It was different to be on the other side of the articles. The phone calls were constant from reporters, so the next day my father finally released the following statement:
Paul Cass was a loving husband and father. He will be greatly missed. Although we are saddened by his sudden loss, we are not surprised by his heroic actions. Paul has always been a leader among men, someone to whom many looked for guidance and direction. With this tragic violence, our family and our community have lost a great human being.
After that they left us alone for a time. The newspaper articles abounded, but our input was no longer requested or needed.
Even if the media was finally leaving me alone, my father wouldn’t. He handed the newspaper to me. “You need to know what’s going on in the world. Read the article about Paul, and then read whatever you like after that,” he admonished.
I found the statement my father released buried inside a larger article, an article that explained what had happened to my Paul, telling me details that the police had probably already told me, but I had been too shell shocked to even hear.
... Sometime around midnight, according to the storeowner, who wanted to remain anonymous, two men wearing ski masks entered his small, all-night grocery store. Paul Cass had come in a few minutes earlier and an elderly gentleman, Frank Walker, was already at the checkout counter. He was buying a couple of cans of cat food and a bag of Cheetos. The owner said, “The old man, Mr. Walker, was tellin’ me about his cat and how finicky the old thing’s gotten, kinda like himself, he said. I guess he was lonely and couldn’t sleep. He comes in a lot late at night. You see, his wife passed a few years ago, and I been seein’ him a lot since then. I opened the register to give him his change, but he just kept on talkin’.”
At that point, what had been a quiet evening suddenly turned chaotic inside the little grocery. According to police reports, the men entered the store and one of them pulled a gun on the storeowner, telling him to lie face down on the floor. His accomplice reached across the counter to grab cash out of the open till. The owner tells us that at that point everything seemed to happen at once. “Old man Walker says, ‘Whatcha’ doin’?’ I lifted my head off the ground when he spoke, just in time to see that other fella [Paul Cass] yell and get between the gunman and Mr. Walker. Right after that, I heard the gunshot. It was awful. Then the two thugs just took off.”
The article continued with details about the 911 call and the paramedics trying to save Paul’s life, but those details just made me cry. Focus on the good things, I kept telling myself. Paul died a hero. He was a hero. That’s what I would tell Noah when he was old enough to understand, whenever that was. I certainly didn’t feel old enough to understand. But Noah won’t remember Paul like I do, so it won’t be as difficult, I realized with both relief and intense sadness.
I didn’t read any more of the paper. Dad wanted me to, and he thought I was, because my head was buried in the paper for some time, but honestly, I just kept rereading about my husband the hero. It just seemed too fantastic, all so ethereal, as if I were in a dream, a bad dream, but a dream all the same. How could this possibly have happened? Why did Paul have to be in the corner grocery then? Why that store of all the multitudes of all-night groceries? Why couldn’t he have stayed home sick that night? Why ... oh, a million things why?!
A HOME WITH A VIEW
The house on Shadow Brook Lane was the fourth house we looked at. I was coming up on the end of the semester and graduation, but having made it to the second trimester of my pregnancy, I was feeling like I had to do as much as possible while I felt relatively decent. A first trimester complete with morning sickness and a full load of classes had been rough, and I had heard the last trimester could be a bear as well. So, I had decided that now would be a great time to look for houses. I don’t know what I was thinking. Despite my enthusiasm at the beginning of the day, my interest was waning. I was tired and hungry, and I knew I still needed to study for finals.
However, this house was different before we even entered it. Pulling up to the curb, Paul helped me out of the car while our realtor got out of her large sedan with the garish realtor magnet stuck to the side. I looked up at the large two-story colonial house standing on a small rise in front of us. It was inviting and imposing at the same time.
“Paul, are you sure we need something so large? It looks nice, but I just don’t know.” I knew my tiredness was coming out in my tone.
Paul put an arm around me, trying to help share the burden of what I carried, even if he really couldn’t. “Brea, trust me. You, well we, talked about wanting a large family. We may as well have the space now and not need to move later.”
“I’m rethinking that whole ‘large family’ thing just about now,” I muttered under my breath, but purposely audible enough for him to hear.
Paul smiled apologetically. “Okay, sorry. Why don’t we just look inside and then we’ll call it quits for the day. Deal?”
“Deal, but I think when we’re done here you owe me a lunch. I don’t care what it is as long as it comes with a chocolate shake. I’m starving.”
Paul chuckled. My craving for chocolate shakes was not something I even tried to resist, and it had become our little joke. We figured our son was going to be born addicted to chocolate. “All right, it’s a deal.”
What happened next was the best part of the home tour. While our realtor was busy getting the key out of the lock box, an elderly lady appeared at our side. When she said, “Hi,” we both jumped, not having seen her approach.
“Oh, I’m sorry to startle you. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Martha Fereday. I live in the home next door to this one.”
“Nice to meet you,” Paul responded, while he extended his hand to her.
“Yes, I’m glad to meet you too,” I added, absent-mindedly rubbing my belly.
“If you don’t think me too forward, after you look at the house, would you like to come over for lunch? If you don’t have further homes to look at, that is. I’m just not fond of eating alone, and I’m guessing that little one of yours,” pointing at my expanding belly, “doesn’t like you to go too long without something to eat.”
I looked up at Paul for confirmation. He nodded in a way that said, Whatever you want is fine with me.
“Martha, we’d love to join you. I’m Brea and this is my husband, Paul. That’s very thoughtful of you. Actually, I am rather hungry.”
She smiled in return. “I may be an old lady, but I still remember a few things. I’ll see you when you’re done. Just come on over and walk in. The kitchen’s at the back, and that’s where you’ll find me.”
Then she surprised me by how spry she seemed as she scurried off to make us all some lunch. I couldn’t begin to move as fast as she did. Paul walked patiently beside me as we made our way to the front door of a home that suddenly had a lot more appeal to it than it had a few minutes before.
The house itself was a pleasant surprise inside. We walked into a two-story foyer with a curved staircase leading to the second floor. It invited me to climb it, to see just where it led. But I resisted and turned instead to the left to see a formal dining room and then the other direction to see a small sitting room with early afternoon light streaming in unrestrained. I sought the source of the light and discovered a front window that afforded a view over the surrounding neighborhoods. I could see trees and houses and even a city park a few blocks away. It was a clear day, and the large expanse of blue sky seemed to stretch on forever, as if I were in the middle of someone’s painting. I took a mental snapshot, to keep the moment with me forever. Already this place felt warm and comforting, exactly like home.
I reluctantly followed the realtor past the staircase to the great room at the back of the house. Attached to it was a large kitc
hen. I could picture our son crawling around this great room and into the kitchen where I would be making dinner or toddling to the front of the house to watch out the window for Daddy to come home, leaving little boy fingerprints all over the glass.
After that, looking at the house was a mere formality, at least for me. Paul eagerly showed me the first floor office just off the great room, opposite the kitchen. When we began this process of looking for a house, Paul had to convince me of the office arrangements. He wanted the larger space, an actual office as he called it, to be mine. As our baby grew, I wanted to create educational software for children, probably in the form of apps for any hand held device. I had created a prototype for my senior project. It was so much fun and such a natural fit for me that I could envision doing it from home when I had a stolen moment or two.
As we moved upstairs and looked at the bedrooms and bathrooms, I could already see in my mind’s eye how I might decorate each room. The master bedroom was very large with a separate sitting area partially walled off. It struck me as the perfect place for Paul to have a working office. He agreed, and I could tell he was mentally moving in as well.
. . .
We ate lunch with Martha before formally submitting our offer. We knocked on her front door as we entered, announcing our presence, and then made our way to the back of the house. She had made us grilled cheese sandwiches, and her timing was perfect. They were just coming out of the pan and onto waiting plates as we entered the kitchen.
She had filled the table with food. Besides the warm sandwiches, she had a tossed salad along with a bowl of cut up fresh fruit. Lemon slices and ice floated in a pitcher of lemonade. A bowl of chips and a smaller bowl of pickles rounded out the meal. I couldn’t imagine a small woman, whom I assumed lived alone, having this much food on hand. “Wow, this looks delicious. Did you just run to the store for us?”
“No, darling, I just had a feeling I might need a little more this week,” and without further explanation, she sat down and motioned us to do the same. She bowed her head, blessed our meal, and then invited us to, “Eat up.”
My grilled cheese was crispy and gooey, just the way I liked it. “Martha, if you will make me grilled cheese like this, I’ll offer the owners full price.”
“Oh, thank you, but I wouldn’t do that, my dear. Those folks have had that home up for sale for a long time, and they’re starting to get impatient. I’m sure they’d accept just about any offer about now. Of course, I’m sure you’ll make a fair offer. I even imagine they’d let you start painting or doing whatever you like right away, before you even close. That might help you get ready for the baby.”
I exchanged a glance of wonder with Paul. This woman could be my adopted mother any day, and clearly, she was going to be like an extra grandma for our new baby. I didn’t remember meeting someone who was so forthright right away, and yet she did it with such an ease that I had no cause for offense.
She looked at me and read my expression. “Don’t be surprised, dear. When you’re my age, you don’t have time to wait for pleasantries to be over. I can see you want the house, you don’t want to pay too much, and you are worried about being settled before your baby comes. It doesn’t take much to figure that out. So the way I see things, if I can help you I will. Helping people is what makes me happy, and it keeps me from feeling too lonely or missing my husband too much. He’s been dead for ten years now, and I miss him every day, but he knows I’m too busy helping people to join him just yet.”
Nodding at my almost empty plate, she said, “When you’re done with that, would you like some chocolate ice cream?”
I laughed out of pure joy. This woman would always have my back, and I had only known her for an hour.
ANOTHER HOME WITH A VIEW
The week following Paul’s death was filled with one thing after another. The funeral took place the day after the newspaper article came out. Professor Haynesworth spoke and so did my father. I wanted someone to give a long eulogy, but I realized I didn’t have enough details of his life. I knew a few childhood stories and where he grew up, but what was his first job? Did he have a favorite high school teacher? What was his first pet? Did he know his grandparents? I knew very little even about his parents since they died before we met. Did Paul look more like his father or his mother? I hadn’t had enough time! I didn’t know I needed to ask these questions already. We shared stories with each other, but we were just beginning. I thought we had a whole lifetime to share our histories. I guess we did; I just didn’t understand the meaning of “lifetime.”
Haynesworth spoke of his indomitable spirit. “Paul didn’t understand the meaning of ‘can’t.’ He believed that if he could think of it, he could do it, and he had an uncanny ability to convince everyone around him that he could do it as well.” He was right. That was Paul, always making plans, always achieving them. What would be his plan now? What would he suggest I do, if he could?
“Paul was a natural to work with people. He loved people and people loved him. It’s a great tribute to him and his family that this chapel is so full today. May his memory be kept alive in all of us.” Professor Haynesworth looked at me and at Noah sitting in my mother’s lap and smiled.
My father gave the best eulogy that you can give with the knowledge that we had. I was surprised at how much he did know. I found myself falling in love all over again as he described Paul, his first trip to our house, his delighted yet scared reaction the first time he held Noah, his charming demeanor. I cried but I also smiled.
As the funeral ended, I was surprised to look at all the faces in the crowd. There were so many people! I knew or at least recognized most of them, but a few were strangers. I was astounded by the number of people who had made time to come to Paul’s funeral. Virtually all the staff from the hotel where he worked had come. It made me wonder who was left to manage the front desk. I saw friends from church and our neighborhood, even people from early college years. Other faces I thought I could place, if given enough time. Many of them looked at me and smiled, but a couple at the back looked away and ducked out of the chapel quickly. I shrugged off their rudeness and turned to accept the embraces of those closest to me.
When we stepped outside of the chapel, the day hit me with its serenity. The sky was the color of Paul’s eyes. Leaves were just starting to bud on the trees; red tinged their edges, like a whispered hint of auburn hair. An apple orchard was next to the church, but I was grateful that it was the wrong time of year for apples. I didn’t want to see any apples right now.
After Paul and I were married, he still brought me apples. Every Friday morning or evening, depending on when he came home from work, he brought me an apple. He sometimes said nothing, just smiled, but usually he would lean down and kiss my forehead saying, “Apple of my eye, I love you.” If Noah was in my arms, he would reach down and scoop him up, swinging him above his head. “And when you get a few more teeth, little man, you will be the applet of my eye,” turning to wink at me as he did so.
The trees next to the church whispered these memories to me, sweetly, sadly, silently. I kept my gaze on them as I slid into the back of the mortuary’s black limousine.
. . .
We buried Paul in the Summerhill City Cemetery, a few miles from our home. Paul had told me where his parents were buried in Ohio, but we had never found the time to visit their graves. I couldn’t bear the thought of his grave being that far away, and if we hadn’t visited his parents’, how often would I be able to visit his graveside? Instead, I had found a double plot on the top of a small rise with a nice view of the distant horizon. It seemed fitting to look far off to see the setting sun; I had a long life ahead of me before I could join him.
Just a few people had gathered at the cemetery for the burial. A prayer was said over the gravesite, and just like that,
it was over. Like a door shutting, it really was over for me. I looked around me at my family and close friends. They were here and warm and alive. As I scanned the faces and shapes around me, my gaze stopped on Noah, living, breathing, adorable Noah, six-month-old Noah.
I wasn’t sure what was next, but my resolve was beginning to take shape. A little boy still needed me. I may now be a widow, but I was still a mother. Many wonderful people had mothered Noah in the last few days, but I was not one of them. I turned to my mother, who was holding Noah tightly.
“Mom, I’ll take him now,” was all I said. She handed him over, and I held Noah in my arms for probably the first time since Paul’s death. I held him so tightly that he started to squirm. I loosened my grasp and said, “Noah, I love you. Mommy loves you so much!” Then I held him tightly again. He squirmed but he didn’t complain. Soon he snuggled warmly in my arms, and then he began to silently cry.
I don’t know why he cried. I don’t know if he could possibly understand what was happening, or if he was reacting to everyone else’s tears, but they weren’t tears of hunger or pain. They were just simply quiet, cleansing tears. My resolve formed stronger, and I knew that we would survive, and somehow we were also going to thrive.
NOAH
The Apple of My Eye Page 5
