Mary and Alvin Ch. 06

Alvin waited ten anxious minutes for Charlotte's school bus, then scooped the girls into his car and rushed to the hospital. Diana was already there when he arrived. They sat, side by side, each cuddling a child in their lap, waiting for news. Tim was out of touch, somewhere in the woods.

It was almost an hour before Bonnie emerged. Both girls ran to their mother, anxious but unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Bonnie herded them into seats, then beckoned Alvin and Diana out of their earshot.

"Hannah has had a pretty serious infarction, a heart attack. She's stable. They are prepping to take her up to Bangor. It's going to take a while to assess how much permanent damage there is to her heart muscles." She paused, put her hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes tight. Alvin put his arm around her, and Diana stroked her arm.

"You guys," Bonnie continued, "She knew she was having a heart attack and she got in her car and drove herself here."

"Jeezum crow," Alvin muttered. He was shocked, but also a bit proud of his mother. What a tough old gal, he thought.

When Hannah was ready to be transported to Bangor, Diana went with her. Alvin took the girls home, fed them and put them to bed. When Bonnie finished her shift, he drove to Bangor and spent the night sitting with his sister at his mother's bedside.

Hannah was moved to hospice care a week later. She was gaining strength daily, but it was unclear when, or how much, she'd be able to take care of herself again.

On Halloween, Alvin took his daughters trick or treating, while Bonnie stayed home to pass out candy. The girls were dressed in matching kitten costumes their mother had sewn for them. Jennifer did not last long, and when they came home, she was fast asleep in her father's arms.

Bonnie was sitting on the porch as Alvin and the girls came up the walk. Charlotte excitedly showed her mother her bounty while Alvin carried Jennifer in to bed. Bonnie was helping Charlotte sort her candy when he returned. He sat down with them as a pair of Jedi Knights ran up to the porch to get their treats.

"Get many kids?" Alvin asked.

"A good few," Bonnie answered, "just stragglers now."

Alvin dipped into the candy bowl and came up with a Snickers bar. "Getting wicked chilly. Time to call it a night?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said. She stroked Charlotte's head. "Go get into your jammies, kitty cat."

When Charlotte was inside, Bonnie turned to Alvin.

"Your Mom should be able to go home in a few days."

"Yes, that's great," he said, munching his candy.

She frowned. "No, honey, it's not."

"How do you mean?"

"She can't take care of herself. And even if she could, it's dangerous for someone in her situation to live alone."

"Well, what can we do? We don't have room for her, and neither do Di and Dan. And god knows, she can't live with Tim."

"It's pretty obvious when you think about it, Alvin."

He shook his head, held out the candy bowl to a princess and waved to her mother, waiting on the sidewalk.

"He aren't moving out to the farm," he said.

"Give me one good reason why not?"

"Because you don't want to live there. I suggested it when we got married. You hated the notion."

Bonnie was quiet for a minute. "No woman wants to live in another woman's house," she said at last, "but the situation has changed."

"You already told her we would, didn't you?" he asked her.

"Of course." She took his hand. "It's what people do, honey. It's what families do."

"Well, alright then." He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "I love you, Bonnie Pierce."

"I do want one thing, Alvin."

"Anything, baby."

"All that land out there, I want a big, big garden."

"You got it, sweetheart." He stood up and held out his hand. She took it and rose beside him. She gave him a kiss, then looked over his shoulder. "One more straggler," she said, "I'll go in and get Charlotte ready for bed."

The little boy in the Batman costume saw the couple kiss and walked past their house.

"Hey, Bub," Alvin called as Bonnie went inside. The boy turned. "Yeah, Bruce Wayne, come here."

Alvin looked into the bowl. There were a dozen candy bars left. The boy walked over and held his bag open. Alvin dumped the bowl into it.

"Thanks, mister!" the boy exclaimed.

"Nah, Bub, thank you for keeping the neighborhood safe," he said, and went inside.

They moved into the farmhouse and Alvin kept his promise. Over the winter, as Hannah and Bonnie worked out an arrangement on sharing the house, he worked on the old tractor that had sat idle in the barn for years. He had it running by spring, and when the ground thawed, he turned the soil on a patch of pasture near the barn and furrowed it into long neat rows.

The garden became Bonnie's special place. She loved her job, but it was often stressful and coming home to nurture her vegetables gave her a sense of peace. It was nursing of another kind, she supposed. When she put the first fruits of her labor on her family's dinner plates, she was filled with pride.

The next year, Alvin and Tim built a swing set near the garden, for Charlotte and Jennifer to play on while their mother tended her plants. She added a row of bean poles that year and joined the Londonderry Garden Club. Early in the fall, Charlotte ran into the house, excitedly shouting that there were deer in the yard. Bonnie rushed out to chase them away, but they had already eaten half her beans. Before the next spring, Alvin had enclosed the garden with a high picket fence.

The seasons passed. Londonderry was growing as a tourist destination as other towns along the coast became more crowded and expensive. Business at the wharf was very good. Bonnie was busier than ever as well. Her work with the Garden Club led to appointment to the Parks Committee. She and Alvin both became very involved with the PTA once both of their girls were in school. During the summers, they were so busy it seemed like they rarely saw each other, but when the snow came, they would have time together and every year, they renewed the bond between them.

Charlotte and Jennifer were growing, developing their distinct personalities. Charlotte was serious, her nose always in a book. Jennifer was happier outdoors, playing in the fields or wandering in the woods. Bonnie missed the days when they would play by her side as she weeded or sowed. Alvin would come to the garden, to bring her an ice tea or just to sit with her in the quiet of the evening, but she was happy for some solitude, with no worries about the patient fighting sepsis or Charlotte's discovery of boys or Jennifer's struggle with math or Hannah's latest complaint. She had gone from her father's home to her husband's. The garden was her place, and hers alone.

On an unseasonably hot day in September, Alvin came home for lunch. It was a Tuesday, and his mother would be at physical therapy. Jennifer would not be home from school for a couple of hours. Charlotte, in middle school now, would be even later. He was looking forward to a rare chance to spend some time with Bonnie, just the two of them. The passion remained in their love, but the opportunities to express it had grown rare.

The house was quiet. That was not surprising. Bonnie was probably in her garden. The pantry was filled with jars of dilly beans and stewed tomatoes, and more were coming. As he passed through the kitchen he could see a stack of zucchinis on the counter and on the table a basket overflowed with ripe red peppers.

He walked out through the mud room and around the barn.

"Bonnie?" he called, "you out here, honey?"

The garden gate was open, the little wagon she used to tote her tools parked beside it. He stepped into the garden, but did not see her. Her car was in the back house, so she had to be around somewhere. He turned to leave the garden when a flash of color caught his eye. He walked past the rows of broccoli and cabbage and saw it again, a patch of yellow through the green. Then he saw her. She was lying, face down, between the rows of tomatoes. It was her bright yellow shirt he had noticed.

For a few seconds his mind was blank. What he saw made no sense. Why would his wife be lying in the dirt, in the hot sun? Why wasn't she moving?

He rushed to her and fell to his knees beside her.

"Bonnie?"

He kept repeating it, over and over.

"Bonnie? Bonnie?"

He said it as he turned her over. He said it as he saw the line of blood beneath her nose and the dirt on the side of her face.

He said it again and again, until the awful realization overtook him, that she was not breathing, that her heart was not beating.

He knew he had to call the police, an ambulance, her father. But she was in his arms and he could not let her go. He thought that he would sit there and hold her, until the sun went down and after it rose again, he would sit there and hold her until the snow came and covered them and they could be together again.

But he thought of Jennifer, and of Charlotte. They would be home soon.They could not see their mother like this. They could not see their father as he was either. They would need him to be strong, to be in control, to be able, somehow, to tell them the the world had not ended. He pulled his shirt over his head and folded it into a pillow. Gently, he laid Bonnie's head on it, and went into the house to make his calls.

"An aneurysm," Alvin told Mary. "No way to know how long it was there, just waiting to rupture. She had headaches sometimes, but nothing we thought to worry about. Then it just popped and she was gone."

His face was wet with tears. He felt drained, but somehow lighter. In all the years since he had lost her, he had never spoken about her so much.

"I've kept you up late," he told Mary, "I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be," she replied, her voice quivering, "don't ever be sorry to be open with me."

"It's really not my way."

"I know. That New England thing."

"Ayuh," he said, with exaggeration.

"Go to sleep, you sweet man." She wanted to go to him, take him in her arms, cradle his head. But she already knew him well enough to understand that he wanted to spend the minutes before he slept alone with his thoughts.

Something startled Mary from her sleep. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was. It was just beginning to get light outside. The rain had stopped. She sat up, picked up her phone from the end table, and turned off the alarm.

She heard it again, the sound that had awakened her. It was a long, mournful cry. Her first thought was that it was the cat, but Angus was curled up in the rocking chair.

It came again,and she thought it sounded like a person, a woman, crying in sorrow. She went to Alvin and tapped his shoulder.

"Alvin. Alvin, wake up."

Alvin opened his eyes and saw Mary standing over him. He started to smile, but even in the dim light he could see the look of distress on her face.

'What's the matter, honey?" he asked.

"I think there is somebody outside. It sounds like they are crying."

Alvin listened, and the cry came again.

"It's just the loons, sweetheart. Over on the pond." He took Mary's hand and pulled her down to him. She crawled onto his lap and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Now I feel foolish," she muttered.

"You're not a fool, you're just a flatlander."

She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder and a kiss on his forehead.

"I ought to go home and get ready for work," she said, climbing from Alvin's lap.

"Yes, I could use a early start too. Ought to be a busy day if the weather's turned fine."

Mary went upstairs to freshen up and dress. At the top of the stairs she stopped and stared at the half open bedroom door. In the distance, the loon cried again. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Alvin had coffee and toast and jam ready for her when she came back down.

"I look a mess," Mary said as they ate.

"A fine mess, If I'm asked," he replied.

"Alvin, I know that it wasn't easy for you to talk about Bonnie. Thank you."

He looked into his cup. "Well, I'm sorry you had to sleep on the couch."

They finished their coffee and Mary got ready to leave. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to town?" she asked.

"I can drive the pick up in."

He walked her to her car. The sun had topped the horizon and the morning was bright and clear. When they had arrived, the gloom and drizzle had obscured the view, but now Mary saw that the long, open meadow was awash with lupines and Queen Anne's Lace.

"I'll call you later," Alvin said.

Mary put her hands on his shoulders. "You know what? Don't. Take the day for yourself. Call me tomorrow."

Alvin nodded. "Alright, tomorrow." He kissed her and she got in the car. She turned around and headed down the driveway, splashing through puddles all the way.

He watched until she reached the road, then he turned and walked through the wet grass, around the side of the barn. One side of the picket fence had fallen over and lay in a tangle of weeds. The other three looked like they might soon join it. The latch on the gate was rusty, but opened easily enough. He stepped into Bonnie's garden for the first time in years. The bean poles still leaned in their row, and here and there a stake still marked the spot where one of her beloved tomato plants had grown.

Slowly, hesitantly, he crossed the garden and stood before the spot where she had lain. He dropped to his knee and reached forward with one trembling hand. He pressed his palm into the earth and closed his eyes against the tears. A gust of wind blew through the nearby trees, shaking loose a shower of rainwater. As the drops pattered against the ground, Alvin imagined it was the sound of departing footsteps.