And All the Phases of the Moon

by Judy Reene Singer

  I shook my head. “It didn’t work out,” I said.

  He seemed genuinely sorry. “He was a bit somber,” he said.

  “Time for me to get another piece of cake.” Shay left us sitting alone.

  Larry pulled his chair closer to me and leaned over. “I wanted to talk to you about the Galley,” he said. “I have some ideas. You should do some upgrading. Modernize it. You know what it needs?”

  “A nice café,” we said in unison.

  “Right,” he said. “You can start now and have it ready before summer ends.”

  “I’ve been having some ideas, too,” I replied, thinking they probably weren’t the same ideas. I was tired of the Galley. Tired of getting up in the morning to open it, then wondering where my customers had gone. Tired of talking about it. “I’m thinking of closing or selling it and walking away.”

  “No, no, no.” Larry shook his head. “You can’t. It’s a great place. You just have to get your mojo back. I’ll write my ideas down before I leave for Boston. When I come up to the Cape again, we can talk about it.”

  I resented that a little. The few times he had been in the store, he had been pretty vociferous about the things he thought needed updating and I had graciously tried to entertain his suggestions. Running the store had been my responsibility for the past two years. I had been part of the Galley even before I was born. Larry had been acquainted with the Galley for less than a month.

  “Thanks,” I said, rising from my chair. “I appreciate your concerns.” I gave him a smile and got up for more coffee.

  * * *

  Later, Terrell turned on the backyard lights and emerged from the house holding his fiddle. He played a few notes of the Bob Marley song “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.” Shay started singing with her clear soprano and gestured for me to join. I picked up the harmony, Larry tapped the beat on the table and sang with us. Some of the others picked up the words, their voices sailing over the backyards and up into the darkening sky. Dan would have been playing his guitar, I thought. And singing louder than anyone else.

  It was time for me to leave.

  I kissed everyone good-bye, was given a piece of cake to bring home. They were still singing as I walked to my car. Terrell’s voice was strong; Shay sang in her usual lilting tones, but she was totally right.

  Larry, with the deep and thrilling baritone voice, sang flat.

  * * *

  I sat in the car in front of my house for a while. My head was still full of songs and music and cake and dancing and I wasn’t ready for my quiet, quiet house. I rolled down the window and leaned back, letting the car run. If I sold the Galley, I should sell the house, leave Fleetbourne. After all, what would be the point of staying?

  Vincent started barking at the sound of my car. Okay, maybe my house wasn’t all that quiet. I went around to the back steps and let myself in. Vincent ran right over with potato peels hanging from his chin.

  “Garbage boy!” I chided him. He jumped up to kiss me.

  The house phone was blinking and I pressed the button. There was a message for me to call the Royale Pavilion.

  I sighed. They were so conscientious. If my mother needed as much as an extra Tylenol, they immediately phoned to let me know. I pressed the number and identified myself. The call was directly transferred to the Nursing Director.

  “We tried to reach you all afternoon,” she said. “Your cell phone just kept going to message.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” I apologized, remembering that I had to turn the phone off in court.

  “I apologize to have to tell you like this, but we need you to come as soon as you can,” she went on, her voice full of sympathy. “Your mother passed away this afternoon.”

  Chapter 37

  The nurses were lined up in an arcade, four on each side, flanking the entrance to my mother’s room. I imagined myself marching to her door under crossed syringes, but each nurse only shook my hand, expressed her sympathy, and returned to her duties. The nurse who usually cared for my mother opened the door and led me in.

  The room was immaculate as always, a light glowing softly from the lamp next to the bed where my mother lay. She was groomed; her hair was combed, a smudge of lipstick on her lips in an attempt to restore her to the look of health and dressed in a fresh yellow nightgown that I did not recognize. Her face had eased into peaceful repose, unlined, blessed with grace, her soul in a place beyond us.

  Her nurse had packed up my mother’s personal items and put them in a plastic bag to give to me. I peeked in. A picture of my father and one of me. How ironic, I thought. My mother had owned houses and a business, cars and trucks, furniture, an old upright piano, good china and everyday dishes, so much over the years, and now all her worldly possessions were two old pictures in a small plastic bag.

  I stood next to her bed for a few minutes, not really knowing what to do. Her nurse stood next to me.

  “We have in your original application that she wanted to be cremated,” she said softly. “You need to make the arrangements.”

  I had no idea how to go about that. Did they roll my mother down the hall, setting her bed ablaze like a funeral pyre, and then hand over the remains in an asbestos bag? I was getting giddy, I warned myself. It had been a hard day—the courthouse marchers had frightened me, I’d had too much to drink at Larry’s party, and now my mother’s death. The nurse took notice of my befuddlement. “Just call the funeral director; he’ll take care of everything,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said thankfully.

  She gave me a little hug and left. I stood by my mother and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Mom,” I whispered. “Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

  I would never see her again. How could I bear to never see her again? How do you get used to someone you love just disappearing from your life like a magic trick?

  I stroked her hair. There was nothing more to say. The room felt eerie. Occupied but strangely empty. “I will miss you,” I said, and studied her face. I wanted to remember her face. I stood there for a while, trying to memorize her features, her hair, her hands.

  I was suddenly very tired. I touched her head again as though bestowing a benediction and said, “Bye, Mom,” like I would be back later. It sounded foolish in the empty room. “I love you.”

  I thanked all the nurses, donated her barely played television and the rocking chair I had purchased in order to sit in her room at night, and walked down the hallway, acutely alone.

  Of course I had expected her to leave me at any moment, and yet, somehow, I still expected her to remain in her condition forever. I had expected that I would visit her every week and bring her chocolate ice cream and talk about the world beyond her bed, even knowing that she couldn’t comprehend it. It had given me a sense of security that I wasn’t yet the last of my family, that she was still my buffer against our total extinction.

  * * *

  Once outside, I stood on the front walk and looked up at the lovely old building. Some of the rooms were lit pale yellow against the darkness as they played host to other visitors, other families, other stories. Mine was over. The porch chairs were vacant and waiting for tomorrow. The gate to the Memory Garden was closed. I followed the ground lights along the walkway, stepping through their soft puddles on the way to my car, and, weeping, left the Royale Pavilion forever.

  * * *

  Fleetbourne loves a good death.

  They’d had a heartwarming and very long and public memorial service for my father and Dan. My father was a respected businessman and had served at the Galley for many years, food, groceries, postal services, carrying the economically deprived on his books until either the person or the books crumbled from age; he lent his tools, his car, his brawn to wherever it was necessary, his services to the volunteer fire department. His memorial service had been arranged by the minister, flowers were delivered, the Ladies Auxiliaries from both the church and the fire department prepared tables of food while I sat in my kitchen
, in shock. I had to face it all alone, as my mother was already at the Pavilion and never knew she had been widowed.

  Actually, that we had been widowed together.

  The whole town had attended. Filled with love and respect and sympathy and more than a little morbid curiosity. Shay ran interference for all of it and I was able to breathe.

  Dan’s memorial was held in Beaufort, South Carolina, where he had been born and raised and which was the geography behind his always-delightful soft southern accent. I flew there for the service—his parents had handled it all—and flew home again, my life upended.

  There had been no caskets, no funeral cortège to the cemetery, no burial, all of which usually eases the transition from living to dead for the family. They were just gone.

  Magic.

  * * *

  It was my mother’s turn now.

  Not one to be fussed over, she hated anything ostentatious. Her birthdays were celebrated with a simple card and a gift that she always declared we really shouldn’t have gotten her. Valentine’s Day was considered well done with a single red rose that my father brought home after work. Mother’s Day was a handmade item and the biggest hug and kiss I could muster.

  Her memorial, a few days after her death, was modest, in keeping with her manner; I didn’t want to embarrass her with excess. The church was filled with her beloved red roses, and the minister spoke of her with an intimacy that stemmed from knowing her almost her whole life—and I appreciated that.

  * * *

  I had prepared a eulogy.

  I stood up and looked out at Shay and Terrell and her parents and Larry, who were sitting in the first pew, representing family. Shay was smiling affectionately. Sam was sitting right behind her, his head bowed, with Miss Phyllis and Mrs. A, whom I had asked to close the Galley for the day. The other rows were filled with almost everyone from town, their faces benign and filled with affection. Even The Skipper and his wife. He sat upright, shoulders back, his face very solemn. Mrs. Skipper wore a blue feathered hat that perched in her white hair like a seabird. There was Mrs. Hummings, the town clerk, and Dr. Susan and Officer Joe. How could I ever have doubted these people? They were my neighbors and friends. There were even acquaintances and fellow merchants from P-town.

  * * *

  I thanked my mother for my life. I thanked her for her goodness, and kindness, her great cooking and baking and how she taught me these skills so patiently until I loved them, too. I thanked her for the love she had raised me with. There was little else I could say except that I would never stop missing her.

  I chose “Amazing Grace” for the choir to sing. The Ladies Auxiliary prepared a luncheon in the church basement, which brought tears to my eyes as I remembered my mother volunteering her own time to ease the burden of other families so many years ago. Shay’s parents hugged me tightly; Sam paid his respects and quickly left, Mrs. A blessed me in three languages; there were kind words everywhere.

  I knew that my family had almost completed its cycle of life and death; the final chapter was waiting for me. I told this to Shay as she sat at a table next to Terrell, two plates in front of her, one of macaroni and cheese, the other holding a large salad, since everyone knows that salad erases macaroni calories.

  “No,” Shay said, in the middle of a huge mouthful. “Let your grief turn to good memories and tell yourself that you are the beginning of your own chapter and you can take it wherever you want. It can be the best chapter ever.”

  I watched her fill her plate again and smiled. I wanted to tell her to take a lot of pictures of her baby and pictures of herself and Terrell and pictures of her parents and pictures of her friends and to take even more pictures of them and to save them forever.

  I had so few pictures. Why hadn’t I taken more? I looked around at the room full of people. I didn’t want it to end and have everyone disappear out the door and leave me with no one.

  I leaned across the table to talk to Terrell. “Can you take a few pictures?” I asked him. “Just a few pictures?”

  “Sure thing,” he said and stood up with his cell phone and snapped some photos. “I’ll send them to you.”

  I put my hand on his arm to say thank you and he hugged me. “You’re an okay chick,” he whispered into my ear and I liked that very much.

  I gave a brief speech, thanking everybody for coming and caring and for honoring my family. There were hugs and kisses and sweet remembrances of my mother and then it was suddenly over. I put a large bouquet of roses in my car, shook the last hand, kissed the last cheek, and drove home as alone as I had ever been.

  * * *

  Vincent met me at the door with a ball in his mouth. Dogs know about these things, life and death, and handle it in their own doggie ways. They mourn and they play and then it’s time to eat. Later, they mourn again and play again, maybe followed by a snack. Life and death are simple cycles to them. He rolled the ball across the floor and then chased it. He picked it up in his mouth and looked at me hopefully. Why not? I thought. What is a pit bull for, if not to take you away from sadness by delighting you with their unending goodwill and effervescence? I changed into jeans and we headed for the pier. It was vacant and I was grateful for that. As I started up the steps, I suddenly realized that The Wentletrap was missing from her slip. Sam had gotten to the pier before me and had taken his boat out. Just as well. We had been avoiding each other for days and this was not a time I wanted to talk to him. You cut your losses.

  * * *

  I threw the ball onto the beach for a while, while Vincent made it his responsibility to dash after it and return it to me as fast as possible. “My mother would have liked you,” I told him as he dropped another drooly ball into my lap, then sat and waited for the next throw. Life was simple for him: I envied him that.

  * * *

  Suddenly the buzzing of a boat engine from the distance caught my attention. I recognized The Wentletrap, her new running lights ablaze, coming across the bay, I recognized Sam standing at the wheel inside the cabin. He waved to me and I waved back.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you!” he called to me as he slowly and skillfully eased the boat into the slip. I reassured him that he wasn’t. He tied it up and stepped out onto the pier, then climbed up to where I was sitting. “May I sit here?” He sat down on the bench next to me.

  I shrugged. “It was kind of your family to attend the services,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “It was a very nice service,” he said politely.

  We had nothing more to say and just sat there. Vincent dropped the ball into Sam’s lap and looked up at him, wiggling his stump tail in anticipation. Sam threw the ball down onto the beach and Vincent was ecstatic to go after it.

  “I miss you,” Sam suddenly said in a quiet voice.

  “I miss you, too,” I replied.

  “We have to talk,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it. I allowed him. But it was going to come to nothing; we both knew that.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said. “We’re at an impasse.”

  “We don’t have to be.”

  “I’m not converting,” I said.

  He just sighed.

  “How’s the boat?” I asked.

  “It’s working great. Put in one of those fancy positional things,” he said. “You don’t have to drop anchor; it just keeps the motor running and holds you in place. All I have to do is remember to order a new radio.”

  “Well, it looks great.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It clears my head.”

  “Great.”

  We sat for a while, letting the sound of the bay fill in the blanks.

  “Listen, Aila,” he started. Vincent interrupted him by dropping the ball into his lap. Sam took it and threw it into the bay. Vincent galloped off.

  “I don’t want to live without you,” Sam finished. “I just don’t know how to work this all out. Just give me some time.”

  “I’m sorry it’s so hard for you,” I said, realizing w
ith a rush that my words were true. “I don’t care what your religion is. I can live with it. But I have to stay who I am. And I have to be so important to you that I matter above everything else. That’s the kind of love I need.” And once had, I wanted to say.

  He dropped his face into his hands. Vincent was barking madly from the beach, trying to command his ball, floating on the water, to return to him.

  “Sorry,” Sam said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a damn ball.” I guessed our conversation was over.

  We watched Vincent plunge into the water and swim to the ball and grab it, then swim back to shore.

  “If there’s anything I can do for you,” Sam said, pulling himself to his feet, “just ask. I always offer my boat and the sea.” He started to leave. Maybe I wasn’t going to see him again. I stared at him, realizing how many times I had pictured his face, wanting to remember it, to carry with me all the time. Faces fade. In time, faces fade like old flowers. He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. Vincent bounded between us and dropped a wet ball on my lap, waiting for his next assignment. I patted him on the head. Then Sam walked back to his truck.

  * * *

  I sat on the pier for a long time, staring out over the water. The bay had been part of my life since the day I was born. I knew every molecule that spun and churned against the coastlines, knew every thrash of the waves, every color that was influenced by the sun and the moon and sky. I knew what it wanted from us and how it managed to get it. The water had been part of my family since the beginning of oceans. And, I suddenly realized with a start, my family was part of it as much as the fish and the seaweed and the shells and the sea glass. As much as the tossing waves and lathering foam, we were part of it. We just couldn’t help ourselves. A forbidden thought had been in the back of my mind since my mother’s death. Triggered by Sam’s words, it pushed forward to my consciousness. I thought of my father and Dan and my grandmother’s mystery child and my mother, who would be forever separated from my father. I remember when I was a child and they spoke of family plots that had been set aside in a corner of an old cemetery in Orleans, a town not far from us. My great-grandparents had been buried there, then my grandfather and grandmother. But my father, who had been lost at sea, had broken the continuity. He would forever be separated from his family and my mother.