Never Again

by Heather Starsong

  We were shy at first of revealing our old bodies to each other. I got into bed in my big flannel nightgown, he in his long johns and T-shirt. But once we started kissing again, stroking and caressing each other, our shyness melted away. We shed our garments and lay skin to skin, moving slowly, taking time to discover each other.

  My body was awake with an intensity of passion that had no imperative, only the ecstasy of the moment. Then Lenny said softly, in wonder, “Clara, you’re a miracle woman. My old man’s standing up!”

  I slid my hand down his body and found that it was true.

  A month later, Lenny left his small, dark apartment and moved into the guest room in my house. So began the happiest year of my life. My solitary world was transformed. I had not let myself realize how lonely I had been until he came to live with me. Our days began with early morning cuddles, tea in bed while we shared our dreams and planned our day. No longer the solitary decision of “I” but the companionable exploration of “shall we?” and “let’s…”

  Over breakfast we passed the sections of the morning paper back and forth and shared amazement, outrage, or laughter over the various stories. The journalist in him was still awake, and often I would receive an impromptu column about a current event, with his undimmed wit and insight.

  We went on adventures, a trip to Denver to visit the museum, a week at the hot springs, movies and concerts, things I had given up doing on my own.

  Walks together were a delight. How lovely to share the swift uplift of a flock of geese, the changing color of water and ice on the lake, the stark outline of the foothills against the sky, the shy gaze of a deer, and, with the spring, the lyric song of the meadowlark.

  In long, rich conversations we covered everything from politics to the meaning of life. Lenny was a lifelong professed agnostic, but in many ways one of the most spiritual people I had ever known, approaching all of life with a sense of wonder and respect. He loved nature as deeply as I did, and was passionate about human rights and the plight of the dispossessed. After a while I learned that the reason he lived as frugally as he did was because he gave the major part of his income to progressive causes. “You can’t take it with you,” he often said, cocking his left eyebrow. “Might as well have it do some good.”

  There were also times apart. I still saw a few clients. Sometimes I went off for a visit with Anne, or a walk alone, or an evening of tango. Lenny was an ardent chess player. He met his chess buddy, Humphrey, at a local cafe several times a week. Sometimes Humphrey would come to our house and they would sit hunched over the chessboard in silent concentration, broken only by an occasional moan or exclamation of triumph. Whenever we met again after a time apart, Lenny’s face would light up, and mine would, too.

  We laughed a lot. He had a wry twist on almost everything, from the way a bee wiggled its butt as it delved into a blossom, to the expression of a dog we met on the trail. But mostly we laughed because we were so happy to be together.

  Touch nurtured my days—his arms around me from behind as I worked in the kitchen, his hand in mine as we walked, our bodies curled together for afternoon naps.

  Never in my life had I felt so loved and appreciated. I blossomed with it, returning his love with all my passion and devotion.

  Spring came and Lenny worked with me in the garden, clearing out dead leaves, trimming back the perennials, planting seeds for our summer vegetables. The flickers trilled their mating song, and Lenny reduced me to tears of helpless laughter with his ribald translations of their calls.

  When summer came I wanted to show Lenny my special place. I longed to go there myself and thought I might be strong enough. We warmed up with some shorter hikes, then went to the Silver Lake trailhead. He had walked that trail before, but not for several years. We walked the wide, level path beside Silver Lake comfortably, but the last steep ascent to Sapphire Lake was almost too much for Lenny. He struggled to breathe, and when we finally reached a resting place on the grassy slope beside the lake, he dropped to the ground. “That’s it, Clara. Can’t go any further.” I could see that it was true. We lay on the soft grass together and watched the sky.

  “I did so want to show you my special place,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.

  He turned his head, rousing from his exhaustion to give me a twinkle. “I’ve been to your special place lots of times.”

  It took a long time going down and Lenny did not recover for several days. It was the first portent of what was to come.

  The summer moved on with roses blooming and our vegetable garden offering fresh treats each day. We ate our meals on the patio, relaxed in lawn chairs under the maple tree, puttered in the garden, and took shorter hikes at lower elevations.

  On my eighty-first birthday—or was it my eighty-second?—I went alone to my special place. My heart was steady, but still it took a long time. I was careful to keep my balance, and though my knees complained and I had to rest often, I made it. All was as it had been when I came there in my young body the year before—the great lichen-covered boulder, the shining pool in the curve of the stream, the vivid green grass, the new growth on the krum tree. I was not able to kneel as I had done then, but, filled with the same reverence for the spare, sacred beauty of that beloved place, I spread my arms and bent my head. That year there seemed nothing to let go of; my life was rich and full. So I dipped only once with the intention, “May I live in gratitude.” Then, wrapped in the bathing cloth Anne had given me, I sat a long time by the stream as memories flowed around me like the moving water. It was twilight when I came home to Lenny’s hug and kiss and dinner waiting.

  When fall came, we mulched the shrubs, raked the leaves, and tucked the garden in under layers of compost. We ordered firewood, stacked it together, and lit the wood stove in the evenings.

  The days grew short and cold and Christmas approached. The house was warm and festive with the wood stove glowing and Christmas carols playing, as Lenny and I arranged greens and candles and trimmed the tree together.

  The week before Christmas our families descended. Lenny’s son Jason came from Boston with his wife and two daughters. They stayed with Bette and her sons, but came over frequently to visit us. Lisa and Phil and Jocelyn arrived, Robin’s family came over, and our little house rocked with children and grandchildren. Christmas Eve, we hosted a huge potluck for both our families.

  On Christmas morning, in a precious quiet time before Lisa’s family came upstairs, Lenny and I sat cozily in bed having tea together. Lenny reached into his bathrobe pocket and drew out a small, velvet box. Inside was a slender gold ring set with a deep blue-green sapphire.

  “To match your beautiful eyes,” he said. He took my left hand in his. “I’d like to put it on your ring finger as a… ” He paused, seeking the words. “As an outward and visible sign of my commitment to love, honor, and cherish you… till death do us part.”

  Lenny looked deep into my eyes. “May I?” he asked.

  Deeply touched by the look on his face and the familiar marriage words, I answered, “Yes. Oh, yes!”

  He slipped the ring on my finger, and I spoke my vow. “I will wear this ring as an outward and visible sign of my commitment to love, honor, and cherish you till death do us part.”

  With a gentle hand, he caressed the tears off my cheek. Then he raised his left eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye.

  “People don’t usually get married in bed,” he said as he set the tea tray aside and took me in his arms, “but it makes the consummation very convenient.”

  Later as we rested in each other’s arms, he asked, “Would you be disappointed if we didn’t do all the legal stuff and have a big wedding?”

  “No,” I said, relieved. “Not at all. What we just did was perfect.”

  So we were married in that sweet, simple ceremony witnessed only by God.

  The rest of Christmas was a whirlwind. We took Lisa’s family w
ith us and visited Robin’s home. After presents and dinner we went to Bette’s home for more of the same. A few days later, when it was all over and our visiting children and grandchildren had left, we spent several days recovering, mostly in bed.

  “Gotta love ’em,” Lenny summed it up. “But it’s more energy than an old man can sustain.”

  As winter moved on, I became concerned about Lenny. He tired easily and had increasing difficulty breathing. One morning, as we cleared a light snow from the driveway, he stopped and leaned on his shovel handle. “Gotta quit,” was all he said, but I could hear how his breath labored. I helped him into the house. As I pulled off his boots, I saw that his ankles were swollen.

  “Lenny,” I said. “I’m worried. Let’s get you an appointment with your doctor.”

  “Women. They always want to take you to the doctor.”

  I set his boots aside and began massaging his ankles. “Statistics show that married men live longer because their wives make them go to the doctor.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  For the next two weeks we did doctor appointments. His family doctor referred him to his cardiologist. His cardiologist, the same Dr. Walton who had cared for him after his heart attack, ordered a series of tests. The tests were hard on him. They barely started the stress test before he gave out, and it took days for him to recover. My worry increased. When all the test results were in, we went again to see Dr. Walton.

  I remember the day. It was early March by then. Gold and purple crocuses were blooming in the garden. The sun was warm, the last of the snow melting. Dr. Walton’s office had a view of the foothills.

  His face was grave. After the pleasantries of greetings, he said, “I have hard news for you.”

  I reached over to hold Lenny’s hand.

  “Out with it,” Lenny said.

  Dr. Walton shifted in his chair, adjusted his glasses. “Your diagnosis is congestive heart failure.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means,” Dr. Walton said, still speaking to Lenny, “that your heart’s worn out.”

  “Treatment?” Lenny asked.

  “Some lifestyle changes may give you a little more time, but it’s pretty far along. If you were a much younger man, we might consider a heart transplant, but it’s a long wait for a donor, a serious surgery, and the body does not always accept the new heart. At your age—”

  “I don’t want any of that,” Lenny interrupted. “I’ll keep my heart.”

  I was trembling inside, trying not to let my hand in Lenny’s shake.

  “Prognosis?” Lenny asked.

  “A month, maybe two.”

  Lenny’s hand tightened around mine. We sat still in shocked silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Walton said gently. “I’m afraid there’s really not much more we can do. You have time to get your affairs in order.” He turned to his desk and handed me a leaflet. “Here’s information about hospice. They’ll be able to help you.”

  When we got home, I helped Lenny off with his coat and boots. We sat down on the couch, holding each other, still in shock.

  “A month, maybe two…” Lenny whispered. “God, Clara, I sort of knew the old ticker was running down, but… so soon!”

  I couldn’t speak, grief clogging my throat.

  “How can I bear to leave you?” His voice turned fierce. “They’re not taking my heart. No transplants.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “This heart of mine is full of love for you. I’ll keep it.”

  “What will we do?” I asked, turning my face into his shoulder.

  He held me close. “We will live every single moment we have left together so deeply each one will be an eternity.”

  And so it was. I put aside everything else in my life to be with him and care for him. We entered into a depth of intimacy and love beyond all I had dreamed possible.

  As much as we could, we spent time outdoors. Rocky Mountain springtimes can be fickle, intercepting balmy weather with sudden frosts and snowstorms, but that spring was unusually mild. Lenny liked to lie on the grass under the maple tree. The branches were just beginning to swell with buds, and the sun came through, warming him.

  One afternoon, as I worked in a flower bed near where he lay, I looked over at him. He turned his head toward me as if he felt my glance and smiled at me. I smiled back, my heart aching with love. As I returned to my weeding, realization flooded me. I remembered Merilea saying there was one more piece to my ulada. It was Lenny. At long last, after a lifetime of disappointment in love, I had found him, and learned to love in a way that would not end in bitterness.

  I set down my weeder and went to lie beside him. He turned on his side and stroked my body with his gentle hand. Gratitude poured through me. I touched his cheek, his lips. We looked deep into each other’s eyes. The immensity of what lay ahead loomed between us.

  “Lenny, what do you think will happen? Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know, Clara love. I don’t know. I walk into the mystery. But strangely I’m not afraid. I thought I might be, but I’m not. I’m awed. And curious. Maybe I’m not afraid because the love I have for you feels eternal. And if that’s eternal, then maybe I am, too, in some way. Maybe it’s only that I sink into the earth, like your Elirians, and become part of all that is, the trees, the grass, maybe a rabbit that nibbles the grass, then maybe a coyote.” He raised his eyebrow. “I could be a coyote.”

  “You could. Or maybe I’ll look up into the sky and see your eyebrows waggling at me in the shapes of the clouds.”

  “Maybe.” We laughed and then were silent, touching each other, dropping into the eternity of touch.

  Our quiet days were interrupted by a visit from Lenny’s son. Jason was a city man, a lawyer, who drank numerous cups of coffee a day and carried that hyped-up energy into all his conversation and movement. He was hard for me, but I knew it was important for him to be with his father. He had also come to make final arrangements about Lenny’s financial affairs. I escaped into the garden while they sat at the dining room table poring over folders and papers.

  On the morning of the third day, Jason left in his rental car to catch a plane back to Boston. From the porch I saw him standing in the driveway with Lenny. He said goodbye, threw his briefcase into the front seat of the car, then turned back.

  “Dad—”

  Lenny held out his hand. “Yes, it’s really goodbye, son. I love you. Have a good life.”

  Jason hugged him fiercely, briefly, then drove away fast, as if he could leave his grief behind. Lenny came slowly down the walk to me. I went to meet him and held out my arms. He came into them, resting his head against me. “The goodbyes are hard,” he said. “So many goodbyes. Goodbye to everything.”

  He grew steadily weaker and the day came when he could not get out of bed. He did not complain much—the situation had become too serious for playful bitching—but I knew by the way he drew his brows together that he struggled. I called the hospice people and they visited each day, good people, skilled and comforting. Bette came and sat with him sometimes. The grandsons came once. They stood in his room, shifting from one foot to the other. Lenny didn’t have the strength to joke with them as he used to, and they soon fled.

  A few days later the hospice nurse moved into the house, covering the essentials so I could stay with Lenny. He hardly spoke any more, but we no longer needed words, our touch communicating all that words could not express.

  On a soft, spring day, he drifted away, eyes closed, his slow, rasping breathing the only sound in the quiet room. Bette came and we sat with him together. She cried and talked, breaking the silence. At last she left. Night fell. I undressed and lay in the bed beside him, touching him, feeling the pulse of his life fading.

  Sometime in the night, he stirred. “Clara?”

  “I’m here.”

  I put my
hand on his heart. He laid his hand over mine, then sank back into himself, his breath loud and labored. In spite of myself, I slept again.

  I startled awake with morning light. The room was silent. His heart under my hand was still.

  Cold shock immobilized me. My own breath stopped. Finally I leaned up on my elbow. His eyes were closed, his brow smooth, his face peaceful. Peaceful. I drew in my breath. His body was still warm, still soft. I put my arm around him, laid my head on his shoulder.

  Through the open window, I heard the flickers calling their love song, one to the other.

  Epilogue

  It is summer now. The high country is open. I walk through the empty house. Only a few of my possessions are left, just what I need for daily life. The rest I have given away.

  Lenny’s daughter and her sons came after his death and took all his things. They tried to give me something to remember him by, but I wanted only the little ring he put on my finger on Christmas morning. Nothing more.

  “You can’t take it with you,” he often said.

  I have finished my story. Yesterday I printed it out. It sits in a box on my desk where Robin will find it.

  This morning when I was picking peas in my garden, my heart suddenly went awry. I had to sit down while it raced and pounded, stopped and raced again as it hadn’t done since Kiria first laid her hand on it. Then I knew. Kiria said she would give me a steady heart until my ulada was complete.

  I will leave a letter for my children, saying goodbye. They will grieve, but they will understand.

  All is in order. I wonder who will live in this little house when I am gone, who will tend my garden. I hope at least Robin and Alice will come and harvest the vegetables, smell the roses. But I cannot be concerned about that. It is time to let go.