.

It was shortly after daybreak when Melissa and Joe visited the cemetery. Breathing the crisp morning air, they seemed to know in advance that their memories of this journey would, no doubt, stay vivid, long past the heat of summer.

The austere faces of headstones were standing in fast formation as they drove slowly past. They strained to read path signs such as Reunion Lane and Heavenly Highway.

Melissa was fighting the irresistible urge to scan as many surnames as possible—all screaming for attention in capital letters. She was so engrossed in this activity that she was unaware of a maintenance truck that crawled by in the opposite direction, billowing smoke.

Her feelings were lifted ever so slightly as she read those names—for they were other people’s and definitely not hers. She was comfortable knowing she would never read the words “Melissa Carlton” carved forever in the indestructible stone. She wanted to touch those names, to run her fingers through the middle initials, much as she had done with the engravings on Islamorada’s hurricane monument.

Continuing, Melissa then consumed each birth date she saw, comparing it with her own.

Joe stopped the car and turned off the ignition as they neared Lot 70, Row 7, Plot 52. Melissa thought that even in death, human beings are given a number. Perhaps this is the last one.

After hesitating for seconds that seemed like minutes, Melissa and Joe exited their car. Taking two wreaths of flowers, they walked up a slight, sod-covered incline. Melissa noticed how the dew-topped grass gave in readily beneath her shoes—just as the people below her had given in. The damp, pliant soil also echoed a death of all resistance.

Surrounding them were puddles from a recent rainfall. These tiny circles of water bounced rays of a resurging sun into her sleep-worn eyes before evaporating imperceptibly.

Then, suddenly, she saw it.

Uncle Steve’s marker was small, imbedded at ground level. An adjacent grave, meanwhile, contrasted measurably—flaunting a huge, freestanding tablet.

Somehow, though, Melissa told herself, even the most impressive mausoleum can’t disguise the reality of death. Death is a category the Taj Mahal would fail to elevate.

After sliding the spokes of their wreaths into the ground, Melissa and Joe bowed their heads for a few brief prayers, focusing their eyes on the marker. The year of Uncle Steve’s death was starkly visible. It would never change.

“Instead of carvings that show us just the dates of someone’s birth and death,” Joe noted, “gravestones should indicate the periods of great personal accomplishment, like when battles were won or when children were born.”

As she turned to leave, with her foot pushing ever so slightly into the turf, Melissa wondered if the weight of the earth had yet begun its task of crushing the casket below.

While walking away, Melissa carefully noticed the names of the people who were buried near Uncle Steve, just as a mother would warily screen the playmates of her children.

Almost every one of them, she reasoned, once flew about happily in life’s formation, like sun-seeking, southbound swallows, before faltering, unexpectedly, alone.

Fortunately for Uncle Steve, the framed, smiling face on the mantelpiece in Melissa’s home will never be able to watch his body turn to dust.

At that moment, Melissa remembered Uncle Steve telling her how he always loved to talk on the telephone, anytime, day or night.

“In some ways, being dead is like being poor,” she told Joe. “It’s as if Uncle Steve can’t afford a phone now. But if he thinks he has to get in touch with us, he’ll find a way—by pigeon, maybe.”

On the stroll back to the car, Melissa noticed that two wooden staffs holding tiny American flags were implanted at an angle in a nearby grave, like banderillas that had been thrust poetically into the shoulders of a charging bull. The staffs sat curved and worn from the weather, Melissa surmised, remnants of a Memorial Day visit.

An image-laden Della Robbia wreath, holding its colorful fruit, graced one freshly turned gravesite, while a blanket of flowers lay on another. Soon, a rampaging summer greensward would cover both, spiced with weeds and growing long, spreading its quilt of oblivion.

Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa saw a bent, elderly woman, kneeling. The woman’s face, and perhaps her thoughts, were hidden by a babushka. She crouched, like a broken-willed slave, having suffered from years, no doubt, of carrying widowhood’s cross.

Almost immediately, Melissa knew the old woman’s name, for it was lettered on her dead husband’s stone. Her year of birth, a dash, and a blank. Melissa wondered, aloud, what the woman was praying for.

In their car now, Melissa and Joe motored toward the cemetery exit, where they waited for traffic to clear. They sat, idling under an ornate arch, beneath gates that are open to all.

“It would be nice,” Melissa spoke, “if Uncle Steve could see them as heaven’s gates.”

From the time she arrived home later that morning, straight through until nightfall, Melissa thought of nothing else except her visit to the cemetery. Then, while lying in a darkened bed and once again wrapped in Joe’s arms, she realized that she was not alone.

The first Saturday in October brought sunny skies and Indian-summer warmth—as gorgeous a wedding day as Mary Ann or Paul could ever want. For this long-anticipated occasion, Mary Ann’s “serious” gift to Paul consisted of a solid gold tie clasp in the shape of a horse’s head.

On the lighter side, she also gave him a tape recording of snoring sounds—Paul’s own.

“He has always denied that he snores when he’s sleeping,” she laughed. “Now he’ll have the proof.”

Mary Ann had already received her gift from Paul—several weeks in advance of the wedding.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have given you those contact lenses,” Paul told her, jokingly. “They make you look young enough to be my daughter.”

The inspiration for the contact lenses originated shortly after they’d met. Mary Ann had accidentally broken her only pair of glasses, and Paul had quickly taken her to an optician who specialized in one-hour repair.

“Afterwards,” Paul had revealed, “when you said, ‘thanks, hon, I don’t know how I’d be able to work without them,’ it was the first time I’d ever felt like a true Good Samaritan. On that day, you needed help, and I was there to give it to you.”