ìMichael, I need to show you something.î

I was cutting through the yard of my elderly neighbor, Dolly, on my way to the protected wetlands project, and listening to her slapping her hands together, shouting, ìPumpkin, Pumpkin, here Pumpkin.î The neighborhood chuckles when it hears her calling her cat, but Dolly swears Pumpkin comes. Diane swears, itís not often right away. Incidentally, her cat had a crush on Skunk (our cat) and even now, over a year since he died, Pumpkin will sit in the yard staring, waiting for Skunk to come out and play.

ìSure, Dolly, whatís up?î

ìYou asked what Smitty did for a living and I want to show you.î

I walked up the three worn steps of her porch, and into her kitchen, which other than wear, looks just as it did when the house was built in the early fifties. Pink Formica counters, banded in Desoto-like chrome, impossibly soft vinyl on the floor, that gives back to your footfall. Dolly continued into her living room where we both sat, next to a coffee table with photos of her blonde, stunningly attractive daughter, Debbie, and Debbieís daughter, Tory. No pictures of Smitty, her husband.

ìSmitty painted story boards,î Dolly said as she reached into a shopping bag full of foam core backed, watercolor illustrations.. She handed me one, then, pushed the entire bag at my feet. ìYou can have as many as you want. Take them all.î

I was still trying to remember what a story board was as I looked at the same hand that had drawn the picture of Matt, Tulum and me. Oh, yeah, advertising. His illustrated themes were then translated into glossy magazine advertisements.

ìYou donít want to give them all to me.î

ìSure, I donít need them.î

ìDolly, Iíd love to have these three.î I held them up so she could see which ones, ìbut I canít take them all. Theyíll get lost in my attic and no one will see them.î

ìNo one sees them here, either.î

After posting Smitty’s illustration of Matt climbing the ladder, I tried to remember the exact date he died. Not out of morbid curiosity, but to help me determine how old Matt was. So I asked Dolly,

ìDolly, when did Smitty die?î

ìSeven years ago?î

ìSeven…no, Dolly, it was longer ago than that. It must have been eleven,
maybe twelve.î

ìIt wasnít that long ago, was it.?î

ìDolly, you donít know when Smitty died?î

Kind of a cruel question, I realized too late, but Iím perhaps too accustomed to my motherís impeccable memory. Besides, I thought widows marked their lives by the passing of their husbandsí.

ìNo, honest and truly, I donít.î Dolly uses ìhonest and truly ,î as often as Flo, ìOh, dear God.î Dolly stood up and walked upstairs, perhaps to the same room she keeps the story boards, and returned with Smittyís newspaper obit, sealed in plastic.

Dolly handed it to me and said, ìYou read it, I donít have my glasses.î

July 3rd, 1993

ìTen years ago, Dolly.î

ìIt was that long ago?î

---

On my last day in the wetlands, after which I could return to wearing colors that didnít match the marsh grasses, I was again taking a short cut through Dollyís yard when she came out of her house to ask:

ìMichael, I might be going to Pennsylvania, can you watch my basement? I donít like to go that far, but I should see my granddaughter.î She meant great granddaughter.

ìSure, you mean your sump pump.î Dolly keeps close track of the water in her sump pump hole, no matter how often I tell her the pump will do its job.

ìNo, the basement.î

ìSure, when are you going?î

ìThe end of the month. Or next month. I hate going that far, six hours on the plane.î

ìPennsylvania?î

ìPhoenix. It wasnít so bad when they lived in Pennsylvania. And Michael, you know I do think about Smitty.î

I didnít have time to apologize, or tell her I wasnít suggesting that she didnít think about her husband.

ìSometimes, when Iím falling asleep in front of the TV, Iíll call out, ëSmitty, tell those men to go home!í ì

Maybe I keep Dolly on her toes, but she does the same for me. I didnít want to sound like I didnít know what she was talking about, so I answered, ìLike his card playing friends were staying too late.î

Dolly looked at me quizzically. ìNo, you know,î and she put her fingers to lips, feeling the bump her doctor told her not to worry about, “Iíll be falling asleep and shout, ‘Smitty, tell those men to go home. ‘ î

---

Diane and I were talking about Dolly, and she was wondering why I would expect her to remember when Smitty died. I again said, because I thought that would become some kind of milestone. Women would count the years their spouse had been gone. I told her Ms Cass didnít know how long she had been married before her husband had died. In the hall, after class, she had said ìForty-seven, or forty-four.î Then she began to do the addition from the wedding date.

Diane – ìHow long have we been married?î

Me – ìHow long? Thatís not the point, Iím a guy.î Flustered, I continued, ìBut, I could figure it out. We were married in 1983, so thatís twenty years. Look, I donít know why I assume women keep track of these things, I just know they do, and when I hear otherwise, it confounds me.î I continued to blab on, and Diane sat patiently in the cane chair in front of our sliding kitchen doors, until finally she interrupted,

ìWe werenít married in 1983.î

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