Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

  We spent an hour or so comparing prices at a few of the mom and pop souvenir shops. Each one had an abundance of similar items to tempt buyers: scrimshaw jewelry and other imports from Cape Cod (most including cranberries), seashell wind chimes, old lobster pots converted into tables, and buoys for sale in every primary color. I considered buying a puzzle of the island, but thought, I doubt I’ll have the time to finish it – and quickly pushed the thought out of my head. Even if I hadn’t known, I would have been able to tell we were at an artist’s colony. There were sculptures, watercolor paintings and beautiful pieces done in metal. Nantucket lightship baskets and gold charms led me to the white braided bracelets that children soaked and let shrink to their skin. They were the same ones that turned black by the end of summer and had to be cut off before school, leaving behind a white ring around the wrist where the sun hadn’t touched. I grabbed two for the kids. “Let’s pick up the rest of the souvenirs before we leave, so we don’t have to carry them around,” Bella said.

  I paid for the white bracelets and put them into my pocket. “Let’s go eat,” I said. “I’m starving.”

  We walked the two blocks to The Black Dog, the historic and legendary tavern whose world-famous ambassador represented the easy Vineyard way of life. It was a big tourist draw, but I was happy to find that the specials featured freshly caught fish and a collection of delicious desserts. After we ate our clam cakes and chowder by an empty fireplace, I ordered apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Cashing out, Bella bought us two matching sweatshirts and one bumper sticker.

  “That’s going to be heavy to carry all the way back,” I teased.

  She made a funny face. “I’ll be fine.”

  As we made our way back to our room, the air temperature dropped and the streets began to fill with people coming out for the night. There were plenty of interesting characters and I’m certainly not shy, but this was a time for just Bella and me. So we kept to ourselves, held hands and walked along in comfortable silence.

  After watching a magical sunset, on bended knees I prayed. Father, bless my family – Bella, Riley, Michael and the kids – with good health, both of mind and body. Shroud them in the safety of your angels and allow them to live in a world of peace and harmony. Bless those who have passed from this world. May they live in Your presence for all eternity. Forgive us of our sins and help us on our daily path back to You – Amen.

  I realized that for the first time since I’d gotten sick, I’d prayed for only those I loved and not for myself. It felt good. “Good-night,” I said.

  “Good-night…and don’t forget to take your medicine before you fall asleep.”

  There’s no way I could, I thought. I’ve been in pain all day.

  I grabbed an extra blanket from the closet for Bella so I could keep the screen windows open. I took my pills and turned in early for the night. I loved the smell of the ocean and its music lulled me to sleep.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, after two bowls of fresh melon and some wheat toast, we rented a candy-apple red convertible. It was Bella’s idea – thank God for her.

  It was still too early in the year for a ragtop, but we didn’t care. Right away, it took me back to my youth. The first car I’d owned was a ‘65 Buick Special, powder blue on blue, with a Wildcat 310 under the hood. And it was in that very car that I discovered the true sense of freedom.

  With the top down, the front seat pushed close to the windshield and the music playing a little louder than normal, my girl and I cruised the land of mopeds and bicyclists. There was nothing more exciting than the freedom of the open road without worrying about your brains being splattered in a helmet. While we stopped for the things Bella needed to fill our picnic basket – bread, cheese, a jar of mild salsa – I noticed that everyone was looking. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Bella got back in the car and looked at me. “What?” she asked.

  “No apple pie?”

  “There’s a little bakery on the way,” she said and grinned. “And we should also pick up some fruit and vegetables.”

  I never replied. Leaning back on my headrest, my face pitched to the sun, I pointed the car north.

  On one of the back shady roads, I pressed the accelerator to the floor and could hear the four-barrel open up and guzzle down a gallon of gas. The exhaust was throaty and sounded mean. I looked over at Bella. With her hair whipping around in the wind, she shook her head and giggled. There was a blanket and picnic basket on the backseat, the love of my life in the passenger seat and the gas needle was on full. Life can’t get any better, I thought.

  The further inland we went, the more rural charm we experienced. I was surprised to see deer in the open pastures and horses at play. With the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop, sheep farms and rolling hills were greener than I remembered. The sea breeze stinging my face made me feel young again. We stopped once at a roadside fruit and vegetable stand that still worked on the honor system. It sold jars of rose hip jelly and beautiful dried sunflowers. A coffee can was set up to receive payment. I dropped in a ten, grabbed a jar of jelly, two dried sunflowers for Bella and a colorful mix of fruit and vegetables for me.

  As we drove the winding roads, I couldn’t remember feeling more alive or carefree. With the sun beating down, though, I did remember we had to keep moving or we were going to bake.

  We finally reached Aquinnah, better known as Gayhead, and parked the car. We passed the Native Wampanoags selling their wares at cliff-top and headed for the lighthouse. From atop the hundred foot cliffs, the winds shrieked and we could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below. The foul odor of low tide took hold. I couldn’t help it. I turned to Bella and pinched my nose, “Geeze, Babe.”

  She slapped me.

  The red cliffs were smothered in thick vegetation. Fragrant rosa rugosa and beach plums grew just above the rumbling surf. It was a great spot to see lobstermen and fishing trawlers at work. I threw a quarter into the magnifying viewer and watched as a shriveled old naked couple strolled along the beach. Bella whacked my arm again. “You pervert.”

  Just then, a chubby tour guide hyperventilated his way up the hill that led to the lighthouse’s overlook. There were at least two dozen tourists in tow. Before melting into the rear of the pack, I nudged Bella and gestured that she join me. I was surprised when she did. As the man’s bus idled on the road, he explained, “Gay Head was named for the brightly colored rock formations on the one hundred-foot scenic cliffs. Home of the Wampanoag Tribe, it has also been witness to some terrible maritime accidents. Today, the grandiose lighthouse at Gay Head is still an active guide to navigation. Besides ensuring safe passage, Gay Head Lighthouse features one of the most picturesque locations on the East Coast, offering an awe-inspired view of the sound.”

  People started snapping pictures. I looked at Bella and shrugged. “I left the camera in the car,” I said.

  “Of course you did.” She laughed. “I’ll get it.”

  “On a clear day, you can see for miles,” the guide explained. “Just below, there are several rocky coves and inlets where bass and bluefish hide. This part of the island is also one of the best places to watch the sunset on the water. This lighthouse is one of five on Martha’s Vineyard and one of three currently maintained by the Historical Society.”

  Bella returned to the group and began taking pictures. Once she’d had her fill, we headed to one of the shops and bought two tall glasses of tea that had been brewing in the morning sun. It was delicious. Bella ordered a dozen clam cakes for the ride back. They didn’t touch Flo’s.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was early afternoon when we reached Vineyard Haven. We pulled into one of those gaudy souvenir shops where things aren’t so cheap anymore. Everything had to be shipped over to the island, so everything was considered imported – and they charged for it. We bought two giant overpriced beach towels and headed for the shore.

  On a stretch of beach between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown, I pull
ed over. Driftwood, broken shells, old fishing line and tattered nets that covered a cluster of rocks led us to the ideal spot. Children with their shovels and pails, and mothers with their paperback books watched as we spread out the towels and set up camp. The horizon was peppered with weekend sail boaters. Bella’s right, I thought. This is heaven. “Thank you,” I told her.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For having such a great idea.”

  She grabbed my face with both hands. “There’s more where that came from,” she promised. The sun was warm, the rhythm of the waves mesmerizing. It must have only taken seconds before we both fell asleep – side-by-side, holding hands.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  By dusk, the air got colder, but we were rested and ready to ride. We put the top down on the convertible, turned on the heater and steered back onto the street. I was suddenly aware that the gift of life is offered in every breath we take.

  As the darkness crept in, Bella slid closer to me. I put my arm around her. With an unobstructed view of the moon and stars, we reminisced about our life together. Sometimes it doesn’t take much to experience perfection, I thought. The simple things may actually be the greatest of all.

  We spent the next hour debating whether we should get a clam boil for dinner or go for the baked stuffed shrimp. In truth, I didn’t care. My stomach was churning something awful, so wherever we ended up I didn’t expect to eat more than a few bites.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  On Sunday morning, we decided to spend the second half of our getaway in Oak Bluffs and Edgartown. My wife insisted, “We have to visit the gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs first.” Known by the locals as “the Cottage Colony,” this cliquey community is famous for its storybook gingerbread cottages, three hundred thirty in all, encircling Trinity Park. With rocking chairs on the front porches and candle-lit Japanese lanterns glowing at night, names such as Time Remembered, Rose Crest and Alice’s Wonderland made Bella coo. Many of the gothic resort cottages – adorned with their ornamental scroll work, decorative shingling, porch aprons, arched double doors and candy cane colors of pink, blue and green – contained miniature gardens behind white picket fences.

  “They look like doll houses,” I said.

  She nodded. “They’re wonderful.”

  Rising out of the center was the Tabernacle, an open-air cathedral with dominant wrought iron arches, colored windows and an octagonal cupola. The Trinity United Methodist Church was just next door. It had a classic New England spire that had been hit three times by lightning. With blown-glass windows and a stamped-tin interior, I remembered visiting it as a kid. “It’s still my favorite,” I told Bella.

  Beyond the summer cottages that rented for more than it would have cost us to put both Madison and Pudge through college, the Annual Oak Bluffs Harbor Festival beckoned.

  It was a junk-food junkie’s paradise. The air was thick with the distinct aromas of cotton candy and fried dough. While a live band played on the dock and young children competed in a chalk art contest on the cement walkway, we ate as we walked along and looked at the boats. I’d given my belly a rest, so we shared a pulled pork sandwich from a local Bar-B-Q smokehouse, and then an expensive lobster roll overflowing with claw meat. I’m dying, I figured, but I’m not dead yet. At the end of the dock, a heavy-set woman dressed like a rag doll yelled out, “Strawberry shortcakes! Get your strawberry shortcakes here!”

  We stopped and I turned to Bella. “Oh, good…fruit!” I said, excitedly.

  She laughed, and we bought one and split it. It was made with fresh strawberries, a real shortcake and sweet whipped cream. Two bites in, I almost told Raggedy Ann that I loved her.

  As we strolled further down the pier, I stopped and gave Bella a hug. I was starting to understand that it wasn’t so much about doing anything; about feeling or even thinking anything. It was about being; being who I was, and being with the woman who owned my heart. I looked into her eyes and kissed her again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I love you.”

  We hugged for a while, swaying together on the dock, while the crowd milled around us. Sometimes all we have to do is breathe, I thought. The rest is out of our hands.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The Flying Horses Carousel was the nation’s oldest operating platform carousel. In 1884, this treasured merry-go-round was brought to Martha’s Vineyard and placed right in the heart of Oak Bluffs where it could be enjoyed for more than a century. I bought two tickets for four dollars and tried my best to catch the brass ring and win a free ride. It never happened. Instead, I shelled out a few more bucks for a cone of cotton candy and an iced-cold bottle of water. I grabbed Bella’s hand and headed back to the convertible.

  When we reached the car, I looked at her and couldn’t help but laugh. She had a wad of the pink cotton candy stuck to her chin. “What now?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said again and opened the passenger door for her. “I was just thinking that sometimes the silliest things make for the best memories…even though no one ever realizes it at the time.”

  She nodded, her cotton candy beard still intact.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Everything tucked away into back alleys and unassuming little neighborhoods, Edgartown was another national treasure. The quiet streets were lined with large elegant homes, many crowned with widows’ walks built by wealthy nineteenth century whaling captains. I parked the car on South Water Street where we had to walk around the roots of a huge pagoda tree breaking through the slate sidewalk. It had been brought back from China in 1843 in a tiny cup by Captain Thomas Milton to decorate his home.

  Edgartown was home to many of the Northeast’s most elite. With their boat shoes and sweater-wearing dogs, most of them reeked of money. They weren’t any better or worse than the rest of us – just experiencing a very different reality.

  As we navigated the red brick sidewalks and marveled at the amazing architecture, two women in big flowered hats happened by. If I didn’t know better, it would have been difficult to identify the exact era we were in – that is, until a guy walked by, wearing two earrings and holding hands with his tattooed girlfriend. The tiny shops and cafés were a delight, each one a glimpse of Norman Rockwell’s inspiration. Bella finally broke the silence. “We were crazy to stay away from this place for so long,” she admitted.

  I agreed, and as we made our way toward the Edgartown Lighthouse, the sun glistened off the water, its light dancing on the waves. A foghorn sounded in the harbor and the taste of salt grew stronger on my palate.

  The colonial-style homes, sitting almost flush with the quaint street, flew American flags in the stiff Atlantic winds. Most were covered in white cedar shingles stained driftwood gray, trimmed in white and offset with a red front door. Though the lawns were no larger than a postage stamp, some had anchors in the front yard; others had sheds decorated with colorful buoys and fishing nets in the back. The white Adirondack chairs reminded me of home.

  We finally reached land’s end where the Harbor View Hotel overlooked the lighthouse. While Bella chose to wait on the sidewalk and take in the harbor, I stepped onto the massive wraparound porch and told her, “I’m going to check out the place.”

  Built in 1891, the hotel was credited with beginning Edgartown’s climb to fame as a summer resort. Built on a generous scale, the advertisements boasted, the hotel offered comfortable bedrooms, gaslights in every room and large public parlors. Guests, however, were lured most by the gorgeous panoramic views promised from its front porch.

  Today, the hotel’s sprawling veranda was lined with rocking chairs, inviting guests to take in the sweeping views of the sea and yachts of Edgartown Harbor. I took a seat and then a deep breath.

  “Don…look,” someone called out in a strained whisper.

  I glanced up to see Bella waving me over. I walked the length of the porch and when I reached its end, I spotted
a young couple exchanging vows before a hundred family and friends beneath the hotel’s gazebo. I’d crashed a wedding and didn’t even know it. As I sneaked off the porch, I had an idea – as well as most of the details figured out by the time the evening ferry docked back at the mainland.

  “What’s that smile about?” Bella asked, as we searched for our car in the giant, dirt parking lot. “You’ve been wearing it all afternoon.”

  “Nothing,” I said, giving her a kiss. “It’s just that…I really love you.”

  Chapter 5

  “So the pain levels are the same, but the fatigue is getting worse?” Dr. Rice asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I get so exhausted from the smallest things sometimes.”

  “Well, as the cancer progresses, the fatigue will get worse. The trick is to save your energy for when you really need it…like dipping into your savings for a rainy day.” She smiled and raised one eyebrow. “How has your diet been?”

  “Much better,” I said, with a grin. “I’m eating my veggies and my grains…and some junk food.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine, but all things in moderation, right?”

  “I know.”

  “The old saying ‘garbage in, garbage out’ is still true.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Although spring was upon us, my poor lawn, which I’d slaved over for years to get just right, was abandoned. The smell of fresh-cut grass, the pride of reaching perfection – it no longer meant as much as it once did. Even my weekly car waxing had come to an end. Instead, if I could have, I would have taken every class available to man. As my appetite for food decreased, my hunger for knowledge became voracious. But there was so little time left. In my sudden quest to learn as much as I could, I picked up a South Coast Learning Network catalog.

  According to SCLN’s diverse catalog, all courses were short-term and non-credit, held in local libraries, workplaces, churches, museums, schools, public buildings and even private homes. Instructors were experts in their fields; artists, business people, cooks, computer specialists, craftsmen, health experts, historians, scientists, woodworkers and writers. “Real learning for real life,” they called it. “Besides being fun, every new learning experience improves the quality of life, while helping you to succeed in a world of constant change.”