Short Story by Chris Manganello: "Valentine's Day" (Copyright 2014)

Driving to Garrington Hilltop was almost always a peaceful, beautiful trip – excepting for Friday afternoons or Sunday evenings during the school year when the young college-folk were transiting back and forth between Greenboro College campus and their parents’ houses in the hills some 60 miles away – but today, on this bitterly cold mid-February morning, the view were especially spectacular.  US Highway 68 curled gently around the Scataway Mountains, ducking in and out of snow-speckled firs whose bright white coats glimmered in the late morning sun. 

The trip took a bit longer than most, accounting for the Nor’easter that had trekked through the South and up the Eastern seaboard late in the week, passing though Appalachia and All Points Nowhere until settling over New England for an extended 48-hour stay.  Having worn out its welcome, the storm left a simple yet poignant going-away-present consisting of icy roads and sub-zero temps, wrapped in a bow of sun-glare and moist, heavy snow to shovel, Thank You Very Much and Good Riddance. 

Michael parked in his usual spot adjacent to the Miller Cabin, an old, long-ago abandoned structure that boasted floor-to-ceiling rotted wood and a roof made of something out of CBS’s Survivor lore.  That it remained standing for so many years was somewhat of a mystery.  He’d never seen anyone walk in or out (the front door – if that’s what you could call a large piece of plasterboard with a 4-inch diameter hole where a doorknob should be -- had always been nail-gunned shut), so there was evidently nobody taking care of the albatross.  But what was perhaps more amazing was that local teens or 20-something’s hadn’t found a way to use the building for weekend shenanigans.  Maybe it was imputing too altruistic a motive to believe that the youngin’s didn’t want to defile something next to a sacred place, but Michael could live with that belief.  After all, you have to believe in something, right?

The late-winter wind whipped viciously for a few seconds, re-wrapping his scarf around his neck on its own.  Michael pulled his orange knit Flyers cap over his ears a bit tighter before reaching into his Accord’s back seat and pulling out the large, industrial-sized fiber shovel that he’d purchased at Sam’s Club years ago. 

*          *          *

He knew the 76 paces like he knew his house in the dark.  Even though snow covered the stone walkway up the short hill and then down to the left the remaining 10 paces, he didn’t need a map to know where he was going.  Michael had performed this ritual many times before, and the topography did not change.  Sometimes it was sunny and bright, sometime overcast.  Other times unseasonably warm and sometimes, like today, bitterly cold.  But each time, he remembered the 3-inch hump about halfway up, careful to step over or around it so as not to lose his footing on the slippery root-knot of tree that peeked out for a foot or so from its underground labrynth.  He knew that the slight indentation in the ground that awaited him after his left turn at the top of the small hill was just enough to trip him up if he wasn’t careful, and so he also always adroitly skipped past it, sparing himself a minor disaster each time. 

And he certainly knew where to stop.  After counting the requisite 10 remaining paces from the turn, if upon looking straight out past the Oak tree its left wraggly limb was set exactly atop the peak of Scataway Craig’s Mountain in the distance, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

*           *          *

He began shoveling gently at first, careful not to clang or scrape what was underneath.  The snowpack could be deceptive – he learned this the hard way in 2000, when a less-than-thoughtful lunge set the tip of his shovel against the cement, resulting in a loud, dissonate shriek that sent more than 1 bird flying away in distress.  But today, after just a minute or so of carefully shuffling the snow away, he was already almost there.  All that remained was a powdery few millimeters of flakes that just barely covered the writing on the slab.  Michael dropped the shovel to his side and bent down, wiping the last remnants of snow away to reveal what was underneath: 

“MICHAEL PATRICK PARKER, 10/15/65 -                                    “

That his date of death was not on his gravemarker was of course no surprise.  But what always did stand out for Michael – in the preceding few years more than ever – was his date of birth.  Especially so this year, in 2014.  It seemed as though his distance from the year 1965 was advancing more and more rapidly each year, like scientists tell us the stars are moving farther away from each other and at a quicker pace ever since the Big Bang.  He was already knocking on 50’s door.  If the next 30 years went by as quickly as the last 30, he’d be an old man in no time.  If he was lucky.   

*          *          *

Michael quickly stood back up, grabbing his shovel in the process, ready to do what he came there to do.  This was always the most difficult part, the most personal part. 

He began shoveling again about three feet to the left of his tombstone after thumbnailing the distance with his eyes.  There was no need for a specific measurement, it was always in the same place, always the same distance from his.  As it always would be. 

It only took 5 shovel-fulls of snow to reveal.  There was no need to wipe away any residue to see it, because the snow pushed itself aside as if working in silent concert with his shovel.  The low winter sun peaked through the branches of the tall oak, illuminating the name and dates on the silver-gray 2-foot by 10-inch concrete rectangle. 

*          *          *

Michael and Deborah were high school sweethearts.  Yes, they had dated others – they’d have been foolish not to – but they always found their way back to each other.  After graduating together in Pipertown’s Class of ’83, they went their separate ways in college – Michael attending Gettysburg College and Deborah choosing St. Joe’s – but it only took 2 years for them to realize that they never wanted to be apart again.  Deborah transferred to Gettysburg, and so they finished out their college educations together, both double-majoring in English and Secondary Education, and both quickly snatching up high school teaching gigs.  At the same school, of course. 

There was the house, the dog, and all of the other fundamental clichés associated with being young and in love:  A too-expensive wedding, a long honeymoon in Mexico, some mediocre financial problems and more than their fair share of work-induced stress.  Most of which was relieved by lots of love-making and an equal measure of adult beverages at McMichaelson’s Irish Pub.  Theirs was, as they say, the quintessential love story:  Kids fall in love, graduate together, find jobs, get married, and ride into the sunset together with 2.2 kids. 

At least that was how it was supposed to go. 

*          *          *

He remembers the day vividly.  January of 1999.  A Thursday.  Michael had already been home

from work at his regular time but Deborah was late because of her doctor’s appointment.  They’d tried, to no avail, to get pregnant, and routine testing showed that Deborah has some issues that needed to be looked into further.  There was nothing to worry about, or so they said – worst case scenario, they’d have to abandon their fertility treatments and switch courses to adoption.  Not what they wanted, but they could live with that. 

                  As soon as she walked in the back door, he saw the tears welling up in her eyes.  From the redness and swelling in her face, he could see that this was not the first time she had cried that day.  

                  Michael would never forget the look in her eyes, her countenance, and would always remember the words she said next, gliding effortlessly out of her mouth in a soft tone that betrayed the fear inside her:  “I only have one month to live.”

*          *          *

Michael took off his gloves and reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulling out the neatly folded paper.  He opened it up and read it one more time.  It was dated today,

February 14, 2014

To My Lovely Deborah,

           The years have gone by, but my heartache has not.  I remember both our first and last moments together like it was yesterday:  me, a geeky high school sophomore, trying to get the attention of a cute and spunky cheerleader; then, seemingly just a blink later, sitting next to you as you drew your last labored breath.  I know it might not have been love at first sight for you, but I fell hard the moment I first saw you and have been falling ever since, even after you passed on. 

           When I think about it, I realize the time between our first meeting and our last moments together was miserably and unfairly short.  I ask myself on an almost daily basis what God would do this to a such a loving and happy couple.  I still do not have an answer for that, and I know I probably never will.

           The pain does not go away.  It may subside for a brief moment – maybe as the Red Sox won the World Series, or if I’m tasting a particularly good steak or wine – but it always returns, like an unwanted guest who doesn’t understand that it’s time to go, to move on.  I would be lying to you if I said it was not unbearable.  It is more than I can take.  It remains excruciating.  It does not get better with time.

           Nor do I want it to.  I do not want to be happy-go-lucky as we were for those precious fleeting  years.  I do not want to be content, to run my fingers through another’s hair, to go on vacation together, to wake up next to someone else on a spring morning.  I have learned to accept the pain, the misery, of losing the person you love the most.  I think if the emptiness I feel every morning when I wake up and every night as I go to sleep were gone, I would be even more lonely than I already am.  Imagine that. 

           My lovely wife, I know that I will see you again.  We will dance together, dine together, laugh and cry together, and make love again some day.  I do not understand why I should be made to suffer so.  All that I know is that I shall bide my time in bitterness and loss, carrying that cross alone, so that, some day, there is room for you next to me again. 

           I will always love you, and you will always be my Valentine. 

Michael bent down, lay the note face up on his Wife’s gravemarker as he had laid a note every year for the past 15 years  – being sure to gently cover it with some snowpack – and walked back to his car. 

*          *          *

The ride back was unremarkable, but was also a bit speedier so that he could get home in advance of the latest Nor’easter already on its way up the coast.  He tuned Sirius to the 80’s channel and was reminded that My Angel is, in fact, the Centerfold and that The Reflex is an Only Child.  It was amazing, the memories that music could bring back to you.