Cicada (23 page)

“He is. An’ who are you?”

Dennis, one hand to his heart and the other to his head, yanked off his cap. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Name’s Dennis. Dennis Hart.”

Violet smiled in relief. “Why, I know you, Mr. Hart. You the caretaker out to the cemetery. You buried my Raymond.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, no. Not anymore. I quit that job.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t do that no more. I figured on I seen enough death. I was wonderin’ maybe if Ben has any work for me. I might come on an’ learn how to get some life out of the earth instead of placin’ the dead in it. Least ways, that was my thinkin’.”

“Well this here ain’t Ben’s farm. This here is the Stout farm, and I’m Violet Stout.”

By the time Ben rushed into the living room, Dennis and Violet had settled with their lemonades along with Nef and Saul and all of them were admiring the aquarium.

“Isn’t so nice the way he has all those speckles on just one side?” Violet was remarking as Vitamin D—now known as Pretty Boy—swam in excited circles expecting someone might feed it.

“He’s very nice,” Dennis said. “Very nice.”

“Beautiful,” Saul agreed from the couch while Nef nodded off half-asleep beside him.

Violet went on, “Mrs. Sayre left him here for me. All set up in his tank just like that. Wasn’t that nice? I might buy a few more to keep Pretty Boy some company when I next go to town.”

Ben rushed in and stopped short. “Oh, Dennis…hey, it’s just you then,” Ben rasped in relief as he leaned to the wall to catch his breath and wipe his brow.

“Benjamin, good,” Violet celebrated with a few claps, in no way acknowledging his harried state, “Mr. Hart needs a job. Now what do you two know about honey bees?”

…

“What’s that?” Dennis asked as he put aside his smoke can and gloves to join Ben on the porch. An errant bee clung momentarily to his flannel shirt before alighting to find its way back to the apiary.

“Letter from my sister in Chicago,” Ben answered, shuffling the pages away into his pocket in exchange for the sandwich on the plate beside him.

“Cicada?”

“Mm-hmm.”

They were quiet then as both took up their lunches and began to eat. After several mouthfuls, Dennis made small talk.

“So, what’s she have to say? Any exciting news?”

“She’s gettin’ married. Wants me to be sure and not mention it to John.”

“
John?
” Dennis asked, pausing between bites.

“Mm-hmm.”

And then Dennis understood. “Oh….”

…

On the television of the nursing home dayroom, a pancake-faced sports announcer excitedly offered his predictions for what sounded to be the end of the world. Several residents were circled about the screen as if it were an electronic campfire, yet only one of their number—a wizened and wispy-haired gentleman leaning in on his aluminum cane—actually focused on the program. At the periphery of the small gathering a plump little girl, perhaps nine or ten years in age, crinkled her nose as she sat beside her grandmother holding the woman’s hand. The heavy smell of disinfectant was making the girl ill. She cut her eyes to the clock on the wall opposite the television and heaved an audible sigh to know she still had another half hour to go. She tightened her grip on her grandmother’s hand—
something like a road atlas with its veins of blue and red
, she thought—and sat back to daydream and worry about the future.

“Would you be a dear and push me outside,” Frances, seated nearby, asked her, one hand trembling as she pointed to the sliding glass door that led to a sun-dappled patio.

The girl nodded and carefully freed herself from her grandmother, placing the woman’s delicate hand in her own lap before rising to help Frances. The girl didn’t need to be told how to unlock the wheels of Frances’s wheelchair, but the old woman waved wordlessly to direct her all the same as she did.

“You’re certainly a very pretty young lady…and so sweet,” Frances complimented her as she slid the glass door back.

The girl blushed but remained stoic.

“This is fine,” Frances said and moved to pat her arm as the girl reset her wheelchair locks.

Still without a word, the girl pulled shut the door and rejoined her grandmother, leaving Frances to herself. The patio was screened but a light breeze still managed to push through. A mockingbird perched, cocking his head from side to side as its shining eyes searched for insects in the freshly-mowed lawn. But only for a moment, as the lawn sprinklers, set to a timer, popped up and sprung to life from amongst the blades, sending the bird on its way.

Although Frances cherished the happier memories of her lost son, and thought about him daily for the rest of her life, she could not bring herself to do the same for John. But then, neither did the widow Sayre cultivate resentment or bitterness for her husband. After she’d left Melby, it did take several years for Frances to leave John behind as well; for how could she keep a hold of Timothy without recalling her husband’s part in the child’s death? Eventually, Frances did, however, as she merely allowed a barren place to grow in her heart and mind where John had been. In so doing she eventually forgot the man altogether, and for many years John’s memory was abandoned.

That late afternoon, as Frances knew she was in her final days, and after all that effort to be free of such memories, she purposely returned to thoughts of her lost husband.

Wondering if she had come to peace with all things at last, looking out across the lawn on what would be her final summer, Frances considered John Sayre that evening as twilight crept up. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the day, or perhaps the smell of the cut grass that triggered her reverie, but she welcomed it all the same.

Despite everything she’d thought she’d known and understood about her husband, or even herself, Frances Sayre came to realize there at the end of things, that there would always remain so much which was unfathomable.

“Mountains but for sea,” she whispered to the rapidly gaining night. “Mountains but for sea.”

END