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.
36
Amonth later, I’m in my new office at Stalling amp; Webb. On the wall hangs an antique quilt that I bought in Lancaster County, from the Amish. It’s called a friendship quilt and has the names of the quilters and their best friends sewn onto spools of a dozen bright colors. The other day I read all the names. Emma Miller, from Nappanee, Indiana. Katie Yoder, of Brinton, Ohio. Sarah Helmuth, from Kokomo, Indiana. I like to think about these women, whose lives were so different from my own but who valued each other so much. That much we have in common, and it ties me to them.
I’m thinking about this as Judy sits on the other side of my new desk, an Irish farm table that cost Stalling more than an Irish farm. She sports the latest example of Kurt’s handiwork, a spiky haircut that looks like Jean Seberg’s. If only by accident, the cut brings out the richness of her blue eyes and the curve of a strong cheekbone. She looks beautiful in it, especially when she laughs. She’s a good woman; I feel blessed in knowing her. In having her in my life.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Mary?” she asks, with an amused frown.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. How can I sayI love you? Her eyes meet mine, and for once she doesn’t bug me to say the unsayable. She knows it anyway. She wasn’t number one for nothing.
“So what do you think?” Judy asks, with a grin. She gestures to the mound of filthy men’s socks in the middle of my costly rustic desk. “I bet they expect you to wash them.”
I clear my throat. “I think it’s a good sign. They’re treating me as shitty as they treat each other.”
She smiles. “So you only lost fifty grand. Not too bad.”
“Play money.”
“Pin money.”
“Mad money.” I laugh. “You know, it was a lot less than Hart asked for. They must not have liked him. Particularly the forewoman, from Ambler. She could tell he was a pig.” I’m smelling defeat, but it doesn’t hurt half as much as I thought it would. I think this is called perspective, but I’m not sure. I never had it before.
“They should have taken notes, then you’d have grounds for appeal.” She giggles.
“Right. We’re zero for two, since we lostMitsuko. We have to be the only lawyers chastised as a team by the Third Circuit and in record time. What did they say again?”
She straightens up and tries to look judicial. “I quote-‘A bald attempt by a duo of overzealous counsel to circumvent the Federal Rules of Appellate Procedure by the deliberate inclusion of affidavits not of record.’”
“They can’t take a joke.”
“Bingo.”
We both laugh. “So we lost two, Jude. We’re doin’ good.”
“But we’re partners now. We can screw up with impunity.”
“You know, it doesn’t matter that we lostMitsuko. The Shit from Shinola Brief was a thing of beauty. Martin had to admit it, even though he was too gutless to sign it.” I shift on the needlepointed chair that Martin is lending me; every morning I have to stick my butt into an nest of tiny owlets.
