Lemmon's Journey

Chapter Four

Lemmon laid his wife to rest the following month at Mulland cemetery. It was a hot Sunday afternoon. A large crowd had unexpectedly turned up for the funeral. He never would have thought Abby had that much love from half the town dwellers and he had been just as overwhelmed seeing much of his neighbors attend the church service with him, not that he’d been aware of sending messages for them to come. Even Sherriff Hank too had shown up with his wife and little girl, looking uncomfortably out of place in his rumpled black suit; it was one of the unlikely times most people had seen him without his uniform. A lot of the older attendants were teary-eyed as some came up to Lemmon and hugged him before shaking his hand, offering condolences.

Abby had a younger brother as her only surviving sibling. Lemmon had related her passing to him weeks back and he’d flown all the way from Chicago where he ran a construction outfit. He and Abby seldom kept in touch, and meeting him again after a long time Lemmon realized he still found her brother’s company distasteful and wasn’t fond of seeing him attend the funeral. His brother in-Law appeared unwilling to bottle his discomfort of being in the presence of his sister, even though she wasn’t alive anymore. They sat beside each other in the front pew, and except for a brief small talk, they kept to themselves. Marley was there with his wife and two sons and they sat behind Lemmon. An organ played a dirge-like note, and then the Reverend assumed command of the service. He too was an old timer who knew just about everyone in Sheffield, young, old, or deceased, and he had a lot of expressive words to say about Abby Grandee before allowing Lemmon approach the podium and say a few words about his wife.

Lemmon took a moment to compose himself before talking. He had written his speech down, though as he unfolded the paper, the words couldn’t to come to his lips. He folded back the sheet of paper and sighed and spoke from his heart. He talked about the first time he’d met Abby: the smile she had given him when he courageously asked her out on a date. He made light humor about being frightened the first time she introduced him to her parents. He shared some anecdotes of the happy times they’d had together, of what a sweet woman she had being. Some of this he had written down on the folded paper. Standing there facing the crowd, it felt hard getting through his speech without stumbling on his emotions that rose to his throat each time he talked. It felt like he could stand there and talk forever and it wouldn’t be enough to tell the world what Abby had meant to him. He repeatedly swiped at his eyes as he concluded by telling the crowd how much he missed her.

It was past noon when Lemmon led the way out of the church. Four young men lifted his wife’s coffin into the back of the hearse and everybody drove to the cemetery where a dug hole waited for her. Lemmon shook with revulsion as they approached it. The sight of the graveyard signaled reality to him, that this would be the last time he ever got to be with Abby. He would never be this close to her ever again. She was about to sink into the earth away from human eyes. Everything he’d done since preparing for her burial the past weeks now rested on this poignant moment.

They walked up a gravel path past the fence, past rows of erected crypts and tombstones and placed the coffin under the shade of a tarpaulin erected beside the gravesite. A strong gust of wind blew around them, adding solemn reverence to the proceeding. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping. The women sat in chairs holding on to their hats while the men looked somber and grave. The Reverend quoted words from his open Bible and threw sand on the coffin. Everyone paid their final respects and laid flowers on the coffin before the pallbearers lowered it into the earth. Lemmon stood there three feet from the gravesite and watched his departed wife sink from view. His friend Marley stood beside him, patting his shoulder.

The procession over, everyone sympathized with him once again before filing out of the cemetery. Lemmon hadn’t seen Abby’s brother and reckoned the bastard had blown his way out of town right after they were done at the church. It felt good knowing he wasn’t going to see the likes of him again. Lemmon shook hands with the Reverend and thanked him for his sermon.

“How’re you doing, Lemmon?” The Reverend enquired.

“I’m doing all right. I’m hanging in there.”

“I know it’s hard, and you have my deepest sympathies. She’s with God now.”

“Yeah, I know.” He wiped a tear from behind his glasses. “Sometimes I wish I was down there with her too. I don’t know what I’ll be now she’s gone.”

Marley came to his side and with Sarah, the three of them walked out of the cemetery. Lemmon steeled himself not to turn and look back at the gravesite, at the hole his wife was sinking into. He recalled the Biblical story of Lot and the consequences that occurred to his wife after they’d fled from Gomorrah and feared that if he made like her right now and turned to look back, he too would become a pillar of salt.

* * *

Lemmon shot up from bed that night screaming his lungs out. It was raining a storm outside with exploding thunder. His room lit momentarily from brilliant flashes of lightning. He sat there on the bed gasping frantically; his eyes hung open with fright. He clutched his chest and felt his heart racing. The nightmare he’d had still played before his eyes. Everything about it so vividly real.

He cried out at the same time jumped in his bed when he heard what sounded like something striking the wall. The sound came from upstairs, and he moaned when he heard it again, afraid of whatever sinister creature now occupied the house with him. Lemmon pushed the bed sheets aside and came down from the bed. He was sweating under his pajamas shirt. He wore his glasses and reached for his folded umbrella from where he usually left it beside a chair and left the bedroom.

The striking sound happened again louder this time, and he flinched as it was followed by another horrid crackle of thunder. He crept up the stairs and peeked in Abby’s studio room. His hand flicked on the light switch and he saw that her easel stand had fallen on the ground and unlikely fallen several of his wife’s finished paintworks. A cold wind blew at him from an open window pane with patters of rain was pouring into the room. The wind was hitting one of her paintings back and forth on the wall where it was wedged, which was responsible for the sound he’d heard downstairs. He dropped his umbrella and firmly shut the window pane. He uprighted his wife’s paintings before leaving the room.

He dropped his umbrella by the foot of the stairs and went to investigate the living room. The French windows there were all closed and so too the curtains. He was justifiably sealed inside the house against the onslaught of rain and the world outside.

Sleep was now the last thing on his mind. Lemmon felt drained returning to bed what with the sound of the rain to keep him awake. He sat on his favorite couch in the darkness of the living room with his glasses resting on his thigh, braving himself to keep calm amidst the persisting thunderclap that crashed with the downpour. The house was as quiet as a cemetery. Eerie shadows danced and settled on the furniture and walls.

He saw Abby in the room with him.

She sat primly on the long sofa across from him in her night dress. A spark of lightning illuminated her features enough for Lemmon to observe she was smiling at him. Death hadn’t yet rotted away her beauty.

There came another flash of lightning and his wife vanished from his eyes, replaced by the ephemeral ghost of their daughter, Gloria.

Lemmon lurched in his chair. A clamor of fear hit his heart and he raised his hand to his face but realized his glasses lay on his thigh. His hands brought it with frantic speed to his face but another flutter of lightning revealed an empty room to him. His hand fumbled for the table lamp beside him and found the switch.

Light illuminated the room and revealed the couch across from him as empty. There was no one seated there.

Lemmon groaned as he got to his feet and went into the kitchen. He filled himself a glass of water and returned to the living room with it, turning on the wall lights this time. He inspected the row of books that lined one side of the cabinet walls of the living room that was his library, running his hand over them. He pulled out a John Steinbeck classic and returned to the couch. He drank his water before opening the book and started reading. Lemmon sat there for almost an hour reading before his eyes grew weary and he closed the book, switched off the room’s lights and returned to his bedroom.

The rain didn’t abate till morning.

* * *

Sherriff Hank Cannouk drove into Baker Street a week later to check on Lemmon Grandee. He wanted to know how he was doing since the funeral and if by chance he was coping better. It wasn’t a civic duty, but he figured it was only natural, as he had little else to be doing in the office beside wasting tax payer’s time leafing through parking tickets and settling discords involving zoning rights, a job he could easily assign either of his deputies to take care of. Besides, what better way to get closer to the citizenry of Sheffield than acting like a career politician he’d always dreamed of becoming. A dream he’d long shelved with neglect.

There was a green truck parked in Lemmon’s driveway in front of his open garage with the name JOBSON’S EMPORIUM painted in yellow bold letters on the side of it. Hank knew of Al Jobson and of his emporium shop situated in the town’s shopping center area on Main Street. It was a galleria where most of the town folks can find whatever household item or decoration, or just plain bric-a-brac for an affordable price and less tax than they would bother looking elsewhere. Al considered himself a good-intentioned businessman. The Sherriff begged to differ. To Hank’s eye, he was nothing but a skimming shark, someone he wouldn’t dare show turn his back against for fear of getting knifed. As he stopped his car in front of Lemmon’s home and pulled up his handbrake, he couldn’t help wondering what on earth form of business Lemmon would be transacting with him.

“I’m getting rid of Abby’s stuff,” Lemmon told him when he walked up to his garage enquiring what everything was about. “A lot of it is my wife’s painting collection. Now she’s gone, I don’t see why I have to keep them around the house. Too much memories I don’t want clogging up my mind.”

Lemmon had an open carton box on his work table and was taking down old house ware parts and broken pieces of leftover junk hanging on wall racks and threw them into the box. Al Jobson wasn’t there, but Lemmon mentioned that they had met and talked two days ago and he’d sent over two of his boys with the truck to help Lemmon to pack whatever item he wanted to get rid of. Jobson would tally up everything as regards their value and write him a check once he was done inventorying everything.

“I know what you mean, Lemmon. But of all people in this town to do business with, why in hell you want it to be Jobson? You know quite well what his reputation is like.”

Lemmon shrugged. “I can’t decide on that anymore than I would, Hank. All I know is I haven’t been sleeping good since I laid Abby to rest. I keep getting nightmares about her, doesn’t matter if I’m taking a nap or not. I think it’s because a lot of her is still here with me.”

He stopped what he was doing and he and Hank stood outside his garage. Hank saw misery and anguish on his face and pitied him.

“A part of me feels this isn’t right,” Lemmon continued. “I know I shouldn’t be doing any of this. It kind of feels like I’m betraying her. Kind of like I’m getting rid of her memory or something like that, but I’ve got no choice. I’m just trying to see how best to move on without her.”

“I’m not faulting you, Lemmon. God knows this town mourns your loss the same way you do. But I pray you aren’t thinking about selling the house next.”

Lemmon laughed at the thought of this. “You don’t have to worry, Hank. I’m not going anywhere, neither is this house. I might as well go jump into a river if that happens.”

One of Al Jobson’s boys entered the garage from the inside door and asked if Lemmon was done loading up the carton box in front of him. Lemmon told him he was, and the lad folded the lid before carting it to the back of the truck. Hank shook hands with him and told him he would be keeping in touch.

“If there’s anything you need, Lemmon. Just let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing. I appreciate it.”

He watched the Sherriff drive off before going into the house. The other of Al Jobson’s boys was in Abby’s studio room cleaning up the floor. He’d rolled up the tarp and now the room was almost back to what it once used to be, except for its former furniture. The old wallpaper were torn in most places, and Lemmon noticed lengthy cracks in the walls, too. It occurred to him how much a waste of time this was, him getting rid of his wife’s paintings and everything else that had being her pride and joy. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he could get rid of her tangible stuff, but he’d never be rid of her spirit. Not as long as he still occupied this home. Every fabric, every corner of the house, every piece of furniture bore her undeniable imprint. There was no getting rid of her, not unless he sold the house and checked into a nursing home, then spend the rest of his dying day watching the sun rise and fall while playing checkers and reminiscing with other old timers. Folks in there he thought were ten times more miserable than him. There was no way he was getting rid of the house like the Sherriff feared. Abby’s ghost might just come alive from her grave and curse at him for attempting that.

The young man finished with his cleaning up before taking his leave. Lemmon promised to contact their boss if in case he had more things to get rid of. The young men got into their truck and drove off. Lemmon dusted the mat on his front porch before entering back into his house.

Alone and quiet once again. Lemmon stood in the living room with his hands in his pockets, arguing with himself what to do next. He was doubled-minded whether to return to his garage and do some mechanical tinkering in there or continue with his Steinbeck novel in his bedroom. It was too early in the day for him to grab his jacket and go out for his usual walks.

He opted for the novel.

Lemmon stopped just as he was about walking past the stairs when he remembered he had forgotten to close Abby’s studio door. He bounded up the stairs and grasped the door’s handle about to close it, then thought differently and entered.

This was where their daughter had grown from a baby to an adult. Standing there in the room, it brought conflicting memories of happy times and sad ones. Seven years since and not once a word from their daughter to know how well she was doing. Lemmon feared all the time that the worse had befallen her; his major concern was her son, Randall. The grandson he and Abby had always wanted . . . though never expected at the time of his birth. The hurting pain for him now was living in a house alone with nothing to do, no one to talk to or laugh with. Not other sound except the lonely voice that cried inside him.

Lemmon approached the closet door, tried its handle and found it locked. Not knowing what to expect, he left the room and went down to his, not caring of whatever might be inside.

Minutes later he was lost in his reading, waiting for his eyes to grow heavy so he would fall asleep. Hopefully he would sleep for two hours and wake up in time to scrounge something for supper. Supper wasn’t something he looked forward to anymore. Lemmon was seldom comfortable with eating alone, especially now he had no choice.

Tiredness crept into him and he closed the book and threw it to the side. He laid his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. The silence bit at his nerves. His thoughts speculated on whatever laid hidden in his daughter’s closet. There ought to be stuff in there worth getting rid off as well. All the time Abby had commandeered the room as her domain, Lemmon had basically stayed away from it. She alone knew everything that was inside it; only she had the keys.

Lacking nothing better to do, Lemmon wore his glasses and rolled to Abby’s side of the bed. He pulled out her cabinet drawers onto the bed between his parted legs and rifled through her Daily Devotion books, old pamphlets, empty pill bottles, sewing paraphernalia and other private junk that probably meant something to her. He couldn’t think exactly what he was looking for, but hoped he found it nonetheless. A minute later he found a small box that contained different set of keys. He emptied the box’s contents on the bed and selected the keys, bubbling with excitement as he returned to his daughter’s bedroom and tried each one on the closet’s lock. He succeeded with the sixth key and pushed the closet’s double doors open.

The closet hid lots of clothes, shoes and books: all once belonging to his daughter. On a top bulk head were several shoe boxes. Lemmon still didn’t knew not what he was looking for or expected to find, nor could he have been any prepared for what he stumbled on when he took down the shoe boxes and opened them. There were five shoe boxes in all. In the fourth box, instead of finding a pair of shoes, what he found inside were enveloped letters. His brow knotted in a frown when he left the closet with the box containing the letters. He took off his glasses and stared at the name and address on the back of each envelope. The next thing he was gasping for breath at the name he saw staring at him.

There were five envelopes in the box. They each carried the same name and address of the sender: Marlee Grandee. Marlee was Gloria’s middle name.

“Oh my God,” Lemmon exhaled. His eyes and mouth opened with shock at the realization of what he had in his hands.

Gloria, my daughter is alive! She’s alive . . . and Abby knew. My God, she knew!