Prologue

Ready for work, I walk into the spare bedroom where the man I have been married to for thirty-one years is ironing his shirt.  In a hurry, I lean over the ironing board, kiss him lightly and say, “I’m late.  Gotta go!  See you tonight.”

He smiles and answers back, “Ok.  I’ll see you later.  Have a good day.”

The daycare where I’m working on this dreary December Monday is noisy.  The children are filled with early morning exuberance hoping to have a few more minutes of fun before the buses arrive to take them to their designated schools.

“Mrs. Summit!  Mrs. Summit! Can you play cards with us?”

Their voices come in unison as if one. The ten or twelve freshly scrubbed first-grade faces encircle me and tug on my sleeve, pleading for the chance to beat me one more time.

It is early and mornings are difficult.  Low-blood sugar has plagued me since I was a teenager.  It will be a while longer before my body processes the bagel I hastily ate and clears the groggy, fuzzy feeling from my head. 

Closing my eyes for an instant, I imagine myself back in my own warm, comfy bed, snuggled up close to Kenny, and wish they would all go away, but I answer, “I’m going to win this time.”

Contrary to what I tell them, I know winning is not in my plan today and begin intentionally discarding the wrong cards. 

I watch with pleasure as the game comes to an end and one of the children, who has never won before, jumps up and down excited to have beaten me.

 The kindergartners finish breakfast, return to my room, and join in singing Christmas carols.  Giggles and laughter break out as the words for “The Twelve Days of Christmas” are forgotten and “seven swans-a-swimming” become “five geese–a-laying two golden rings.”

Looking down at my watch, I realize it is time to bring them back to the main classroom and help get everyone ready to leave. 

I take in a deep breath and prepare for the most hectic time of the morning as the other aides and I scurry about trying to find coats, gloves and scarves for thirty children, get them to slow down long enough to join their appropriate lines and shuffle them out to their buses. 

The last group is finally on its way. The hallways are incredibly silent and in that quiet I remember that Kenny said he might be flying in the company plane to some air force base down south.  Turning to Angela, the daycare coordinator, I voice concern, “I really wish Kenny wouldn’t fly today.  I have this feeling; I don’t know what it is.  I’m hoping he doesn’t have to go.”

“I’m sure it will be all right, Jean.”

Persistent, strange feelings have plagued me for over two weeks, and the thought that Kenny might fly today brings that uneasiness to the surface again. I push the feeling aside recognizing it is time to leave for my mother’s house, if I expect to be back at the daycare by two-thirty to help get the kids off the buses.

As I get into the car, I wonder, What am I doing still working part-time in a daycare program?

A year ago I was a shining star at Saint Joseph’s College in Patchogue, New York, about to graduate Summa Cum Laude and expecting to be building my own business or working in a salaried job.  It does not seem possible that it has taken me so long to figure things out.

Fear was the real reason I decided against going to college right after high school.  It did not matter that I had the academic qualifications and a family willing to send me.  The fear of failing worked on my lack of self-confidence making it easy to listen and accept what most people were saying in 1961, “Sending a girl to college is a waste of money.  In a few years she’ll get married and have children.  What good is a college education then?”

As the years went by, I spoke so often about wanting to go to college that Kenny and my two children, Lisa and Christopher, finally said, “We’re tired of hearing you talk about it.  Put up or shut up.  Go or stop saying it!”

“But I’ll be fifty-one when I graduate.” I responded defensively.

“Won’t you be fifty-one anyway, if you don’t go?” Kenny asked.

The day finally came when I summoned the courage, stepped beyond the fear and enrolled as a part-time non-traditional student.  But the fear refused to release its control and convinced me that one four-credit class was all I could handle.  As my confidence grew, so did my classes.  Four years later I was taking eighteen credits and working on a thesis. 

Graduation brought the reality that while college offers an education, it does not provide a job.   When Angela approached me about working at the daycare in the school my children had attended, I agreed, thinking, It will give me the flexibility to go on interviews and make some money until I find the job I want.

Silently I acknowledge, I’m definitely a late bloomer!  I put on the turn signal and merge into the two-lane highway unaware of the approaching traffic.  As I think about being president of the Adult Student Club, having participated in the Harvard College Mock United Nations and being selected for Who’s Who Among Students in American Universities & Colleges, I wonder why it is eighteen months later and I still have not created or found my dream job.  These thoughts intermingle and occupy my mind on the 45-minute drive to Massapequa, New York.

Pulling into Mom’s driveway I see the doors of the two-and-a-half car garage tightly shut.  I’m reminded of a time when they were wide open and my father stood inside working on a household project.  Instead of getting out of the car, I linger for a few moments thinking about the way he would smile, turn off his power tool and walk out to greet me. 

Looking across the yard I remember the happy times spent there playing with my younger brother and sister.  I see the fountain on the side of the house with the statue of a young boy holding an umbrella over a little girl.  I remember watching the water dripping down from the umbrella into the large ceramic bowl beneath to be caught and circulated back. Though the fountain remains, its water no longer flows. 

The small cement donkey pulling a wagon sits in the back flowerbed near the leprechaun whose paint has begun to peel.  An image of the day Dad painted the mischievous elf from head to toe in the sickening chartreuse color comes to mind.  It’s as if I can hear him saying, “What do you mean it’s ugly?  Just stand back and look at it.  You’ll see it’s perfect.”

 I resisted the urge to tell him that whatever paint he had leftover in the garage was always the perfect color.

A sigh relieves the heaviness in my chest.   It’s only been five months since his death, and my heart hurts thinking about how much I miss him: his huge Italian hands that seemed more like mitts; his Irish looking face that always looked sunburned because of working many years as a longshoreman on the docks of New York; his gruff exterior totally incapable of expressing the deep feelings he concealed within. 

Just a few weeks ago the missing and sadness turned to anger and I told Kenny, “I’ve come to the conclusion, we die, we’re buried and it’s over!  There’s nothing else!”

“Don’t become a bitter, old woman, Jean!” 

It was such a strange thing for him to say that I thought, Why would I become a bitter old woman?  He’ll be here to make sure that won’t happen.  Suddenly, I wonder again whether Kenny has flown; uneasiness returns.

In spite of the disquieting sensation, my conscious mind does not remember the ominous feeling I had two weeks ago after being jolted awake from a dream that Kenny had died.  Nor does it recall the rigidness in my body when he held me close and said, “Everything is fine.  Don’t worry; nothing is going to happen to me.”

Those memories are locked deep within my subconscious along with the reoccurring dream I’ve had for over a year. In the dream I’m suspended in mid-air, with my feet dangling, and some force is moving me without the use of my body.  Despite the darkness I’m able to see, and I comb the universe for the answer to an unknown question.  Often I awake with my hand tightly clenched, believing the answer is locked within, only to find it gone, when I release my hold.   I search again and again sensing the message is concealed in the cosmos; still it refuses to reveal itself.

Over the past two weeks odd thoughts have popped into my head.  A “Do It Yourself” sign in Home Depot caused me to wonder, What would I do if something happened to Kenny?  Who would I turn to?  How would I survive? 

I shook my head to clear the thoughts but still wondered, What’s the matter with you?  Are you...