by Megan Rivers
I reached over and pulled him into a hug. “I'm glad you're here with me,” I said over his shoulder. He smelled of soap and faintly of barbecue sauce. I hadn't hugged anyone in a while, but it felt right, it felt familiar. His embrace was like walking through the doors of your childhood home after a long absence.
He didn't respond, but held me a little tighter. It seemed as though he needed a hug more than I did.
X.
Company with Ghosts & Pop Music
“Follow Through” – Gavin DeGraw
As winter moved into spring, I thawed out along side the snow. Galvin visited me more frequently—or at least it seemed that way. Then again, I was in such an awful state for so long that I was oblivious to his company.
When Meadow and I were roommates we always talked and ate together... I didn't realize how much I missed the company of a friend until Galvin showed up. He came by for dinner at least three times a week.
Without realizing it, we started a ritual of Pizza Fridays with a funny movie. I would sit on the couch, on the side closest to the TV, and he sat on the floor beside me. When I invited him to sit on the couch, he would humbly shake his head and respond, “Nah, I can reach the pizza better from down here,” and snagged another slice from the box on the coffee table. Pizza Fridays were something I began to look forward to.
On March first—a day before Pizza Friday—there was a lightness in my step, like weights had been lifted, even though it was the anniversary of my engagement. When I walked out of work, the sun was still out—a good sign that spring had begun. Galvin was on the steps outside the MET, eating the last bit of a hot dog.
“'ey 'istie,” he said with his mouth full and a small wave of his hand.
“It's not Friday, what are you doing here?” I asked, watching him swallow and rub his hands with a napkin.
He pointed east and explained, “My apartment is a few blocks away and I felt like a walk. Lucky to catch you!”
I never really thought about where Galvin stayed when he wasn't with me. I guess I always assumed he lived in hotels, no matter how old he was. I shrugged the thought away. “I was going to take a walk through the park, wanna come?” I asked, tying the belt on my jacket.
“Lead the way,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his hand.
As we walked we talked about the weather, my work, and what movie we would watch the following night. That is, until we found ourselves at that bench near the zoo. Galvin was talking about a Will Farrell movie, but my paced slowed until it stopped.
That bench.
I could see us sitting there a year ago, smiling and happy. Antony's arm draped across the back of the bench as I ate my hot dog. I was lost in the memory, soaking in the details of his face, of our high spirits.
“Christie? Are you okay?” Galvin asked, backtracking and arriving back at my side.
I sighed loudly. “It doesn't hurt as bad anymore,” I said, still looking at the ghosts of the past.
Galvin's eyes traveled to the bench and back to me. “What doesn't?”
“The ache,” I replied wanting to cry, but not out of pain. I turned my head to meet Galvin's gaze and pointed to the bench. “That's where Antony and I decided to get married, sitting on that bench... a year ago today.”
A jogger ran past and I took a step closer to the bench. “Galvin,” I said, looking back at him, a smile slowly erupting. “That pain,” I said, touching my chest, “it's not crushing me anymore. Is it bad that I want to smile?”
Galvin lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. “No, that's not bad at all.”
Elation inflated inside me. “It still hurts,” I admitted, “but I can actually find happiness in his memory instead of pain.” A few tears ran down my cheek with the memory of how happy I felt that day. I could feel something besides pain again!
I was so delighted at this discovery that I hugged Galvin in my jubilance. After a few short seconds he pulled away and put two feet of space between us. Giving me a small smile he said, “That's amazing Christie. I knew you could get through this.”
“I feel so light right now. I mean, I still miss him—I really, really do—but it's going to be okay.” The sun was beginning to set in the sky, but just starting to rise in my metaphorical world. “Let's go do something,” I urged.
Galvin pierced his lips together in thought. “I know!” he said. “Come, follow me.”
He walked out of the park and back into the noisy, traffic-covered world of New York City. After several blocks we walked into an electronics store. “I'm going to welcome you into the twenty-first century, Christie,” he said with a smile, aiming for a particular aisle. “We're getting you an iPod.”
Confusion masked my face. “Out of everything we could have done, you chose buying an iPod?”
Galvin lifted his eyebrows as if he knew better than me. My mom would do that when I asked her a silly question. “Music fixes everything, Christie. Besides, you're the only person I know who still uses a portable CD player. It's 2012, get with the times.”
Music. I missed music. It used to do everything with me. It was a prescription for sadness, heartache, elation, and joy, or it would just accompany me with the everyday, mundane things. It made life a little easier, a little bit lighter.... and happier. Maybe Galvin was right.
“Okay,” I gave in, shrugging.
Music had a purpose again, I could feel it healing my soul. On Memorial Day weekend I was listening to the newest playlist Meadow had sent me and Taylor Swift was streaming through my studio apartment. Instead of sitting in front of the TV in my sweatpants capris and t-shirt, I decided to clean. Every time I tried to straighten up a room I would come across an item of Antony's and the memories would crash down around me. For so long I had been afraid of what was around me—afraid of how much pain it would bring me. I let my housekeeping skills slide over the past nine months.
A group called One Direction was playing on the iPod—a song so classically Meadow I couldn't help but smile. I was dusting the bookshelf and entertainment center, singing the five repetitious words in the chorus and pretending I knew the rest, when Galvin walked in. He went to the iPod dock on the kitchen table and turned down the music.
“What is this?” Galvin asked, trying to look on the iPod screen. “This is a Meadow-song, isn't it? I hope you didn't pay money for this song.”
On my knees, reaching for dust bunnies behind the TV, I turned my head to see him in jeans and a gray shirt with indecipherable black writing—or maybe it was a design? I chuckled at his response. “Meadow said you'd say something like that in her letter. She said if that was the case then I should....” I trailed off and got to my knees, searching through the large manilla envelope that arrived that morning with Meadow's thumb drive of music. “Read this,” I finished, pulling out the letter.
Galvin lifted his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest. I cleared my throat and read her words verbatim, “You, sir, of all people, should not judge this music. Sometimes all a person wants is to flip a switch and be happy, not cry to sappy lyrics, listen to a musician scream over their music, or analyze every lyric for its 'deeper meaning',” I used air quotes with my free hand to illustrate her words. “Shut up, flip the switch, and be happy.” I looked up and then held the note out to him. “Her words, not mine.”
Galvin sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't press the issue, but changed the subject instead. “What have you been up to? What's in these?” Galvin asked, his shoe nudging the two cardboard boxes on the floor by the door.
Putting the letter down, I bit my lip. “Don't think I'm a horrible person,” I started.
Galvin studied me. He looked so put together at that moment. I was undoubtedly a mess: flushed from the exercise of cleaning, my hair frizzy from not taking a morning shower, and in the grubbiest clothes I owned.
“Some of Antony's stuff,” I offered an explanation. “I'm not trying to get rid of him—it's just some things I think Joe would want. That's not selfish, is it?”
I asked. The thought about removing some of Antony's belongings made me wonder if I was being self-centered.
Galvin came a few steps closer, shaking his head. “No, not at all. I think it's healthy.”
“Joe's not gonna think I'm just trying to get it out of my way? Think I'm done with Antony?”
Again, he shook his head. “Not at all. I think he'd love to see you. You are starting to rebuild your life. You will always have Antony whether you have his stuff of not.”
“I'm not getting rid of all his stuff.” I was still being defensive, though I had no reason to be with Galvin. “Just like his toothbrush and his underwear and some of his books which are in Italian so I can't even read them.”
Galvin nodded again. “It's fine, Christie. It really is. You're not doing anything wrong.”
I ran my tongue across my lips. “Yeah?”
“Honestly,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “Coincidently, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out to lunch. It's a beautiful day and you should get out before the dust bunnies rebel.”
A smile crossed my lips. “Let me hop into the shower real quick and I'm game.”
Galvin sat down on the couch, in front of my laptop. “Good, it'll give me time to put some quality music on your playlist,” he joked.
Twenty minutes later I was in jean capris, sandals, a tank top and khaki jacket. I pulled my wet hair back in a braid that slung over my shoulder and felt uncluttered by emotions and memories. Dare I say I was feeling bold, perhaps confident, for the first time since Antony died. I walked out of the bathroom and heard a foreign song streaming from my computer. “That's good music,” Galvin said, pointing at the screen.
“It's old people music,” I groaned.
He rolled his eyes. “It's only old people music if old people listen to it. Besides, The Rat Pack is classic.”
I wondered if this is how he felt after I read him Meadow's letter. Suppressing an eye roll, I fiddled with my purse that sat on the counter. “I—can I ask you a favor?” I said.
“Anything,” Galvin said, standing up from the couch. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and put it in his front pocket.
“I think I'm ready to go back to—to go to the deli and see Joe.” I continued to fiddle with the straps of my purse. “But I don't think—would you—could—do you want to come with? I'll buy lunch.”
“Of course,” he said, shrugging his shoulders like it wasn't a big deal.
It took about an hour as we took the subway across the bridge and uptown. It was almost three in the afternoon as we walked up the familiar street. The lunch rush had just died down and it was the lull before the dinner rush began. As we stood outside the store—where nothing had changed—I peered in to see Joe behind the counter. Next to him was a young man who shared a lot of the same features as Antony, but was much younger. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. They were standing over the cash register, discussing something on the counter.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the door and heard that familiar jingle of the brass bell. Both men looked up; Joe's face broke into a smile. “Christie!” he exclaimed, raising his arms. He made his way around the counter and embraced me in a tight hug. It was a hug that said more than words. I closed my eyes and drunk in the comfort of it.
“It's good to see you,” he said after releasing the hug. He kept his hands on my shoulders as if he were studying me.
“You too, Joe,” I smiled.
He took one hand from my shoulder and pointed to a table. “Come, come sit down.”
We sat at a table against the wall. “This is Galvin,” I offered an introduction. Galvin put the cardboard box down and offered his hand to Joe.
While shaking, Joe asked, “Oh, do you work at the museum too?”
“No,” I interjected. “I've known Galvin since high school.” Then I added, “He has been a good friend.”
Joe nodded, understanding. “How are you?” I asked. “How was the—how was Italy?” I couldn't quite make myself say the words “memorial” or “funeral”.
Joe spoke with his hands, just like Antony. “Italy is beautiful, as always...though I wish I had been visiting for different reasons. The service was beautiful, I wish you would have come for it. The whole family wanted to meet you.”
I offered a half smile after I stopped biting my bottom lip. “I know. I'm sorry. I just—I couldn't.”
“I know,” Joe said, patting my hand. He sighed then decided to change the topic. “What brings you around?”
“Oh, well...” Why was this so hard for me? “I wanted to bring by some of Antony's things that you might want: his laptop, some books, pictures of his family, his favorite pan.” Antony had a non-stick ceramic teflon pan that he cherished—he wouldn't let me touch it or even wash it.
Galvin slid the box a few inches towards Joe. “Christie, you didn't have to do that. It's as much yours as it is mine. But thank you.” Joe picked up the picture frame on top of the pile in the box which was of Joe, Antony and his family. “I loved him like he was my own son,” he said. He was trying to push back his emotions, but his face betrayed him. When he put the picture down, his face portrayed normalcy. “I wish you'd come around more.”
“I plan to,” I offered, hoping it'd help him. “It's just been a hard couple of months,” I admitted, suddenly interested in studying the scratches etched into the table. Galvin tapped my leg with his knee, as if to let me know he was here if I needed him; that things were going to be okay.
“It's funny you should come today,” Joe said.
I looked up. “Oh? Why is that?”
Joe put the cardboard box on the empty chair next to him. “Just last night I pulled out the sketches you did for the mural you planned.”
“Oh, yes...” I suddenly felt very guilty for not going through with it. “Sorry about that.”
“No, don't be. They're quite good. Are you still interested in completing it?”
His eyes brightened with the prospect. “Oh, yeah. Yes. Definitely. Only if you still want it.”
He smiled. “It would be a pleasure. When could you start?”
I thought about it for a moment. My life was so boring I didn't even have a schedule to consult. “We can meet about the sketches on Friday and go from there.”
Joe extended his hand. “It's a deal.” I shook it with a smile and he winked at me. “My clever plot to see you more often worked.”
Galvin spit out a laugh and I couldn't help but join him.
XI.
Painting Away the Pain
“Oh What A Day” – Ingrid Michaelson
Joe and I made some minor changes to the sketches I made last year, but overall, nothing changed, much like the atmosphere of the deli.
The second Saturday in June I wore my painting pants and began preparations for a base coat. It was mid-afternoon, during that lunch/dinner lull. Joe had cordoned off a strip of the floor around the mural so I wouldn't be in anyone's way.
I put the earbuds in and let the voice of Ingrid Michaelson transport me to a better—dare I say enlightened—place while I measured the 12' by 7' space and boarded it with blue painters tape, measuring it carefully with a level. My goal was to get the first base coat on before heading home.
When Joe went to Italy last fall, Antony's youngest brother, Gio—or Giovanni when Joe was being serious—came back with Joe to help out at the deli. He had the same hair and nose as Antony, but his face didn't light up the way Antony's did. He also didn't know much English, just enough to get by. He would always pronounce my name “A-Crees-tee,” and it always made me smile.
Soon, Gio tapped me on the shoulder and I took the earbuds out. He had a plate with a towering ham and swiss sandwich on it. “Eat,” he said with a smile.
I thanked him and realized it was already quarter to seven in the evening—I had been oblivious to the dinner rush. Joe was helping a customer with an order, so I decided to sit down at a nearby table by myself. It was small and
round, and could fit maybe two plates, if the patrons didn't mind being cozy.
Like most people nowadays, I took out my phone while I munched on my dinner. Meadow was on a girls weekend trip to San Francisco and she messaged me a few pictures of her being, well, Meadow. As I was laughing silently, seeing a selfie of Meadow with a drag queen, a message came in from Galvin.
Galvin: How's the painting?
Me: Good. Eating break.
Galvin: Meatball?
Me: Ham
Galvin: Save me half?
Me: Get your own!
Galvin: ...Fine!
Getting up, I slid the phone in my back pocket and brought my dish to the counter. “Grazi,” I told Gio, handing him the plate. “Molto bene.” He smiled and then disappeared into the kitchen.
Most of the first base coat was done, but I still had the top right corner to fill in and then retouch the lines where the blue tape met the paint. Putting the earbuds back in my ear, I picked up the paint roller once more. This time Jonny Lang's voice took me out of the deli and into a world of methodical imagination.
Still rolling on the white matte paint, I began picturing some details to put in the background when I noticed Galvin about two yards from me. After I pulled off the ear plugs, he said, “This is a work of art, Christie,” he said mockingly, as if his breath had been taken away. I looked at him and to the white wall, confused. “The lack of color and the way the lighting plays upon that theme... it screams masterpiece.”
When I realized he was joking I pushed him in the shoulder. “Very funny.” I put down the paint roller. “Robert Rauschenberg's White Paintings raised a lot of existential questions and they were the soul of what became Minimalism and Conceptualism—“ Before I could go on about interpretations, Galvin cut me off.