I rang the doorbell and waited a long time for the woman — Mona, her name was Mona — to answer. She was scrawny, thin-haired, dark for a white woman. At least eighty years old. Maybe ninety. Maybe older than that. I did the math. Geronimo was still alive when this woman was born. An old raven, I thought. No, too small to be a raven. She was a starling.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi, Mona,” I said. “I’m from the Spokesman; we talked on the phone.”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes, please come in.”
I followed her inside into the living room. She slowly, painfully, sat on a wooden chair. She was too weak and frail to lower herself into a soft chair, I guess. I sat on her couch. I looked around the room and realized that every piece of furniture, every painting, every knickknack and candlestick, was older than me. Most of the stuff was probably older than my parents. I saw photographs of Mona, a man I assumed was her husband, and five or six children, and a few dozen grandchildren. Her children and grandchildren, I guess. Damn, her children were older than my parents. Her grandchildren were older than me.
“You have a nice house,” I said.
“My husband and I lived here for sixty years. We raised five children here.”
“Where are your children now?”
“Oh, they live all over the country. But they’re all flying in tonight and tomorrow for the funeral. They loved their father. Do you love your father?”
My father was a drunken liar.
“Yes,” I said. “I love him very much.”
“That’s good, you’re a good son. A very good son.”
She smiled at me. I realized she’d forgotten why I was there.
“Ma’am, about the obituary and the photograph?”
“Yes?” she said, still confused.
“We need them, the obituary you wrote for your husband, and his photograph?”
And then she remembered.
“Oh, yes, oh, yes, I have them right here in my pocket.”
She handed me the photograph and the obit. And yes, it was clumsily written and mercifully short. The man in the photograph was quite handsome. A soldier in uniform. Black hair, blue eyes. I wondered if his portrait had been taken before or after he’d killed somebody.
“My husband was a looker, wasn’t he?” she asked.
“Yes, very much so.”
“I couldn’t decide which photograph to give you. I mean, I thought I might give you a more recent one. To show you what he looks like now. He’s still very handsome. But then I thought, No, let’s find the most beautiful picture of them all. Let the world see my husband at his best. Don’t you think that’s romantic?”
“Yes, you must have loved him very much,” I said.
“Oh, yes, he was ninety percent perfect. Nobody’s all perfect, of course. But he was close, he was very close.”
Her sentiment was brutal.
“Listen, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I have to get these photographs back to the newspaper if they’re going to run on time.”
“Oh, don’t worry, young man, there’s no rush.”
Now I was confused. “But I thought the funeral was tomorrow?” I asked.
“Oh, no, silly, I buried my husband six months ago. In Veterans’ Cemetery. He was at D-Day.”
“And your children?”
“Oh, they were here for the funeral, but they went away.”
But she looked around the room as if she could still see her kids. Or maybe she was remembering them as they had been, the children who’d indiscriminately filled the house and then, just as indiscriminately, had moved away and into their own houses. Or maybe everything was ghosts, ghosts, ghosts. She scared me. Maybe this house was lousy with ghosts. I was afraid that Lois’s ghost was going to touch me on the shoulder and gently correct my errors.
“Mona, are you alone here?” I asked. I didn’t want to know the answer.
“No, no — well, yes, I suppose. But my Henry, he’s buried in the backyard.”
“Henry?”
“My cat. Oh, my beloved cat.”
And then she told me about Henry and his death. The poor cat, just as widowed as Mona, had fallen into a depression after her husband’s death. Cat and wife mourned together.
“You know,” she said. “I read once that grief can cause cancer. I think it’s true. At least, it’s true for cats. Because that’s what my Henry had, cancer of the blood. Cats get it all the time. They see a lot of death, they do.”
And so she, dependent on the veterinarian’s kindness and charity, had arranged for her Henry to be put down.
“What’s that big word for killing cats?” she asked me.
“Euthanasia,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s the word. It’s kind of a pretty word, isn’t it? It sounds pretty, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Such a pretty word for such a sad and lonely thing,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“You can name your daughter Euthanasia and nobody would even notice if they didn’t know what the word meant.”
“I suppose,” I said.
“My cat was too sick to live,” Mona said.
And then she told me how she’d held Henry as the vet injected him with the death shot. And, oh, how she cried when Henry’s heart and breath slowed and stopped. He was gone, gone, gone. And so she brought him home, carried him into the backyard, and laid him beside the hole she’d paid a neighbor boy to dig. That neighbor boy was probably fifty years old.
“I prayed for a long time,” she said. “I wanted God to know that my cat deserved to be in Heaven. And I didn’t want Henry to be in cat heaven. Not at all. I wanted Henry to go find my husband. I want them both to be waiting for me.”
And so she prayed for hours. Who can tell the exact time at such moments? And then she kneeled beside her cat. And that was painful because her knees were so old, so used — like the ancient sedan in the garage — and she pushed her Henry into the grave and poured salt over him.
“I read once,” she said, “that the Egyptians used to cover dead bodies with salt. It helps people get to Heaven quicker. That’s what I read.”
When she poured the salt on her cat, a few grains dropped and burned in his eyes.
“And let me tell you,” she said. “I almost fell in that grave when my Henry meowed. Just a little one. I barely heard it. But it was there. I put my hand on his chest and his little heart was beating. Just barely. But it was beating. I couldn’t believe it. The salt brought him back to life.”
Shit, I thought, the damn vet hadn’t injected enough death juice into the cat. Shit, shit, shit.
“Oh, that’s awful,” I said.
“No, I was happy. My cat was alive. Because of the salt. So I called my doctor—”
“You mean you called the vet?”
“No, I called my doctor, Ed Marashi, and I told him that it was a miracle, that the salt brought Henry back to life.”
I wanted to scream at her senile hope. I wanted to run to Lois’s grave and cover her with salt so she’d rise, replace me, and be forced to hear this story. This was her job; this was her responsibility.
“And let me tell you,” the old woman said. “My doctor was amazed, too, so he said he’d call the vet and they’d both be over, and it wasn’t too long before they were both in my home. Imagine! Two doctors on a house call. That doesn’t happen anymore, does it?”
It happens when two graceful men want to help a fragile and finite woman.
And so she told me that the doctors went to work on the cat. And, oh, how they tried to bring him back all the way, but there just wasn’t enough salt in the world to make it happen. So the doctors helped her sing and pray and bury her Henry. And, oh, yes — Dr. Marashi had sworn to her that he’d tried to help her husband with salt.