Stone Lilies

by Rachel Lazansky-Weast

The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen, jolting Mr. Humphrey out of a deep sleep. He whipped his withered neck around as far to the left as it would go, muttering, "Martha? That you Martha?" His skin ached. He felt as though his bones were made of broken glass as he pushed himself into a sitting position on the couch. "God damned arthritis," he grumbled, licking his dry lips. "Martha?" With his bony hands he felt around on the floor for his cane. Putting all his weight on it, he pulled himself to his feet, his hunched back cracking. On wobbly feet, he shuffled to the kitchen doorway. The sink was empty, a lone plate sitting in the dish rack. He chuckled to himself, "Martha, you tricky bastard." The laugh became rough, phlegm filled his throat and he began to hack. He reached for the refrigerator door, grabbing the nearest drink in sight. The sour cranberry juice cooled his searing throat, and he gulped gratefully.

A dark flash crossed the living room. Mr. Humphrey turned just in time to see it pass the doorway out into the hall leading to the front door. The juice fell to the ground with a thud. Red liquid seeped across the linoleum floor and between the cracks near the wall. There was a loud slamming sound in Mr. Humphrey's ears. "Martha?" He poked his balding head around the door, wisps of white hair flying out on either side behind his ears. There was nothing in the hall save the old rotary telephone sitting on a mahogany table.

Martha had insisted on buying the table on that Saturday afternoon so many decades ago. The wind blew in their faces through the open windows of the Buick, the plates from their picnic earlier that day rattled in the back seat. Various signs whizzed by them, glimpses of GASOLINE AND BAIT and STRAWBERRIES AND LUMBER called out to them. They had just passed a bus stop when Martha yelled out, "Look! Up ahead." Squinting through his thick rimmed glasses, Mr. Humphrey could just make out the YARD SALE sign surrounded by massive piles of clothing and tables flooded with someone's old junk. “We have to stop and look,” Martha demanded. She had always been a sucker for yard sales. Any type of sale really, now that he thought about it. Mr. Humphrey had never liked to shop with her.

The thought suddenly came to him. She must have gone grocery shopping. “Yes, that’s it. To the store!” he said aloud.

He left the spilled juice on the floor to evaporate or sink in. He liked how the puddle looked as it leaked slowly across the kitchen. Its slow crawl reminded him of getting old. He hurried down the dark corridor, trying to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck that he felt every time he walked down that hall. There’s something about that damn hallway, he thought as he shut the front door behind him. Ought to have it remodeled.

The cold air hit Mr. Humphrey with a shock as he stepped out onto the city street. He glanced left, then right, and began to slump down the filthy sidewalk. Piles of garbage were stacked up on either side of the street, awaiting pick up. As he turned onto Second Avenue, the streetlights swayed and the bare trees stretched their spindly arms after him. The sky loomed above him threateningly. He stumbled on a crack in the ground, and it was then that he realized he was still wearing his slippers and stripped green and white pajama pants.

The walk to the grocery store was a long one, but the ache in his legs was not what bothered Mr. Humphrey. What he couldn’t stand about walking in the city was the constant honking of taxis, the smell of urine that penetrated his nose, and the feeling that he was being followed. He cast his eyes up at the apartment windows above the storefronts with shadows of faces peering out at him, their eyes shiny and menacing. He padded down the sidewalk like an insomniac, not quite awake but constantly aware of a presence lurking behind him. His head jerked from side to side and he could not stop his eyes from darting about. In the dark faces of everyone he passed he saw glimpses of his own demise.

Suddenly the street became unfamiliar. Mr. Humphrey turned around frantically. Skyscrapers rose high above his head, tall, too tall. His journey had become pointless from what he could tell. Can’t seem to recall where I was walking to, he thought. He twisted his wedding band around and around on his finger, muttering to himself. The ring stirred up memories and he shouted to a child passing him, “AHA, Martha!” He grinned, showing his gums. The little boy squealed and ran ahead to his mother.

“Damn kids,” he groused, scratching his belly.

It had been years since Mr. Humphrey had cleaned the ring. Around his finger was a circle of green where the metal had rubbed off, a permanent tattoo of his love for Martha. There had been a time not long ago when the old ring sat in its box on his bedside table, but the pressure of it around his finger stayed with him like a ghost. He was so unnerved by the feeling that he had vowed since then to keep it on at all times.

Mr. Humphrey jerked his head up quickly, just in time to realize he was right in front of the grocery store. On a green overhang read the words ALI’S MARKET. In all the years he had been shopping there, Mr. Humphrey had never once met “Ali”. In fact, he suspected that Ali did not even exist. He did however know the manager of the store, Frank. They had been friendly acquaintances since Mr. Humphrey and Martha had first moved to the city back in ’62. They had eaten dinner together a few times, and Frank had even brought over soup once for Martha when she was sick.

Inside was an arcade of colors and labels, shiny plastic packages and shopping carts. Mr. Humphrey swiveled his head, surveying the scene. To his left a baby screamed in the arms of her father. The high pitch of her wailing sent Mr. Humphrey’s head reeling. His vision began to pulse in and out and the other shoppers seemed to swirl around him in a vortex. He leaned on his cane, swaying. Shopping carts screeched and the booming voice over the intercom asking for cleanup in aisle one became no more than a pounding in his ears.

“I’ll never find her in this waste land,” he muttered under his quickening breath.

From all sides a strange presence appeared to be pressing in on him. Martha’s scent permeated the store, a familiar smell of lilies and musk. He pushed through the dairy section hurriedly, past rows and columns of milk and eggs and cheese. Tearing frantically through a neatly stacked column of paper towels, he stumbled and felt himself careening towards the hard floor, his cane clattering to the ground.

The door swung open and a woman in a brown pea coat blew in with a gust of wind. Her feet smacked the supermarket floor down the aisle with jam and mustard, hundreds of unimaginable condiments. She turned the corner past the toilet paper, just in time for Mr. Humphrey to catch a glimpse of the swish of her gray hair as he plummeted to the floor. Despite the sickening thud of his face against tile, a feeling rose inside his old bones, a thawing of ice within his marrow. This was what he had waited for. From his spot on the ground, he gazed up at her coffee colored face, into the familiar almond eyes lined with wrinkles. Her hair framed her face in a silver halo and her lips seemed to be moving but Mr. Humphrey was deaf to her words.

“Sir, are you okay? Can you get up?” the woman asked in a worried voice. The old man continued to stare at her with an odd look on his face. “Sir?”

“Martha, I knew I’d find you. Come back home Martha.” Mr. Humphrey’s eyes began to water.

“Who? Sir, I don’t know who you think I am,” the woman continued, frowning in confusion and concern.

“Martha! Don’t be ridiculous! Come now, we have to go,” Mr. Humphrey said, coughing a bit as he tried to push himself to his knees. A loud crack! came from his back and he groaned. These old bones will never make it.

“Oh! Wait-just wait there, don’t move now, I’m going to get help.” The woman hustled off to the back of the store. Within seconds Frank, the store manager, came running to where Mr. Humphrey had fallen. His fat face was framed by a thick beard, but his usual smile was absent. In its place was a panic that changed to worry once he saw his old friend crouching on the floor.

“Mr. Humphrey, you alright? Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you up,” Frank assured him.

“Frank! No, you don’t understand, I came here for Martha!” He swiveled his head around frantically. “No, wait, she was just here a second ago! Frank, you know where she went, don’t you? Please, you have to go get her. We have to go home now.”

“Shhh, Mr. Humphrey, calm down. Lets get you up,” Frank said, grabbing him gently under each arm and pulling Mr. Humphrey to his feet. He clutched the big man, unaware of the reek of body odor that clung to his extra large white T-shirt.

“Frank, I need your help. She’s ill and shouldn’t be out in this cold weather.” Mr. Humphrey’s eyes were bulging. A single drop of sweat hung for dear life from the tip of his nose, trembling while he spoke. “Please, I don’t want to lose her again.” His breath had grown rapid and sweat beads were forming above his upper lip.

Frank’s brows furrowed and his mouth hung open slightly revealing large, uneven, yellowing teeth. “Now Mr. Humphrey…” he began, his gaze fixed on Mr. Humphrey’s ragged pajama covered frame. He looked more tired than ever. “You been getting enough rest? Eating enough?”

Mr. Humphrey coughed and waved his hand as if to swat the questions away. “Frank, I just saw her, she was here a second ago! I just saw her, she went to get you!”

“Mr. Humphrey, that wasn’t…” Frank began. His chest swelled up, his lungs filling with the stale air in the store. He let out a huge sigh and said, “She’s not here. C’mon Mr. Humphrey, I’ll take you to her. I’m off work in half an hour, so you just stay put here while I finish up and then I’ll drive you to see her.”

“Where’d she go Frank? I have to know! You can’t expect me to wait here while she escapes again,” Mr. Humphrey responded. He could feel his senses shifting again, and he cowered back against the shelves as Frank’s face turned red and began to glow. “Okay, okay, okay!” The words escaped Mr. Humphrey’s lips and he shut his eyes to block out the devil in front of him.

. . .

The clank and screech of the breaks were not reassuring as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge in Frank’s rusty white pick up truck. The wind whipped loudly around them, blowing the small truck around on the road, but inside the cab was eerily quiet. Mr. Humphrey had no idea where he was being taken, but only hoped Frank knew where Martha was.

“How could she have gotten out here so soon, Frank?” Mr. Humphrey asked. She doesn’t even know how to drive.

Frank shot the old man a look that said, don’t ask any more questions, so he shut his mouth.

“It’s not what you think, you know. Don’t worry, okay?” Frank looked back at him, his eyes more sensitive this time.

Mr. Humphrey nodded. He trusted Frank.

They turned down a narrow road off the main street. Up ahead on a grassy hill tomb stones and crosses burst from the earth like lilies, white and cold, still as death. The truck stopped in front of the steel fence rising high above their heads and they got out.

“C’mon, this way,” Frank said, urging him forward.

Mr. Humphrey walked across the frozen ground in a dream, an uneasy feeling sinking through his skin. The crunch of icy grass brought images of coffins and a deep, dark, empty abyss. They were almost too foggy to be memories, but far too clear to exist only in his mind.

Frank’s large boots crunched and crackled past each headstone. Some were small and plain, others tall, thick hunks of rock, solid. The farther they climbed up the hill, the bigger the markers seemed to grow. About half way up, Frank made a sharp left down a row of graves. He slowed and stopped, facing a small white cross, stuck in the ground at the end of the row. Mr. Humphrey’s heart raced, a heavy, pounding weight in his chest as he read the plaque.

Martha Adele Humphrey

June 8, 1921~ November 20, 2004

Rest In Peace

He squinted, trying to block the stream of flashbacks behind his eyes. Black suits, muddy dress shoes, priests, gardenias, and that lifeless wooden box. A deep, aching pain for the loss of his soul mate struck through Mr. Humphrey’s worn body. It crept up from within his ribs, grabbing his lungs, racing through his trachea and shooting from his mouth, a pouring, swelling uproar of crippling grief. His mouth opened and a choked sound escaped his trembling lips, the cry of a tortured prisoner.

“I’m so sorry I had to bring you here, Buddy, believe me,” Frank began, standing back awkwardly.

Mr. Humphrey had begun to shake. In a flash, he was back at Martha’s bedside. A cloaked priest was reciting the Lord’s Prayer as Martha’s shaking hand reached out for her last communion.

“…Forgive us our trespasses…we forgive those…against us…lead us not...temptation…deliver us from evil….” The words fell from Mr. Humphrey’s absent lips and clung in the air.

“Mr. Humphrey? Hey, you okay there?” Frank’s voice was anxious.

The old man was on his knees on top of the grave. The icy grass and mud was staining his striped pajama pants, seeping through to bare skin. But all he could see was his lovely Martha, tears pouring silently from her eyes, her bony hands cupped in his.

“Martha,” he had said. “Darling, if you don’t make it through, I can’t keep going with out you. My whole life I’ve loved you, there’s nothing for me if you’re gone….” He had trailed off, his voice shaking too much to go on.

He was sobbing now, on all fours in the muck.

“Oh no, Mr. Humphrey, c’mon, I’m gonna take you home.” Frank knelt down and gently lifted the man’s frail skeleton from his cowered position on the ground. He felt small, light like a bird, the weight of life almost gone from him. Frank carried him down the hill, set him delicately down inside the cab, strapped him in, and started the truck. Bathtubs, razors, lengths of rope, handguns, and balconies spun inside Mr. Humphrey’s head. Utter hopelessness had set in, all will to survive wilting like a petal.

“You know Buddy, you don’t need Martha, you can survive without her. I’ll bet you’ll do alright, and I can arrange to drop by and check up on you every now and again,” Frank consoled. Mr. Humphrey imagined the empty years ahead and his heart sank deeper.

The tires went clank, clank, clank on the pavement as they crossed the bridge. And the solution came to him, his only option. Quietly so as to not draw Frank’s attention, Mr. Humphrey slid his hand down to the seat buckle and pressed the red button.

He took a quavering breath and said, “Frank, thank you for bringing me here today. I know there’s really no one to blame but her illness.” Frank turned his head slightly, giving Mr. Humphrey a half-smile as the breaks screeched and the truck shuttered to a stop at the tollbooth. With that, he pushed the door open, simultaneously throwing off his seatbelt and leaping from the truck. He hit the ground, not hesitating despite the searing pain in his shins, and threw himself toward the railing. He could feel the long drop now, the waiting, the falling, and the freezing plunge into the waters below.