The Other Side of Grief by Tamara Palmer
Stanley couldn’t stomach another social interaction with the First Congregation of Christ tour group. First it was the Indian museum, then a drive with the whole lot out to some gorge, and now he was just plain sick of people. Feigning tummy trouble, he left them for the peace and quiet of his hotel room, but after twenty frustrating minutes of channel surfing Stanley slipped on his beige jacket, his Ohio State ball cap, and cringing at the pain in his hips, bent over to tie his shoelaces. His youngest was always notifying him of the advancements in clothing for people like him, but he’d be dead before he’d secure his shoes with a Velcro strap.
Stanley walked the square marveling as the tourists in expensive furs and those in sweat-shirts all funneled into the same restaurants, all housed in adobe buildings. The place looked like an Indian village. If this were America, then what was Mexico look like, he wondered. Hungry, but vaguely unsettled Stanley paced the square. Pacing. That was his way of dealing with the empty moments in his life — the ones that Carol would have planned.
On his fifth loop he noticed a striking woman probably his age, but better preserved, pulling her long silver hair into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. He’d always admired women who kept their hair long; they seemed more in tune with the girl inside them. She was sitting on one of the green lacquered rod-iron benches, one leg draped casually over the other as she looked towards the memorial in the center of the square. Stanley approached, and as he got closer he noticed her face was softly leathered from a lifetime of sun adoration, and her eyes a beautiful shade of amber sparkled in the glint of the gas lamps which were warming to life.
“Nice evening,” Stanley announced, staring straight ahead, arms clasped behind him as he rocked back and forth on his heels.
The woman nodded her head and looked at Stanley, allowing a smile to slowly spread across her face.
“What’s that memorial for?” Stanley asked.
“It’s a travesty,” the woman shook her head.
“A what?” Stanley raised his voice while his nose wrinkled and he focused more intently on the statue.
“It should be taken down.”
“It’s not that bad. A little plain, maybe. Who’s it for? I wanted to look earlier, but I didn’t have my reading glasses with me.”
“It pays homage to the men who served in the Federal Army,” the woman’s eyes lowered as she shook her head. A whiff of her perfume traveled up to where Stanley was standing and he drank it in.
“Hum…,” before Stanley could ask what war it was for, the woman interrupted.
“It’s for the soldiers who “fell in battles with savage Indians.” People keep protesting, but the city says that it’s reflective of its time. Hooey, I say!” The woman’s vitality intrigued Stanley. Although he hated all the politically correct crap, hell he grew up playing Cowboys and Indians, and Indians were always savages, even if you weren’t supposed to call them that anymore, he couldn’t help but wonder why she was sitting alone and hoped she wasn’t waiting for someone.
“You live here?” Stanley asked.
The woman nodded yes as she moved to the side to allow space for Stanley.
“Umm,” Stanley began, crouching onto the bench, his body aching with every bend of his joints. Stanley felt up his jacket pockets for his pain pills, but then realized he’d left them in the room.
The woman smiled in camaraderie at his jerky movements.
“I didn’t think people actually lived here the first time I visited, either,” she scooted a bit more to allow for Stanley’s robust frame. “Where are you from?”
“Cleveland. I’m here on one of them tour group thingies.”
The woman smiled and nodded her head as if she could tell that just by looking at him.
“Where’s your group?”
“I ditched them,” he smiled at the genius of what he had done. “I’m playing hooky!” Stanley exclaimed. “The name’s Stanley, Stanley Kamenski,” he extended his hand to shake hers.
“Maria Vandarosa,” she offered, placing her hand in his. The sensation of their palms touching sent a ripple up Stanley’s spine. How long had it been since he’d touched an attractive woman? The widows in his group didn’t count. They were like sisters, all having raised their children together and hugging hello every Sunday morning at church for over forty years.
“That’s quite a name? Italian?” Stanley asked, emphasizing the “I”.
“Spanish. My husband was from Spain.” Stanley shook his head and held the palm of his right hand over his eyes. “I just lost my Carol. It’s only been a few months. Breast cancer. Beast of an illness I’ll tell you. Goddamn Beast.” Stanley wished he’d not cursed, but Maria didn’t seem bothered by it, so he didn’t apologize. “This trip was a present from my kids. You know, trying to heal me and crap like that. The whole group is packed with widows and widowers. Sad lot we are. I shouldn’t complain. My kids are good to me.”
“Thank goodness we have our children.” Maria took Stanley’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight. Again he felt an awakened stirring inside. “I came down here about a year after my Cristo passed. He and I would vacation here. I always wanted to retire to New Mexico, but he didn’t like the heat.”
“I like the heat,” Stanley confessed. “Carol hated it.” Since her death, every time Stanley uttered her name a rolling sadness made its way through his body, but this was the first time it didn’t lead to tears. “Where were you from?” he asked.
“Mostly New York, but we moved around a bit when we were first married. My kids are all in New York — two girls and a boy. All married with kids of their own.”
“I have the opposite – two boys and a girl. The boys are married, but the girl isn’t. I worry about her — Jenny’s about to turn thirty-five. She keeps telling me that I’m old fashioned, that lots of folks these days aren’t getting married until forty. It’s all a bunch of cuckoo if you ask me. She’s a doctor and says she doesn’t have time for marriage!”
“My youngest daughter was like that,” Maria smiled. “We didn’t think she’d ever settle down. Not like in our day when we all married young. Sure enough someone stole her heart and less than a year later she was married and starting a family.”
“I sure hope that happens to Jenny ,” Stanley turned to face Maria. Her peaceful smile seemed to assure him that everything would be okay —that life didn’t have to end. He saw in her a free sprit, an essence he never found in Carol or any other woman for that matter. He saw in those twinkling brown eyes someone who’d made it to the other side of grief — life, round two. And for the first time, Stanley wanted to go there.
“Would you care to join me for dinner?” Stanley was surprised to hear voice to his thought. Was he really allowed to “date?” How many decades had it been since he and Carol were at the diner sharing a malt on their first date.
Maria giggled, “I’d love to, Stanley.”
“The night’s not getting any younger,” he offered her his arm and she laced hers through his. The drifting swoosh of falling leaves, and the pervasive smoky aroma of grilled peppers entwined them. Together they headed towards the restaurants that were now beginning to empty, as night wrapped itself tightly around Santa Fe.
Tamara Palmer knew she was going to be a writer before she could even write. She would play elaborate dramas out with her Barbies for days,even weeks,on end. As she got older the stories made their way onto a typewriter and as the story goes… Tamara is actively seeking publishers for her two completed novels, Missing Tyler and Finding Lancelot. Her work has appeared in edifice WRECKED. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband. You can read more of her work at www.tamarapalmer.com
