The Promise

Gently I squeeze Debbie’s hand with mine, and cover both of them with my other hand. "You will discover, girls, that there is no price high enough to buy off loneliness. I looked after the house and our family all our married lives. Your father looked after the business and Gerry Boyle looked after the books and paid the bills. It is just the way it worked. We never talked about money or retirement, just about all of our obligations. I never knew, nor did I suspect, that we were that well off."

My comments prompt Cindy to rejoin the conversation once again. "Mom, you’re not. You are property rich and cash poor. The fields have not been planted in two years and the boat has not been in the water the last two seasons. There are bills that have to be paid. Decisions have to be made. Life has to go on. The grieving has to come to an end and life has to go on. Please, Mom, please. Accept the fact that there is going to be a big empty spot in your life where Daddy used to be and it will never be filled. There is room for lots of other things, people, experiences, maybe even a new love that will distract you from that lonely, empty spot."

Cindy’s words hit a nerve and as indignantly I say, "Really, Cindy, that’s awful."

Cindy, like Debbie, has regained her second wind. Emboldened by the fact that they have engaged me in a conversation, she pushes on. "Yes, you could and you should. You’re only 45 years old; you’re still young. You still have your looks, your figure, that special smile that drove daddy crazy. You’re smart and you have a great sense of humor. You have empathy for people, which is genuine. Mom, you could be one foxy woman, if you put a little effort into it. You have just let yourself go in the last couple of years. A real good shopping trip to Charlottetown, a day at the beauty parlor, a new hairstyle, a manicure, a pedicure; and, voila, one foxy babe!"

Somehow the words are contagious, infecting me with a new spirit, at least for the moment. "Girls, really, the next thing you will be suggesting is that I start trolling the bars for a boy-toy." All three of us burst into gales of laughter, the way we used to around the kitchen table when we gathered at the end of the day for girl talk.

"Mom," Cindy says when the laughter starts to die down, "your life isn’t over, you have just started another chapter. The story is about to take a whole different course, albeit an unexpected course. It might be exciting."

"After all," Debbie continues, "you might meet a tall, dark stranger with a monster dick and live happily together until he screws you to death."

The graphic suggestion is a little too ribald for me under the circumstance and I decide that it is time to curb this conversation. "Girls, that isn’t very nice talk."

"Maybe, mom," Debbie adds, "but it is part of the solution to the problem. You and Daddy used to fuck like a pair of minks. You could never get enough of each other. You’re horny and you need to get laid, that’s part of the loneliness you are talking about."

I sputter in protest. "Really, Debbie, you and Cindy shouldn’t be talking to me like that. It isn’t proper to speak to your mother like that, besides, it isn’t true."

God, I’m lying through my teeth, but I could never admit it to these two children. What, in God’s name, would they think of me? Just the thought of some of the ordinary things we did early in the morning as the sun just started to turn the edge of the Gulf pink, causes me to clench my legs together. If, just one more time, I could awake with John's cock wedged in the crack of my ass, stiff as a spike, ready to be driven home. If I could feel, just one more time, his rough hand massaging my tummy under my nightgown and his callused finger rimming my belly button. Then, to slide down the plane of my belly to my moist pussy, to massage that little nub, to bring it alive, before it probed into my vaginal canal. If, just for one last time, the rough stubble on his cheek could chafe against the side of my neck as he nibbles at my earlobe and whispers hoarsely in my ear ‘Doo you have to pee, pee?"

Such an innocent question about such a routine bodily function, but such a pregnant question. I always have to pee early in the morning. What he was always suggesting to me was to go pee because he wanted to mount me before we both started our day. Dutifully I always padded my way into the little bathroom and, squatting silently on the porcelain throne, dropped my panties to the floor kicking them into the corner by the laundry hamper, before I started to tinkle. There was always a quiet whisper from the darkened bedroom, "No playing with yourself and don’t pat it too dry. No sense in wasting paper." As if drying it would have any long-lasting effects. Just the thought of slipping back into bed, of throwing my skinny leg across his muscular body and bracing myself with the palms of my hands on each of his shoulders as he slowly spread my lips apart to insert his angry red cock was enough to make me drip.

By the time his rigid shaft of blood-engorged muscle slowly sank into my depths, I was always dripping like a broken kitchen faucet, my juices sliding down my legs. And when we were done, bathed in sweat, I would lay cuddled in his arms like a tiny kitten hidden and protected between the forelegs of a giant Great Dane. If I could, just for one last time, start my day with his juices moistening my organs and seeping out of the lips of my pussy to dampen the crotch of my panties. So for one last day I could secretly slip my hands down the front of my jeans and dampen my fingers in his juice - our juices - and smell him.

Lost in my momentary reverie, I forget who is present and moan, "God damn you John, you never even said good bye."

"Mom," Debbie asks, "are you alright?"

"I’m fine Debbie, really I am. I was just reminiscing for a moment."

"That’s fine mom, memories are ok as long as you remember they are just memories, to be visited and cherished, but not to become the focal point of your life, agreed, mom?"

I feel trapped into a corner. There is only one acceptable answer. "Yes, agreed, Debbie."

Debbie continues, clearly not willing to give up control of the conversation yet. "Mom, in the next few days we have to work out a financial plan for your future. There are bills that have to be paid. The creditors have been more than willing to wait because they understand that the assets are in place to cover the liabilities. However, the interest charges are mounting up."

Silently, Cindy takes the conversation all in as she ladles out the clam chowder into three bowls. Finally, having eaten supper in comparative silence, Debbie returns to the topic at hand like a vengeful angel.

"Cindy and I are going to return tomorrow evening with coin rollers and the three of us are going to drag the two pussy pails from the closet. The boys have promised to take the rolled coin to the bank. We can talk about a financial plan for the future."

The thought of the two special pails leaving my closet sends a wave of anxiety coursing through me. Am I ready to give up one of the very real remaining links that I have with John? "Girls, I don’t know, I…"

A tone of exasperation is evident in Debbie’s words. "Enough, Mom, you know the alternative. The choice is to start and make a new life or go into the hospital. There is no third choice. Is that clear enough for you?"

Embarrassed, I drop my chin and can’t look then in the eye. Reluctantly, in a quiet and subdued voice I respond, "Yes, I understand, but…"

Cindy jumps into the conversation, once again giving Debbie a chance to catch her breath. "No buts, Mom, none. We love you too much to risk losing you. The four of us will do whatever is necessary to keep you with us."

I watch the girls clean up the remnants of our meager supper, saying nothing and suffering their silence. It is obvious that they have discussed their plan of action with their brothers and are determined to carry it through. The question is, do I have the willpower to challenge them, to try an maintain my life as it is with my memories just a little longer or must I finally give in and go on with my life?

A quick kiss on the cheek and they are off, saying nothing, not even good-bye. All has been said. There is, in fact, nothing else to be said. The next move is mine and I have to make it by suppertime tomorrow night or face the consequences.

The almost empty can of coffee yields just enough for one last pot. A fresh cup in hand, I pad in my bare feet to the family room and turn on the TV, not for the entertainment but for the company in the silent, lonely house. Has the situation really degenerated as badly as they claim? Am I really teetering on the border of reality? I don’t feel any different; I don’t look any different. Well, maybe more gaunt and haunted-looking, but whose business is that beside myself?

The TV blares on but I hear nothing, lost in my own thoughts. Over and over I ask the same question to myself. "They wouldn’t commit me to the physciatric ward, would they?’ The answer eludes me. They have always been dutiful daughters and done what they were told, but they love me and if they thought I was in danger they might, they just might.

Exhausted in body and mind, I fall into an uneasy sleep on the sofa, alone with my dreams and memories - or are they one and the same?

I wake to the lonely cry of the herring gulls and, although bleary-eyed, I am free from a hangover for the first time in months. Going to the kitchen I pour myself a cup of stale coffee from the Silex and open the sliding patio doors off the dining area to the deck facing the yard and the harbour.

The pale light of the false dawn is barely visible on the eastern skyline over the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The chug, chug, chug of the old sic-cylinder engines in the decrepit lobster boats can be heard in the still morning air across the glass smooth water of the silent harbour.

John’s friends, his fishing companions, are warming up their engines, taking on fuel and bait, preparing for another day on the ocean, tending their pots.

One by one, like phantom ships, they float silently by in the dark as I sip away at my bitter coffee. The odd pale face behind the wheel peers to port and, seeing me, framed in the light of the kitchen spilling through the patio doors, offers a tentative wave. Each is hesitant, almost embarrassed, to wave. It is as if they fear in their own private wave might add to my grief, that somehow their mere presence on this summer morning might awaken even more painful memories in me.

John is gone. His spirit, his memory might survive but he is gone. As much as I don’t want to accept it, the fact remains that he is gone. Life, as painful as it is, goes on. Why did it take my daughters to threaten me to finally bring me to the harsh reality? John is gone, forever, accept it, I tell myself. Ruefully, I shake my head one last time, throw the dregs of my coffee over the railing into what used to be a nicely mowed lawn and prepared to greet the first day of my life without John.

The first rays of the sun peek over the horizon to reveal the huge shape of our lobster boat perched on blocks in the corner of the yard. It seems to float on a sea of uncut grass. The harsh black numbers "103331" stand out on the peeling, white paint of the wheelhouse. The number is the original number of our government lobster-fishing license, which we scrimped and saved for twenty-five years ago. It was purchased before we even had a roof over our heads. It was more important; it was our means of making a living. The boat came immediately afterward because it was worthless with out the license.

Even in the early morning light it is obvious that the boat is starting to deteriorate. The paint is starting to peel and the electrical and mechanical systems need servicing. The time has come. Decisions are going to have to be made, if not for my sake then, at least, for the sake of the children.

Focused for the first time in months, I take one last look at the yard and the harbour stretching beyond it and then silently turn, re-entering the kitchen and closing the door.

Unexpectedly, I am resolved to look forward, not backward, to a life without John. To grow old alone waiting for the time when, once again, we can be together again forever. What would one of the psycharists that the girls threatened me with say, if they knew I was harboring such maudlin thoughts? Would they think I was suicidal? Would they want to lock me away, for my sake? Would they want to put me on zombie pills to go through my days floating in la-la land like a cloud lazily floating over the gulf? The only way to avoid this fate is to get command of my life, at least to all outward appearances.

The girls will find a new mother when they return tonight. There are issues that I will have to come to grips with today, to develop answers that will seem credible. The pails of coins can be explained for exactly what they are. The girls are grown up. They can understand us saving the coinage out of our pockets each time we had sex to pay for the Caribbean Cruise we never had or the honeymoon we missed.

The real issue is how am I going to explain the gold Kruggerrand that sits on the top of the pail on his side of the bed. Obviously, they are going to know it was for some special sexual favor. What can I offer that will sidetrack them from the real reason. Not only will that Kruggerrand have to be cashed in, but 19 more I found in his dresser.

It is clear that he intended to take our sex life down a totally different path and he had planned it out. How can I hide his intentions and the fact that his plans so excited me that it has contributed to my inability to come to grips with his untimely death?