Worlds Apart (6 page)
There came a day when a teary-eyed Dahlia entered the park, a wholly crushed young woman of twenty, or perhaps twenty-one. She
meandered
the paths slowly and aimlessly – without energy, without the life that usually sparkled within her. She was wearing an ankle-length black dress, and as she headed toward me and sat on the edge of the courtyard at my base, I knew what she was going to say long before she said it.
She didn’t speak for several minutes. She did little but
stare
into the distance, across the courtyard and into the thick foliage behind which the bland shapes of brick buildings could be discerned.
And then she looked up at me. “My grandfather’s dead,” she stated quietly, with the tremulous voice of a lost little girl that she had never, ever been. She swallowed audibly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I loved him so much.”
I had loved him too. But how could I tell her? How could I let her know?
“I have always thought of you as his friend,” she said through her tears, ignoring them as they stole down her cheeks and spilled onto her dress. “There was this day when he brought me here many years ago. He said something about how you might hear me. How you couldn’t answer, but…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve always hoped he was right.”
He was right! HE WAS RIGHT!! And he
was
my friend, he was! Ever since he came here as a wee little boy wearing a sailor suit!
“I don’t know if you can hear me or not, Langston
Frolley
,” Dahlia spoke, her gaze shifting away from my face to once again stare toward nothing, “but I want you to know I’m going to do something with my life. I’m not just going to stay here in
Williver
.” Her hand rose to swipe at her tears. “This is my home; I adore it! But I couldn’t be happy, staying in one place my whole life as my grandfather did. I’ve done as my parents asked: I’ve gone to college nearby, I’ve spent my summers working in town. And I’ve no regrets for that.
None.
But now that Grandfather’s gone, I realize that…” Dahlia had almost lost control, but grasped the reins again: “I realize that I loved him most of all.
More than anything here.
More than my parents, my friends, this town.”
And I love YOU most of all! I do, I DO!
“I’m going to do something with my life,” she repeated softly. And it was then that I wished I could cry myself, for the frustration cruelly tearing at me begged for an outlet, for release, for a valve by which it could dissipate!
But I couldn’t cry. I had to hold it all inside.
Dahlia remained below me for a while, for what seemed like hours but surely wasn’t. She snuffled a bit, but never broke down entirely. She flicked away the physical traces of her anguish, but never pulled out a tissue or a handkerchief with which to dry her tears.
And then she stood, and she slowly, fragilely made her way toward the Long Street gates. She didn’t call “Goodbye, Langston
Frolley
!
”,
for which I was thankful: it would have been too clear, too final. She didn’t turn around or look over her shoulder either, for which I was also grateful: I was staring after her with the most palpable feeling of loss I’d ever felt, and couldn’t have borne her gaze, her sad appraisal of my stoic, impassive visage.
Dahlia returned to Robertson Park on a few more occasions, but it wasn’t the same as before. She still said “Hello, Langston
Frolley
,” but it was a cautious hello, a conservative hello. It was the type of hello with which I’ve noticed people greet each other when they have unintentionally shared too much of themselves the day before, and are unsure of where the relationship should begin again the next morning.
And then one day Dahlia sat on the iron bench across the courtyard from me for an hour or two, munching an apple while reading a paperback novel. And after she got up and left, again without a single glance backwards, she was gone. She never came back.
It’s been years and years now, decades even, and Dahlia has never once returned to the park of her childhood, to the silently yearning ‘friend’ of her grandfather’s.
A year or so ago, two men wearing uptight suits and ties had been skulking around the park, each bandying convoluted phrases with which I was unfamiliar. One of these phrases had stood out, however: ‘statute of limitations.’ Upon hearing it, I’d exulted: why, that’s me! Just omit one little sound from that first word, and you’ve got exactly what
I
am! A
statue
of limitations! I can’t do
anything
I want to do! I don’t even have the capability to
understand
what it is I want to do!
I also feel that one of the most ridiculous expressions of recent years is
think
outside the box
. What exactly is
that
insipid exhortation supposed to mean? Think outside the box! I can’t even think outside my
park
, let alone a box, or this town, or this Massachusetts!
Don’t you think I would jump at (or at least topple over for) an opportunity to seek out Dahlia, or to see her mother Marguerite, or to visit Jonathan as he spent so many years visiting me? Don’t you think I would scour the ends of the earth in an attempt to discover what love really is, and to find out if it’s at all similar to what I already feel I know? I can hardly
abide
being a statue some days, standing so aloof and apart from everyone else! I absolutely
abhor
being this limited, this hamstrung by my complete inability to express even the tiniest iota of emotion that I experience! Oh, to clamber down to my courtyard and choose which direction I would take to exit Earl F. Robertson’s park, to glance backwards to see what has lain behind me for the last hundred-plus years! To enter a coffee shop and experience a cheeseburger, a double malted, a thick slice of French toast slathered in cinnamon and real butter and Vermont maple syrup! To find dear Dahlia!
To have her say to me, “Hello, Langston
Frolley
!” and to be able to answer, to take her hand in my own and say, “Hello, Dahlia!
Would you like to take a stroll and maybe talk a while?”
But all of these are pipe dreams, bubbles that it doesn’t exactly take bronze to burst. I wouldn’t be here forever; there would have to be an end to my suffering, my yearning, at some point, right? Langston
Frolley
, for whom this park in which he resides is not even named, would not be around till the end of time! Hardly anybody even pays attention to me anymore, other than to take note of what the pigeons have laid on my head, or to wonder why there isn’t a monument here for someone
famous,
or at least
interesting
, to draw the tourists. I’d overheard talk recently about the possibility of changing the name of the park to honor a recently deceased mayor of
Williver
. Not even the
citizens
of this town know who Earl F. Robertson was anymore; if
he
is disposable, then so am I!
I am a statue. I am supposed to be a symbol of permanence, a representation of a hero whose memory was once thought important enough that I, a more durable, if ersatz Langston
Frolley
,
was molded, cast and erected.
I hope I won’t be here much longer; I don’t want to be permanent anymore. I am tired, and frustrated, and old if not necessarily graying. I miss Jonathan. I even miss the old oak tree out of which he’d once fallen.
And I miss Dahlia.
Too much, too often, and too strongly.
Maybe Dahlia will come back one day. Maybe she’ll return to Robertson Park to see me. I hope she does; I hope that even if she’s done something with her life, she hasn’t forgotten about her past, her youth, her Langston
Frolley
.
I can’t last here forever. I don’t want to. There has to be a limit to that, too.
*
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One
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was brilliant, its light radiating warmly on all that had been frozen, was still frozen, on everything that appeared so inert and bleak and dead. There
was
life: silent icicles dripped, small puffs of steam rose here and there from obscure sources,
an
occasional creak from a thawing tree would break the quiet. But the beauty was in the cool blend of starkness, serenity and golden illumination.
It
should
be a beautiful morning, Kurt thought to himself as he gazed out the window at the icy tableau. The world needed beauty. The world needed the sun to shine its glittering rays on the grim universe of pain and anguish that was apparently man’s lot in his brief time here on earth.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks of pain for Kurt, an unrelenting,
awful
pain that he felt everywhere. Physically, emotionally, in the deepest reaches of his body and soul.
Why did the baby have to die? Why did
anybody
have to die, for that matter?
Okay, okay, Kurt shook his head; he knew why death was inevitable, even welcomed at a certain point.
But the baby.
It didn’t make any sense. There was absolutely no purpose served.
His nightmares had been stronger since it happened. Not that Kurt’s lack of sleep was going to top anyone’s list of concerns at the moment, but just when he thought he’d gotten a handle on them, they’d come roaring back to steal his equilibrium, unsettle his habitual calm.
He moved away from the window and tiptoed out of the bedroom. Elyse could use an extra hour or two of rest, might as well let her have it. He wandered to the kitchen, opened the breadbox, closed the breadbox, sat down at the breakfast table and then rose once more.
And then he sat again and lowered his head to rest atop his folded hands. His entire life had been so directed, so purposeful! What was he supposed to do now, retired and dealing with the loss of his first and only grandchild? The time he had hoped to spend with that boy! The plans he’d made, his mission of shepherding an entirely new generation of Smiths to success, starting with that golden-haired cherub.
Who was now
dead.
Kurt felt like crying, but willed himself not to. He thought about heading to the basement and his latest military diorama, but it was far too early in the day to start obsessing over painted helmets and the perfect mix of colors for a horse’s mane.
The telephone
rang,
a loud, irritating jangle. Kurt’s head jerked off his hands; he practically leaped off his chair as he headed toward the living room.
A second ring.
Damn!
There was no way Elyse would sleep in now.
“Hello?”
“Papa?
Did I wake you?”
It was Sonya. The burgeoning anger with which Kurt was ready to pummel the early morning caller dissipated instantly.
“How are you, my sweet?” he asked gently. “And no, I’ve been awake for a while.” No need to mention her mother.
“I’m okay. Everything’s okay. I just… I felt like talking to you.”
Kurt cradled the telephone and walked four steps to his armchair. He sat. “Is Reginald better?”
He could hear the sigh over the wires. “No. He’s still asleep. I don’t think he went to bed until four or so. I think Reggie’s getting worse, Papa, not better. He’s – he’s not really responding to me.”
Kurt bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to say anything derogatory. He had always known that his son-in-law was a bit of a pansy, but he’d been hoping that Reginald could pull himself together, at the very least for Sonya’s sake.
“Papa?”
Kurt opened his mouth and took a breath. “I’m here. I was just thinking.”
“I understand. I could tell.” Her voice sounded so unsure, not at all the strong, confident Sonya he had raised to be in command of her destiny, of her life. “I appreciate you, Papa. I want you to know that. I appreciate everything about you.
And Mama.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, my love.” Kurt’s heart felt as if it was being squeezed in a vise.
“I know. But Johnnie called yesterday, and he was so wonderful, just like talking to you in so many ways, and I couldn’t help but think about how lucky the two of us were to have you as a father.” There was a sound that Kurt interpreted as Sonya blowing her nose, and then she was back. “He said that he and Amy would drive in to see me next week.
To see Reggie, to see all of us.”
Kurt smiled. “I like Amy. I don’t know why she and Johnnie haven’t managed to set a date yet.”
“Oh, Papa!
So impatient!”
Sonya scolded. But Kurt could tell she was smiling. “They’ve only been engaged a month. And Johnnie had to spend a week out of town on business. And then… well, and then this happened. This…”
The smile was gone. And closing his eyes, Kurt could see Sonya’s face, wincing in pain just as his own was doing.
“You’re young, Sonya. You and Reginald are both young.”
But what was that supposed to mean? Kurt opened his eyes and sat up straight in the armchair, determined to say something pertinent, something that could improve the situation.
“This was a terrible thing to happen, my dear, an absolutely awful event. But a year from now,
five
years from now, ten, you’ll be able to look back.
With sadness, yes, but also from a much happier place.”
If Kurt could believe in his words, then Sonya could, too!
“I know it, I just know that you – and Reginald – will make it through
this, that
all
of us will, and things will be better in the future. They will be. We can’t change the
past,
we can’t change what’s already happened. But we can make our future what we wish it to be.”
Kurt could almost smell the salt in the tears he knew were running down Sonya’s cheeks.
“Oh, Papa.
I know you’re right.”
A sniffle.
“And just hearing you say that again, I just – I just hope we can.”
“You can, Sonya,” Kurt said definitively.
“
Mmmm
.
We’ll see.”
“No doubts! Just say it to yourself. Say it out loud to me. You can make your future
– ”
“I can make my future.”
A drawn out breath.
“What I wish it to be.”
“See? You can.”
“Okay, Papa. I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.” There was a long pause. “I think I’ll go get some breakfast now. Say hi to Mama for me?”
“I will.”
“Okay. Thank you, Papa.” There was a clunk as Sonya ended the call, and Kurt slowly relaxed into his chair as he hung up himself. If he couldn’t assuage his own pain, how the hell could he ease his daughter’s? Sonya knew what it was to lose a child, and that was a pain Kurt didn’t know or understand, would hopefully
never
know or understand.
“That was Sonya?” Kurt looked up to see Elyse in the bedroom doorway, dark-rimmed eyes and tousled blond hair evidence of yet another night of anxious tossing and turning.
Kurt nodded, almost hoping she’d suggest returning to bed for a while; maybe it
would
be a good morning to spend alone in the basement.
“How is she?”
Kurt knew that Elyse had heard his end of the conversation; she already had the answers to both of her questions. He placed the telephone he was still holding on a side table.
“She’s better. She’s going to be fine.”
“Reggie?” Elyse rubbed an eye,
then
ran a hand through her hair.
“Reginald will be fine, too.
Soon.”
Kurt didn’t believe that, but if Elyse could, she might stop worrying so much herself. “He will be. I promise.”
She nodded. “I’m going back to bed.
Another hour or two.
I’ll be up to fix you some lunch.”
“Sounds good.
Get some rest,” Kurt said, and as Elyse turned, he heaved a sigh. Gorgeous blond hair had been her genetic gift to both Sonya and Johnnie, and as well to Sonya’s son, who had been born with a full head of fine blond locks.
How long would it be until every little detail stopped reminding him of his dead grandson?
Kurt stood, and headed toward the stairs that led to the basement. The diorama he had just begun was another World War II scene, Hitler’s Praetorian Guard at a Nazi party rally. Lots of action, tons of detail work, exactly what he needed to distract his thoughts. There were
Wehrmacht
officers on horseback along with marching
Wehrmacht
drummers and riflemen, an SS standard bearer to lead the black-clad, white-belted soldiers, and even miniatures of Hermann
G
ö
ring
and Heinrich Himmler to view the parade. Berlin, 1938: what a time that must have been!
Kurt flipped on the light switch before closing the basement door behind him and treading downwards. Why had this tragedy hit his family?
His nearly perfect, reasonably tight-knit clan that, until this incident, had always managed to escape such bad fortune.
If some cataclysm really had to occur, why couldn’t it have happened to Kurt or Elyse instead of an innocent child?
He sat on his stool before his worktable, where tools and paints and the basic ingredients of scenery making were laid out with precise organization.
Until this point, Kurt’s life had almost had a narrated quality to it, things had gone so smoothly. He had married the girl of his dreams, raised two beautiful, happy children with her, and enjoyed a long, satisfying career as a teacher. He had his dioramas and his classic
Maybach
to drive as hobbies; he had plenty of buds if not close friends with whom to drink a beer or pass the time. His life was as ideal as anyone could hope for, and he’d always felt that this was a just reward for all the years of hard work, strong parenting, and exemplary conduct he had put in.
Kurt lifted the miniature Himmler and knew immediately which shade of black paint would be best for his sleek uniform. It was time to lose himself and his gloom to creating a masterpiece.
