by Malena Lott
Today it was a meatloaf; I could smell it before she even told me what lay beneath the aluminum foil. “We just got back from Joel's grave,” she said with a bright smile, inhaling as she sat next to me on the bench. “Such a beautiful day.” Yes, I thought, as beautiful as it had been two years before, same blue sky and spotted puffy clouds and warm October afternoon. A beautiful day to die.
“I was there a few days ago,” I whispered.
“The orange pansy was a nice touch. They were his favorite, weren't they?”
“Orange pansy?”
“The one on his grave.”
There was no pansy. If there had been, I would've smashed it when I had lain on his grave. “Only one pansy?”
Gabriella nodded. “As if it had been planted there on purpose. No other pansies as far as I could see, either direction.”
I wondered how I could miss an orange pansy and who might've planted one there. But one? Who would plant one pansy? I squelched the thought that Monica had done it; that my call had brought up old feelings for Joel that sent her to his grave with his favorite flower.
Down the block, two men from the neighborhood walked side by side in their basketball gear, ready for the 2 p.m. pick-up game. Dave the banker and Tom the car dealer, both average players at best, not half as good as Joel. Dave bounced the basketball and with each hit on the pavement, my heart caved in a little more.
“Shall we go inside?” Gabriella asked, noticing them, too. I had spent Joel's first DD in bed all day, telling the boys I was sick while my father took them out for bowling and ice cream. I had lain there all day, waiting for the moment the clock ticked 2:37 p.m., half-expecting something to happen when it did, whether it was an external sign or an internal combustion, but the minute was just like the one before it: heavy with sadness. I had even closed my eyes and imagined him lying beside me on Lumpy, his leg crossed over mine, as he did so often, and curling my hands into his chest where I could feel his heart beat. I felt that Joel deserved something from me in that moment, some eulogy or prayer, but all I could muster was one simple sentence, “I love you, Bear,” and in my mind, I could hear him say back, “Love you big, Ramey.”
Forty-five minutes until the exact moment Joel collapsed on the basketball court. “I'd rather sit here,” I said. “I'm waiting for the boys.”
Donald emerged from his front door, wearing red warm-up pants and a white T-shirt. In an effort to stay fit for Zoya, he played with the guys, though I couldn't recall him ever making a basket, something that inevitably wound up in our conversation after each game. “Missed it by a mile,” he would say. Or, “So close it had to hurt.”
“Howdy there,” Donald said, followed by Zoya, who was dressed unusually normal, meaning no low-cut tops or tight jeans or massive amounts of jewelry and make-up. She wore her thick hair in a pony-tail. While Donald met up with the guys and they greeted and then waved to me, probably feeling badly that they were playing today, Zoya joined us on the bench, now full. She held her arms around her stomach, and I could see she'd been crying.
“You okay?” I asked. I liked that someone other than me could be having a crappy day.
Zoya nodded. “Donald impregnated me.”
Gabriella gasped and hugged Zoya, and I did the same. “Congratulations.”
Zoya began crying. “He gave me bad baby that makes me sick and ugly. I can't do workout or eat food or drink my coffee or fit into my sexy pants.”
“A baby is worth all those things,” Gabriella said, shaking her finger for emphasis. “We'll go shopping for sexy maternity clothes if that's really important to you.”
Zoya wiped the raccoon eyes from her face with her sleeve. “They make such things?”
I nodded. “Very stylish, indeed.”
Zoya's mood lifted. “I love America. Then Zoya happy about baby. Thanks for friends like you.” Zoya took our hands and held them in her lap. “I am sorry for telling you on day of mourning, Ramona. I lit candle for Joel this morning.”
“Do Russians do that?”
“Gabriella taught me. When I am thinking of someone I miss, I light a candle and say a prayer for them. It made me think of Halloween party three years ago when Joel drug chains in attic to scare us.”
Gabriella laughed. “Joel would stop at nothing to try to get the last laugh. God rest his soul.”
I remembered that night, how Joel had begged me to be Frankenstein's bride and, as usual, I agreed. I tried to get the picture of us in my mind, but only bits and pieces of our costume flashed in my mind. How could I forget such an odd image, the two of us in green paint and that black beehive wig with a white lightning stripe? During the middle of the party, Joel had grunted something about making a Frankenbaby with me later, and we had sex in our costumes, which turned out to be sexier than I imagined.
I silently vowed to get every printed photo from our ten years' worth of Halloween costume parties, and put them out as decorations for Halloween. The crispy orange leaves fell toward us, one perfectly shaped oak leaf sailing onto my lap. I grabbed it by its stem and twirled it. “Let's put those little ghost things Joel liked so much on the branches.”
“Oh, the kids will love that,” Gabriella said.
“Joel will love it, too,” Zoya said, catching herself after she'd said it, wondering, I assumed, if I believed Joel still had the capacity to feel such an emotion.
I patted her knee. “You're right. Joel will absolutely love it.”
A hundred little white ghosts swung in the wind when the boys and I walked down to the park. It was 2:48 p.m. I imagined my father, the timekeeper, had known exactly when to pull up, to cause some sort of distraction so I wouldn't be sad. My father's grief had to include how sad he felt for the boys and me. Gabriella had insisted we stop and pray when the time came, so we stood underneath our white ghosts and she prayed us through the minute of his death. I don't even recall what she said, but it sounded like a song: smooth and rhythmic and full of emotion.
William hugged me tightly and let me kiss him on the head and-probably instructed by his grandfather-Bradley allowed me to hug him, too. “We want to go to the park and make a basket for Daddy,” William said, pushing up the frames on his button nose. “I've been practicing at Grandpa's house.”
I felt the tug of a cry, but kept the tears at bay. William was terrible at basketball, perhaps worse than Donald. When William was younger, Joel had tried to get him to make the shot on the regulation court, but the then-five-year-old was much too short for it.
Bradley raised his brows and nodded. “I think he can do it, Mom,” he said. “He wants to make Daddy proud.”
My father turned away to wipe a tear from his face, and Zoya and Gabriella had tears streaming down theirs. I couldn't possibly go to the court while the other men were playing, but I couldn't let my boys down, either.
“We'll all go,” Gabriella said, and my father nodded and retrieved a basketball from the backseat. It was a blue and red Globetrotters basketball, one I had gotten Joel for our first anniversary after we had seen the team perform at an exhibition game.
My father walked beside me and grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “How you holdin' up, pumpkin?”
“On the bright side, it's a pretty day.” Growing up, my father had told my sister and me to always look at the bright side. I often heard him say the same thing to my sons. It had annoyed me growing up, but now I appreciated his optimism. Somebody had to do it.
“That it is, darlin'. Never a bluer sky.”
When we arrived at the park, the players were gathered in a circle, their shirts covered in sweat, their heads bowed in prayer. We stopped until the moment passed and they dispersed. I wondered if Deacon Friar had been right and the deceased could feel our prayers in Heaven. Gabriella had told me once that her mother believed it was like a game show in Heaven, and the person with the most prayers said for them had the highest score, allowing them to move closer to God, like cosmic board spaces, but I hated to think of getting to Heaven lik
e a contest. How many lonely people died that no one prayed for, save the nuns? If Gabriella's mom was right, Joel probably skipped ahead a few spaces that day.
After we said our hellos and goodbyes to the men, we had the park to ourselves and sat on the cool cement bench that the neighborhood had bought in remembrance of Joel, with a silver plaque in the middle that read, “In Loving Memory of Joel Bradford Griffen.” The boys began to warm up and peered over their tiny shoulders at their small audience.
“Ready?” Bradley asked, and before we could answer, he lobbed the ball from the free throw line, sinking it. “Nothin' but net!”
William retrieved the ball, and I said a tiny prayer that he would make it because it meant the world to him. He bounced it once, twice, and the third time, it landed on his foot, causing the ball to veer left, but he caught it before it escaped, and he started over again. With his tongue stuck onto the top of his lip, his brow furrowed in concentration, William heaved the ball to the sky, causing it to soar toward the goal… and hit just underneath the rim before catapulting back to earth.
His shoulders fell in defeat.
“It's okay, bro,” Bradley said, and I couldn't believe how uncharacteristically nice he was being to his little brother. “Go again.” He bounced the ball to William.
A second time, knees bent, William hurled the ball upward, this time landing on top of the rim, but circling it and falling to the right and down.
“This is the money shot,” Bradley said, and William turned back to us. “This is the money shot!” he yelled.
He positioned his right palm underneath the ball, his elbows bent, feet planted firmly on the free-shot line, and in one sweeping motion, he jumped up high into the air, the ball sailing toward the rim and falling straight through the net. “That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!” William said, and Bradley high-fived him before we gathered him in a hug. Thank God. I meant it. I would've sat there until sundown to make sure William got the shot he wanted. Surely the boys' guardian angels had given that ball a little lift on its journey to the net.
I knelt down beside my seven-year-old, eyes moist with tears, and beamed. “Daddy would be very proud,” I said. “And so is Mommy.”
An hour later, I knelt down again, this time at Joel's grave. I had never asked the boys to visit their father's grave, believing it was too macabre for young children, though Gabriella's children had visited his grave numerous times.
Bradley and William folded their hands and stared at their father's gravestone. Bradley knelt down and traced his fingers in his father's name, while I stared at the orange pansy, which had not been planted at all. No earth had been moved, the grass perfectly grown in around the flower's stem, and upon closer inspection, I saw that the flower had grown up precisely where my tears had fallen two days prior.
Chapter 14
I AM NOT CERTAIN of the exact moment da Vinci became my boyfriend. It snuck up on me, not as a private revelation, but as a public display of affection.
I had no idea he was my boyfriend, in fact, until da Vinci referred to me as his girlfriend. To make matters worse, I discovered it at the same moment that a group of his friends from college did: outside of the movie theater the Friday night before Halloween. I don't care what older people say: Friday nights at the local cinema is reserved for young couples, and I should've remembered this, but it had been so long since I'd been on a date that I had forgotten.
While the cool twenty-something wore sporty decaled sweatshirts and ripped jeans, I wore a smart cardigan and khakis and boots. Not cool cowboy boots like this young girl Katie wore, mind you, but boring brown boots that I'd had for eons. I wondered why I hadn't taken my sister's advice on updating my wardrobe, but it hadn't seemed out of date to me until I was around other college students. I'd just been thankful I fit into my pants with buttons again. The moment you find out you are a girlfriend is one you'll never forget. Here's how it went down for me:
Da Vinci and I were in line to see a romantic comedy, my mood light and relaxed until we saw his friends coming toward us. I could feel my cheeks begin to burn, and scolded myself for thinking that it mattered. Of course it was time I met some of da Vinci's friends. After all, we'd been sleeping together for three weeks-not long by any means, but long enough to figure that sleeping together might continue or, by some standards, this would mean we had a “relationship.” I don't know what I thought, except for that I was very much enjoying sleeping with someone again and with da Vinci in particular.
Every last one of them gave me the up-down, the look that I had read about in my flirting research, which is the moment I realized I must look more like da Vinci's mother than his girlfriend. Okay, big sister. But still.
I showed my age further by sticking out my hand when da Vinci introduced them. College students don't shake hands. They nod and utter, “Hey, wassup?” or “How's it goin'?” Hand-shaking is saved for the truly adult moments such as interviewing for a job or meeting someone's parents. If shaking their hands wasn't shocking enough, what came out of da Vinci's beautiful mouth next did the trick: “Everybody, this is Ramona,” he said proudly. “My girlfriend.”
Katie's jaw dropped. Just a little. Maybe she didn't mean to, but I saw it, I swear. One guy-Paul, was it?-muttered, “Cool,” but I'm sure he was thinking it was anything other than cool.
After an embarrassing, awkward moment where da Vinci told them that I had been his English teacher (how cool is that?), we walked into the dark theater. “You didn't have to tell them I was your teacher,” I said. “Or your girlfriend.”
“Why not?” da Vinci said, stuffing his mouth with way too much popcorn. “You were my teacher. I have you to thank for good English speaking. And you are my girlfriend, correct?”
Instead of answering him, I took a long slurp of Dr. Pepper while da Vinci pulled me into him and kissed me atop the head with his buttery mouth, and it occurred to me that I had to ask myself if I really wanted to be da Vinci's girlfriend. I hadn't considered what we were doing was dating. If I had known that's what we were doing, I would've said no to the Italian dinner we had the weekend before at an actual restaurant, and the day after that when we walked hand in hand at the arts festival, and the week after that at the movies. I did think we were hanging out, having fun and some amazing sex, but surely not “dating.”
And girlfriend/boyfriend? Such a juvenile expression for someone who had been married for ten years and wears khakis and boots while her boyfriend wears ripped jeans and athletic shoes.
“Face it,” Anh said later that evening while the boys were watching a rerun of America's Funniest Home Videos, and we ate greasy potato chips with onion dip when I should've been eating carrot sticks with fat-free ranch. “You're dating.”
I moaned. “I knew you were going to take his side.”
“This coming from a walking, talking dictionary. Seriously, Ramona. When two people go out on a social engagement with just each other, then it's a date. Especially when the date ends with kissing and sex.”
I stuffed another chip in my mouth. “Fine. We're dating. But that doesn't mean we have to be exclusive.”
Anh eyed me suspiciously. “You've got other hot young guys beating down your door you haven't told me about?”
“Not me, him. I mean da Vinci should definitely be dating other people.”
Anh made a sour face. “Not in this day and age. All those diseases. Besides, who cares? What difference does it make if you're exclusive?”
I wiped my greasy fingers on my jeans-not mom jeans, but cool ones I'd picked up at Abercrombie the day before, proof I obviously did care. “Well, because I don't want him to become too emotionally attached.”
“Him or you?”
“So what if I don't want to fall for him and get my heart broken when he dumps me for a younger coed? That makes me a normal woman. And I'm not ready for a serious relationship, anyway. I can't have my boys believing da Vinci is my boyfriend. What would they think? That he'll be their next daddy? It's ludicr
ous. Preposterous. Ridiculously absurd. Besides, I think about Monica Blevins more than I think about da Vinci. How screwed up is that?”
“Has she called you back yet?”
“No, but her flight came in yesterday, according to her assistant, so I'm expecting her to call any day now.”
Anh grabbed the chip bag and rolled it up. “I knew something was eating at you. You inhale Lays and onion dip when you're nervous. But you keep this up, you're going to gain back those pounds you've lost.”
I admired my slimmer frame. My new jeans were a size smaller than anything I had in my closet. A little tight after half a bag of Lays, but they still fit. I'd lost twelve pounds without even trying, or rather, I lost pounds without obsessing over losing them. Much like da Vinci becoming my boyfriend, the weight loss had surprised me. I didn't lose the weight to Get Up and Move It, Texas! like my mother and Rachel assumed. I didn't lose the weight by eating any less, either, or at least I don't think I ate any less with chocolate and ice cream and non-stop carbs from da Vinci's pasta.
Anh claimed it was falling in love that did it, but I don't think it was falling in love with da Vinci, but falling in love with life again. I was more active than I had been in years. As my sister said on a daily basis, “When you move it, you lose it.”
“Speaking of dating, you and Michael still a thing?”
“Not dating,” Anh said, reapplying her lipstick. “Unlike some people I know, we are not going out on social engagements. Just my house and his. Taking care of me and Vi when we were sick did score him a few brownie points, though.”
