Losing Julia (12 page)

When I passed a church I noticed a small graveyard on the right surrounded by a rusty wrought-iron fence. The headstones and statues pointed at odd angles like bad teeth, some still white, others worn and blackened. There were angels too, some bent with devotion, others standing with heads cast down and hands clasped together, bereft. I thought of Julia and Daniel and how maybe the important thing is to have somebody grieve for you; to know that angels will bow in sorrow.

I heard laughter and looked down the street to see a French couple walking shoulder to shoulder as though propping each other up. They must be young; older couples rarely walk that way.

That’s how Daniel left Julia; frozen in time when they were young and still leaning against each other when they walked. She has the memory of perfect love forever, which would make it difficult to love again. Heartbreaking, to compete with angels.

I lit a cigarette, tossing the match into a small puddle.

So who is better off, those who share love long enough to see which parts inevitably fade or those who lose their love when it is still pristine? I think each is lonely in a different place, though if you lose your love while it is still perfect you at least have a clear explanation for your grief, while if it gradually crumbles in your hands you do not.

When I returned to the hotel I noticed that a window on the second floor was lit and I wondered if it was Julia’s room. I stood in the street for a few minutes, hoping I might see a silhouette cross the light. Then I went into the hotel, waving at the concierge who was half asleep in a chair in the corner near the stairs. Once in my room I pulled off my shoes, closed the shutters and lay on the bed with my clothes on. I fell asleep immediately.

I THINK I’M
in love with you, Julia.

You’re dreaming again.

But you’re here. You’re here with me. Tomorrow we’ll be together again, and I’ll watch you paint and make you laugh and tell you about all the things inside of me.

That was a very long time ago.

No, no it wasn’t. How can you say that? Tomorrow. We’ll be together again tomorrow. I’ll have the concierge put together a wonderful picnic for us. I’ve so much to tell you! And you must tell me everything about yourself, about what you’re thinking and about your hopes and…

But Patrick…

Did I tell you what a wonderful time I had today? More fun than I’ve had in years. You see, I haven’t really talked to anyone for a long time. What I mean to say is that after Daniel died I never really met anyone else that I could talk to, not like that. Did you know that I’d given up? Could you tell? It’s true. Before I met you I’d given up. But you changed that.

Patrick…

And did I tell you that I’m nervous around you? Funny, isn’t it, a tough ol’ doughboy being so scared of a woman. But I’m not like Daniel, Julia. I’m not that courageous. I wish I was more like him. Maybe then…

Good-bye, Patrick.

Good-bye? But I’ve so much to tell you. Things I want to ask you. What are you thinking about when you get that look on your face, when your head is turned and you’re looking far away? And were you up late tonight too? Were you lying in bed thinking about Daniel or were you thinking about something else? Did you think of me at all? And how do you get your ideas for paintings? I’d be interested to know that. You’ll show me some of them someday, won’t you? And your daughter. I’d love to meet your daughter. I’m sure she’s very beautiful. Do you have a picture of her? My son is beautiful too.

Good-bye.

But wait. What am I going to do in four days? What am I going to do when I go back to Paris? What am I going to do, Julia?

“GOOD MORNING.”

“Julia?”

“It’s Sarah, your favorite nurse. Here’s your medicine. Who’s Julia?”

IT IS SAID
that life is too short and that’s quite true, unless you are lonely. Loneliness can bring time to its knees; an absolute and utter standstill.

I’ve always judged places and times by how lonely they felt. The entire Midwest, for example, strikes me as horrifically lonely, Indiana more so than Wisconsin and Wisconsin more so than Ohio or Illinois. Coasts are dependably less lonely than inland areas while the warmer latitudes are noticeably less lonely than the colder ones. Hardware stores feel lonely while bookstores do not. Mornings are lonelier than afternoons, while the hours before dawn can be devastating. Vienna is lonelier than Paris or London, while Los Angeles is lonelier than San Francisco or Boston. The Atlantic Ocean is lonelier than the Pacific while the Caribbean is not lonely at all.

And then there are nursing homes.

EMMETT O’ROURKE
is dead.

I’M SLIPPING,
aren’t I? The ground itself Assuring at my feet. Sometimes it feels as though my mind’s eye has become nearsighted; that clarity improves with distance. With time. And here I sit in the lobby and I don’t recall deciding to sit in the lobby at all. Nor even what I had for breakfast. If I had breakfast.

I don’t know when the confusion started, nor just how far in retreat my brain cells have been driven. One mile, two miles? An entire army in flight across a hundred-mile front? Or has my mind been encircled like the German Sixth Army, stalled and freezing to death at the gates of Stalingrad? One thing I’ve learned, the fog of war has a peacetime equivalent: old age.

Some mornings I feel a certain bewilderment enshroud me like ivy upon an old house, causing me to mix days and months and even shoes. I forget: how clearly did I once think? How sharp was the focus? So many things that were once familiar now look strange that I cannot be sure of what should and should not be familiar. I cannot remember how much I might have forgotten. I imagine row upon row of ancient books that crumble at the touch.

I put everything I need to know on a small pad I keep in my shirt pocket. Sometimes I jot down old names and dates that leap from my addled brain like fish from a pond. I remind myself to take my pills and to return a borrowed book and even to check that my zipper is up.

I examine my bank statements very carefully, determined to reconcile every last penny. It’s not that I’m cheap, it’s just that I don’t have a lot of earning potential left when what I’ve got runs out. I don’t sweat it, though. Despite my remission, I’m confident that I will run out before my money does. The race is on!

Actually, I’m glad I’m not rich. I’ve gotta believe that it’s harder to die if you are. Not only do you lose possession of all those
assets,
all that cash and those stocks and bonds and cars and antiques and silver and paintings and vacation homes, but in those final days and weeks there can be no denying that a tremendous amount of your life was spent accumulating and fussing over all those
assets,
time that could have been spent with family and friends or fishing or traveling or, quite simply, fucking. Imagine that, Old Boy, you could have been fucking all that time! I say, can you hear me Old Boy? That’s right, I said fucking! No, not accumulating, fucking!

I did manage to sock away a little something. The small bookstore I opened after I quit teaching broke even in two years and then brought in a steady income up until I sold it in 1968. When I sold my two-bedroom house in 1977 I used some of the money to buy an annuity that pays for this nursing home. I squirreled away another $100,000 to leave for my family. My son Sean, fifty-five, and daughter Kelly, fifty, will split $60,000, or what’s left after my final bills are paid. They divvied up most of my possessions when the house was sold, but I’ve still got a rental storage shed full of vague surprises. I’ve made a list of my favorite items and just who gets what. They can figure out why.

I’m leaving the remaining $40,000 to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Originally, whenever that was, I had hoped to leave enough money to pay for somebody’s education. Then I read that I’d have to put aside several hundred thousand a year, or some such figure, and that by the year 2000 and what not, it would cost a trillion dollars per semester. So maybe I’ll spring for a textbook instead. Or a party.

I often try to imagine the little ones as adults, wondering how their faces and minds and souls will fill out over the years. On some days I stare at their photos like I’m looking across a huge divide, with me too old and them too young for us ever to really know each other. And God forbid they should rely on the memories of their own parents or I’ll pass through the generations as a series of incorrect and poorly told anecdotes. Or maybe I’ll persist as a frozen face lingering in faded photos until one day a descendant stabs me in the nose with a pointed finger and says, “Who’s
that?
”

Sean’s grandson Kenneth is seven with outsize knees and elbows and skinny limbs trying to catch up and coordinate. He’s got green eyes, curly brown hair, and big earlobes. Michael, five, is the little big man, blond, stocky and incapable of anything slower than a canter. Kenneth may have heart but Michael has fire. Which is better I do not know.

Then there’s my daughter Kelly’s granddaughter Katy, three, who has fat cheeks that roll back into explosive smiles and blue eyes like vacuums that suck in everything but sorrow. Every time she giggles my eyes redden reflexively, a counterbalance to so much joy. When she visits I wait for her out front, knowing she’ll sprint the last forty feet, leaning so far forward that she arrives headfirst, squealing like a pig.