It felt like we had just left New Haven when the sign for Greenwich flashed by.
“With time to spare,” Sal said as he pulled up near the train station. “How you getting back?”
“I’ve kind of been taking it one step at a time.”
“There’s a sub shop by the name of Gianella’s right off the interstate. I’ve been known to stop there around twelve-thirty for lunch on my way back. I’ll probably be there tomorrow … if you’re interested, that is.”
I thanked Sal for the ride, not to mention the money he lent me for the train. I got out of the truck, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked alone into the crowded train station.
CHAPTER 22: MUSTY, FROM BROOKLYN
The image of the men standing beside the three headstones stayed with me long after they had driven away in the dark sedan. I saw them bend over to measure the newly dug grave, their movements businesslike, methodical, no different than a carpenter measuring lumber, or a mechanic peering beneath the hood. Before leaving, the one in the sleeveless T-shirt spoke in an animated fashion, causing the other man to laugh, the cruel sound carrying to where I watched them from the neighboring hillside.
I had arrived at Pine Crest Presbyterian Cemetery a full hour before the graveside service was to begin. The dangerous flight across the ocean, the frantic rush across three states—now I sat and waited. Tired from the long walk from the train station, I rested beneath a pine tree. I untied my shoe to examine the ruptured blister on my heel, but the blood-stained sock prevented me from looking further. Plagued with thoughts of Father, I sat in an agitated state of wakefulness.
What would his reaction be upon seeing me? What is it that I would see when I looked him in the eye? I remembered our last encounter like it was yesterday. He had stood watching me for some time, believing that I was asleep. I thought little of it at the time, but that face in the doorway had been one of affection, even frailty—not like Father at all. And there had been such an intense sadness in his eyes, like he wanted to rush over and shake me awake.
It was unseasonably warm for late October. The rigor and hardship of the road had felt right, but the sunlight and blue sky intruded upon my grief. I wanted it overcast and dreary, with a strong wind to make the cold more bitter. I wanted to see my breath in the air. Precipitation, perhaps even sleet, would have been welcome.
But it was the beginning of a beautiful day. Sparrows and finches chirped overhead, filling the quiet hills with their song. Clusters of artificial flowers marked the graves; miniature American flags drooped in the windless air. The cemetery was peaceful. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was just another day.
Grandparents die. Grow up, kid.
But this wasn’t just another day. Not for me, anyway.
Something kept me from the gravesite. Perhaps it was denial, for when the train of vehicles approached the neighboring hillside, I was certain that they would keep driving. Of all the gravesites, why would they choose this one? But when they stopped and the pallbearers gathered at the rear of the hearse to extract the casket, I no longer felt the sun’s warmth; nor did I hear the birds in the trees. The blue sky stood overhead, forgotten.
My eyes focused on Perry as he eased out of the driver’s seat. He was something familiar, something real in this unbelievable day. He looked proud and somber in his dark suit, but this was how Perry always looked, regardless of the occasion. He limped to the rear of the limo, opened the door, and extended a gloved hand to Mother. She wore a long, dark coat over a black dress, as if prepared for the inclement weather I so hoped for. With her head held high, she looked determined, even regal, ready to face whatever the world chose to deliver. I rose to my feet, the mere sight of her giving me strength.
Behind her came a tall man with a full head of gray hair whom I had never seen before. I stared at him without breathing. Who was he? Why was he here?
Where was Father?
Perry shut the door behind them, and the man escorted Mother up the hill.
My eyes searched every face in the crowd. There was Uncle Larry and his wife, Susan, followed by their three children. I vaguely recognized Aunt Mildred, Grandpa’s sister from New Jersey, who had told such distasteful jokes at David’s graduation that Mother had pulled me out of earshot. There was my overweight Aunt Carolyn, laboring up the hill to the graveside canopy. My cousins, Bradley and Catherine, trailed behind her like two reluctant shadows.
But Father wasn’t there. The rift between him and Grandpa had been deep, especially after David left, but missing his father’s funeral was unthinkable. The longer I stood there, the more his absence became a kind of spectral presence, as if he had chosen not to come to avoid our inevitable confrontation. All the risk and sacrifice to leave Wellington had been for nothing. I felt the rage that had gotten me there rekindle, an empty, useless emotion that would inevitably sputter out, as the target it was directed toward was nowhere in sight.
I limped toward the gravesite, looking everywhere but at the casket. The words of the pastor carried across the hill.
“Lord of Heaven and Earth, grant us by the mercy of Your Holy Spirit that we might comprehend together the height, the depth, and the vast breadth of Your love for us in Christ Jesus, Your only Son, our Lord.”
The immediate family was seated in the front row. Uncle Larry and Aunt Susan were the first to see me, their startled expressions confirming my disheveled appearance. I had tried to clean myself up in the train station, but there was only so much to be done with a wrinkled shirt and muddied pants.
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any … any … any powers in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.”
Even the pastor seemed taken back by my arrival. Mother hadn’t seen me yet, but the gray-haired man seated beside her was watching me like a hawk. When he leaned over and whispered in her ear, she looked up and gasped.
“Let us pray. O God, our Heavenly Father and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom could we go in this hour but to Thee? For with Thee are the words of eternal life, and we are those who believe in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting through our blessed Redeemer, Lord and Savior, Christ, the King.”
Everyone bowed their head in prayer. Except Mother. Her eyes never left me. Unable to meet her stare, I fixed my vision on Uncle Larry and Aunt Susan. I hadn’t seen them in years. I thought back to all the times Mother had spoken poorly of their now full-grown children, surprised at how normal they looked seated between their parents. These were the same children, who, according to Mother, had gone through a “turbulent adolescence,” who were “menaces to society.” But now, it seemed, it was my turn to play that role. What would they say about me? What would the family say about David who had run away from home, or about Father who hadn’t bothered to show up? I didn’t have to look at Mother to feel her embarrassment.
“May we go from here today remembering that through Him, life is eternal, love is immortal, and death is only a shadow beyond the horizon, which we cannot see with these tear-rimmed eyes. Amen.”
As the service concluded, a funeral home attendant handed each family member a rose. Mother spoke a few words to the pastor before approaching me. Her eyes were piercing blue in the sunlight. She looked over every inch of me, every scuff and scrape, taking note of all that was out of place. But instead of disapproval, her face was lined with sorrow. She took a deep breath and collected herself.
“Hello, Jacob. I don’t believe you have met Dr. Weber.” She motioned to the gray-haired man behind her. “He’s been a great help to us in New Hampshire.”
It was sad, really. Even in this unexpected meeting of heightened emotions, her formalities and good manners shone through.
I looked at the casket.
“You didn’t tell me.”
The grim smile fell from her face. “I was going to. Of course I was goin
g to. I just thought it would be best … that it would be best if I told you in person. I didn’t want this to be another phone call.” She shook her head. “You’ve been through so much, dear, with what happened at school, and … well, everything. It hasn’t been an easy time for any of us. I was planning on going to Wellington, tomorrow in fact, and telling you then.”
“Would it have made it easier, telling me then?”
She looked down at her feet in what I took to be embarrassment. But this unbecoming expression quickly passed, and when she looked back up, her resolve had returned.
“Jacob, how ever did you get here?”
When I didn’t answer, she remained quiet. It was her old tactic—by saying nothing, she expected me to talk. Mother possessed the talent of harnessing silence, building it up around her like a thunderhead and unleashing it on anyone she chose. But I ignored her. I kept my eyes on Dr. Weber, who was pretending to examine one of the nearby graves.
Then, still watching Dr. Weber, I leaned toward Mother and whispered so as not to be overheard.
“Where’s Father?”
“Jacob!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Oh my dear, dear Jacob.” Her voice was filled with such pity that I regretted having asked the question. Dr. Weber stepped forward and placed a hand beneath her elbow.
“Oh, this was all a mistake,” she said. “A terrible, terrible mistake. I thought it would help to send you there. You would have what you couldn’t at home.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Wellington. It was a mistake sending you there.”
“No, no, it wasn’t.” Why was she saying this? “I actually like it there. And you’re dodging the question. It’s so like you to defend him.”
“I’m not defending him. I’m not defending anyone. Jacob, darling, certainly you know that it’s not possible for him to be here. You must know that. This has gone on for much too long. You mustn’t go back to that school. It’s quite clear that it has only made things worse.” She grabbed me by the shoulders. “You mustn’t go back. Do you hear me? You can’t go back there. You can come home … with me.”
“But I want to go back,” I said, pulling away. “I am going back.”
“Jacob, it was a mistake. Do you hear me? You can come home and go to your old school. You can see all your friends again. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“It wasn’t a mistake. Look, I haven’t seen you in months. You can’t just … just barge into my life and pull me out of school. I came back for the funeral. That’s all.”
“Oh, I sent you away, and now …” She looked at me in anguish. “Now look at you!”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said, self-consciously running a hand through my hair. “Sorry for … well, for everything. But I can’t come home. Not yet.”
She looked at me then like she would never see me again. When she finally nodded, a single tear ran down her cheek.
“Everyone is coming back to our place,” she said. “Some of your grandfather’s old students will be there. Will you at least come back for that?”
I looked down the hill to where Perry waited by the limo, and suddenly I knew that if I went home now and caught so much as a glimpse of my old life, I would never go back to Wellington. But that wasn’t all. Father would be home. And I didn’t have the strength to face him yet.
“No. I’m sorry. I have to go back.” I looked at the gravesite. “For what it’s worth, I … I forgive him.”
“That’s … that’s good, Jacob. That’s an important first step in the grieving process. And you know it would mean a lot to him. Perhaps … perhaps you could tell him that yourself?”
She motioned for me to follow her up the hill.
I took a step back, my eyes returning to the limo. “I’m sorry. I … I can’t. I have to go back … right away.”
Mother nodded reluctantly, like she had been caught asking too much.
“How are you planning on getting there?” Dr. Weber asked.
“I got here, didn’t I?” I said, our eyes meeting for the first time.
“Well, at least take this,” he said, handing me a folded slip of paper. “It’s the obituary. They had them at the visitation last night.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Dr. Weber had a kind face, and I hated him for it. It wasn’t until later that I would discover close to a hundred dollars tucked inside.
Mother looked frozen in place, but when I put my arms around her and said goodbye, she shook with a thousand tiny vibrations. As reluctant as it was, I had her blessing.
I cast a final look at the casket before leaving the cemetery. Though I never once looked back, I felt Mother’s eyes upon me every step of the way.
* * * * *
Everything was as I remembered it: the slumped porch, the crumbling trellis, the maple tree spreading its branches over the rooftop. I stood before 1608 Brickmore Lane, unable to discard my memories, unable to believe that a retired schoolteacher was no longer inside, amusing himself over bonsai trees and robins’ nests, avidly reading in the dim lamplight, cursing whenever the phone dared to ring.
Memories of Monday afternoons led me off the sidewalk and onto the porch. I stepped over four days of unread newspapers, retrieved the house key from beneath the flower pot, and swung the screen door open. Inside, the musty odor fell over me like a warm, familiar blanket. The entryway was how I had last seen it—overflowing with books and old newspapers, littered with various odds and ends. I passed my hand over a stack of magazines, over the telephone and antique radio I had never once heard turned on. I let my fingers trail through the dust on the end table. It wasn’t enough to see everything; I had to touch it. Out of habit I caught myself listening for footsteps from an adjoining room, or perhaps the soft turning of a page, but all was quiet.
I had left the cemetery feeling selfish and unworthy, ashamed that Father had crowded my thoughts. Someone had once told me that funerals were more for the living than the departed, and it had certainly been this way for me. The crowd, the ornate casket, even the bright sunny day was the antithesis of Grandpa’s life. But here, within these walls, with the peeling paint and the tattered carpeting, he felt nearby. It was here that I could convince myself he had only stepped out to run an errand.
I went into the kitchen. This is where it had all started, where Grandpa had cast his spell that kept pulling me back over the years, convincing me that there was something more to be discovered. But now there was only an empty room, and the robins chirping outside the window. It was some time before I looked away from the nest of Broadleafs, knowing that it would be the last.
Each room housed its own distinct memories. Instead of a spare bedroom, the room at the end of the upstairs hallway was a classroom where lessons on bonsai had been conducted. They were all still there, basking in the sunlight like obedient students, waiting patiently for the next lecture to begin.
“Looks like you won,” I said to Julius, running a hand over his leaves.
I avoided the living room until the end. It was here, amidst the torn carpeting and assorted plants, that the openhearted recluse had shined the brightest. There were lectures and jokes in the rest of the house, but friendships had taken shape here. I looked for some time at my familiar seat on the couch, at the recliner, and of course, at the walking circle. Upon closer examination, I would notice that the narrow path worn into the floor was completely bare. There were no loose shags or frays of carpeting; only bare floorboards shone through, as if Grandpa had finished what he had set out to do all along.
I stood beneath the archway, not wanting to enter because then I would be that much closer to leaving. And once I left, this house, these rooms with their quaint idiosyncrasies, would be out of my life forever. I finally took a step forward, coming to sit on the couch with the same shoot of ivy stretching behind my head, the same clock ticking from above the television; even the afternoon sunlight coming in through the porch window indicated it was the same time of day as our weekly visits. I wa
ited patiently, as if Grandpa was napping in the recliner with a book in his lap and would awaken at any moment.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. I was alone—truly alone—for the first time in this house. When I looked up, I saw the kitchen chair leaning on its front leg, and a cloud of sawdust shooting into the air. In the empty space before me, there was an old man walking, his robe swirling about him, his eyes filled with bewilderment. When at last these visions had dissolved, I became fixated by the daylight reflecting from the ring of polished wood. As afternoon turned to evening, this light dimmed, and finally went out all together.
* * * * *
With daylight, money and a full night’s rest, the return trip went by quickly and without incident. I spent the night on Grandpa’s couch, not waking until the morning. Fortunately I didn’t make the commute to Greenwich alone. I took Julius with me, his delicate leaves protected by a pillowcase. The move wouldn’t be easy, but it was better than the alternative.
I found Sal in a corner booth at the sub shop. He looked up from his paper and waved me over like we met there everyday.
“Well, well. Looks like you actually spent the night under a roof,” he said as I slid into the booth across from him. “Same clothes, but we’ll get you back in fighting shape in no time. Gotta make good time. Promised I’d make my daughter’s musical, so you’ll have to eat on the road. I highly recommend The Italian. Salami and provolone is a match made in heaven.”
Connecticut seemed smaller in the daylight. The murky shapes of yesterday’s dawn had been replaced with steady traffic and periodic glimpses of the Long Island Sound. We rode in silence that was only broken by Sal’s interjections about traffic patterns, the weather and New Jersey drivers (they were the ones you really had to watch out for). But nothing bothered the opinionated truck driver for long, not even the stop-and-go traffic around Bridgeport.
The Keeper of Dawn Page 28
