"Everywhere That Mary Went" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scottoline Lisa)

35

It’s June 28, the first anniversary of Mike’s death.

I cruise up the smooth asphalt road that leads to the pink magnolia tree. I think of it as Mike’s tree, even though it shelters at least sixty other graves. They fan out from the trunk of the magnolia in concentric circles, ring upon ring of headstones.

I pull over at the side of the road, where I always park. I cut the ignition, and the air-conditioning shuts down with a wheeze. Outside the car, the air is damp and sweet. The radio called for thundershowers this afternoon, and I believe it. The air is so wet you know the bottom’s got to tear open, like a tissue holding water.

The cemetery is silent. The only sounds are the cars rushing by on the distant expressway and the intermittent quarreling of the squirrels. I make my way to Mike’s grave. Only a year ago, it was on the outermost ring, but now it’s somewhere toward the middle. More graves are being added, more people are passing on. Like the rings of the magnolia tree itself, it’s just time moving on, life moving on.

Death moving on, too.

I walk past the monuments with names I don’t recognize until I reach the ones I do. I feel as if I know these people. They’re Mike’s neighbors in a way, and they seem like a good lot.ANTONELLI has a new DAD sign; his family is very attentive to him.LORENZ ’s grave is bare, though her monument bears its chipper epitaph:ALWAYS KIND, GENEROUS, AND CHEERFUL. I love Mrs. Lorenz, how could you not?

I passBARSON, which stands alone, off to the right. It’s a child’s grave, and its pink marble headstone has a picture of a ballerina etched into it. There’s a Barbie doll there today, sitting straight-legged in tiny spike heels. I can never bring myself to look atBARSON for long and hurry by it toMARTIN. Something’s always going on atMARTIN. It’s a hubbub of activity, for a final resting place. Today I note that the showy Martin family has added yet another bush to the border that surrounds their mother’s monument. I wonder about these people. I don’t understand how they can bring themselves to garden on top of someone they loved.

I reach Mike’s monument and brush away the curly magnolia petals that have fallen on its bumpy top. I pick a candy wrapper off his grave, like I used to pick cat hair off his sweaters. Just because I’m not planting shrubs on his head doesn’t mean I don’t care how he looks. I bunch up the debris in my hand and sit down, facing his monument.

LASSITER, MICHAEL A.

It’s a simple granite monument, but so striking. Or maybe I feel that way because it’s Mike’s name cut into the granite with such finality and clarity, and I hadn’t expected to see his name on a gravestone. Not yet. Not when I can still remember doodling on a legal pad during our engagement.

Mrs. Mary Lassiter.

Mrs. Mary DiNunzio Lassiter.

Mary DiNunzio-Lassiter.

I eventually stuck with my own name, but I confess to a politically incorrect thrill when the mail came addressed to Mrs. Michael Lassiter. Because that’s who I was inside, wholly his.

I still am.

I’ve learned that you don’t stop loving someone just because they die. And you don’t stop loving someone who’s dead just because you start loving someone else. I know this violates the natural law that two things can’t occupy the same place at the same time, but that’s never been true of the human heart anyway.

I breathe a deep sigh and close my eyes.

“Look!” squeals a child’s voice at my ear. “Look what I have!”

I look over and find myself face to face with a blue-eyed toddler in a white pinafore. In her dimpled arms is a wreath of scarlet roses and a couple of miniature American flags. Plainly, the child has gone shopping on the graves. “You have a lot of stuff.”

“I have a lot of stuff!” says the little girl. “I found it! That’s okay!” She jumps up and down and a flag falls to the ground. “Uh-oh, flag.”

A woman in a prim linen suit rushes up and takes the child by the arm. “I’m sorry that she bothered you,” she says, flustered. “Lily, wherever did you get those things?”

Lily struggles to reach the fallen flag. “Flag, Mommy. Flag.”

“She’s no bother. She’s sweet.” I pick up the flag and hand it to Lily.

“Tank you,” Lily says, quite distinctly.

“Where do you suppose these things belong? I’d hate to put them on the wrong…places.”

“The flags go with those soldiers, in the bronze flag holders. The VFW gives them the flag holders, I think. That one over there,HAWLEY, he was in Vietnam.”

“Oh, dear. Poor man.” She turns around worriedly. “Where do you think the wreath goes?”

I take a look at it. I have no idea where it belongs. “I’ll take the wreath.”

“Thank you. I’m so sorry.” She hands it to me gratefully and hoists Lily to her hip. “Can you make sure I find the soldiers?”

“Sure. Just look for the flag holders.”

Lily howls with frustration as her mother drops the flags into the flag holders atMACARRICI, WAINWRIGHT, andHAWLEY. I give her the thumbs up.

I stand and examine the wreath. The roses are a velvety red, fastened to the circular frame with green wire. There’s even a little green tripod to make the wreath stand up. I take it and set it at the head of Mike’s grave, right underLASSITER.

On its white satin sash, it says in gold script:

BELOVED HUSBAND

I look at it for a long time.

It looks good.