It was shortly after daybreak when Melissa and Joe visited the cemetery. Breathing the crisp morning air, they seemed to know in advance that their memories of this journey would, no doubt, stay vivid, long past the heat of summer.
The austere faces of headstones were standing in fast formation as they drove slowly past. They strained to read path signs such as Reunion Lane and Heavenly Highway.
Melissa was fighting the irresistible urge to scan as many surnames as possible—all screaming for attention in capital letters. She was so engrossed in this activity that she was unaware of a maintenance truck that crawled by in the opposite direction, billowing smoke.
Her feelings were lifted ever so slightly as she read those names—for they were other people’s and definitely not hers. She was comfortable knowing she would never read the words “Melissa Carlton” carved forever in the indestructible stone. She wanted to touch those names, to run her fingers through the middle initials, much as she had done with the engravings on Islamorada’s hurricane monument.
Continuing, Melissa then consumed each birth date she saw, comparing it with her own.
Joe stopped the car and turned off the ignition as they neared Lot 70, Row 7, Plot 52. Melissa thought that even in death, human beings are given a number. Perhaps this is the last one.
After hesitating for seconds that seemed like minutes, Melissa and Joe exited their car. Taking two wreaths of flowers, they walked up a slight, sod-covered incline. Melissa noticed how the dew-topped grass gave in readily beneath her shoes—just as the people below her had given in. The damp, pliant soil also echoed a death of all resistance.
Surrounding them were puddles from a recent rainfall. These tiny circles of water bounced rays of a resurging sun into her sleep-worn eyes before evaporating imperceptibly.
Then, suddenly, she saw it.
Uncle Steve’s marker was small, imbedded at ground level. An adjacent grave, meanwhile, contrasted measurably—flaunting a huge, freestanding tablet.
Somehow, though, Melissa told herself, even the most impressive mausoleum can’t disguise the reality of death. Death is a category the Taj Mahal would fail to elevate.
After sliding the spokes of their wreaths into the ground, Melissa and Joe bowed their heads for a few brief prayers, focusing their eyes on the marker. The year of Uncle Steve’s death was starkly visible. It would never change.
“Instead of carvings that show us just the dates of someone’s birth and death,” Joe noted, “gravestones should indicate the periods of great personal accomplishment, like when battles were won or when children were born.”
As she turned to leave, with her foot pushing ever so slightly into the turf, Melissa wondered if the weight of the earth had yet begun its task of crushing the casket below.
While walking away, Melissa carefully noticed the names of the people who were buried near Uncle Steve, just as a mother would warily screen the playmates of her children.
Almost every one of them, she reasoned, once flew about happily in life’s formation, like sun-seeking, southbound swallows, before faltering, unexpectedly, alone.
Fortunately for Uncle Steve, the framed, smiling face on the mantelpiece in Melissa’s home will never be able to watch his body turn to dust.
At that moment, Melissa remembered Uncle Steve telling her how he always loved to talk on the telephone, anytime, day or night.
“In some ways, being dead is like being poor,” she told Joe. “It’s as if Uncle Steve can’t afford a phone now. But if he thinks he has to get in touch with us, he’ll find a way—by pigeon, maybe.”
On the stroll back to the car, Melissa noticed that two wooden staffs holding tiny American flags were implanted at an angle in a nearby grave, like banderillas that had been thrust poetically into the shoulders of a charging bull. The staffs sat curved and worn from the weather, Melissa surmised, remnants of a Memorial Day visit.
An image-laden Della Robbia wreath, holding its colorful fruit, graced one freshly turned gravesite, while a blanket of flowers lay on another. Soon, a rampaging summer greensward would cover both, spiced with weeds and growing long, spreading its quilt of oblivion.
Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa saw a bent, elderly woman, kneeling. The woman’s face, and perhaps her thoughts, were hidden by a babushka. She crouched, like a broken-willed slave, having suffered from years, no doubt, of carrying widowhood’s cross.
Almost immediately, Melissa knew the old woman’s name, for it was lettered on her dead husband’s stone. Her year of birth, a dash, and a blank. Melissa wondered, aloud, what the woman was praying for.
In their car now, Melissa and Joe motored toward the cemetery exit, where they waited for traffic to clear. They sat, idling under an ornate arch, beneath gates that are open to all.
“It would be nice,” Melissa spoke, “if Uncle Steve could see them as heaven’s gates.”
From the time she arrived home later that morning, straight through until nightfall, Melissa thought of nothing else except her visit to the cemetery. Then, while lying in a darkened bed and once again wrapped in Joe’s arms, she realized that she was not alone.
Chapter 16
The first Saturday in October brought sunny skies and Indian-summer warmth—as gorgeous a wedding day as Mary Ann or Paul could ever want. For this long-anticipated occasion, Mary Ann’s “serious” gift to Paul consisted of a solid gold tie clasp in the shape of a horse’s head.
On the lighter side, she also gave him a tape recording of snoring sounds—Paul’s own.
“He has always denied that he snores when he’s sleeping,” she laughed. “Now he’ll have the proof.”
Mary Ann had already received her gift from Paul—several weeks in advance of the wedding.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have given you those contact lenses,” Paul told her, jokingly. “They make you look young enough to be my daughter.”
The inspiration for the contact lenses originated shortly after they’d met. Mary Ann had accidentally broken her only pair of glasses, and Paul had quickly taken her to an optician who specialized in one-hour repair.
“Afterwards,” Paul had revealed, “when you said, ‘thanks, hon, I don’t know how I’d be able to work without them,’ it was the first time I’d ever felt like a true Good Samaritan. On that day, you needed help, and I was there to give it to you.”
The job of decorating the reception hall on the night before the wedding had been accepted eagerly by Mary Ann and the girls.
“You know how I love to decorate,” Mary Ann had revealed. “In just a few years, you’ll be comfortable seeing witches and bats every Halloween, turkeys and pilgrims for Thanksgiving, snow stencils for Christmas, and party streamers for the girls’ birthdays.”
“This hall is really a nice place, except for the bathroom,” Melissa had told her mom. “There’s a nasty sign on top of the sink that says, ‘Don’t Put Paper Towels In The Toilet.’ So, I took a crayon and wrote, ‘Don’t Put Any Blow Dryers In There Either.’”
Mary Ann couldn’t help but think about community property again. Once married, she would legally be entitled to half of Paul’s wealth. This contrasted starkly to the waning days of her previous marriage. Her former husband, Donald, had tricked her into signing bankruptcy papers shortly before he disappeared.
Mary Ann and Paul had finally decided on Hawaii for their honeymoon. Paul had helped her pick out the blue, pinstriped business suit that she would wear on the plane.
“It’ll look great,” he added, “especially when we land, and one of those beach boys puts multicolored leis around your neck.”
In a break from tradition, Paul and Mary Ann walked down the aisle together, hand-in-hand, both wearing white.
“I don’t have anything on that’s old or blue,” Mary Ann whispered, as they sat in the limousine, waiting to leave the churchyard.
“For tonight,” she told her new husband, “I do have my Mom’s sexy blue nightgown. It’s even sexier now with all the big hole
s in it.
“And when we get to Hawaii, I’m going to decorate myself like a wedding gift. I’ll wear nothing but balloons—and you can break them, one-by-one.
“When they explode, it’ll get me in the mood—for some screaming.”
The wedding of Melissa and Joe succeeded in becoming a truly remarkable occasion. The fact that Uncle Steve wasn’t in attendance, however, left a void that could never be filled.
Uncle Steve would have enjoyed the reception. It was his kind of party. During the cocktail hour, a piano player was able to handle all requests for oldies and even super oldies. He plunked the keyboard in a range of songs from 1940s show music to early rock, mixing in a little bit of country along the way.
And Uncle Steve would have loved the gourmet appetizers. Fresh figs, sliced kiwi fruit, and Armenian string cheese were all spread bountifully throughout the open-bar area. The main dish, too, would have put one more grin of enjoyment on that ever-friendly face of his.
This impressive entrée consisted of a scrumptious sampling of traditional Polish dishes, including kielbasa and cheese pierogis.
Also offered were hard-boiled eggs colored deep blue, with Easterlike designs on the shells.
“The eggs were my idea,” Joe told Melissa. “Since I couldn’t find any other blue food, I had to create some.”
Earlier that morning, almost a hundred people had gathered to see Melissa and Joe exchange their vows at a small church just outside the Philadelphia city limits.
Melissa wore a long, mauve-shaded gown with white lace cuffs, a wide-brimmed, mauve-and-white veiled hat, and a loosely tied cincture that accentuated her taut waist.
Joe’s tuxedo was a light, shiny gray, complete with high-backed tails, bow tie, and matching shoes. Melissa particularly admired the tight fit of his clothing. The suit, she thought, made Joe’s body look slim, strong, and, above all, sexy.
At the conclusion of the brief religious ceremony, just about all of the churchgoing guests traveled a short distance across town to attend the reception.
Representing Melissa’s family were her mother and stepfather, her three sisters, and a smattering of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Melissa’s oldest sister served as matron of honor.
Since Joe’s parents were both deceased, and with him an only child, his lone family tie was a cousin, Katy Kale, whom he hadn’t seen in twelve years. Three of his Islamorada co-workers did make it, though, as did his closest buddy from the Marines—and best man—John Olivera, who was now a practicing dentist in Miami.
By far the biggest contingent was from several Philadelphia libraries. This group included Sylvia Smith, the mentor who had first hired Melissa.
The most unusual guests were the men who accompanied Melissa’s former college roommates, Chris and Karen. These two blonde, well-dressed women, as similar as sisters, brought along their doting husbands, who were identical twins.
Several of the partygoers asked Melissa and Joe an expected question: “How did you two meet?” And, in all, Melissa gave the “he saved me from a burning pier” speech exactly six times.
Melissa and Joe seemed to be smiling or joking throughout the entire evening. Long into the festivities, Joe still looked dashing in his gray tailored tuxedo, while Melissa’s distinctive gown made her easily recognizable as the lady of the moment.
The utensil band proved extremely popular. Before the group started playing, however, they must have sensed an undercurrent of derogatory smirks and low-key laughter emanating from the crowd.
Carrying their kitchen tools—which served as unlikely looking musical instruments—this aging but proud assemblage of artists tottered onto the stage in a deliberate, almost mechanical fashion, seeming to smile and bow in unison as they faced their audience.
Although their instruments were of the same type, no two were exactly the same. This lack of uniformity gave the group an appearance akin to George Washington’s fabled Continental Army—uneven and less than strong but motivated to succeed.
Not surprisingly, after they performed a remarkably well-tuned rendition of “Here Comes the Bride,” those in attendance gave them an enthusiastic and truly sincere round of applause.
Soon, the tingling sound of metal-on-metal and the bell-like ringing of the water glasses gradually started to captivate almost all of the wedding guests. The listeners danced to old standbys such as “Daddy’s Little Girl,” “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” and that all-time Philly favorite, “The Mummers Strut.”
Later into the evening, Melissa and Joe were still at the reception hall, waiting for the last of the revelers to leave.
They themselves were in no real hurry to depart, since they’d decided, some time ago, to do without an immediate honeymoon. Joe’s recent acceptance of a security consultant’s position with a boardwalk casino necessitated that he begin work two days hence, on the Monday following their wedding.
As well, Melissa was only a week away from starting her expanded new duties as one of the Philadelphia Free Library’s associate directors.
Their delayed honeymoon, which they were tentatively scheduling for the following winter, would consist of a week in Islamorada—supplemented by a one-night side trip to a new underwater motel in nearby Key Largo.
“I understand that you need scuba gear to get from this motel’s parking lot to your room,” Joe told Melissa.
“It’s gong to feel weird in that underwater motel, looking out the window and seeing fish swim by,” Melissa chuckled. “And taking a shower would seem a bit superfluous.
“But since we’ll be spending most of our time in good old Islamorada, it sounds like a honeymoon that’ll be well worth waiting for.”
Melissa and Joe had both agreed to spend their actual wedding night at home in Philadelphia. And, when they finally got there, in concert with tradition, Melissa and Joe walked up to the front door and then stopped—so that Joe could carry her over the threshold and into the living room.
Placing Melissa on the sofa, he instructed her not to move while he quickly doubled back to lock the front door.
“Don’t take too long,” Melissa giggled, feeling the effects of a day dominated by champagne, white wine, and wedding cake.
“I’m starting to laugh from all of the drinks I’ve had,” she continued, almost shouting now. “And when I laugh, I do crazy things.”
Within seconds, Joe had jumped onto the couch next to Melissa. With hands that moved quicker than those of a professional prizefighter, he proceeded, deftly, to take off Melissa’s clothes as well as his own.
Soon they were wrapped together in their nakedness, clutching each other feverishly—kissing, holding, and, before long, locking together passionately in their first lovemaking as man and wife.
“Did it feel any different, now that we’re married?” Melissa asked Joe, afterward.
“Better,” he answered, “much, much better. Maybe it’s because there’s a permanence to us now, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure of only one thing,” Melissa responded, right before she turned off the light and pulled an afghan over their exhausted bodies.
“We haven’t been married for a full day yet—and I like it already.”
“On Sunday, we go nowhere,” Melissa had told Joe. “We stay at home and enjoy each other’s company.”
And so, they rose late the day after their wedding. From just past noon, they continued with their lovemaking straight through until almost dinnertime.
When they were finally ready for food, Joe remembered that Melissa had insisted on preparing a gourmet feast for that evening.
The dinner proved to be one of Melissa’s best. She used a large skillet to fry a combination of fresh crabmeat and two different cheeses—Swiss and provolone. Vegetables consisting of asparagus spears and baked potatoes proved to be the perfect complement.
The dessert that followed was a true reminder of southern Florida— key lime pie. Melissa made it from scratch, using a bottle of fresh squeezed li
me juice brought in directly from Islamorada by a wedding guest—one of Joe’s fellow policemen who was more than happy to do the favor.
That Sunday alone in each other’s company—which comprised their abbreviated honeymoon—ended all too quickly for Melissa and Joe. They could look forward, however, to their upcoming winter vacation, when they planned to do some extended celebrating in what they now considered their home away from home—Islamorada.
In the weeks following their wedding, Melissa and Joe settled comfortably into a satisfying domestic routine.
For most of each week, both of them were working—but during daytime hours only. Their ample evenings left more than enough time for quiet dinners, walks through the neighborhood, and an occasional movie or play.
Melissa’s new associate director’s position proved to be an easy professional adjustment for her.
Joe’s job may have required an hour of commuting each way, but the work itself seemed to fit him like the proverbial duck on a freshwater lake.
His experience with police work, coupled with his thorough knowledge of the world of gambling, resulted in an unbeatable combination— good for him, and better yet for his employer.
“We’re concentrating now on thwarting the con men among us,” he explained to Melissa one evening, while laughing heartily. “Some of the scams they’re trying now were hustler angles that Uncle Steve showed me when I was still in high school. Your basic premise is that you’ve got to expect all of these characters to lie. A con man who tells the truth is a con man with no imagination. Those who show the greatest amount of ingenuity are the ones who work in groups. And they do manage to fool a few of our casino dealers. But our organization has also been blessed with a top-notch team of security people, one that does a good job of keeping two steps ahead of the cheaters.”
About three months after they were married, Melissa and Joe scheduled an appointment with Wilton Butler, the lawyer who was handling Uncle Steve’s estate. They had been told earlier by attorney Butler that Uncle Steve had willed his house to them. And after only a brief discussion between themselves, Melissa and Joe decided that Uncle Steve’s old house would be a perfect spot to live.
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