Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

  I did as instructed.

  One couple after the other was called to pay their last respects. I stood shocked. Not one moist eye passed me by on the way out. Old Grandma’s cruelty must have touched everyone, I decided.

  “Will the pallbearers please remove the flowers,” the director called out, startling me from my morose thoughts.

  I approached the blue velour casket, mouthed one final prayer and grabbed two of the cheap carnation arrangements. As I reached the sidewalk, I discovered that Mr. Duhon had opted to skip on the flower car. The frugal man waved me over and opened his trunk. “Throw’em in here,” he said.

  I was taken aback. For a man who just said good-bye to his mother, Mr. Duhon doesn’t look all that sad, I thought. Rather, he looked impatient, as if he were running late for his tee time.

  When I returned to the funeral parlor, the coffin was already sealed closed. Under the director’s frustrated direction, I grabbed one handle and assisted Dewey’s grandma into the black hearse for her last car ride. The morbid job absolutely dumbfounded me. Even when carefully carried by six able-bodied men, a corpse was so much heavier than most people would guess. Worse yet, it seemed to have a mind of its own, shifting its weight wherever it wanted within the closed casket.

  On the way to the church, the smell of flowers was nauseating. Dewey’s half-deaf Vovo threatened, “I’m gonna pass out. I swear I am!” Her tone was ear piercing. I struggled not to laugh.

  When we arrived at St. Anthony’s, I took note of the steep stairs awaiting us and hurried to the hearse. I grabbed my assigned handle, grunted once and marched. Not three steps up, the cardboard casket moaned and creaked like a sea vessel preparing to capsize. I could feel the weight shift, but there was nothing I could do. The box was so cheap and flimsy that I was just hoping we could get Grandma to the altar before all four sides blew out and the old lady performed her last cartwheel. Suddenly, we were stopped. I looked beyond Mr. Duhon for a reason. There was none. Father Grossi isn’t ready, I assumed.

  In the cold air, all six of us waited, arms locked and throbbing. I looked up again, just in time to see several bird droppings hit the back of Mr. Duhon’s gaudy jacket. I snapped back to Dewey. My friend had obviously witnessed the same and was already laughing. Vovo took notice of the white wad of bird poop and rushed over with her kerchief. With a sense of purpose, the old hen began wiping, startling Mr. Duhon who’d been oblivious to the aerial attack. I had to look away. It was too much.

  By the time I composed myself enough to look back, Vovo had smeared the mess like marshmallow fluff all over the poor man’s back. When she pulled her kerchief away to survey her handiwork, another bird hit its target – then another, and another. As if sent by some angelic comedian, the bird crap machine-gunned Mr. Duhon’s back. The casket rocked back and forth from the stifled hysteria. Grandma’s saying good-bye the only way she would have, I thought.

  Mr. Duhon was a mess. His entire back was covered in bird droppings. Vovo looked over and shook her head, disgustedly. “To hell with it,” she muttered. Not even she was willing to tackle the job again. It didn’t matter. The kerchief was already saturated. Father Grossi waved everyone forward.

  I helped place the makeshift coffin onto the aluminum dolly and then darted for the back of the church. Out of respect, I fought desperately to contain my laughter. I couldn’t. I was too human. The last pew shook violently.

  Before long, Dewey slid in beside me and wiped his crying eyes. I struggled to apologize when I realized my friend wasn’t wiping away tears of sorrow. “My father can’t get over how broken up you are over Grandma’s passing,” he whispered, his last words drifting out on sheer will. He laughed so hard from his belly that it was easily confused for wails of grief.

  I tried a few times to answer, but couldn’t. “I swear that your grandmother must have had this whole thing planned,” I whispered. “There’s no way so many pigeons could have crapped at once and hit only your father.”

  Dewey nodded. “She was a mean old coot, but she had a twisted sense of humor…and she constantly screwed with him for being so cheap.”

  I came up for air. “Your old man should have used that belt buckle as a shield.”

  We laughed until there was nothing left but aching belly pains and mourners who nodded their understanding over our incredible grief. In the end, we were both grateful for the strange sign from above. If Grandma made it upstairs, then the heat was off for the rest of us.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  For a moment, my mind raced back to the present. Even my childhood memories are obsessed with death, I thought. But death wasn’t so far away now, nor was it nearly as comical. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if folks had one last laugh on me? I pondered. But picturing Madison and Pudge’s innocent faces, I quickly reconsidered. Shoot for something more meaningful, I decided.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Returning to my childhood, death was a joke – until it became personal.

  A year after Dewey’s grandmother bid her final farewell, my mom suffered the same fate. At sixteen, I took care of her while she died. I changed her, fed her and did what most good sons do when they’re middle-aged.

  I held her the morning she died and it broke my heart when she whispered, “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer with you boys.” Her premature death haunted me with a strange mix of love and pity. My mother had never lived her life. She’d lived each moment for my brother and me. She loved us completely – so much so that I can still feel it today.

  Once she was gone, there was no reason for me to stay at home. I rented an apartment from my Uncle Benny and quickly flew the coop. You know how it is. When you own a fast car, you have all the answers.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  My first and last roommate was a drummer, so our one bedroom pad only worked with bunk beds – this way, Matt’s drums could fit, too. We paid much more rent than we should have. The only benefit was that the heat was included. With a keen sense of fairness, we used this benefit any chance we could. When the rest of the world was frozen under a sheet of ice, we were prancing around in boxer shorts, our front door opened wide. The place was furnished to the taste of people without money. The only decent thing in the apartment was the new hi-fi stereo system. By the end of the first week, I’d convinced Matt he could build his credit by renting one. He’d excitedly agreed.

  It was a test right from the start, with no more mothers taking care of the menial details known as survival. I suppose it was a matter of give and take; we had to learn to do laundry, but there was no longer a need to make a bed. It didn’t make sense, anyway – straightening something you were only going to mess up again hours later. Cooking was a real treat. A frying pan lined in crusted lard sat atop the stove. We only needed to heat it and drop whatever we dared eat into the brown, bubbling oil. Beer became a staple in our diet and I felt it just as important to learn the lessons of overindulgence; bed spins, projectile vomiting and waking the following morning with vise-like headaches. Youth can be so cruel to itself.

  Like it or not, we had to take jobs. Matt worked at an Indian restaurant, washing dishes for twenty dollars a night. After his first shift, he awoke to find his brand new sneakers infested with ants. He was already behind the eight ball. I chose a different occupation. I began at McKaskie’s, a woodworking shop that made giant wooden spools for wire companies. My third day there, I was sanding a reel on a belt sander when I heard a grown man scream out, “Mommy!” I wiped the sawdust from my goggles and saw Tommy Bigelow, the table saw operator, holding his arm. He’d run his hand right into the saw, cutting one of his fingers down the middle like a peeled banana. It was gross. There was blood everywhere. The foreman called the ambulance, offered the paramedic a piece of Tommy’s fingertip and then turned around and barked at everyone to “get back to work.” As I returned to the sander, the foreman tapped me on the shoulder. “Get on the table saw, Don,” he said, “We have an order to get out.” I always ha
ted that man. Even still, I cleaned off the blood and did as I was told. All the while, I prayed that OSHA would show up and shut the place down.

  When not sleeping from sheer exhaustion, Matt, the boys and I played poker. We had tournaments that sometimes lasted right through the night. While the wind and snow pounded off the windows, we stripped to our underwear, cracked open the front door and dealt cards until the sun burned away the black horizon.

  In two months, Matt was twenty pounds lighter and broke. I knew it was the end of the line when two repo men arrived in trench coats to pick up the stereo. Matt’s parents begged him to go home. He never argued. He owed me for a few outstanding bills. “Just sell me everything,” I told him and he did. The odds and ends that he’d begged, borrowed and stole were left behind and the debt was returned to scratch.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  And then I met Bella.

  It was a typical Portuguese feast with all the spicy food you could dream of: roast pig-cacoula, chourico and pepper sandwiches, codfish, baked beans, favas, kale soup, stuffed quahogs, grilled sardines and spit-fire chickens. For dessert, there was molassades, rice pudding, custard cups and sweet bread – all washed down with jugs of sweet red wine.

  When a dozen little girls dressed in angel’s wings delivered a golden crown to the priest, the band struck up the first notes of the night. The Holy Ghost Procession was done and the celebration had begun.

  The streets were cordoned off, with strings of bare bulbs zigzagging across the block party. With several large tents in the middle, a mass of people moved in circles to enjoy the festivities.

  At the first drop of rain, I saw her and lost my breath. She had sandy blonde hair with hazel eyes and a smile that could forgive you for your greatest sins. I drummed up all the courage I could muster and asked her name.

  “Isabella,” she said, smiling.

  I knew right then and there I was in love.

  While we pretended to dodge the rain, we spent the better part of two hours talking and getting to know each other. Her scent was distinct – a mix of Ivory soap and fabric softener.

  Darker clouds rolled in, attacking without warning. It started to rain hard and the first bolt of lightning crackled in the dark sky. There was a certain authority and strength that came with the downpour, while a series of close rapid-fire bolts had everyone running for cover. As Bella started to back peddle, I asked, “Will I ever see you again?”

  She hurried back to me and took off one of her pearl earrings. “These are my favorite earrings in the whole world,” she said, “and having just one of them would ruin the pair.” She handed it to me. “Let’s stay in touch, okay?”

  “Okay.” I swallowed hard.

  “The number is 555-8374 and call before five,” she whispered. “That’s when my dad gets home from work.” With an amazing smile, she hurried off.

  Soaked to the bone, I stood in the street repeating 555-8374 in my head until it became a song. I knew in my heart this was the woman heaven had delivered to me on a bolt of lightning. After striking a few more random targets and forcing the trees to dance, the dark clouds suddenly dispersed. As if the entire world had been cleansed, a fresh perspective was left behind. I loved lightning storms. If you endured the trouble long enough, the peace it brought was indescribable.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  And we did stay in touch. Her dad was very strict, so we dated whenever we could sneak away. I was never sure if the pearl was real or fake, and I didn’t care enough to ask. The real jewel was Bella.

  Chapter 4

  Upon returning home from my visit to memory lane, I was met with a kiss from my wife and three enormous suitcases sitting at the door. “We’re leaving for the Vineyard at first light tomorrow,” she informed me.

  “Will I have time to shower and shave?” I teased.

  She grinned. “As long as you can make it quick.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Even though it was still off-season and we’d left the house in the early morning light, the traffic down to the Cape was thick. The shuttle bus from the parking lot to the dock was packed. As we pulled up to the Steamship Authority terminal, I leaned over and kissed Bella. The excitement was building and I wondered again why we’d only been a few times to my favorite place on Earth. It was only a few miles down the road and a chilly ferry ride away.

  Bella hung over the side of the boat, but I couldn’t take the rolling waves and rocking handrails. I stayed inside and tried to meditate the time away. When that didn’t work, I read one of the island brochures:

  More than a century ago, Martha’s Vineyard was home to nearly half of the world’s whaling fleet. Sons and husbands left their families and boarded giant wooden ships to find their fortunes. As petroleum became a popular use of fuel, however, whale oil was no longer needed. Vineyard Sound and Nantucket Sound became the highways for the great Atlantic coastal shipping fleet. Many ships anchored in Vineyard Haven harbor, awaiting a high tide and a fair breeze. For three centuries, Vineyarders have looked to the sea for their livelihood. Where once whaling and shipping had been the backbone of the economy, it has since become travel and tourism…

  I looked up. The harbor’s distinct skyline was dominated by church steeples and a fleet of wooden vessels. As if I were ten again, I felt a celebration try to break free from my throat. I hurried to the outside deck to find Bella.

  We docked in the very same harbor where Spielberg had filmed the movie, Jaws. Among the masses, we walked down a bouncy metal ramp to join the onslaught of weekend tourists that came to spend money, make memories and join the mass exodus on Sunday evening – tanned, smiling and carrying bags of souvenirs home. Most people, generations of them, came back year after year. “We must have been too busy with work and keeping up the house,” I thought aloud and shook my head at our foolishness.

  “But we’re here now,” Bella said.

  It was a different world, long removed from corporate America. From the largest and busiest harbor on the island, I could feel the ocean breezes on my face and taste the salt on my tongue. “It’s like heaven,” Bella added.

  I hope so, I thought.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The Kinsman House was only four blocks from the dock and town center. It was a beautifully restored 1880 Victorian, a former sea captain’s home that had been converted into a quaint Bed & Breakfast.

  Three ancient oak trees shaded the front lawn. After stopping to catch my breath, we stepped onto the full-length porch through an archway of thick vegetation. I opened the door for Bella. A grand piano, antique roll-top desk and French doors dominated the entrance and stairway. “Hello?” I called out, but no one was there.

  “Doreen said she might not be here,” Bella explained. “She said to get comfortable and leave the door unlocked, if we step out.”

  There was a note at the top of the stairs, directing us to one of the three bedrooms. Bella opened the door and sighed. “Definitely heaven,” she said. It was a little girl’s dream, with a queen-sized bed, antique chests and floral prints from floor to ceiling.

  As we’d arrived early enough to salvage some of the day, I paced with an energy I hadn’t felt in weeks. I helped Bella unpack our bags, while she began making the cozy room our home for the weekend.

  Once finished, Bella turned to me and smiled. “All settled in,” she said.

  I nodded. “Good…so let’s go have that walk Dr. Rice prescribed.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Hand-in-hand and dressed in thick sweaters, we took our first stroll down Main Street in Vineyard Haven. Shops, untouched by time, lined both sides of the narrow street; art galleries, sellers of home accents and furniture, antiques and collectibles. We walked by a French restaurant. I looked at Bella. “Maybe tonight?”

  She shook her head. “I was hoping for something a little more casual.”

  “And healthy?” I teased.

  She nodded.

  There was another B
&B beside a gourmet shop that Bella stepped into. They had all the ingredients she needed to make bruschetta. “Now we’re talking,” she said, “We’ll be back for some things tomorrow.”

  We took our time and looked at everything. There were nostalgic candy stores that still twisted saltwater taffy – in every pastel color imaginable – right in the front window for everyone to see. Fudge was also made by hand; most things done like days of old. We bought a half-pound of chocolate walnut fudge and took turns with the small white bag as we went along. There were jewelers, gift shops and clothiers. Led by my curious wife, I poked my head into each and wasted the afternoon away. Past the goldsmith, photographer and realtor’s office, we made it to the Mansion House Inn on the corner. And then it was time to make our way back up the other side of the street.

  The Island Theater, closed for renovations, was a definite glimpse of yesterday. I dragged Bella back across the street to check out Bunch of Grapes Bookstore.

  It was a busy, independent shop that seemed to capture the spirit of the island. We browsed for a while. They had a wide range of island books, from local hiking-trail guides to cookbooks and collections of poetry by local artists. The atmosphere was personal and made book shopping a pleasure, something the major franchises had long abandoned. I walked upstairs to find a small parlor where they hosted local authors and poets. Unfortunately, there were none scheduled for the weekend. I bought a copy of Roland Merullo’s Revere Beach Elegy and followed Bella out into the early spring sun.