Texts for Translation 2011:
  Rebecca Jan Lane

Rebecca Lane

Kerins-Naumov submission

2011

Eastern Lawn Cemetery rose above the rest of the town, situated in the busom of the Endless Mountains - a series of present day hills, that had the ancestry of some of the oldest mountains in North America. The cemetery was all immaculately landscaped with impressive green spaces, and flowering trees at just the right location. One got the feeling that a great deal of thought went into making it look like there was very little thought in the planning of such a space. While Nature never looks strained, horticulture sometimes walked that tightrope, and ELC was an example of that.

In the summer time, the little league baseball games echoed up in tranquility. In the winter, the view of the river, inching slowly and deliberately like it had since creation, gave an essence to the peace, and eternity. Time moved on. Everything moved on. Only the sleeping remained.

The oldest tombstones dated back to the late 1700s when the town was first made official, just in time to go off and fight for its new found birthright of independence. Some of those fine men - young and old were buried there; the inscriptions on their flinty tombstones flake and slowly disappear in the elements. The Historical Society objected of course to this disintegration of such revered local 'inhabitants' and each year imbedded a few of the deteriorating stones in more modern stones. One side of the stone is the original stone surrounded by the new marble, while the other side of the new stone is carved deeply, with the name and dates. The annual Halloween Ghost tours and Valentine's Day wine tastings pay for these improvements. A bit tacky perhaps, but still the historians felt noble. Because it is essential to remember the past, to keep it with us always. In case we forget. In case we get a moment's peace.

Rachel Whitcomb, with her dark red hair that hung to her back, came here every week at least once. Usually Mondays. The runners who padded through the paved paths through the silence, except for the Ipods jammed into their ears, recognized her or her car, and waved. She smiled, and turned her attention back to her devotional.

Aron ‘Ari’ Caleb Whitcomb

Beloved Husband, Son, Teacher and Friend.

June 19, 1977 – October 10, 2007

She crouched next to the stone, and tidied the orange marigolds that underlined the tombstone. The wind blew and scattered the last of the winter leaves away from the grave. They really needed to do more to keep the cemetery tidy. But she daren't think that. In other cemeteries, flowers had been banned, as had upright stones. All to make it easier to mow around and over. She should count herself lucky. Ari had such a peaceful place to look out to. The river, the runners many who were his former students, all paraded before him.

She smiled and traced the engraving with her finger. The gray marble stone was cold to the touch and part of her shrank back against tracing each letter, but still she continued. By the time she had finished, her wedding band and engagement ring had twisted around on her finger.

“Isn’t it beautiful today, Ari?” she asked absently as she realigned the rings. “The daffodils are coming up in the garden. It’s really gorgeous. Do you remember when we got all those tulip bulbs from the garden center and planted them in the one corner? They are coming up too, but I imagine you know that already. And you also probably know that that flower bed is still a mess. I wish you’d fix it or something.” She chuckled at herself, tried to laugh though her voice strangled in her throat.

She paused and combed her thick hair back from her face. A deep breath later, and she became cordial, almost conversational. “So I was thinking about pasta for dinner? Some good garlic bread maybe? What do you think? Do you have any druthers?” There was no reply.

A car drove by on the narrow winding road that made its way through the cemetery. Rachel looked back, recognized the car, and waved. “I’ll see you at home then.” In a few minutes, she followed the pathway out through the wrought iron gates at the cemetery’s entrance and towards home.

Halfway home, it was raining, the way it always rains in April, in a Pennsylvania springtime. It was gray, cold, and bitter, with threats of winter still lingering in the air. Some weather reports even mentioned a possibility of snow tonight. Yet when the clouds moved, there was enough of a blue sky beyond the clouds to give anyone, the flowers and trees included, hope and hints of a more prolonged spring. That and Rachel could hear the geese honk above her in the sky as they returned from their winter migration. The Canada geese flew in front of her, above the trees, in their giant V, like a compass needle pointing to the True North. Geese were to be depended on.

She fiddled with the stereo buttons. The BBC, the Catholic Channel, Show tunes…. XM radio with over 500 stations, and she still couldn’t find something to listen to.

The car seemed to drive itself through the gray drizzle. Past the housing development built on what had been an apple orchard. Past the high school where Ari taught History and coached swimming. She blinked her eyes quickly. Damn contacts. Just get home, just get home. I’ll be fine when I get home.

She turned up the road to their – no hers – no their – hers - dammit - towards home. They’d found the faded blue Victorian house, a disappointed house as Rachel called it, neglected after years of uninspired tenants and a desperate landlord. The landlord was eager to sell, and they were possibly interested in buying. Ari had just gotten the job at the high school, and after a few years of living away, Rachel was ready to come back to her hometown.

Things happen for a reason, so they jumped at the chance to buy the house and the few acres that went with it. It had what Ari called a Future. It wasn’t going to stay the blue disappointed house with no flower beds and patches of bad grass. They were determined of it. So before a fortnight had passed, they were signing papers, and moving in. The summer was spent planting trees, building flower beds and doing basic repairs to the house. By the end of August, the house seemed to smile.

Rachel pulled up and into the drive. The trees were starting to leaf out. Some other buds had begun to swell signaling the true arrival of spring and the end of maple tapping season. Magnolia trees and the Japanese cherry trees had already opened up some of their pale pink and white petals to the harsh climate. "Show offs."

She opened the gate that enveloped the front yard and followed the stone path to her deep blue door. Her heels clicked on the weathered stones. The door opened gently with the key’s persuasion.

In a moment, her shoes were off, and her coat and purse were hung on the coat rack. She flipped on a light switch and collapsed into an dark red paisley sofa. Here the tears came. Here, she cried, and breathed in the fast rapid catching breaths that shook her body. A few minutes later, they slowed, she wiped her face dry, and took a deep breath. That was the reason she only went once a week. She couldn't handle the after-effects.

“Spaghetti sounds great.” Rachel smiled and looked up. Ari sat on the other end of the sofa. His dark hair combed back, with the few traces of silver that had seemed to spring up over night. His dark brown eyes shone as he smiled back at her.

“Hi Babes,” she whispered. "I didn't see you there."

"I just wanted to give you a little space. I still know the days of the week."

"Thanks."

He looked at her closer. “You know, Rach, I wish you wouldn’t go to the cemetery. You always come back so upset. “

“I know.”

“Honey, why do you go? We both know I’m not there. Just come home and talk to me here. I don’t have to strain my hearing as much.”

She scooched over to him on the sofa. He traced her face and the trail of her tears down her cheeks. Rachel couldn’t feel his hand, but she did feel the coolness, and tears slowly dry away as if being wiped away.

Rachel smiled. “I know…” They both waited in the silence as if the shadows would give them answers. but as nothing came, they stood there, content with each other. "I don't know why I go really. Maybe it's because it's the last place I saw you."

"Hogwash."

"I know... I don't have a good reason, Ari."

There was another pause, and they sat there, quiet while the shadows lengthened slightly.

“Spaghetti?”

“Spaghetti it is,” Ari answered. Rachel did a little sort of a twirl on her way to the cupboards, and Ari reached out his hand after her hair, in the chance to brush his fingers through it. But instead of it resting in his hand, it passed through his fingertips, as if he wasn’t there.

Ari started opening things – a jar of thick red pasta sauce, a smaller bottle of dark green pesto. Rachel put a pot of water on the stove, salted the water and dribbled a teaspoon of oil in the water. He went to fridge, and fiddled with the stereo on the top. In a moment, Pavarotti’s voice was filling the kitchen.

Ari smiled. “Remember when we went to see him at the Met?”

“And it was snowing?”

“We had to hike up to the concert hall because all the taxi were stuck in the snow?”

"I think I ruined a pair of shoes that night."

"I'm still amazed you could walk in the snow with those things."

"A girl has to try."

There was a gentle silence as they fell into the routine of cooking in tandem. Garlic, onions, peppers. basil, tomatoes. The aromas mixed with the music, and braided together above and throughout the kitchen.

"The hall was empty. We had Pavarotti all to ourselves.”

Rachel stirred the pasta in the pot, and scooped a couple of spoonfuls of pesto into the sauce. “You wore that yellow tie I always liked.”

“And you wore that black dress with the red flowered embroidered along the top and edges.” he paused. “And the silk fringed shawl.” Ari chuckled. "Damn tease."

“You remembered?”

“Rachel, when all you have is time, memories run long.” He winked at his wife. "You should see the other things I remember."

Rachel cocked her head, and smirked. "Like what?"

"Like the butterfly on your ankle. Like the way you always twirled a little bit when you're feeling really girly all dressed up before we would go out. I think I counted three pirouettes that night." he walked closer to her, and brushed his lips just millimeters away from her mouth. "Like the way your kisses tasted like mint and chocolate."

She reached up to touch his face, but dropped her hand. "You won't feel it, will you?"

He shook his head. "Let's set the table?"

She nodded and set out the two white and gold bowls. “Ari, I love you.”

“I love you too, Rachel.”

She leaned in towards him. “I love that you’re still you. Still, even after everything. It’s nice.”

He closed his eyes. “Who else would I be?” he answered softly. “I’m always going to be your Ari.” He leaned in close to her ear. “And you’ll always be my Rachel.”

They stood together, almost touching. Together in that dim light, with dinner on the stove, and the table set, they looked like any other happily married couple.

Except, of course, Ari was dead.

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