by Nan Rossiter
I smiled. Cooper obviously wasn’t going to be easily deterred, and although it was really nice to be pursued, there was no way I was going to ever tell him the things I’d done. I still felt too ashamed. I brought the bottle inside and put it in the refrigerator. Then I ran the tap until it was cold, filled a glass, and went outside to sit on the porch with the most recent book I’d found on Mrs. Cohen’s shelf.
I don’t know why I was so captivated by East of Eden. Maybe it was because the author had drawn inspiration from a story with which I was all too familiar—the tragic tale of Cain and Abel—two brothers vying for their father’s love. Or maybe it was simply the enduring themes of good versus evil, dark versus light, and having free will—a gift from God that causes us humans all kinds of trouble—something to which I could easily relate! Needless to say, I couldn’t put the book down, and as I was drawn into the story again, I didn’t think about anything else. I lost track of time until it became too dark to read, and then I looked up and realized how late it was. For a moment, I listened to the evening birds and the waves lapping on the shore and heard my stomach rumble.
I went inside to heat up the last of the brisket, and as I sopped up the gravy with the last snowflake roll, I remembered that I really needed to go food shopping—a chore that involved getting up early and walking to work with Mrs. Cohen’s metal shopping cart.
I wiped down the kitchen counters, locked the doors, put on the outside lights—a new habit I’d started—washed up for bed, and curled up with my Steinbeck tome—anxious to find out what was happening in the world of Cal and Aron Trask!
Chapter 15
The next morning, I was up before dawn, and although the Trask family beckoned from the pages of my book, there was no time for reading. I showered, dressed, spread some honey on a warm apricot scone, made a cup of tea, devoured both, and headed out the door with Mrs. Cohen’s shopping cart bumping along behind me.
I looked up at the early-dawn sky streaked with pink and coral clouds and sighed. Nantucket colors were so different from Medford’s drab gray—at least in my mind. I could tell it was going to be another beautiful summer day. Little did I know, however, the day was also going to be one I’d never forget. I parked my cart behind the bakery and hurried inside.
“Mornin’, Abe,” I called.
He looked up. “Mornin’, kiddo.”
“Want me to put on the coffee?”
“You must need a cup,” he teased.
“I’m making it for you,” I said, laughing.
He looked at the clock. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I separated the paper filters, tucked them into the coffeemakers, pulled open the cellophane packages of coffee and dumped them in, filled the reservoirs with cold water, and pushed all the Start buttons. A moment later, the aroma of freshly brewed Nantucket Fogbuster joined the lovely scent of warm cinnamon strudel muffins.
I went back into the kitchen. “Job me!”
“We have some ripe bananas.”
“Banana chocolate-chip muffins?”
“Go for it,” he said as he finished kneading the sourdough and shaping it into loaves.
I started to peel the bananas, and as I dropped them into the mixer, Abe slid the bread into the oven. “So, did you make it to mass yesterday?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron and reaching for a new bag of flour.
I shook my head. After Abe had learned I was Catholic, he’d started pressuring me to give the little Catholic Church in town a try, but I hadn’t found the time. “I will,” I said. “I just have some things to work out with God first.”
“There’s no better place to do that than in church.”
“Yeah, I know. . . .” I said. Hoping to change the subject, I added, “So, I’m reading East of Eden right now and I almost didn’t come to work because I can’t wait to finish it.”
“Ah,” Abe said, nodding knowingly. “The classic tale of sibling rivalry and family turmoil.”
“You’ve read it?” I asked in surprise.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ve read everything from Cannery Row to The Grapes of Wrath.”
“Hmm,” I said in thoughtful surprise as I broke eggs into the mixing bowl.
Just then the phone rang and Abe looked at the clock again—it was six fifty-five, almost time to open. He picked up the receiver. “Nantucket Bread—where the dough always rises.” He paused, listening. “Of course,” he said. “She’s right here.” He held the phone against his chest and motioned to me. I frowned—who was calling me . . . at this hour?!
I wiped my hands on my apron and took the phone. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end was panicked and urgent, and it took me a minute to figure out who it was. “Lizzy, what’s the matter?” I asked; then my heart began to race as I made sense of what she was saying. “Your dad? Oh, my dad . . . is he okay?” I frowned, still trying to piece together her frantic words. “Which ER?” I swallowed, tears springing to my eyes. “No, of course, I’ll leave right now.” I hung up without saying good-bye. . . or thank you . . . or anything and looked frantically around the kitchen for my bag. “I’m sorry, Abe, I have to go,” I blurted distractedly.
Realizing I was looking for my bag, he pointed to the hook near the door where I always hung my things. “It’s my dad. Lizzy said he’s had a heart attack or something.... She’s not sure . . .”
Abe pulled me into a hug as tears streamed down my cheeks. “It’s going to be all right. Do you want me to go with you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I sobbed. “You have bread in the oven and the shop to open . . . and I’m sorry to leave you like this.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said in a voice that was calm and steady. “Your dad needs you, and if you hurry, you can catch the seven-thirty ferry.” He pulled some money from his pocket and handed it to me. “Take this,” he commanded, pushing a wad of bills into my hand.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He wiped away my tears and kissed the top of my head. “Go,” he commanded. “Call when you can.”
“Okay,” I said, stuffing the money in my bag and hurrying out the door.
My hands were shaking as I paid for my ticket and boarded the ferry.
I stood on the deck and as we pulled away from the dock, I felt the ocean breeze and suddenly wished I’d brought a sweater or jacket. Then I looked down and realized I was still wearing my apron. Feeling foolish and very unprepared, I pulled it over my head, rolled it in a ball, and tied the strings around it.
I looked out across the deep blue Nantucket Sound speckled with caps of snow-white foam and shivered as I thought about my dad. I prayed Lizzy was wrong—maybe he just had a stomach bug or some other ailment that was making him feel sick. How could he have possibly had a heart attack—he wasn’t overweight; he was skinny, and I was sure his arteries couldn’t be clogged. It had to be something else.
I watched the horizon, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of land—this ferry was taking forever! And then it hit me—how was I going to get from Hyannis to Boston? I pulled the money Abe had given me out of my bag and counted it—there was over two hundred dollars! I’d have to work at least two weeks to pay him back, but then I realized I had more than enough to pay for a bus ticket—in fact, with that much money I could probably take a taxi all the way to Boston!
Through the blur of my tears, I looked back out across the waves and finally saw the crooked arm of land that was Cape Cod looming on the horizon. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. I’d walked to work that morning, thinking about the food I needed to pick up, and an hour later, I was racing to Boston without a suitcase—it was amazing how quickly one’s life can change, and as I felt the icy fingers of fear grip my heart, I closed my eyes and prayed.
I’d left Nantucket at seven-thirty, but by the time I hurried into the emergency room, it was almost noon. Lizzy was waiting for me, and as soon as I saw her, I knew something was wrong.
“I’m so sorry,” she whisp
ered tearfully.
“Why? What happened?” I asked, stunned.
She gave me a long hug and then led me down the hall. I felt like I was passing through a tunnel—the flurry of frantic activity all around me was just a blur of humanity. I stood by the edge of my dad’s bed and stared. He was pale and still and when I touched his hand, it was cold. I heard Lizzy behind me, weeping, but I just stood there with dry eyes, in shock and disbelief. My dad was gone.
Chapter 16
On a steamy August morning, I buried my dad next to my mom in Bell Rock Cemetery, and even though I didn’t know if it was possible for him—as a Protestant who never went to church—to pass through the gates of heaven, I prayed that, by some miracle, he was finally reunited with my mom. Looking back now, however, I’m certain he was. My dad was a good man and he did the best he could with the hand he was dealt. I’ve also since learned that some folks just never recover from the loss of a loved one. My dad was one of those people.
The minister from the Congregational Church presided over the simple graveside service. I figured my dad wouldn’t want anything fancy or expensive—he hadn’t liked spending money in life, so he certainly wouldn’t want it spent in death. I also expected Lizzy and Simon and Mrs. McAllister to come, but I didn’t expect anyone else—nor was I prepared for anyone else. I hadn’t planned a reception or anything. I was young when my mom died, and I still hadn’t lost anyone else close to me, so I truly was a beginner when it came to death and all the trappings we humans find so necessary, and I was completely surprised when I saw Abe and Coop waiting solemnly by his grave.
The minister seemed familiar with my dad’s life—which also surprised me. Had my dad secretly gone to church all those years when I was at mass? I doubted it—if he had, more people would’ve attended his funeral. When the service ended, I turned to Abe and Coop. “Thank you for coming,” I said, giving them hugs. “I never expected to see you here.”
They both smiled; then Abe nodded over my shoulder in the minister’s direction and I realized he was waiting to talk to me. I excused myself, turned to him, and listened as he explained the best way to reach him. As he spoke, I looked over his shoulder and noticed four men standing in the distance, leaning on shovels. I frowned and then it hit me that they were waiting for us to leave so they could lower the beautiful mahogany box containing my dad’s body into the ground and dump clumps of damp earth on top of it. All of a sudden, I felt like I was betraying my dad all over again—I hadn’t taken care of him in life and now I was leaving him to be put in the ground, never to be seen—or heard from—again.
Why was I having such a hard time with this? Wasn’t I doing what everyone did with their loved ones’ bodies? Deep down, I knew I was, but as I stood there listening to the minister, I suddenly wondered if my dad would have preferred to be cremated. The option had been offered, but I’d dismissed it without even considering it—cremation wasn’t allowed in the Catholic Church and I wanted my dad to have a fighting chance of getting into heaven—but now, as I thought about it, it dawned on me that he wasn’t Catholic, so he could’ve been cremated. Why had I put what I believed ahead of what he believed? I hadn’t even considered what he might have wanted, and now, as I pictured his body decaying slowly in a dark box under a pile of dirt, I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice.
“What’s the matter, Sal?” Lizzy asked, coming up beside me and putting her arm around me.
I bit my lip as a tear slid down my cheek. “Do you think he would’ve wanted to be cremated?” I whispered.
“Oh, hon, no. I don’t think he would’ve wanted that. He definitely wanted to be buried next to your mom. You did the right thing.”
“I just keep thinking about him . . .” I nodded at the coffin.
“It’s okay,” she said. “His soul isn’t in there. He’s already gone to heaven to be with your mom.”
“Do you think so?”
“I’m sure of it,” she said, giving me a hug.
The minister nodded, too, and I mustered a smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “Your dad was a good man, and like your friend said, I’m sure he’s looking down at us from heaven right now.”
I nodded, smiling sadly as I brushed away my tears.
“C’mon,” Lizzy said, guiding me over to where everyone was waiting.
I looked at them, suddenly remembered Simon’s unfriendly reaction to Coop at the tavern, and realized they were talking to each other. I looked over at Lizzy and she smiled—she was thinking the exact same thing.
“I’m so sorry, Sal,” Abe said, giving me another hug. “It’s so hard to lose your dad.”
I nodded and then frowned. “Who’s running the shop?”
“No one,” he said. “I hung up my Gone Fishin’ sign and headed out—that’s one of the perks of owning your own business.”
“I wish my dad had hung up a Gone Fishin’ sign once in a while. If he had, he might still be here.”
Abe nodded. “The customers know where I am anyway, and they all feel bad. I’m sure you’re gonna get a very warm welcome when you come back.”
“That’s just it,” I said glumly, “I don’t know when I’m gonna be back. I have so much to take care of—my dad’s house, his belongings . . .” My voice trailed off—just the thought of it all overwhelmed me.
“Take as much time as you need,” Abe said. “I know what you’re going through—we all go through it at some point.”
“Thanks, Abe,” I said. “And thank you again for coming.”
He put his arm around me again. “Of course, kiddo.”
I smiled and looked in his eyes. “That’s what my dad used to call me, you know.”
He grinned. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to take over for him—you probably need someone to look after you . . . especially if you’re hangin’ out with this guy . . .” he said, nodding in Coop’s direction.
I smiled, and although I knew no one could replace my dad, I couldn’t think of anyone better to give it a try.
I turned to Coop. “And you,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m sure you had more important things to do than come all the way out here.”
He smiled. “Somebody had to show Abe how to get here.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, giving him a hug.
Then I turned and hugged Lizzy’s mom. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. McAllister.”
“Of course,” she said, mustering a smile. “You’re like a second daughter to me, Sally. If you need anything while you’re home, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I saw Lizzy’s raised eyebrows and had to work hard not to smile—it was one of the nicest things either of us had ever heard her mother say.
Finally, I turned to Simon. “It was sweet of you to come, Si.”
He nodded and I realized he had tears in his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Sal,” he said in a voice choked with emotion. I nodded, a little surprised by his tears, but later, Lizzy told me he’d been one of the nurses in the ER when they rushed my dad in, and although he didn’t realize who he was at the time, he’d been assisting when they tried to bring him back.
I looked around at all of them. “I’m sorry I didn’t plan lunch or anything. I really didn’t know what to do.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Lizzy said. “Do you want me to go back to the house with you?”
I shook my head. “No, this is going to take some time and I really just need to go through everything myself.”
She nodded and gave me another long hug. “Well, call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I said, nodding.
* * *
It took two weeks to get through everything in my dad’s house—the house in which I’d grown up, but the endless contents of which I’d hardly noticed. For someone who didn’t like spending money, my dad had certainly accumulated a lot of stuff! Every closet, cupboard, and drawer was a new adventure. There were tickets
to shows and movies dating back decades; there were folders filled with important documents—birth, death, and marriage certificates dating back generations. And there was cash tucked everywhere! At the end of the two weeks, I spread all the money I found tucked in drawers, socks—even under the proverbial mattress—on the kitchen table and counted it. There was over nine thousand dollars, and that didn’t even include the cans of change I found in the back of the closet! Now I really needed to lock the door—something I’d already been doing, even during the day—because it felt strange to be there alone . . . and I worried Drew might see the obituary.
Finally, at the suggestion of my dad’s attorney, I moved the things I wanted into storage and had an estate sale. After it was over, I walked through the empty rooms one last time, locked the house, and gave the key and my address to his attorney.
I called Hy-Line Cruises, made a reservation for my dad’s car, which was packed with stuff, and made one last trip across the river to the cemetery. I walked through the pine trees to the sunny spot where my parents and grandparents were buried and gazed at my dad’s new granite headstone glistening in the sunlight:
HAROLD JAMES RYAN
MARCH 10, 1927–AUGUST 16, 1969
BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND
Then I looked at my mom’s sun-bleached stone . . .
CORRINE LOGAN RYAN
MAY 26, 1928–AUGUST 16, 1952
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
. . . and caught my breath in surprise. How had I not noticed the dates before? How had I not realized that my dad had died on the seventeenth anniversary of my mom’s passing? Had he been thinking about her that morning? I’d heard of people dying of a broken heart, so I knew it was possible, but why had it taken my dad seventeen years? Had he been waiting for me to spread my wings? I’d never know. I’d never know what he’d been thinking or how the date affected him. I shook my head in disbelief, and as hot tears slid down my cheeks, it dawned on me that I never fully comprehended the depth of his grief.
