Chapter Nineteen: Identification

Identification: one has a tendency to move toward that which one identifies, regardless of the positive or negative nature…sometimes it’s better to sit still.

Jake’s plane arrives late, but nobody is expecting him. He takes the shuttle to a downtown hotel and check in for the night, first floor room, no stairs, and no elevator. A hot shower first, then room service, then, considering his next move – it’s close to Midnight, but what the hell – he calls Mimi and gets her answering machine. “Hello, my favorite farm girl. Sure would like to hear your real voice; you walking the dogs, or sleeping?”
Mimi isn’t inclined to welcome another surprise today, regardless of the magnificent award hidden behind Door Number One. But Jake’s voice is soothing balm to her raw nerves; she picks up the receiver in mid-message. “Jake! Where are you?” Jake relaxes into the familiar voice, but intuits an edge. “Marriott, downtown.”
Mimi gapes and runs her hand through her already tousled hair, forcing it to stand on end. “What town? This town?”
“Yep,” says Jake. “I’m home. Well, actually, I’m homeless, remember?” Mimi pauses, and grins. “Oh, yeah, that’s right; dogless, too. I’m sorry to break it to you over the phone, “she states, “but Molly and Ben are married; she’s part of the family now.”
Jake loves the easy banter and smiles into the phone. His light shines through the wire and infuses Mimi’s weary spirit. “Didn’t she miss me at all?”
“Nope.”
“What about the old adage, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder?'”
“Absence makes the heart forget, Jake.” Mimi sighs into the phone.
“Did you forget about me too, Mimi?”
“Yes, as soon as the chocolates were gone.”
“What if I told you that I have a box of Zen orange peels in my suitcase?”
“I’d think you were bribing me to come downtown and pick you up.”
“Are you extending an invitation?”
“Are you looking for one?” They pause, and consider their options. Jake speaks first. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you pack a little bag and come spend the night with me?” Well, it’s out there, Jake thinks. “But, only if you want to.” Mimi and Jake stop breathing at the same time. After some quick pondering, Mimi hurries to the bathroom and throws toiletries into an overnight bag. “Oh, I want to; you have Zen treats.”
“How long will it take you to get here?” Mimi shifts the phone to her shoulder, freeing both hands to struggle with the bag’s stuck zipper. “Give me forty-five minutes, unless you don’t mind me strolling through the lobby in my pajamas.”
Jake laughs. “I’m sure you can pull that off.”
“Listen, I’m wound a little tight right now. Have you been home long enough to see the news? Probably not.” Mimi’s used to answering her own questions. “I’ll explain when I see you. Can we go for a little walk downtown tonight? There’s something we might want to check out.” Ooh, that was selfish, Mimi thinks, and quickly adds a disclaimer. “We can wait until tomorrow if you’re too tired.”
“A walk would be great,” responds Jake. “The spring in my back needs to be sprung. I’ll throw on some shoes and meet you in the bar. Just come on, woman; you’re wasting time.”
Mimi secures the dogs, and closes and locks the gate at the end of the driveway, something she’s never felt the need to do before tonight.

Like old friends, Mimi and Jake hug, then carry the play to first base; hold the kiss, release the kiss, laugh, and then kiss again and again until the bartender blushes. He picks up Jake’s room key and dangles it in front of his face as the octogenarian couple in the corner bursts into applause. Now it’s Mimi’s turn to blush.
It’s a short walk, only four blocks, from the Marriott to The Firefly. Vans bearing the call letters from every local and regional television station, a posse of talking heads jockeying for position, and Sam Killian, his red nose shining brightly for the cameras, overtake the street as policemen direct slow-moving gawkers away from the blackened building. Jake is stunned. “Damn, when did this happen? What the heck?” Mimi takes Jake’s hand and abruptly turns around. “Let’s not get any closer; I don’t want to be seen here.” She spins with the agility of a gazelle avoiding a pride of hungry lions. Jake matches her stride. “I have an idea,” he says. “Where’s your car?”
“In the deck across the street from the hotel. Yeah, yeah,” she says, reading Jake’s mind in mid-thought. “The top of the parking deck! Bet the view’s spectacular from there; I even have binoculars!” Mimi and Jake stand at the precipice and watch the loud, miasmic catastrophe as it unfolds below them; it looks like a scene straight out of El Bosco’s Hell. “What’s with the cross? Look, there’s a group carrying Bibles. There’s the John 3:16 guy! This is big-time, Mimi; apparently I’ve missed something almost as mind-blowing as Sam’s ego.”
As they view the scene from the safety of a six story buffer, Mimi tells Jake the story; rife with tension, flush with humor, she speaks for a solid hour, leaving nothing out, and Jake is riveted until she is empty of words. They silently walk back to the hotel where a hot, steamy shower relaxes the spring from two tightly wound bodies. And after that, Mimi and Jake gently coax each other into oblivion, eyes locked.
The drama on the street, however, boils in a pressure cooker, in scalding steam, in hellfire and brimstone. Sam, dressed in chef pants and a stained Firefly tee-shirt, smiles for the cameras as six microphones are shoved toward his calm, vodka-sodden lips. “Sam, Sam! Do you know the young man who did this?” Sam shrugs nonchalantly for the crowd. “Yeah, I know him. His name’s Warren Hanover, and he used to work for me.”
“What was his motive? Will you press charges?”
Sam looks directly at the camera and winks. “That’s between me and Warren. I’m not sure he acted alone. At this point, he’s under heavy sedation at the hospital because of a gunshot wound to the head. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the young man.”
Reporters jockey for position. “Any idea who else may have been involved?” Sam puffs up and, serious about his air time, turns in profile. “Yeah, I have ideas, but my attorney has advised me not to discuss that publicly at this time. However, I will say that my ex-wife was with Warren right before he was shot.” More jockeying – a bit of shoving – it’s a rather big story, and competition is stiff. “Do you think she shot him, Sam?”
“All will be known in due time, folks. She’s a loose cannon, so it’s not out of the question.” Sam practically bows as he bids his farewell. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day.”
“Just one more question, Sam, please.”
“Okay, young lady, for you, gladly.”
“When do you expect to reopen The Firefly? You have quite a following here.”
“The damage was mostly in the front lobby and dining areas. We’ll take stock of that damage tomorrow and keep you apprised of the situation. Now, goodnight, and thank you.”
“A tough situation for the happy hour crowd,” reports the young lady with the microphone. “Now, let’s go back to the studio where Angie will give us an update on tomorrow’s weather.” Cut.

After an unusually pickup-free weekend watching younger, thinner women dance with her regular partners, after smoking the better part of two packs of cigarettes while standing at the bar with Betsy for four hours, after drinking six very rich and creamy Nutty Monkeys, and after eating two heaping platefuls of gravy, biscuits, bacon and eggs, Julie’s heart skips one too many beats. Betsy rides in the ambulance as Julie is transported from the Pelican to the emergency department of Sisters of Mercy Hospital, where Julie is not immediately recognized as an employee. “Are you a relative of the patient?”
“No, I’m her best friend.”
“Do you know how to reach her next of kin?”
Betsy is alarmed. “Is she out of the woods?”
The busy ED nurse shakes her head sympathetically at Betsy. “If she has any living relatives, they should be notified immediately.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Betsy says. “In the meantime, I’m right here; I’m not leaving her side, so consider me her next of kin, alright?”

Mimi, an early riser, retrieves a complimentary local paper from under the hotel room door. She stares at the headline in disbelief.

Local Restaurant Burns; Who to Blame?
Former Employee Faces Charges, Estranged Spouse Involved

The Firefly Restaurant, located at 462 South Hamilton Boulevard, was deliberately set on fire early yesterday morning, authorities determined. Jimmy Smith, Criminal Investigator for the Manassas County Police Department, stated that a homemade weapon of destruction known as a Molotov cocktail was thrown through the front window of the Firefly and spread flaming gasoline throughout the lobby and bar area. Sam Killian, owner, believes he is the victim of a conspiracy involving a former disgruntled employee, Warren Hanover, and Killian’s ex-wife, Mimi Lewis Killian. “The details are shaky at this point,” Mr. Killian admitted. “The authorities say they got a confession from Warren. I know for a fact that Mimi and Warren were in close proximity yesterday shortly after the fire. I haven’t spoken with either of them personally. Warren was shot and my ex-wife was there and was questioned by the police.”
Local 911 received a distress call at 9:07am yesterday morning from a woman later identified as Mimi Killian who said that someone had just been shot at Double Tree Farm located off of Jenkins Bottom Road, where Ms. Killian is currently employed. The police report states that Hanover, scared and confused, accidentally shot himself in the ear after confessing his act of arson to Ms. Killian. A source close to Ms. Killian said that Hanover was distraught when Ms. Killian refused to cover up his criminal act.
“Remember, Warren was unconscious and on his way to the hospital while the police interviewed Mimi,” cautioned Sam Killian. “I want to hear his side of the story before I jump to any conclusions.”
Killian gained national notoriety after being touted in major publications such as Playboy, Esquire, and Rolling Stone magazines as “The Vodka King.” His daily happy hours featuring discount vodka shots to alcoholics and his unique marketing techniques have drawn the wrath of the Moral Majority, as well as other religious groups. Killian’s first instinct was to place blame on a “Bible-waving fanatic who needed a drink.” However, no evidence has been found to support that theory.
Jim Morris, Ms. Killian’s attorney, issued this short statement: “Ms. Killian will be exonerated of all suspicion regarding this matter in short order. She was simply an innocent bystander who helped break the case. Sam Killian owes her a public apology, at the very least, and believe me, he may owe her more.”
Ms. Killian was unavailable for comment.

...

Mimi gently awakens Jake with a kiss on the nose and a gentle head massage. He stirs, sits up, and yawns, then pulls her on top of him. She playfully tweaks his nose and shoves the newspaper in his face. “Look at this, Jake. Look at this, can you believe it?”
“Wait a minute, let me wake up,” Jake says as he rolls Mimi to the floor. “Call room service and let’s get some coffee up here.”
“It’s on the way. Read!” Mimi drops the paper on Jake’s chest and begins pacing. “Unreal!” Mimi is unplugged and borderline manic. “I owe Jim Morris a call; he just saved me a heap of trouble.” Jake stretches, picks up the paper, and looks at Mimi quizzically. “Who’s Jim Morris again?”
“My divorce attorney, remember? I thought he was a schmuck, but I was wrong. Read the article while I get the door; coffee’s here.”
“My God! This headline! Shit, Mimi.” Jake jumps out of bed, pulls on his boxer, and heads to the bathroom. “Get on the phone with Jim now; we need to figure this out. You might need to go to the police station; they might be looking for you.”
“I guess Jim saw the news last night, to my benefit. He may have tried to call me at home; I better check my messages. We need to get back to the farm soon anyway and take care of the dogs.” Jake throws water on his face and starts dressing in last night’s clothes. “Okay, let’s do this,” he commands as Mimi hands him a cup of coffee with heavy cream. “I’ll check out while you bring the car around, then we’ll go to the farm and regroup.” Mimi shakes her head. “I don’t want you involved in this.”
Jake won’t hear of it. “I’ll fly under the radar; you need me because I have friends at the hospital, and you’ll need access to Warren.” Jake plays an ace.
“I really do want to check on him,” says Mimi, pulling a black tee-shirt over her braless torso. She ties her hair into a knot and pushes it through the back of a well-worn Life is Good baseball cap, and grabs her overnight bag.
“You’ll need a wing-man for a few days; do you mind a house guest?”
“Jake, of course not; please stay with me.” Mimi drops her bag and closes her eyes in thought. “Oh, shoot; I need to call David. What’s today? Monday? Yeah, it’s Monday.” She doesn’t need an answer from Jake which is good because he’s jet-lagging; she sorts out her thoughts without help. “I don’t work on Mondays.” She picks up her rough brown suede bag and swings it over her shoulder. “But I need to talk to David as soon as possible. Do you mind going to the barn with me today? You can meet my pal Cajun.”
“The four-legged man in your life?” David is important, Jake is more important, but Cajun is Mimi’s soul shine; Jake is smart enough to understand her passion. “Hey, he needs me,” says Mimi, smiling for the first time all morning. Her demeanor changes at the thought of Cajun; the stress leaves her face, and Jake sees a different level of beauty in her soft composure. He can’t help but tease her. “And I don’t?” Mimi tilts her head and looks Jake up and down. “You do for a minute; otherwise you’d be out on the streets playing a cheesy little keyboard for chump change.” They gulp the last ounce of lukewarm coffee and head for the lobby. “There’s an idea,” Jake says. “I’ll set up in front of The Firefly; it’ll be my last gig there. All my songs will have fire themes. I’ll open with You Light Up My Life.”
Mimi spins in the hall and grins. “Yeah, come on baby Light My Fire.”
“Serpentine Fire.” Jake and Mimi dance down around the corner into the lobby.
“Ring of Fire.” The laughter propels Mimi to the front door as Jake lobs another fast one in her direction. “Great Balls of Fire!” Mimi is laughing so hard she can barely see. “You’re funny, Jake.”
“Not as funny as you, Mimi.” Hotel employees and patrons miss the meaning of the inside joke, but catch the joyful spirit of the exchange. The early morning lobbyists look up and smile. “It’s a beautiful day,” Jake says as he joins the crowd at check-out.

A large sign is posted on the locked farm gate: Mimi Killian Press Conference, 10a.m., Double Tree Farm. “David’s been here," says Mimi. They gratefully unlock and enter the farm road without notice.
A ninety pound, four-legged redhead sprints to Jake as soon as she hears his deep, smoky voice. Molly’s massive black bodyguard barks once and joins in the high-spirited love fest after a moment of hesitation. “Ah, Molly, I didn’t desert you, girl,” Jake says as he scratches behind her ears. “Mimi says you didn’t miss me, but you missed me, didn’t you girl? I missed you. You sure you like that black boogieman better than me? I think Mimi lies.” Jake’s eyes fill with shameless, joyful tears and Molly and Ben take turns licking the salty treat from Jake’s happy face. It is in Jake’s nature to cry, and it's been a long time.
The phone is ringing incessantly; Mimi hears its infernally loud screech as she leaves the car, and two more calls come in before she enters the back door to the kitchen and picks up the receiver. It’s Jim Morris, Attorney. “Jim! I’m so glad it’s you! Thanks so much for watching my back. Whatever I owe you, I’m good for it. Just tell me how much.”
“Mimi, you owe me nothing. It’s gratis up to this point; that’s the least I can do for you. Sam spoke out of turn last night against his attorney’s advice, and I think you have a good case against him now.” Mimi’s brow furrows. “What kind of case, Jim?”
Jim takes a bite of a sausage biscuit and groans as mustard drips onto his pressed oxford shirt. He pours a diet Cheerwine on the stain, blots it with a paper napkin, and watches as it miraculously disappears. “We can start with slander and harassment and move on to emotional distress. Any judge will rule in your favor. How does $250,000 sound to you? I’ll take forty percent of that as my fee and you’ll get your nest egg back. We win, Sam loses.”
Mimi listens. “Well, it’s worth considering. That’s a huge wad of cash, and I could sure use it.”
“Why don’t you take a day to think about it? In the meantime, Mimi, don’t pick up the phone again, unless you have caller ID. Just let it ring, okay? Every reporter in the state is looking for an exclusive with you, and so is USA Today. Remember, you are not a suspect in this case, and as far as you’re concerned, it’s over until we take Sam to court. Really, the best thing you can do is make yourself unavailable. Go out of town for a few days.”
“I can’t do that, Jim. I have responsibilities; a job for one. Animals. A house guest. Not an option. But, I’ll lay low.”
Jim takes a sip of sugar, and his morning breakfast causes his gut to rumble. He puts his hand over the receiver and belches with the force of a geyser. “Mimi, listen. Reporters are going to swarm your house; I’m surprised they haven’t yet. If you can stand the hassle, stay home; if it gets to be too much, go on vacation, or hire a security guard to turn them away. Just let me know what you decide and I’ll get the ball rolling on your case.”
“I want to go to the hospital and see Warren, is that okay?” Jim narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. “Mimi, I advise against it. The press will be all over the place. And don’t call him, either. Look, just stay out of sight; that’s all you have to do right now besides promise to call me tomorrow morning.” Mimi is quiet for a moment as she ponders Jim’s advice before relenting. “What you’re saying makes sense,” she finally responds. Jim is relieved; this case is cake if Mimi follows his advice to the letter. “Promise you’ll call tomorrow?”
“Yes, I promise.”

Mimi listens to twenty-eight messages, five of which are from Sam.

10:45 p.m., Sunday: Mimi, if you had anything to do with this fire I swear I’ll have you thrown in jail quicker than you can find a hiding place. I know where you live, remember? You better stay in town because you’re in deep shit.

11:48p.m., Sunday: Mimi, I hope you watched the news tonight because I mentioned your name. Best of luck, bitch. You’re going down.

2:17a.m., Monday: Mimi? I’m shorry, I din’un mean taa, aaaah upshet ya.

2:18a.m., Monday: Mimi, aaah, pig up the phone. I godda talk to ya now. Mimi? Oh well, this ish Sam.

9:23a.m., Monday: Mimi, my attorney says I screwed up last night, and I want to apologize to you. I’ll make it right, just please understand how upset I am. I think I’ve finally reached bottom, and am heading to a meeting right now. Please, if you can, forgive me. I know how hard that might be. I know you didn’t have anything to do with the fire, and I know you didn’t shoot Warren. I’m just sorry you chose to have an affair instead of working things out with me, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. Say a prayer for me. I’ll be in touch, although Drew says for me not to contact you at all. If you can find it in your heart, please call me.

Three from David:

11:02p.m., Sunday: Mimi, are you watching the news? I’ll call back.

11:12p.m., Sunday: Mimi, are you there? I’m calling the paper right now. Your ex-husband is in serious trouble. But don’t worry because you aren’t.

7:03a.m., Monday: For the love of God, don’t come to the barn today. Your place was swarming with idiots when I woke up this morning. I threatened to have them all arrested for trespassing, but now they’re filming trees and horse shit here and waiting for your press conference. Just stay home, and don’t worry about Cajun. I’ll take good care of him. Call when you can.

Six from Jim, and fourteen messages from various reporters and producers representing local news station, Playboy Magazine, Jerry Springer, and one from a woman who says she is Warren Hanover’s mother, please call, he’s awake and asking to speak with Mimi. He’s in room 1412, Eastern General Hospital. Mimi picks up the phone, but Jake takes the receiver from Mimi’s hand, hangs it up, and puts his hand on her heart, a sweet move that stops her from getting mad, an old doctor trick that works every time. “Mimi, listen to Jim,” implores Jake. “He’s right; you can’t go to the hospital, but I can. Let me check on Warren for you. And unless Sam’s there, I doubt anyone will recognize me, except maybe Warren. I’m simply a doctor who needs to check on a patient. It’ll work; I know the nurses on his floor. They’ll be happy to grant me access to his chart and run interference so I can talk with him alone.” Makes sense, Mimi thinks. “Alright, yeah, that works for me.”
“In the meantime, stay in the house. Let the dogs out, but you stay put, you hear?”
Mimi taps her foot and adopts a slouchy posture. “Yes, Paw Paw, I’ll stay put. I’ll peel us some taters for supper and scrub some floors until you git back. Jess leave the shotgun loaded.” Her minor irritation at Jake’s edict passes in a blink. Jake makes the most of the fast-moving tension. “Bake me a cake while you’re at it, Mee Maw. I gotta button missin’ on my work britches, too, that needs sewin’.” Mimi laughs and relaxes. “That’s not the only thing that’ll be missing if you keep talking like that.” Jake kisses Mimi lightly on the lips, and touches her face. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and I’ll call you from Warren’s room if he’s in any shape to talk to you. Don’t hold your breath, though; I’m not overly optimistic.”
Mimi hears a ruckus outside, peers out the window, and runs for the kitchen. “Jake, somebody’s on the porch!” Ben and Molly bolt out the door, barking ferociously. At Jake’s command, the hi-fi barking stops and changes to a lo-fi threatening growl. Four brown eyes watch every move as a frenzied reporter and cameraman freeze in mid-stride. Jake moves outside and shuts the door behind him. “They bite, be very still,” he says. “Bet you’re looking for Mimi Killian. Too bad you missed her; she left last night for Italy. I took her to the airport late yesterday afternoon, but she’ll be back in three weeks. I’m her house sitter. She planned this trip many weeks ago. I don’t know what she’s doing in Italy, working a wine apprenticeship or something like that, I think. As you read in the paper this morning, Ms. Killian’s attorney Jim Morris issued a statement on her behalf. That’s all I know. Ah, sorry about your pants, man. Luckily, dog urine doesn’t leave much of a stain.”
The two trespassers back away toward the parked TV van, carefully, quietly, slowly, as Ben’s yellow stream squishes a rhythmic escort in time with the cameraman’s alternate footfall.

The former Doctor Jake Reston walks confidently into Eastern General’s Employee entrance, purposefully avoiding extended conversation with ex-coworkers until he reaches the Recovery Unit of ICU. “Hey, my favorite Nurse Ratched. Give me a hug, you gorgeous broad! How are you, Cathy?”
“Better now that I’ve seen you, Dr. Reston. But, are you okay? I was so sorry to hear about Julie. How’s she doing? I hope she’ll be alright.” Jake freezes. “What about Julie?”
“Uh-oh, you don’t know?” Nurse Cathy grimaces at her mistake.
“I just got back in town last night. I’ve been in Europe for over three months; I don’t even know where Julie is.”
“Yeah, I heard you guys separated. She’s living near the coast somewhere, and had a heart attack a few days ago. They about lost her on the table.”
Jake is stunned. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“A friend is with her, somebody named Betsy, maybe? I think she called here looking for you. But, that’s all I know. No, wait a minute. Julie works at Sisters of Mercy; I bet we can find the number.”
“Track it down for me, will you? Do you mind? I have to see a patient, Warren Hanover in Room 1412.”
Cathy shakes her head. “That’s one lucky son of a gun, no pun intended; another skinny millimeter, and he would have checked out before he checked in.”
Jake can’t help but worry about Julie. “Cathy, will you look up Mercy’s number for me now? I’ll feel better when it’s in my hand.”
“Sure, hang on; I’m really sorry to spring this on you. I didn’t know you two hadn’t been in touch.”
“It’s alright, Cathy, you’re a baby doll.” Jake pauses to appraise Cathy’s new curves. “How much weight have you lost since I’ve been gone?”
“Eighteen pounds, Doc!” Chubby Nurse Cathy strikes a model’s pose and grins. Losing weight and gaining it back keeps Cathy busy in her spare time. “I leave and you go on a starvation diet,” Jake says as he pats her ample waistline. “You really look great. Good for you!”
“We stopped bringing homemade cookies to work when you left. The other doctors can eat the store-bought stuff, but you, Doctor Reston, well, you know we’re all in love with you. We bummed out when you resigned from this hellhole and deserted us; we’ve been too depressed to eat.”
“Cathy, you’re such a good bullshitter; no wonder the patients ask for you.”
“Learned it from the master,” says Cathy with a wink and a smile.
“Yeah, who might that be?”
“I’m looking at him.” Cathy hands Jake a slip of paper. “I found Betsy’s cell number, too. Let me know what else I can do.”
“You can keep a close eye on the kid, Cathy; he needs some of your TLC.” Jake nods to the guard posted outside room 1412. Warren, tanked on morphine, talks a delusional string of incoherent garble while Jake takes a look at his chart, and then turns his attention to the young patient. Warren looks small – Jake doesn’t remember him being so small. “Young brother, you are one lucky bastard, you know that?”

…

Melvin revs Jake’s car up and drops it at Mimi’s house, and within an hour after speaking with Betsy, Jake heads east northeast toward Mercy. Nothing surprises Mimi anymore; the man in the moon could ride a cow through Mimi’s front yard in broad daylight and she would process the vision as just another day in the life.
This day turns short for Julie Reston, however. Fifteen minutes before Jake walks into Sisters of Mercy Hospital, Julie wills her heart to shut down for business without giving final notice – but not before borrowing Betsy’s lipstick. It’s important for Julie to always look her best, and although the odds of losing twenty pounds in fifteen minutes are against her, you can bet by God that her face will be somewhat on. And while the surgical team cannot save her, they are amazed by the miniscule size of her heart, by the heaviness of something so small, by the lack of room in its tiny caverns. Julie’s heart is made of black ice and only death has the power to melt it. “Hey, check this out! Have you ever seen such a hypoplastic heart in an adult? And it’s black, like a piece of coal. But feel this thing; it has some heft to it. Oh shit, it’s melting! It’s going Wizard of Oz on me. Grab a camera, quick! Did you get it? Nobody’s gonna believe this. Hearts don’t really melt, do they? Astounding!”
Julie’s body is cremated, and Betsy, her only friend, her truest friend, and Jake, her estranged husband and unaccepted truest love, deliver her ashes – seven pounds of cold, chunky, heartless dust – to Julie’s grieving and confused parents, Mildred and Frank. Mildred wipes her red and swollen eyes with her cheery gingham apron. “What should we do with her ashes, Frank?”
“I don’t know, Mildred.” Frank wears the pants, but he doesn’t make decisions. Stoically, he pats his wife on the back – the only comfort he can offer – and turns to Jake for advice. “Son, what do you think?”
“Frank, really, Julie would have preferred me to not be involved in this decision; I’m so sorry. She was a wonderful wife and partner for many years.” Jake firmly grasps Frank’s shoulder. His patented hand on the heart move is reserved for ladies only. “I’ll miss her.”
Mildred turns to Betsy, who fumbles through her tote bag for a tissue. “Betsy, what do you think?”
“Dang, Mildred.” Betsy blows her nose. “I think they could have put her in a better looking box.” Mildred nods her head in agreement. “I’ll find something pretty to put her in. Let’s just store her in the desk drawer for now.” Mildred turns her attention to Jake and kindly extends her former son-in-law a final courtesy. “Jake, thank you so much for being here; it means the world to Frank and me. Can you stay for dinner?”
“Thank you Mildred, but I better go. I’ll call you soon though, okay?”
“Okay, dear, we understand. “Jake is blessedly dismissed with a distant hug. “You take good care now; Betsy, did you happen to bring home any of Julie’s things? I know she loved that mirror we gave her, and I’d like to have it back.” Betsy crosses her fingers to ward off the lie she’s about to tell. “I couldn’t fit the mirror into the car, so we donated it to the plastic surgery wing at Mercy Hospital in Julie’s honor.” Mildred nods. “That’s okay, then; Julie would have liked that.”
Julie rests in a nondescript box tucked inside a desk, a lovely solid walnut antique, simply appointed with a telephone and fresh flowers. The drawer is dark, and remains closed; but sometimes an aroma of bananas and cigarettes emanates from that drawer when it mysteriously opens just a crack, mystifying Frank and Mildred. This juju aroma ends on the day Julie’s mother mixes her daughter’s ashes with rich soil – the humus mixing with the ashes in the Spring – and plants a Bleeding Heart which grows slowly and rarely blooms. That is, until the day Betsy introduces the Bleeding Heart to Greek Valerian, also known as Jacob’s Ladder, and both species recognize they are meant to share the same dirt. They grow like teenage wrestlers on steroids, take deep root, and create a most stunning visual backdrop for caterwauling cats mating wildly in the otherwise quiet, cool heat of the night.