WITH INTEREST
Dressed in a dark sweater, jacket and slacks, he appeared to be about sixty years old. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were almost white; his skin, bronzed and weathered, suggested a life exposed to the elements, perhaps upon the sea.
"Who are you, Jennifer?" he demanded quietly. He used the present-tense in case her spirit was listening and he spoke quietly so that no one with a body would overhear him. He'd chosen Jennifer's grave because their ages were approximate and her surname was the same as his. He was Douglas Martin. He had a plan. " Tell me," he said, cajoling, as though that might encourage an answer from her, "—what ended your life? Who did you love?" And although his head was bowed toward the grave, his eyes and his attention were directed down the hill to where a lone woman stood at another gravesite, less than a hundred feet away. This was his fifth Sunday visit to this cemetery and the third time he'd seen that woman. She appeared to be attractive. On the first occasion, he'd waited until she left, then strolled down the hill to check the details on the gravestone she'd visited. Robert Davis, beloved husband of Melinda Davis had died four years ago at the age of forty-six. And so, that first Sunday he'd seen her, he stood at the foot of Robert's grave, imitating a lecturer's stance, his wrists gathering his tweed jacket behind him as he clasped his hands behind his back. "Robby," he began, "there comes a time when people have to move on. I mean, look at you; you've definitely moved on, y'might say, so I'm sure you can understand. Your Melinda is a very attractive woman and—" he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper "and well… frankly Robert, I'm not so bad myself. You get my meaning?" He looked about him at the trees and sky as he formed his next statement. He waited for this to sink in. "I, on the other hand, (no pun intended), have one. Melinda has one. It is fitting, Robby, that those with bodies accompany one another, while you people without bodies go off and do whatever it is you do, which, I'm sure, is very, very interesting. But I am able to carry shopping bags and shovel snow, whereas you, Robert, are no help at all…" He paused, then summed up. "Robby, it's time for Melinda to move on." He turned to walk back up the hill, but after a few steps, stopped and spoke over his shoulder. "Four winters is a long time to go without having your snow shoveled," he said. The following Sunday, he succeeded in arriving before she did. It was sunny and breezy, so he opened the windows of his car and sat there until she pulled into the parking area, then got out as though he'd just arrived, Jennifer's flowers in his hand. He'd parked in one of the furthermost spaces, making it necessary to walk past her. And he did, timing his approach carefully. She got out of her car. She was very pretty. High cheekbones, nicely defined nose and generous lips. Her brown hair, streaked with blonde, fell in curls to her shoulders and she was attractively dressed; dark blue jacket and skirt, white blouse. He decided she was perhaps fifteen years younger than he was, but he'd guessed that when he checked her husband's gravestone the week before. Anyway, younger was fine. She hardly noticed him. "Good morning," he said, being careful to keep what sounded like a somber tone in his voice. She looked surprised he had spoken. He knew the flowers in his hand suggested both bereavement and innocence and he gestured toward her with them. "I saw you here last week…" he said. She almost laughed. "Perhaps you did," she replied and she walked past him toward her husband's grave. Silently, he cursed his blunder. "I saw you here last week" was equivalent to "Come here often?" This was a cemetery and he'd used a line appropriate for a singles bar. He was an idiot. He began to follow, but his blunder had cost him both conviction and momentum. He stopped and called after her as she walked down the hill. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I thought you were attractive… that's all." She looked back, smiled faintly and continued walking. "Damn it!" he muttered. He restrained an impulse to go back to his car and try another cemetery while the day was still early. Besides, in a way, this had become his cemetery; he felt he'd established himself here. And anyway, one cemetery was much the same as another; a viable widow could come by at any time. He walked to Jennifer's final resting place and performed the usual moves; knelt, placed the flowers, bowed his head. He watched some ants drag a dead beetle over the gravel. The beetle, on its back and motionless as it was being pulled, suddenly began clawing the air helplessly. Douglas reached down, broke off a flower stem and used it to rout the ants. The beetle made no attempt to right itself, so he used the stem to turn it over. It stayed where it was. And the ants found it again. They began pulling at its legs. Again, he pushed away the ants and poked the beetle, hoping to provoke it into escaping. The ants scurried in circles, then found the unmoving beetle again and started tugging its legs. Now Douglas was angry. He pushed the beetle with the flower stem. "Run, you stupid bastard, run!" he said loudly. "Come here often?" she asked him. She was standing to the side of him, where she must have seen what he was doing and heard what he'd said. He stood up, flustered, and turned to face her, trying to discard the flower stem surreptitiously. She'd walked back up the hill silently on the soft grass and circled behind him. She gave him a look of tolerant amusement. "I uhh, thought I was alone." He was embarrassed. "You were," she observed. "No; I mean, your… presence was unexpected." She smiled. "And I thought I'd received an invitation." She turned away. In the coffee shop, he carefully picked up their brimming cups from the counter, and slowly carried them to where Melinda now sat, smiling at his approach. It was one of those places with a distressed wooden floor, old, fading signs, couches, armchairs and brick showing through the coarsely plastered walls. Nouveau-quaint, he'd called it. He placed the mugs on the low table and sat facing her. They talked. She told him how Robert had been killed in his car when an overloaded trailer truck ran a red light. He had been an insurance salesman. "That's terrible," he murmured, thinking about liability and how well-insured Robert the insurance salesman must have been. He'd rehearsed the story of the life and sad death of Jennifer Martin and he told Melinda they'd married in their thirties, both too busy with their careers—his in advertising, hers in social work—to have much time for each other or to think of having a family and anyway, she eventually found she was unable to bear children. When she was nearing fifty, she'd become erratic in her behavior, accusing him of infidelity and a hundred other infractions of their marriage vows. This went on for two years, he said, until he actually began to consider having an affair, but threw himself into his work instead. Eventually, Jenny agreed to visit a specialist and the resulting tests revealed an inoperable brain tumor. He took care of her for five years, slowly being worn down by her irascible temper and suspicions. He was able to do some of his work at home, but his creativity, his ability to follow through on concepts deteriorated enough for the advertising agency to let him go. Medical and living expenses finished them off, the cost of her funeral being the final blow to his tottering financial situation. Now, he was doing a little freelance work for a number of agencies and trying to catch up. Melinda had listened to him with great interest, sympathizing with the pain he too must have suffered. And then she told him she thought that only a rare man, one who knew how to love, would have suffered for so long. She did ask a few awkward questions; where they'd lived, where Jennifer had gone to school, but nothing he couldn't handle. Inspired, he took out his wallet and showed her a photograph of himself with a former woman friend. "Jennifer was beautiful," Melinda said and he nodded in sad agreement. When they'd finished their coffee, Melinda said she hadn't laughed so much in years. She placed her graceful fingers on his wrist and said she would meet him next Sunday at the cemetery. And perhaps afterward, they could go somewhere for lunch. During the next week, he cleaned and prepared his modest apartment in anticipation of his imminent guest. While he vacuumed, he mused that he might be falling in love—not difficult to do with such an attractive woman. He strategically placed a couple of photos of the former woman friend, emptied the sink, cleaned the refrigerator and dusted. On Thursday, he looked her up in the telephone book, consulted a map, and when it was twilight, drove by her house. Nice neighborhood. Her property was extensive; well-treed and nicely landscaped, the neatly-trimmed lawn presenting a very nice brick home, deeply set back amongst the trees. As he passed, he turned his head to regard the side of the house. Two garage doors; he was growing fonder. On Saturday, he went to a florist, bought flowers for Jennifer and placed them on his balcony so they'd be cool and fresh on Sunday. He hardly slept. When he awoke, it was raining. He called Melinda to make sure she was still going and her voice sounded warm and intimate, as though she'd been sleeping. He responded in kind, his voice taking a more familiar tone. To his observation, she murmured, "But that's what umbrellas are for," and he felt his heart melt. She said one o'clock would be fine. He made poached eggs on toast and tea; he showered, he shaved very closely; changed the sheets and pillowcases. Wipers swished through the torrent of water clattering onto the windshield. With the inside of his car filled with the seductive perfume of the flowers on the seat beside him, he hummed a samba as he drove carefully through what may have qualified as a monsoon. He was on his way to meet a beautiful widow with a beautiful name and a very nice house. This was a perfect day. Her car wasn't at the cemetery. He waited. It was almost half-past one, then it was, then it wasn't. He waited. Her car still wasn't at the cemetery. The rain continued its incessant drumming on his car. His windows fogged, so he started the engine and turned on the defroster. It was almost two. He saw flashing red lights reflecting in twisted, wet steel. In the downpour, a fool had run a red light and broadsided her car. The steam from the radiators hissed and formed thick, lingering clouds, penetrated by crashing raindrops. People in yellow raincoats scurried about, shouting urgently and loading stretchers. As diluted blood flowed toward a storm drain, her car suddenly appeared next to his. He signaled her to stay in her car, picked up Jennifer's flowers from the seat, took his umbrella and without opening it, leaped into the rain and into her car. God, she was beautiful. They smiled, said good morning and laughed about the weather while she handed him tissues to wipe the rain from his face and hair. She didn't say why she was late, he didn't ask. He glanced into her back seat and noticed two bouquets. Two? One for Robert, one for her mother, who was buried here. Aahhh; he didn't know. Aahhh; she hadn't told him. She walked down the hill to Robert while he made his way toward Jennifer, the sodden grass squelching under his feet. He stooped to place the flowers on the grave, then bowed his head and closed his eyes contemplatively. Rain thundered on his umbrella as he mused that this may be his last visit. He remained standing like that for a while in order to show Melinda depth of character, then looked toward Robert's grave through a gray curtain of rain and saw only the flowers she'd left there. Must be at her mother's grave. He turned to the parking area. Her car was gone. At his feet, next to the flowers he'd brought for Jennifer, lay her other bouquet.
© 2005, revised 2007, Terence D. Hughes |
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