by Lois Cahall
Walking back outside, I felt the sharp contrast between the rich interior and the simplicity of the exterior. Some history book once said exactly this about these castles—that “in inner life, spirituality and the family, lies true wealth.” My truth was about true love; I just knew it. Above me, the sky was still blue. Hope. And suddenly I felt my mom—and even Alice and Joy—very near to my heart.
I knew right there was no time like the present to flip the lid on the tin can once and for all. So I did.
Just like that.
Standing right there at the Court of the Myrtles, I shimmied the stubborn slight rusted, slightly dented cover off and looked inside.
There was an antique key nestled in my mother’s fake Pucci scarf, which I lifted from the box, its fluorescent colors draping over my knee. Underneath it lay a campaign pin—red, white and blue that read: “Bernie for Town Council. The way of the future!”
This was it? A way to what future? A button from the father I never knew. A key? Okay, clearly it opened something, but what? Ridiculous. Disappointing. Had I waited my whole life for a key and a scarf? A campaign pin?
I put the contents back in the box and rested it on my knee.
What did I think should be in here? Shame on me. I snapped the lid back on. Maybe I should pray for my mom instead of selfishly wondering what she might have given me. And yet, for a split second I felt anger. Anger for her not only leaving me, but leaving me this.
Rearranging my dignity I decided I needed to focus on Eddy.
I stayed on my bench as five o’clock passed, my spirits dimming faster than the setting sun. Maybe October would come and go, and so would Eddy. Maybe this was a foolish idea, though Alice once told me to take risks. Yeah, some risk, I reasoned. I’d wasted money for this trip half way around the world, not to mention I’ve needed to pee for the past two hours and…
“Excuse me?”
I look to the water’s reflection to see the upside-down face of a handsome man, his sweeping brown bangs and blue eyes complement a nicely rounded jaw supporting an extremely infectious grin. He is wearing a worn but comfortable T-shirt and has camera gear swinging from his left hip over his blue jeans. His black boots are in need of a good polishing.
“Hello,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Brian.”
I look up to meet his face and extend mine robotically.
“Hi, I’m Marla.” I say, my eyes darting around just in case Eddy shows up at this very instant and I’m with another man.
“I don’t mean to pester you,” says Brian. “But I’ve been waiting for about an hour just over there,” he explains, pointing to a nearby wall. “It’s just that—well, the sun is just right and if I don’t get that shot of the water, I won’t make it in time.”
“Oh, am I blocking your view?” I say, turning around to see what he was aiming at and then realizing the view was right in front of me.
“Kind of,” he says, sheepishly, shrugging and then releasing a flash of white teeth. This man is simply captivating. In what seems like slow motion I watch him run his tanned hand haphazardly through his bangs. “I’d be willing to wait to take the photo, but I have a flight to Madrid in three hours and I’m on a deadline, so…”
“Oh please, go right ahead,” I say, rising from the bench to get out of the shot and see just what he’s seeing through his camera lens. A smile of gratitude for life suddenly passes over me, warming my heart. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a bad idea after all, I think, looking out to the horizon. “Beautiful isn’t it?” I say gently.
“Yes,” says Brian, staring at me. “Just beautiful.” He focuses his camera twirling the lens quickly to snap a photo. Of me. I blush and put my hand up to stop him but it’s too late. He’s snapping another and another one. I giggle.
Next he pulls out his tripod and begins assembling it on the path near a shrub of myrtle.
“That’s pretty fancy equipment you’ve got there,” I say.
“Yes, well, when you shoot for National Geographic…”
My eyes widen. “You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m quite serious,” he says, flashing that gorgeous smile again and winding his camera on its podium.
“Traveling the world is my dream!”
“My dream, too,” he says. “Free to be whatever I want.”
Did he just say that? I’m instantly sucked into a vortex of memory. “My mom used to say that.”
“Really? And how much of the world has she seen?” he asks.
“Barely any, actually.”
“That’s a shame. You should take her sometime.”
“I can’t. She’s no longer with us.”
“Oh, I see,” he says, stopping what he’s doing and standing straight up. “Well, I’m sorry for the loss, and, well, because she never saw the world either, I’m even more sorry.”
I’m speechless.
“And you?” he asks, “How much of the world have you seen, Marla?” He puts his eye back to the camera prepping for a test shot.
“Um, the Alhambra,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and then twirling around.
“Just the Alhambra?” he asks, surprised. “Oh well, then, I could tell you stories.”
And stories he did. He sat with me on that bench waiting for Eddy until the security guard told us they were closing the front gate. We began to gather our things, him with his bulky camera cases, me with my coat and tin can.
“What’s in the bunny tin,” he asks, trying to be polite but finding it rather odd. I hadn’t let go of it all afternoon.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, and flipping the lid over I expose its contents for a second time. “It was my mom’s secret hiding place.”
“Whoa, like in a movie,” says Brian, examining the contents of the tin. “The key to the family jewels.”
I knit my brow. “What do you mean? What family jewels? I grew up dirt poor.”
“Oh I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, it’s not like it’s the key to a brand-new Mercedes…”
“No, but I know that sort of key anywhere,” Brian insists. “May I?” He lifts it from where it’s nestled on the scarf and examines it. “It’s the key to a safety deposit box.”
“Like at a bank?” I ask, snatching it back.
“Yeah, like at a bank,” he says, amused by my innocence.
I never saw Eddy. And Brian the photographer never made his flight to Madrid. I later learned that Eddy had met somebody new—a school teacher—three months ago. And he never suspected I would really show up. But that was okay, I wasn’t alone—not that night and not the rest of my nights. Brian and I spent hours talking about everything the world had to offer—from the Eiffel Tower in Paris to the Maya Ruins in Guatemala, the Great Wall of China, the Leaning Tower of Pisa… There were silly stories about him drinking mojitos with Fidel Castro, and stories of the camel in Cairo with a bad case of gas. There were safaris in Kenya and there were hat dances in Mexico. But it was the last story of his not-so-favorite-trip to Turkey that interested me the most, not only because my ancestors were from what used to be Armenia, but because of the way he told it. The numerous empty bottles of Pinot Noir on the table, surrounded by several burnt out candles over our five-course dinner didn’t hurt either. And neither did my hand inside his.
Chapter Fifteen
Acceptance
Alice couldn’t save her daughter and I couldn’t save my mom, but Alice had saved me. I arrived at the cemetery ten minutes earlier than usual, longing to express my gratitude, show her my photographs with Brian who was just now finishing up his assignment overseas before coming to join me. I couldn’t wait to deliver to Alice a gift, a souvenir—a big coffee table book on the trees of the Alhambra.
But Alice hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe it was just as well, I thought to myself, parking my car in front of my mom’s grave. It would give me a few minutes to ponder the whole whirlwind of the Spanish trip before hearing her know-it-all advice, even when her know-it-all advice was
always right. Alice and her silly expressions, her stupid laughter, her annoying questions—God, those annoying questions….
But as I close the car door I hear distant voices from just beyond the cherry tree at Joy’s stone. Ducking down to sneak a peek from behind the old maple tree trunk, I view a group of men gathered around Joy’s headstone. Five of them.
Oh great, she brought friends, I think to myself. The more the merrier. Probably all here to say, “I told you so, Marla.”
But there’s still no sign of Alice. These men are busy chatting, even chuckling, and drinking cans of beer. Not very respectful of them to be boozing it up at Joy’s grave, is it? I’m sure Alice is going to give them a piece of her mind the moment she arrives, unless, of course, they’re friends of Joy’s.
But before I can figure it out, one of them glances up and spots me.
“Great day, eh?” he says, toasting his beer bottle in my direction.
“Yes, a winner,” I say, coming out from behind the maple tree trunk. “Starting a little early, aren’t you?”
“Nah. Not today. Today’s special,” he says.
“We always take this day off and have a beer for Scott,” says another. “Can’t go to his grave. Philly’s too far.”
“It’s the anniversary of his death,” says a third, raising his can. “Did you know him?”
“Joy’s husband?” I say. “Oh, is that today?”
“Yup,” says another guy. “He was one of us. On our squad before he was transferred down to Philadelphia.”
“We were in the academy together,” chirps another.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. So they’re cops.
“Great guy,” says the third guy. “You knew his wife, Joy, then? She was a good friend, too.”
“No, I wish I had known Joy. It’s the saddest story on earth how they both passed.” I head over to join them. “But I know Joy’s mother, Alice.”
“Alice?” says the first guy.
The men look confused. “Know her?” says the second guy.
“Talk to her every week,” I say matter-of-factly, and then glancing toward the gravel road where she’ll be walking any moment. “Actually, she’s about due here now if you’ve got a few minutes.” The guys look up the road and then look at each other. I continue: “Here every Friday 11 a.m. just like clockwork. Just like me.”
Again the guys share a look.
“We talking about the same Alice?” says one, lowering his glance, placing his beer bottle on Joy’s headstone, placing his hands in his pocket, and then awkwardly shuffling his feet.
“Scotty’s mother-in-law?” says another.
“Yes,” I say.
“Joy’s mother? That Alice?”
“Is there any other?” I add sarcastically.
The third guy lowers his head too and now the head-lowering thing is getting a little freaky. Did I say something wrong?
The first guy’s eyes meet mine. “Uh… Alice, um…”
“Yes?” I say.
“She died a couple years back.”
“Died?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“Killed herself.”
“Is this some kind of a sick joke?” I ask. “Alice? Joy’s Alice? But I meet her every Friday…”
“She died from using her husband’s shot gun—right in her garden—she was found still clutching her daughter’s photo. Just couldn’t handle losing Joy.”
“But—”
“I know it’s true. I was the cop who found her.”
My limbs grow weak. I am instantly robbed of the ability to function, talk or walk, my mind struggling to put the pieces together. But I can’t do it. I’m moving in slow motion. The pieces won’t come together. They don’t fit. My world just stops. All over again. Just like with my mom. “But she can’t…” I say, grabbing onto a nearby stone for support.
“You okay, miss?” says two of the guys immediately assisting, either side of me.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, pushing them aside and standing as tall as I can muster. My mind is smarter than I think. It’s way ahead of me, in fact. Alice and I were never here with anybody else in this cemetery. We were always alone. Even on the boat it occurred to me that tourists talked to me, but not to her. And all that fuss she made about boats making her sick? She didn’t even turn green.
“Maybe you’ve been seeing her ghost?” says one of the guys chuckling. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You too, eh?” suggests the other guy, toasting me and toasting the idea of it. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” says the third one.
“No, wouldn’t be the first time,” I manage to say, concealing what’s really going on in my head. This is death, again, and she’s never coming back. Like prison without parole, the gavel of death has slammed for good. This is really it. My dear, annoying, infuriating, wise friend is gone. Or is she?
With every bit of strength I act as normal as possible. An odd calm descends upon me. Wouldn’t want these officers to think I’m crazy. I keep my inner secret and unleash the widest grin on earth. “Well,” I say, “thanks for our Alice moment. Gotta get back to my watering. Have classes to get to.”
Legs on automatic, I head beyond Joy’s grave in the wrong direction instead of turning to go back to my mom’s.
“You sure you’re okay?” calls the cop.
I wave a hand. I’m fine.
A nearby wind chime moves on a small lilac tree just ten feet beyond Joy’s grave, clacking against its branches. Drawn to it, I decide oh, what the heck, do what Alice said, go in a new direction, look left and right, look up, and look…
… down.
An epitaph faces me. It was always there just a couple feet away but I was too busy living in the past to notice.
Alice Beal
Beloved Wife, Mother & Grandmother.
You’ll be missed
1933–1987
I gasp.
I can remember the first time Alice and I bonded over her question to me. I can hear her voice now loud and clear, “Why do you suppose people write ‘Beloved Wife, Mother and Grandmother’ on a gravestone? I mean, what if that woman wanted to be remembered for her opera singing or her sewing class?” Or was it ballet class? I can’t remember now how Alice had phrased it. “Maybe she wanted to be an individual, not somebody’s beloved mother?” Of course not. Alice didn’t want to be remembered as a beloved mother. Not if she thought she was such a bad mother.
Oh, my Alice, my heart calls out, as my eyes look up the road just in case, desperately wanting her to show up, wanting to prove this is all some bad dream and at any moment my dear, strange friend will be here so we can plant, chat, laugh and spray that rubbery old hose. Even if she is only a ghost.
I look up again. Still no sign of her on the road.
My heart goes desperate. Did I get to say all the things I never got to say? Did I ever thank her for being my friend? I can’t remember now. But I know she said something about how we all start out the same when somebody we love dies. Shock and denial. Then it’s anyone’s guess which way it will go…
Reality washes over me. She won’t be coming back. Her work is done here.
“See the world all around you,” she said, and here she was all around me. “I ran out of time and dreams…” Hadn’t she said that at the whale watch? Oh God, what did she say? That was it, wasn’t it? And now I’m furious with myself for not paying attention to that last bit of advice.
Then I look up to see the guys all standing there staring at me. “…I said, you okay? Hey lady? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I guess I have,” I say, wiping the tears of joy from my eyes and turning myself around to head toward my mom’s stone. “Have a good day.”
The comfort of their conversation continues to carry in the wind so that I can hear them chatting as I kneel down to pull weeds.
“Good ole Alice, eh?” says his voice. “She loved that garden. Best tomatoes in August.”
That
was the last time I ever saw those five guys.
That was the last time I ever saw Alice.
But this was the first time that everything in life made sense.
Chapter Sixteen
I married Brian, the photographer from National Geographic. One year to the day after Thanksgiving, but not before devouring a succulent turkey dinner with all the fixings prepared by his grandma Babs, up on the coast of Maine. His family welcomed me with open arms—running down the sea-cliff walk as our car pulled up front.
Remember Julia? She and I met our husbands-to-be in the same year. Her husband, Richie, is a stockbroker. We decided to have a double wedding in Japan, filing our licenses at Boston Town Hall, before hopping on 95 North for Maine, for that big feast. We all waved goodbye to Brian’s family at Logan Airport and I watched them from the tiny plane window sending us air kisses. Brian was covering a story on the Gardens of Kyoto, so it was perfect to have our double ceremonies in the forest near the Kinkaku-ji, the Golden Pavilion.
During our vows, my husband, Brian, talked of not being afraid that my life will end—but to be afraid it might never begin. And from that day forward, it did.
It took a couple years longer than I intended to finish my degree. I was too busy helping my husband on all his adventures—not to mention becoming pregnant with our first child, Matilda, in Switzerland. Not that that stopped us for long. We headed to Machu Picchu in Peru, where I snapped photos of our baby’s little face sticking out of a knapsack on her father’s back. Five more years went by before the arrival of two sons, and that’s when we decided to finally ground ourselves in Camden, Maine.
We used the money from the magical key, the one that opened the safety deposit box to about twenty thousand dollars in stocks and bonds—Esso, Disney, AT & T and Exxon—stocks that my father had given my mom and my mom had saved for me for a rainy day. It was just enough for a down payment on an old Victorian house—a real fixer-upper.