Twelve Months (3 page)

Everyone reluctantly nodded.

“What are you going to do now that…” Michael stopped himself and looked away again.

“I'm going to run a marathon.”

No one laughed.

“I'm going to
live
,” I said and meant every word of it. “I promised Pudge a couple years ago at his sister's kindergarten graduation that I'd be there at his, and I fully intend to keep my word.”

Riley peered into my eyes. “There's always a chance for a miracle, right?”

“I'm expecting it!” I told her.

She jumped into my lap and hugged me for a long while. It was the type of medicine that could heal anything.

Bella barely excused herself and hurried out of the room. Even through my own haze, I knew she was furious with God; a rage that lasted longer than I would have ever expected.

Right from the start, everything changed.

After Riley had flown the coop, for years Bella and I would go for a ride in the car every Friday night with the windows rolled down and the music playing. Nine out of ten times, we'd end up at Flo's on Island Park. Flo's served the best clam cakes and fried clams anywhere. Bella and I would sit together on the sea wall and share our feast with the seagulls. But Bella had a different idea now. “What about taking me to Venus for that baked stuffed lobster we always talked about?” she asked.

I had to smile, thinking,
She is a clever one.
For years, I'd wanted to try that lobster but never thought we could afford it. We finally went.

I was stunned. Venus's baked stuffed lobster wasn't nearly as good as I thought it would be, nor was it all that hard to shell out the cash for it.
After all these years of fantasizing
, I thought,
and we should have gone to Flo's for the cakes.

Thanks to a vested retirement plan, I was able to retire early from McKaskie's. This money was sure to carry me through to the end. For Bella's well being however, I was thankful for the large life insurance policy I'd complained about paying on for years. From the moment I'd signed the papers, I thought we'd overpaid, but he was a good salesman. “We don't need it,” I complained again and again to Bella, but once we started making payments it seemed foolish to stop. I've never been so happy to stick with something I didn't want. Now, not only would my wife be able to survive on the money, she'd be able to live quite well – long into her own retirement. On one hand, it was strange to be worth more dead than alive. On the more important hand, I was thrilled that Bella would be able to live better than she ever had.

With no intentions of sharing the truth about my impending doom, I walked into McKaskie's for the last time to take one final stroll through the grease and wood shavings. It felt so surreal. Here I was, the foreman in charge of quality assurance of this giant woodworking shop, taking one last look around. I didn't expect it, but it hurt. I'd been at the same job forever. It was the place that had provided purpose for my entire adult life and the reason I'd gotten up every day – five days a week – at five o'clock in the morning. It had offered just enough overtime to put my daughter through college and now I was never going to see it again.

Bobby, Marty – even the Smeaton brothers, who were supposed to be identical twins but looked nothing alike – came over to shake my hand and wish me luck on my early retirement. “We'll be seeing each other soon,” they all promised

I knew better.

I sat with them on the loading dock for the day's final break and listened to Adam go on about his ex-girlfriend. “We were together through most of Tractor Trailer School,” the young smartass joked, creating just enough laughter to get him rolling. “God, did I love her. She was so big, though, that you could have put a swing set in her backyard.”

Everyone laughed.

“I think she snacked between meals. For whatever reason, what really turned me on was walking behind her when she climbed stairs. It was like watching two baby pigs fighting under a blanket.”

Even I laughed at that one.

“When we went out dancing, I couldn't tell whether she was doing the electric slide or having a seizure. And she used to have me shave her back in the shower – that is, until the weed whacker nearly electrocuted us.”

We shared one last laugh and the whistle went off. It was perfect timing. The guys each got up, dusted themselves off and went back to work. I took one last look around, grabbed my timecard and – for old time's sake – punched out.

While Bella wrestled with the reality of my early departure and the sharp pains that went with it, I watched in agony as she stumbled through the same dark valley I was traveling in. She snapped at the slightest annoyance and cried at the most random times. Days fit slowly into weeks.

I slept in one morning but it wasn't easy to break old habits. For decades, I'd gotten up before the sun. Now, all I could think was to take my coffee to the deck where there wasn't much to do but sit in the Adirondack chair and listen to the birds gossip.

Idle time can be a killer. I started thinking too much about where I might be heading. I wasn't sure about heaven and hell, but I eventually pictured my Nana.
Wherever she ended up is good enough for me,
I thought.
And if she didn't make it to heaven, then I don't have a snowball's chance in hell.

One night, I got up from bed and went into the living room away from Bella's sensitive ears. I cried for a long while – not for myself, but for the love I was going to have to leave behind – for Bella, Riley, Michael and the kids. Before long, I heard some rustling around in the kitchen. Bella's angelic silhouette suddenly appeared in the doorway. Without a word, she joined me on the couch where we cried together. When we'd had our share of grieving, she turned to me and asked, “Are you ready to share this with me now?”

“Yeah. But I…”

“No buts,” she said, “for better or worse, remember?” She rested her head on my chest. “In sickness and in health…you big oaf.”

“Okay,” I said. “In sickness and in health.”

The following week, after my bi-weekly visit with Dr. Rice, the blue-collar stiffs from McKaskie's threw me an impromptu retirement party in Jimmy Smeaton's frigid backyard. It was half-assed at best, but they did the best they could. It was an off-season cookout, with burgers and dogs, a full keg of beer and a beat-up radio playing country music. From this jaded crew, the thought really was all that mattered. I found out later that Bella funded the majority of the shindig. It didn't surprise me. I did my best to enjoy the celebration, but my mid-section throbbed in pain the entire afternoon.

Suddenly, I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. Besides my wife, though, there was no one else around to do it with. Everyone was either working or taking part in that thing I used to know as life.

Five weeks to the day I'd received the bad news, Bella and I took in a movie. The smallest details seemed to mean everything; the smell of new carpeting mixed with buttered popcorn; the young, inattentive ushers with their roving flashlights. The entire experience was so different from anything I'd ever known; much different from the days not so long ago when I took everything for granted.

Like a switch that had been turned back on inside of me, as I walked out into the sun it hit me. I had already lost fifteen pounds and was now fitting into my skinny jeans. If my attitude didn't change, I wasn't going to last six months.
You'd better accept this dying thing before you waste the rest of your life
, I told myself.
Besides, you've been a pain in the ass since you were a kid. What's more appropriate than going out with colon ca
n
cer?

I turned to Bella. “I need to stop pouting, we both do, before we waste the time we have left.”

She grabbed my arm and kept walking. “I know,” she said. “I've been thinking the same thing.”

From that very moment on – with the filters turned off, the walls torn down and all the defenses lowered – we stepped back into our life together, or at least what was left of it.

Michael popped over on that next weekend to help me carry my worn recliner out to the sidewalk for the junkman.

“But you love that chair,” Bella said.

“But I love you more,” I told her and then turned off the TV. “As far as I'm concerned, you can get rid of this, too. I don't have time for it anymore.”

She was shocked. She'd always called that TV my soul mate.

It took some searching, but I finally found the jigsaw puzzle on the top shelf of the hallway closet. It was a five thousand-piece mural of angels ascending into heaven, a gift that Riley had gotten me many Father's Days ago. The picture on the box showed shades of blue and green so close that they were guaranteed to make me pull every remaining hair out of my head. Puzzle making was a simple task of such complexity that I couldn't help but embrace the torment. This one wasn't going to be a one-nighter, but if I had to fill my time I wanted it to be with the pastime I loved most.
A picture of angels can't hurt either,
I figured. “It's going to help relax me,” I told Bella when I showed her the box.

“Sure it will,” she snickered. “Just make sure you watch your mouth in front of the kids.”

I laughed. “Those days are done,” I promised.

For as long as I can remember, I've always loved putting together puzzles. I think I was six years old when I got my first puzzle for Christmas. I don't remember how long it took me to put together or how many pieces it was, but it looked like a lot. I guess it must have been about a hundred pieces.

As I got older, during the long New England winters my mother would set up a card table where I'd chip away at three hundred-piece Whitman puzzles, or the more expensive Wysocki's. Back then, the average puzzle was around two hundred fifty pieces and a large one was no more than five hundred. The pieces were at least three or four times thicker than they are today.

I've tackled two giant puzzles in my time. One was eight thousand five hundred pieces, cost eighty-nine dollars and took nearly three months to complete. There were three of us doing it on the weekends – Bella, Riley and me. Every time I passed the puzzle, I'd have to stop and put in a piece or two. When adding up the cost of soda pop, beer and snacks, that puzzle ended up costing us around five thousand dollars. The other monster had twelve thousand ninety-six pieces and was four and a half feet wide by nine and a half feet long. I gave them both away after we finished them.

Over the years, I must have put together at least a thousand puzzles, maybe more. Per Bella's orders, many of them were laminated and framed and now hang everywhere throughout our house. I really enjoyed making all of them. I'll tell you, though, sometimes I'd get so involved that I'd call McKaskie's and tell the boss something important had come up and I'd be to work a little late. I did that more than once.

I can remember staying up late some nights, getting only two or three hours of sleep before having to go to work. I'd wait until the last possible moment so I could put in a few more pieces. There were even days when I'd get to work and tell them I wasn't feeling well and had to go home. Crazy, I know.

For a one thousand-piece puzzle, it would take Bella and me a month or so. There were others, though, that took longer. Though I wouldn't admit it to my wife, there were definitely moments when I'd get pretty steamed.

I was really looking forward to getting back into one.

We were working on the angel puzzle after dinner one night when Bella blurted, “We need time for us. So, where's your favorite place in the whole world?”

I didn't need to think. “Martha's Vineyard,” I replied. We'd only been there three times in all the years we'd been married. It seemed odd to me now. A rush of memories came flooding back. I could picture the narrow cobblestone streets, the quaint shops, water views from anywhere, elephant grass blowing in the stiff sea winds, the beautiful sunrises and sunsets…

“Then Martha's Vineyard it is,” she said. “When do you want to leave?”

“How ‘bout in a week or two?”

Her raised eyebrow requested an explanation.

“Before I go anywhere, I'd like to take some time and go back…to remember how I got here.”

The raised eyebrow remained.

“I've been thinking about visiting the old neighborhood,” I explained. “I'd like to spend a few moments with my memories…at least the good ones. They seem to deserve at least that much.”

The eyebrow surrendered and was quickly replaced by a smile. “Then that's where you should go,” she said.

I gave her a kiss, and with a grateful nod, returned to the puzzle.

Before being able to go anywhere, Bella and I kept my appointment with Dr. Rice. As she reviewed my latest blood work, the doctor asked, “How have you been feeling?”

“Like hell,” I blurted, honestly.

Her head flew up. “The pain's bad?” she asked.

I half-nodded. “I don't know what to compare it to, but yeah…I'm not thrilled with it. But it's more…” I stopped, searching for the right words.

“More what?” she asked, putting my folder down and giving me her undivided attention.

“Right now, I'm more interested in doing what I can to prolong my stay here.” I glanced at my wife before locking eyes with Dr. Rice. “Are you sure there are no medications that can…” Again, I stopped.

She took a seat and explained to both of us, “Sorafenib and Cisplatin are both chemotherapy medications that have been shown to slow advanced hepatocellular carcinoma from progressing for a few months longer than with no treatment. Basically, it interferes with the cancer's ability to generate new blood vessels.” She paused, acknowledging the hope in my eyes. “But the side effects are pretty serious…chest pain, difficulty breathing, loss of balance, skin rashes, abnormal bleeding…on top of what you're already starting to suffer.”

“All of that for a few more months, huh?”

While Bella shook her head, Dr. Rice nodded. “There's also Doxorubicin, which is an antibiotic drug administered by injection. But its side effects are just as bad…trouble swallowing, fever, blistering of the mouth and…”

“Not a chance,” I interrupted, feeling just as defeated as my wife.

“But there are ways you can slow the cancer down.”

My raised eyebrow asked that she embellish.

“A good diet is more important than you realize. You need to incorporate a variety of fruits, vegetables and whole grains into your daily diet. They each contain vitamins, minerals, fiber and antioxidants, which can play a role in slowing down the cancer. Next, if you have to drink alcohol at all, no more than one drink a day. A good night's rest and exercise are also very important.”

I tried not to snicker, but some sort of negative grunt still came out.

She smiled. “Nothing too intense with the exercise, of course. Just take a walk every day…for as long as you can.”

“That'll also take care of my weight problem,” I teased, poking fun at my shrinking size. No one laughed, but Bella did slap my arm.

With a final recommendation that I begin taking calcium and Vitamin D supplements, Dr. Rice handed me another script for pain medication.

“Thanks,” I told her, and had just reached the door when I turned back to her. “So you really think the change in diet and daily walk might sneak some more sand into my hourglass?”

She smiled, gently. “The more you do, the more you can extend your life.”

“Consider it done,” Bella told her.

I never imagined wanting to return to my past, but I also didn't want my life to just flash before my eyes when that fateful moment came.

“You want me to tag along?” Bella asked, as I packed a small cooler for the trip.

“Aren't you supposed to have lunch with Riley?”

“Yeah, but I can reschedule. She'll understand.”

I shook my head. “No, don't reschedule. She needs time with you right now…to help her accept this thing. I only planned on spending the day anyway.”

“You sure you don't mind me staying here?” she asked.

“I'll be fine,” I said, “Go help our daughter. I'm sure I can find my way back all by myself.”

She kissed me. “Just make sure you find your way back home when you're done.” She patted my backside and handed me my jacket and gloves. “And don't be too long.”

“I won't,” I promised and returned her kiss.

As I drove two towns over, eating my lunch – an apple and two granola bars – it struck me that I'd never traveled all that far in my life. I'd never really gone anywhere or saw all that much. On the way, my mind began to create random glimpses of many yesterdays…

I could picture myself standing on the back stairs of my childhood apartment, one arm wrapped around my mother's leg, the other holding the toy-of-the-day. Sunlight filtered through the banisters like a sign of freedom from outside the prison walls. My brother, Joseph – older by one year – was allowed to go with my father, as long as he “held onto the railing and watched his step.” As he walked away, I didn't wonder where he was going, but whether or not he'd ever return. The life of a young child sure is a simple one.

And his name was Joseph – not Joe and never Joey – but Joseph, as my father had named him. It was a name he would strictly enforce throughout his life. Built like a fire plug, my only sibling carried a concrete head atop a set of broad shoulders that allowed no room for a neck. He had raven-black hair and walked with the swagger of someone who knew his own strength. Even as a kid, he spoke like my father with a mob-style accent and wore long sideburns. Though we shared the same prominent nose, his dark eyes were more beady and set together, giving him the look of a Bowery Boy. He was naturally strong, loyal and took his job as my big brother very seriously – though he had no choice with my old school father watching. And though I honestly never envied him for it, he was my father's pride.

I then pictured holding my Nana's hand, as we trudged through the fresh snow on Pleasant Street. It was my turn to go with her and it beat waiting for her to return, even though she always came back with a surprise. The great unknown might have been a lot more frightening than sitting at home, but it was also much more exciting. Men tipped their hats to her and she smiled in return. She always dressed pretty and smelled just as nice. Even as a young boy, I had a keen sense of who this matriarch was and the many important roles she played within our family.

Me – I was called the runt. Lanky or “scrawny,” as Dad put it, I also had dark hair and brown eyes. Tall and awkward, I was destined for a deep voice.

Going for a ride with my father was a real treat until I discovered that most of the people he came into contact with wore the same look on their faces that I felt inside. I would later know that feeling to be fear.

Standing taller than six feet on a large, sturdy frame, my father was a real bastard. Though I wondered why, he had religious tattoos on both arms. He chain smoked unfiltered cigarettes and liked to drive his black Cadillac with the windows rolled up. His music alternated between Sinatra and Dean Martin to country and western, which I also thought was very strange. He looked like Elvis to me, with his greasy black hair and long mutton chops to match. The man's temper was legendary. Just his voice instilled panic in most people. He was quick with his hands and even quicker about using them to exact his judgment – or “discipline,” as he called it. Though no one really knew what he did for work, when people mentioned his name they cringed and said he was “good at his job.” Years later, I discovered that most people knew him as Gino Stefinelli. I don't know what you call a creature that feeds on sharks, but that's what my father was.

Not all my early memories are bad. With little money from my dad, my mom once took a cardboard refrigerator box, cut out holes for a door and windows, and then used old markers and crayons to draw in the rest of the clubhouse. It was the best gift I'd ever gotten and I'm pretty sure Joseph felt the same, though he was less apt to express how he felt.

Mom was also a chain smoker, but hers were the long, filtered ones. She wore a beehive hairdo that Dad insisted she keep up. Per Dad's orders, she was always “well maintained” with make-up and jewelry. She wore horn-rimmed glasses to read – which I believed to be her escape because she sure did enough of it. Even when she smoked, she snapped her chewing gum. Her job was me and Joseph, and she also took her work very seriously. She was a spiritual woman and a wonderful mom, though even when I was young I sensed she was a very unhappy person.

I recall my parents taking Joseph and me into Pleasant Drugstore at Christmastime. I can still see the gifts Dad bought on “his tab” at the drugstore, as well as at Jack & Harry's Department Store. Then we moved from the city to the country because Dad “didn't want us to grow up around violence.” That irony still baffles me.

Youth can be filled with such incredible hope, and as is often the case, I didn't fully understand the value of it – of all the possibilities at my feet – until it was too late. One day, like low-hanging fruit, the world was all mine. The next, I looked up to find the orchard gates closed.

It wasn't long before I reached Swansea. I parked the car alongside the railroad tracks and got out.

A natural tunnel of oak and maple trees formed a thick green canopy overhead, while the sun occasionally forced its way through, creating dancing shadows. It was dark up ahead and I nearly jumped when I heard a stick snap in the wood line. I could also make out the faint smell of wet, musty hair.
I'm not alone,
I thought. For some strange reason, I looked down expecting to find my best friend, Foxhound, standing by my side. But my childhood dog wasn't there.
And why would he be?
He'd died when I was twelve and broke my heart. It hurt so bad, in fact, that I vowed I'd never own another. With my steamy breath leading the way, I started off on the second leg of my journey.

One sweat ring later, I reached the old clubhouse. There wasn't much left, except a pile of mismatched boards and planks, a tangle of frayed ropes; discarded pieces once brought together to create a haven from authority. I took my time and climbed up into my past.

Under a damp swag of red carpet, Miss November waited with a smile. Her breasts were faded from the elements, but not so blurred that I couldn't remember she'd once provided a wonderful starting point for my pre-adolescence. With Miss November back under the rug, I spent the better part of the day reminiscing. I took a couple deep breaths, closed my eyes and went back…

I could still see it. It was the last house at the end of Oliver Street. They called it “The Biggins's Place,” and since as far back as I could remember, it was completely abandoned. My brother, Joseph, used to tease me that I didn't have the guts to jump the fence and walk through its yard on our way to school. For years, Joseph was right.

The Biggins's Place was an old Victorian house taken straight out of a horror movie. Blanketed in overgrown trees and lurking shadows, it was quite a scary sight and I hated it. From the first time I set eyes on the place, I hated it.

The city's hearsay historians claimed that the house was built on an old Indian burial ground. Whether this was true or not, there was a graveyard just to its east. And with each year of small town rumor, the place took on a more haunted appearance.

Legend had it that Mrs. Loretta Biggins had lost her husband, a sea captain, to the frigid depths of the Atlantic. Shortly thereafter, she lost a good part of her mind. They say she paced upon the widow's walk for weeks after he was lost at sea, screaming his name in a shrill voice that would weaken the spine of the strongest man. Her only saving grace was her young son, Charles. Half out of her wits and with the intention to protect the boy, she locked him in the house like some common criminal. They say he slept in a closet and ate with the family pets. She never let the boy out of her sight. But this only lasted until the disturbed woman grew weary and rested her penetrating gaze.

Charles was ten years old when he escaped his mother's twisted bastion. They say he ran to the dock where his father had shipped out to eternity. Deciding on one parent over the other, the boy jumped into the icy water and pumped his arms as fast and as hard as he could. Once they tired, he turned back and bobbed in the water, quietly awaiting his fate. Even if he had wanted to change his mind, he no longer had the strength to return to land.

There was a scream. He looked up to see his mother standing on her widow's walk, her arms outstretched and her voice shrieking his name, “CHARLES!” Some claimed to have seen him smile when he went down. The rest of the city, however, braced themselves against the most horrid pitch a woman had ever released. She wailed, “CHARLES! CHARLES!” but young Biggins was not to return. Preferring to embrace his own death, he'd finally escaped her torment. Tragically, his mother was just sane enough to understand that she had killed her only child.

From that point on, there was no question that the old lady had completely abandoned her mind. Neighbors soon complained about losing their pets, only to discover the butchered carcasses lying in the street in front of the Biggins's house. No one dared question her on it, though. Those who even considered it got only as far as her porch before they heard the demented shriek of a banshee. They'd look up and find her half-concealed behind a broken window, gesturing wildly that they come in. No one ever did – ever.

The place deteriorated as fast as she did. She became a recluse and lived that way for two decades. No one ever knew the exact day she died. Her body was discovered from the rancid odor it omitted. They say that the man who removed the body could feel her presence in the room and vowed, “She was there.” In fact, just as he closed the front door, he heard her laugh insanely and release a high-pitched scream.

As the Biggins's only heir had drowned and there were no living relatives, the city eventually auctioned off the place to a family from out of town. The Densons were the first of two families to reside in the place, but moved in to discover that they were unwanted. Fixed objects moved around the house under the power of something angry and invisible. Doors opened and slammed shut throughout the night. Then, to insure their prompt departure, something began to physically strike out; something that couldn't be seen but felt to the point that it bruised. The Denson's quickly sold.