Memorial Day was on Monday, and I had spent too much of Friday morning thinking about my dad. I hadn’t accomplished much: I’d washed my coffee cup and the cats’ breakfast dishes, cleaned the dirty litter, and made the bed. I didn’t think of William E. Moore very much these days, not like the first ten years after his death in 2007 when I thought about him several times a day. Now, it was more like once or twice a week, when I wondered what he would do in a certain situation, or would we ever sell those three acres of land in Ohio he left us.
Well, hopefully, the property was now sold and no longer an albatross we lived with, Memorial Day was coming up, and its approach was stirring up memories of my childhood when my mother and her sisters gathered at our house the day before to create urns of flowers to decorate their parents’ graves. On Memorial Day, we always went to the parade, watched my maternal Uncle Paul ride on the American Legion float, and then went to Woodside Cemetery, where my bored brothers, cousins, and I played among the tombstones while my mother, father, uncles, and aunts decorated graves. My mother and her siblings were all gone now; my brothers and I, and the cousins who still lived were coming to the end of our days, and some days I felt as though my expiration date had happened over a year ago and I was just treading water.
Annabelle and Thatch ran past me with Stella in hot pursuit. I looked up from my reverie, but I didn’t have any inclination to inquire what was going on. I watched them run off to the bathroom. This was followed by the sound of three cats jumping into the bathtub, followed by their laughter before running out into the hall. This time Annabelle and Stella were chased by Thatch, who jumped onto Annabelle’s back, yelled Tag! and ran under the bed.
I laughed to myself, and thought, those three keep me going. Then my thoughts went back to my dad, a dirt-poor Appalachian farm kid with a harsh childhood. His mother ran off with another man when he was twelve, and he remembered standing in the dirt road screaming for her to come back as she drove away with the man who would become her second husband. That was 1933, the end of his childhood. I wondered if that trauma of breaking up a family was what kept my parents together through an awkward marriage or why he was so concerned, knowing the many reasons for a serious breach between one brother and me, that he made several provisions to keep my two brothers and me on civil terms after his death.
Two years after his mother’s departure, his son-of-a-bitch father lied about his age and enrolled him in the Civil Conservation Corps, where the money he earned and sent back to Kentucky was used to pay for his older brother’s college education. He turned twenty exactly one week after Pearl Harbor was attacked and enlisted in the US Navy.
They bred heroes in those days.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. I looted through my travel bag hanging off a bedpost and removed a mask and my cap.
Where are you going? Annabelle asked me.
Just across the street to Holy Trinity. I want to get there and back before it rains.
Why?
It’s going to rain today.
No . . . silly, why are you going to Holy Trinity?
It’s Memorial Day on Monday, and I want to pray for a few people.
This is Memorial Day?
No, it’s Monday, I said, but I really need to pray for them now.
Why?
I don’t know . . . maybe for my own peace of mind.
Who are you praying for?
Oh, it’s a long list: my parents, grandparents, family and friends . . .
Why?
Memorial Day is a time to remember and honor the dead, and I have a few people who are alive that I want to pray for as well.
Are you praying for me?
Or me? Thatch asked. And what about Stella?
I pray for you three every day. You know, you three will most likely outlive me.
I don’t want to hear this, Thatch said.
I’m going to live forever, Annabelle stated.
Oh, Missy, I moaned, don’t start that again.
Well, it’s true, you know; I am.
Well, I’m not, I stated as I put on my cap and opened the door to the apartment. I’ll be back soon. Be good while I’m gone. I do not want to come back and find the police or fire department here.
I pushed the walker into the hall. As the door closed behind me, I heard Annabelle shout, I am going to live forever!
No, you won’t, Thatch responded.
I pushed the walker down the hall to the elevator. The worst part of my leaving or entering the building was dealing with the five steps that led from the lobby floor down to the sidewalk level of the lobby. I folded up the walker and, holding it in my left hand and gripping the railing with my right, eased myself down to the next step. Once secure there, I proceeded to do the same until I reached the bottom.
Damned steps, I thought, we sure could use a ramp here. Or a stair lift.
Once I was out of the building, I could feel the heavy humidity in the air. I crossed 82nd Street and faced more steps from the sidewalk up to Holy Trinity. Oh, Jeez, I thought, I forgot about these.
Inside the church, I settled into a pew in the back. It was cooler inside the church and my sweaty body loved the sensation. There were a few others praying in various parts of the church. After appreciating the coolness of the space, the dim lighting, and the quiet murmurs of those praying for a bit as I watched in the corners of the space the flickering candles at the various shrines, I spent maybe fifteen minutes weeping and praying for those I loved and mourned. Every year the list seemed to get longer, and this year there were two more names.
When I finished praying for the living and the dead, I asked a God I’m still not sure exists to protect Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella until they joined me. I have to go first, I prayed, because losing them will destroy me; just keep them safe and comfortable until their time is up.
I struggled to rise from the pew and, clutching the handles of the walker standing in the aisle, I rose to my feet. As I walked out into the sunlight, I was grateful that I would be home before the rain. The humidity was high, but the temperature could have been much worse.
And home, I thought as I struggled down the steps of the church..
Have you been good while I was out? I asked Thatch, who lay on his cardboard carton on top of the chest of drawers.
I was, I think, he answered.
That’s nice. Where are your sisters?
Renovating Annabelle’s new boudoir.
That Bounty carton of paper towels?
Yes, that one. Remember? She declared it her new boudoir.
Oh, Lord, I thought, why the hell didn’t I empty it and throw it out? Instead, I said, Well, I’m going to check out the situation.
I went back to my storage area, where I could hear Annabelle singing “Whistle While You Work.” A pile of shredded paper towels surrounded the carton. Stella happily rolled around in the mess.
Annabelle! I yelled. Who wants to die?
Annabelle’s head popped up over the edge of the carton. What’s wrong? she asked.
Look at this mess. How many rolls of paper towels died for your sins?
Just one. I needed to keep Stella busy while I hanged my pictures. Lowering her voice, she added, Stella’s really been no help at all, but she tries.
Why isn’t Thatch helping you?
He gave up in disgust. He said I was too bossy. Imagine! Well, if you want it done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself.
You’re hanging pictures?
Look! Doesn’t it look nice?
I looked into the carton. Annabelle had arranged a sleeping area with a small pillow and quilt around several rolls of paper towels. On the sides of the carton she had taped the photos of cats that she had years earlier surreptitiously cut from one of my ASPCA books on cats.
Aren’t those the photos that used to hang in your washtub in the bathroom? I asked.
Yes, but I’ve moved to my summer bungalow now.
You should have come to Holy Trinity with me.
Why?
Well, maybe you could say a prayer for Streetcat Bob.
Poor Bob! I loved him, you know. See? Here’s my favorite photo of him. I like this one, too.
Nice. Now, about this carton.
I plan to be quite happy here for the summer. You know, we stars all have our summer homes.
Until I throw it out, I thought.
You wouldn’t dare! she said.
©2022, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 