The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  “Do you remember when we went to their concert?” I ask Adam as my hands skim the water making ripples.

  “Uh – yeah. You were wearing a denim miniskirt and a really tight Foo Fighters t-shirt. You couldn’t keep your hands off me,” he answers confidently.

  “What? No . . . I was wearing black jeans . . . remember? I got a pick from the sound crew and then lost it after Natalie wore my jeans.” Adam may hold the title of keen observer but my memory is far superior. He laughs and wraps his arms below my chest grazing my nipples with his fingers.

  “I could stay in here all night,” I whisper as the phone rings. It’s pretty late, so I use the remote to turn off the music and listen to the answering machine.

  “Hey bro, it’s David. So, yeah, hate to bother you so late, but Mom, well, Mom passed away. Sorry man, I’m going to need you here to help me with things. Okay, I’ll be at her house for a little while.” Everything is silent and Adam sits frozen. I jump out of the tub and grab our towels, but he just remains there, staring at the drain.

  “Adam! Get out! You need to call David . . . now!” I sound like a stern schoolteacher but I’m petrified by his motionless silence . . . god, Adam, feel something! He shakes his head and says, “Shit” then moves quickly to the bedroom dripping water everywhere. He pulls on his gym shorts then sits on the bed to dial the phone. I sit next to him and rub his back, trying to hear their conversation.

  “Jesus Christ. David, what happened?” Adam shakes his head and pauses between each question. “Where was she? What did the doctor say? I know I’m the primary executor; I drafted the fucking will . . . so yes, I know it’s my responsibility. I’ll be there tomorrow.” Adam hangs up the phone and moves quickly to the closet grabbing his leather duffel bag and cramming all sorts of non-November clothing deep into the duffel.

  “She had a heart attack. Undetected heart disease apparently. I have to go to Buffalo and take care of a few things that my juvenile brother would rather not deal with at the moment. I’ll get a flight for you and Will on Sunday but you need to reserve a hotel for me tomorrow. Call your parents, they’ll want to know.” He dresses himself in jeans and a sweatshirt, grabs his phone, kisses my forehead and heads out the door to try and catch the last flight to Buffalo. I return to the bathroom to clean up the wet floor and empty the tub. The remnants of a perfect evening poetically swirling down the drain.

  On Sunday afternoon, Will and I board a flight to Buffalo to join Adam. It’s a relatively quick flight, but Will is a complete terror on the plane. I didn’t have time to buy a car seat so I’m trying to keep him contained by a flimsy seatbelt and lots of junk food. If only the passengers knew that we were travelling to a funeral maybe they would compassionately dismiss Will’s annoying game of throw the fruit snack. When we arrive at the airport, Mom and Dad are waiting to take us to the hotel where they have graciously offered to watch Will and handle all the flower arrangements. I unpack a few of our things then drive Dad’s Buick to Adam’s childhood home.

  My first visit to Buffalo was while Adam and I were only dating. We flew to Toronto for Adam to meet my parents then we rented a car and drove down to stay with his mom. Upon arriving at his childhood home, I immediately fell in love with Nancy. She greeted me with open arms and surrounded me with warmth. I’m very close with my own mother, but her embrace was different, it was an access to the man I was going to marry. She had raised Adam and David as a single mom for almost twenty years and it was very clear from whom Adam inherited his strength and perceptive intellect. I loved everything about her. She was tall and graceful, feminine yet sturdy. She was a talented photographer and quite literally the matriarch of her community.

  The sky is hauntingly dark and I’m a little afraid of the ominous clouds following me from the hotel. I speed south and arrive at the ranch-style house with the beautifully landscaped yard. The potted mums lining the walkway make me smile reminding me of Nancy’s enthusiasm for holiday decorating. As I pull in the driveway, Adam and David meet me at the door, both of them looking spent. David is five years younger than Adam, a little shorter, a little rounder and always grinning like he has a sponsorship from Colgate. He talks a lot, drinks a lot and would perpetually stay in college if it was allowed. Adam and David had a ton of physical fights growing up and they often butt heads as adults but they share a sibling bond that’s strong and sincere, thanks to Nancy.

  “Hey, babe,” Adam says as he reaches to hug me. I kiss his cheek softly and turn to address David.

  “Hi David. How are you doing?” Sometimes finding the right words are tough, but he just grins and nods his head.

  “You know . . . it sucks. She was a great mom. So, hey, I gotta meet some friends at O’Brian’s . . . see you guys tomorrow?” David pats Adam’s shoulder then walks to his flashy SUV. We see him off then run inside the house to beat the rain.

  When I step through the front door, I’m amazed by the amount of photos placed everywhere. Either she’s added to her collection or I was too self-absorbed to notice all the pictures on my other visits. There’s a large black and white photograph that hangs over the fireplace mantle of Nancy, Adam and David sometime in the mid-eighties. They are on the beach, sitting near sea oats and sand dunes, but what I love about this photograph is not David’s huge smile but Adam’s. My eyes scan over the fifty or so framed photos on the sofa table, fragments of time sucking me in. There’s one of chubby Adam with a parrot on his shoulder and a patch on his eye, soccer photos of Adam and David, vacation photos, holiday family portraits, baby Will and an amazing photo she took of me singing in the Toronto Music Festival. I glance at Adam, forgetting that he’s standing next to me. He picks up a large framed photo of himself sitting under an oak tree and sighs.

  “She loved her photos.” For Nancy, it was more than a love of photography, she was an artist. In the same way I hear my life with rhythm and music, Nancy’s life was a visual compilation of captured moments.

  Lightning snaps me back to the present and I finally take in Adam’s appearance. “Oh my god, Adam! What are you wearing?” He’s in his jeans and sneakers but his sweater is a Picasso disaster of bold colors and graphic designs. He looks down at his sweater and pushes up the sleeves.

  “Yeah, about that . . . did you happen to bring me any clothes?” He rubs the back of his neck and smiles for the first time since I arrived.

  “I’m sorry, babe, I only brought your suit for the funeral. Packing for Will took all my concentration.” I guide him toward his former bedroom and loud thunderous booms echo above the house. It’s starting to pour outside and there’s really no rush getting back to the hotel now.

  “Let me see if I can find you something non-Dave Coulier to wear . . .” I rummage through his closet and Adam laughs, he loves my silly Canadian euphemisms.

  “And when is the last time you shaved?” I enjoy manly stubble, but he’s bordering on werewolf at this point.

  “Here.” I toss him a thermal shirt that he must have worn during all those snowy winters in Buffalo. He pulls the sweater over his head and I’m kinda hoping he just leaves it off. “Now, go sit in the kitchen and I’ll be right there.” He obliges but cocks his eyebrow and shakes his head.

  Here’s the thing, I’ve always had this fantasy of sensually shaving Adam in some sexy lingerie, possibly while it’s raining outside with the windows open and some loud jazz playing, but sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got and just go for it. I grab a flannel shirt and his boots from the closet. I poke around his bathroom looking for a razor, but seriously, who shaves with a straightedge? I do however find an electric razor underneath the sink and oddly, it still has a battery charge. I grab his old Boombox from the dresser and find the perfect cassette tape in the top drawer. This is going to be the most non-erotic evening of his life and I can’t wait!

  Adam is slouching in a kitchen chair near the bay window and the rain is pounding against the side of the house. I place the Boombox on the floor and press the play button
to infuse the smoldering voice of Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam. I lean against the refrigerator with grungy sexuality wearing only a plaid flannel shirt and black Doc Marten’s, the fantasy of every Nirvana-loving teenage boy. Adam shoots up straight and shifts his weight, trying to conceal his massive bulge. I teasingly take one step at time, running my finger slowly down my body, giving the slightest little peek of my breasts and stomach. When I reach Adam I circle his chair, leisurely taunting him by running my fingers through his hair. I stop in front of him and his big hands grab my hips, fully opening my shirt. He stares at my body lustfully, begging with his eyes. Adam pulls me on top of him and the roughness of his jeans rubs against all the right places.

  “Oh god, Chloe,” he moans into my chest.

  “Are you ready, Adam?” Before he can answer, I whip around the electric razor I’ve been hiding behind my back. He nuzzles his prickly face into my chest sparking tiny sensations of pleasure.

  “You can’t be serious.” He shakes his head, but he’s clearly amused so I turn on the razor and start buzzing his left cheek. His hands run up and down my body and it takes all my willpower to stick to the task and not melt into a pathetic girly mess.

  “Do you want to practice the eulogy?” I ask.

  “Jesus, Chloe. Right now?” Adam says irritably.

  “Adam, you can’t treat this like a trial. I just thought you would want to run through it before tomorrow.” As soon as I finish my sentence, Adam’s face darkens and he’s beyond pissed.

  “You know what Chloe? I can’t rehearse my mother’s eulogy, but if you must read it, it’s on the desk in the den.” And with that he pushes me off of him and walks to the refrigerator. I stand there, half nude, as he grabs a gallon of milk and guzzles it right from the container, never looking back at me.

  I sit down at the Chippendale desk in the den, picking up a small framed picture of Adam’s dad, William. He must be in his forties because his chestnut hair is flecked with gray strands and he’s wearing reading glasses. William was extremely handsome and definitely had that subtle movie star quality. The picture was taken outside on their back porch as I can see hints of their tree-filled yard. He’s sitting in a brown wicker chair next to a small wicker side table with two iced teas. The photo is angled so that I can see his serious face as he’s reading a paperback book . . . or pretending to read . . . because I know that book cover and there is no way he would be reading The Joy Luck Club.

  Nancy Ferguson Ford was an exceptional woman. She was a wife, a mother and a photographer. My mother taught me very long ago that words are tools used to explain things we don’t fully understand. Words can cause pain, words can stir unpredictable emotions and words are often misused. My mother never over spoke and always found her truth in observing the wordless communication and it was these moments that made her happiest. Like when she would watch my father mowing the lawn, cursing and complaining in the heat. She would bring him a cold glass of lemonade and they would sit on the grass in complete silence, calmed by the tartness of lemon and the privacy of their connection. Or the time when David performed an inappropriate rap song in a talent show and she sat in the front row of the audience beaming with pride. And with me, her quiet accomplishment, she made me whole. She taught me that it’s okay to keep my emotions guarded as long as I appreciate the feelings of others and understand that real passion cannot be imitated. But mostly, she showed me that love is unpredictable and is never defined by four letters or fleeting sentiments. That loving potato chips and loving a person is a mockery of pure emotion. Pure love is for always.

  I place the sheet of paper on the desk as tears stream down my face. Back inside the bathroom I change into my clothes, wash my face and then roam the house in search of Adam. He’s sitting on the couch in the darkened living room watching his own hands purposefully move an object between his fingers. I sit next to him, wondering if he’s mad at me or just overwhelmed . . . so I decide against mentioning the eulogy.

  “Mom asked me to give this to you before our wedding, but I thought you wouldn’t like it. I remember telling her it’s not your style and to just keep it . . . but then a couple weeks ago we were in that antique shop looking at Ford signs . . . I watched you try on some estate jewelry and your eyes lit up.” Adam raises his gloomy, heartbroken face and places an antique cameo in my palm.

  “Of course you would like it. She knew you well.” I study the smooth cream ivory rubbing against my palm and my weak attempt of holding in my tears actually makes me erupt in loud wails of sadness. Adam pulls me into him and we both cry . . . me loudly and him silently.

  The day of the funeral we pick up David from his apartment, stop by Nancy’s house to give instructions to the caterers and then meet Mom and Dad at the service. Inside the beautiful funeral home, family and friends congregate to exchange warm stories and kind words about the late Nancy Ferguson Ford. Mom and Dad did a great job with the flowers and I know Nancy would’ve appreciated their commitment in incorporating her favorite things. Every seat is taken and it’s no surprise that the community loved her as much as I did. She looks peaceful. I know that’s what most people say when they are trying to make an excuse for their denial, but she truly looks at peace.

  Earlier this morning, when we were at the house, I took around twenty photos from her living room to display near the casket. I’m not sure if Adam saw me or if he will even care, but Nancy loved photography and these pictures deserve to be seen. I watch as many of the guests rise from their seats to pay their respects to Adam and David and then they linger around the photos chatting and smiling. Phew, I did something right.

  Mom holds my hand and wipes her eyes with a tissue. Dad is trying to contain a wiggling Will and keeps whispering things in his ear that make him giggle. Adam is seated next to me, staring straight ahead at the casket. His eyes are tired and weary, but his face is as calm as ever. David is on the other side of Adam with his head hung low . . . tired, hung-over perhaps, but deeply affected.

  The service starts with Nancy’s preacher uniting us in prayer and saying some lovely things about her tenacious spirit and kind heart. He’s followed by Nancy’s neighbor singing an upbeat hymn in a crystal clear mezzo-soprano . . . she would have liked that. A life-long friend of Nancy’s tells charming stories about their days as reckless teenagers and their failed attempt to get to Woodstock. A frail, older gentleman shares a lovely story about how Nancy documented his late wife’s cancer battle with a photo journal. David stands to say a few words, but halfway through he falls apart and has to sit down. Mom moves to the other side of David to comfort him but her motherly touch must send him over the edge because his crying reaches heart-wrenching somberness.

  My poor Adam is the final speaker and my heart rips apart as he slowly walks to the front. He places the eulogy on the podium then walks over to the display of photos. Adam picks up an 8x10 black frame and lets out a tiny chuckle. Oh lord, he’s gone crazy. I want to swallow him up so he doesn’t have to experience his pain . . .

  “David, do you remember this?” Adam lifts the picture toward David’s direction and I watch David rub his eyes trying to regain focus from his waterfall of tears.

  “Wow. Let’s see, I must have been eleven . . .” Adam trails off as I study the photograph.

  It’s a Halloween photograph from the late eighties. Nancy is seated on a hay bale wearing an orange cardigan complimented nicely by a peach collared shirt. She has some nice feathering going on in her hair and she appears to be in the middle of a hearty laugh. Adam is standing next to her in a purple velvet jacket and his dark hair is slightly tinted green. He has a huge goofy smile and a fake nose ring. David is wearing a Batman costume but below his eye mask, he has the painted smile of The Joker. His arms are folded across his chest and he is clearly in a pouting position. The most peculiar thing about the picture is that it’s a little unfocused and very crooked.

  “Yep, it was definitely in ’89 because you had to be Batman for Halloween. The problem was t
hat every kid in Buffalo wanted to be Batman that year. Well, except me . . . I wanted to be Billy Idol.” Adam pauses for a moment reflecting on the photograph and I can see David smiling and nodding his head. Adam heads to the podium and his face lights up with passion as he addresses the attendees.

  “So our poor mom spent a month searching for a Batman costume. She called toy stores, waited in line at the drug store and even tried to buy our neighbor’s for fifty bucks. She finally found one a couple days before Halloween, along with that purple jacket from the thrift store . . . she promised me a trip to the roller rink if I would dress as The Joker, I agreed, convincing myself that The Joker was at least the bad guy. But on Halloween, as we were getting dressed and Mom was about to put on my makeup to form that creepy smile, David threw one of his notorious tantrums. He wanted to wear the makeup . . . he wanted the creepy smile. He wanted to be The Joker! Mom finally calmed him down by painting on the smile and calling him Jokeman.”

  David laughs and Adam smiles as he continues the story. “So then our dad, determined to get some photos before trick-or-treating, takes Mom’s camera and pushes us outside. We pose near the house, mom sitting sweetly on the hay and me pumping my fist in the air like an angry punk rocker, but David, well, is he supposed to be good or bad? He just stands there and Dad keeps saying, ‘Stop smiling, David. Be serious’ and David argues that he’s not smiling but dad instructs him to look tough . . . this goes on and on for a while until Mom and I realize that David has that creepy smile painted on his face and Dad has been messing with him the entire time.” Adam pauses to observe the room of familiar faces, their smiles and laughter pushing him through the eulogy. He looks at me and nods, acknowledging that everything is okay.

  “Nancy Ferguson Ford was an exceptional woman. She was a wife, a mother and a photographer. She would have wanted us to celebrate these framed memories that made her life completely special.”