The Lighthouse. Mary Schramski
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“A second-base date?” I say, laugh, and she does, too.
“Well, yeah that, too. It’s almost Christmas, how about a little brandy? Oh, God you’re going to think I’m an alcoholic. I’m not really. Just so happy you’re here. It’s nice to see you again.”
One time, when Sandra came home from college, I’d just graduated from high school. She bought two bottles of champagne to celebrate for just the two of us. Her parents were gone for the weekend. We got drunk and passed out on the living room floor. My mother found us the next morning throwing up.
“Do you remember the champagne episode?” I ask.
“How could I forget? I still can’t drink champagne.”
I hold up my hand, like I’m making a toast. “Hey, to second-base dates and brandy before five.”
Sandra goes to the cabinet where Josephine always kept the liquor. “I’m glad we ditched the hot chocolate idea. Brandy is a much better drink.”
Jake crossed the dark porch and went down the steps. A moment ago, he felt like he was going to explode if he didn’t get out of the house.
He walked down the street. When he got to the edge of Point Fermin Park, he stopped and studied the sky.
The stars looked close, bright. Visibility had to be at least fifty miles tonight. Dorothy had read him a poem on a night just like this.
Jake sat on the hard curb and tried to remember more of that evening, hoping none of the details had faded.
That night, they had taken a walk, and when they’d gotten back to the house, Dorothy had come into their bedroom holding a thick book. She’d placed it on the nightstand, carefully took off all her clothes and lay next to him.
A moment later, she picked up the book and turned to a marked page. Her voice was soft, smooth, as always.
“And as silently…” Jake whispered the few poetic words he could remember.
Anguish and hurt gripped his body. The poetry book was still in the house. He hadn’t given anything away because he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He’d find the poem, read it aloud, and maybe more of the memory would return.
Jake fought his tears by turning his face up to the night sky. Looking for a poem his dead wife read to him wasn’t going to do any good. He needed to accept that memories would eventually fade.
But that night, when she lay beside him, naked except for the white sheet, he hadn’t paid much attention to her poem. Even at his age, all he could think about was her naked body close to his.
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