Twelve Months (5 page)

When not sleeping from sheer exhaustion, Matt, the boys and I played poker. We had tournaments that sometimes lasted right through the night. While the wind and snow pounded off the windows, we stripped to our underwear, cracked open the front door and dealt cards until the sun burned away the black horizon.

In two months, Matt was twenty pounds lighter and broke. I knew it was the end of the line when two repo men arrived in trench coats to pick up the stereo. Matt's parents begged him to go home. He never argued. He owed me for a few outstanding bills. “Just sell me everything,” I told him and he did. The odds and ends that he'd begged, borrowed and stole were left behind and the debt was returned to scratch.

And then I met Bella.

It was a typical Portuguese feast with all the spicy food you could dream of: roast pig-cacoula, chourico and pepper sandwiches, codfish, baked beans, favas, kale soup, stuffed quahogs, grilled sardines and spit-fire chickens. For dessert, there was molassades, rice pudding, custard cups and sweet bread – all washed down with jugs of sweet red wine.

When a dozen little girls dressed in angel's wings delivered a golden crown to the priest, the band struck up the first notes of the night. The Holy Ghost Procession was done and the celebration had begun.

The streets were cordoned off, with strings of bare bulbs zigzagging across the block party. With several large tents in the middle, a mass of people moved in circles to enjoy the festivities.

At the first drop of rain, I saw her and lost my breath. She had sandy blonde hair with hazel eyes and a smile that could forgive you for your greatest sins. I drummed up all the courage I could muster and asked her name.

“Isabella,” she said, smiling.

I knew right then and there I was in love.

While we pretended to dodge the rain, we spent the better part of two hours talking and getting to know each other. Her scent was distinct – a mix of Ivory soap and fabric softener.

Darker clouds rolled in, attacking without warning. It started to rain hard and the first bolt of lightning crackled in the dark sky. There was a certain authority and strength that came with the downpour, while a series of close rapid-fire bolts had everyone running for cover. As Bella started to back peddle, I asked, “Will I ever see you again?”

She hurried back to me and took off one of her pearl earrings. “These are my favorite earrings in the whole world,” she said, “and having just one of them would ruin the pair.” She handed it to me. “Let's stay in touch, okay?”

“Okay.” I swallowed hard.

“The number is 555-8374 and call before five,” she whispered. “That's when my dad gets home from work.” With an amazing smile, she hurried off.

Soaked to the bone, I stood in the street repeating 555-8374 in my head until it became a song. I knew in my heart this was the woman heaven had delivered to me on a bolt of lightning. After striking a few more random targets and forcing the trees to dance, the dark clouds suddenly dispersed. As if the entire world had been cleansed, a fresh perspective was left behind. I loved lightning storms. If you endured the trouble long enough, the peace it brought was indescribable.

And we did stay in touch. Her dad was very strict, so we dated whenever we could sneak away. I was never sure if the pearl was real or fake, and I didn't care enough to ask. The real jewel was Bella.

Upon returning home from my visit to memory lane, I was met with a kiss from my wife and three enormous suitcases sitting at the door. “We're leaving for the Vineyard at first light tomorrow,” she informed me.

“Will I have time to shower and shave?” I teased.

She grinned. “As long as you can make it quick.”

Even though it was still off-season and we'd left the house in the early morning light, the traffic down to the Cape was thick. The shuttle bus from the parking lot to the dock was packed. As we pulled up to the Steamship Authority terminal, I leaned over and kissed Bella. The excitement was building and I wondered again why we'd only been a few times to my favorite place on Earth. It was only a few miles down the road and a chilly ferry ride away.

Bella hung over the side of the boat, but I couldn't take the rolling waves and rocking handrails. I stayed inside and tried to meditate the time away. When that didn't work, I read one of the island brochures:

I looked up. The harbor's distinct skyline was dominated by church steeples and a fleet of wooden vessels. As if I were ten again, I felt a celebration try to break free from my throat. I hurried to the outside deck to find Bella.

We docked in the very same harbor where Spielberg had filmed the movie,
Jaws.
Among the masses, we walked down a bouncy metal ramp to join the onslaught of weekend tourists that came to spend money, make memories and join the mass exodus on Sunday evening – tanned, smiling and carrying bags of souvenirs home. Most people, generations of them, came back year after year. “We must have been too busy with work and keeping up the house,” I thought aloud and shook my head at our foolishness.

“But we're here now,” Bella said.

It was a different world, long removed from corporate America. From the largest and busiest harbor on the island, I could feel the ocean breezes on my face and taste the salt on my tongue. “It's like heaven,” Bella added.

I hope so,
I thought.

The Kinsman House was only four blocks from the dock and town center. It was a beautifully restored 1880 Victorian, a former sea captain's home that had been converted into a quaint Bed & Breakfast.

Three ancient oak trees shaded the front lawn. After stopping to catch my breath, we stepped onto the full-length porch through an archway of thick vegetation. I opened the door for Bella. A grand piano, antique roll-top desk and French doors dominated the entrance and stairway. “Hello?” I called out, but no one was there.

“Doreen said she might not be here,” Bella explained. “She said to get comfortable and leave the door unlocked, if we step out.”

There was a note at the top of the stairs, directing us to one of the three bedrooms. Bella opened the door and sighed. “Definitely heaven,” she said. It was a little girl's dream, with a queen-sized bed, antique chests and floral prints from floor to ceiling.

As we'd arrived early enough to salvage some of the day, I paced with an energy I hadn't felt in weeks. I helped Bella unpack our bags, while she began making the cozy room our home for the weekend.

Once finished, Bella turned to me and smiled. “All settled in,” she said.

I nodded. “Good…so let's go have that walk Dr. Rice prescribed.”

Hand-in-hand and dressed in thick sweaters, we took our first stroll down Main Street in Vineyard Haven. Shops, untouched by time, lined both sides of the narrow street; art galleries, sellers of home accents and furniture, antiques and collectibles. We walked by a French restaurant. I looked at Bella. “Maybe tonight?”

She shook her head. “I was hoping for something a little more casual.”

“And healthy?” I teased.

She nodded.

There was another B&B beside a gourmet shop that Bella stepped into. They had all the ingredients she needed to make bruschetta. “Now we're talking,” she said, “We'll be back for some things tomorrow.”

We took our time and looked at everything. There were nostalgic candy stores that still twisted saltwater taffy – in every pastel color imaginable – right in the front window for everyone to see. Fudge was also made by hand; most things done like days of old. We bought a half-pound of chocolate walnut fudge and took turns with the small white bag as we went along. There were jewelers, gift shops and clothiers. Led by my curious wife, I poked my head into each and wasted the afternoon away. Past the goldsmith, photographer and realtor's office, we made it to the Mansion House Inn on the corner. And then it was time to make our way back up the other side of the street.

The Island Theater, closed for renovations, was a definite glimpse of yesterday. I dragged Bella back across the street to check out Bunch of Grapes Bookstore.

It was a busy, independent shop that seemed to capture the spirit of the island. We browsed for a while. They had a wide range of island books, from local hiking-trail guides to cookbooks and collections of poetry by local artists. The atmosphere was personal and made book shopping a pleasure, something the major franchises had long abandoned. I walked upstairs to find a small parlor where they hosted local authors and poets. Unfortunately, there were none scheduled for the weekend. I bought a copy of Roland Merullo's
Revere Beach Elegy
and followed Bella out into the early spring sun.

We spent an hour or so comparing prices at a few of the mom and pop souvenir shops. Each one had an abundance of similar items to tempt buyers: scrimshaw jewelry and other imports from Cape Cod (most including cranberries), seashell wind chimes, old lobster pots converted into tables, and buoys for sale in every primary color. I considered buying a puzzle of the island, but thought,
I doubt I'll have the time to fi
n
ish it
– and quickly pushed the thought out of my head. Even if I hadn't known, I would have been able to tell we were at an artist's colony. There were sculptures, watercolor paintings and beautiful pieces done in metal. Nantucket lightship baskets and gold charms led me to the white braided bracelets that children soaked and let shrink to their skin. They were the same ones that turned black by the end of summer and had to be cut off before school, leaving behind a white ring around the wrist where the sun hadn't touched. I grabbed two for the kids. “Let's pick up the rest of the souvenirs before we leave, so we don't have to carry them around,” Bella said.

I paid for the white bracelets and put them into my pocket. “Let's go eat,” I said. “I'm starving.”

We walked the two blocks to The Black Dog, the historic and legendary tavern whose world-famous ambassador represented the easy Vineyard way of life. It was a big tourist draw, but I was happy to find that the specials featured freshly caught fish and a collection of delicious desserts. After we ate our clam cakes and chowder by an empty fireplace, I ordered apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Cashing out, Bella bought us two matching sweatshirts and one bumper sticker.

“That's going to be heavy to carry all the way back,” I teased.

She made a funny face. “I'll be fine.”

As we made our way back to our room, the air temperature dropped and the streets began to fill with people coming out for the night. There were plenty of interesting characters and I'm certainly not shy, but this was a time for just Bella and me. So we kept to ourselves, held hands and walked along in comfortable silence.

After watching a magical sunset, on bended knees I prayed.
Father, bless my family – Bella, Riley, Michael and the kids – with good health, both of mind and body. Shroud them in the safety of your angels and allow them to live in a world of peace and harmony. Bless those who have passed from this world. May they live in Your pre
s
ence for all eternity. Forgive us of our sins and help us on our daily path back to You – Amen
.

I realized that for the first time since I'd gotten sick, I'd prayed for only those I loved and not for myself. It felt good. “Good-night,” I said.

“Good-night…and don't forget to take your medicine before you fall asleep.”

There's no way I could
, I thought.
I've been in pain all day.

I grabbed an extra blanket from the closet for Bella so I could keep the screen windows open. I took my pills and turned in early for the night. I loved the smell of the ocean and its music lulled me to sleep.

The next morning, after two bowls of fresh melon and some wheat toast, we rented a candy-apple red convertible. It was Bella's idea –
thank God for her.

It was still too early in the year for a ragtop, but we didn't care. Right away, it took me back to my youth. The first car I'd owned was a ‘65 Buick Special, powder blue on blue, with a Wildcat 310 under the hood. And it was in that very car that I discovered the true sense of freedom.

With the top down, the front seat pushed close to the windshield and the music playing a little louder than normal, my girl and I cruised the land of mopeds and bicyclists. There was nothing more exciting than the freedom of the open road without worrying about your brains being splattered in a helmet. While we stopped for the things Bella needed to fill our picnic basket – bread, cheese, a jar of mild salsa – I noticed that everyone was looking. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Bella got back in the car and looked at me. “What?” she asked.

“No apple pie?”

“There's a little bakery on the way,” she said and grinned. “And we should also pick up some fruit and vegetables.”

I never replied. Leaning back on my headrest, my face pitched to the sun, I pointed the car north.

On one of the back shady roads, I pressed the accelerator to the floor and could hear the four-barrel open up and guzzle down a gallon of gas. The exhaust was throaty and sounded mean. I looked over at Bella. With her hair whipping around in the wind, she shook her head and giggled. There was a blanket and picnic basket on the backseat, the love of my life in the passenger seat and the gas needle was on full.
Life can't get any better,
I thought.

The further inland we went, the more rural charm we experienced. I was surprised to see deer in the open pastures and horses at play. With the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop, sheep farms and rolling hills were greener than I remembered. The sea breeze stinging my face made me feel young again. We stopped once at a roadside fruit and vegetable stand that still worked on the honor system. It sold jars of rose hip jelly and beautiful dried sunflowers. A coffee can was set up to receive payment. I dropped in a ten, grabbed a jar of jelly, two dried sunflowers for Bella and a colorful mix of fruit and vegetables for me.

As we drove the winding roads, I couldn't remember feeling more alive or carefree. With the sun beating down, though, I did remember we had to keep moving or we were going to bake.

We finally reached Aquinnah, better known as Gayhead, and parked the car. We passed the Native Wampanoags selling their wares at cliff-top and headed for the lighthouse. From atop the hundred foot cliffs, the winds shrieked and we could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below. The foul odor of low tide took hold. I couldn't help it. I turned to Bella and pinched my nose, “Geeze, Babe.”

She slapped me.

The red cliffs were smothered in thick vegetation. Fragrant rosa rugosa and beach plums grew just above the rumbling surf. It was a great spot to see lobstermen and fishing trawlers at work. I threw a quarter into the magnifying viewer and watched as a shriveled old naked couple strolled along the beach. Bella whacked my arm again. “You pervert.”

Just then, a chubby tour guide hyperventilated his way up the hill that led to the lighthouse's overlook. There were at least two dozen tourists in tow. Before melting into the rear of the pack, I nudged Bella and gestured that she join me. I was surprised when she did. As the man's bus idled on the road, he explained, “Gay Head was named for the brightly colored rock formations on the one hundred-foot scenic cliffs. Home of the Wampanoag Tribe, it has also been witness to some terrible maritime accidents. Today, the grandiose lighthouse at Gay Head is still an active guide to navigation. Besides ensuring safe passage, Gay Head Lighthouse features one of the most picturesque locations on the East Coast, offering an awe-inspired view of the sound.”

People started snapping pictures. I looked at Bella and shrugged. “I left the camera in the car,” I said.

“Of course you did.” She laughed. “I'll get it.”

“On a clear day, you can see for miles,” the guide explained. “Just below, there are several rocky coves and inlets where bass and bluefish hide. This part of the island is also one of the best places to watch the sunset on the water. This lighthouse is one of five on Martha's Vineyard and one of three currently maintained by the Historical Society.”

Bella returned to the group and began taking pictures. Once she'd had her fill, we headed to one of the shops and bought two tall glasses of tea that had been brewing in the morning sun. It was delicious. Bella ordered a dozen clam cakes for the ride back. They didn't touch Flo's.

It was early afternoon when we reached Vineyard Haven. We pulled into one of those gaudy souvenir shops where things aren't so cheap anymore. Everything had to be shipped over to the island, so everything was considered imported – and they charged for it. We bought two giant overpriced beach towels and headed for the shore.