by Kenneth M. Kapp
At first, Joan shook Thomas’s shoulder gently, but then with increasing urgency she whispered, “Wake up, wake up. Selma’s crying.”
~ * ~
It had been a long weekend but then Memorial Day weekends had always been long. Ever since they were married, Joan had insisted they visit her hometown in northcentral Wisconsin and the cemetery where her parents and relatives had found their final rest. “It’s the least we can do to show our respect. I’m the last Bajlic. I searched online.”
At first, Thomas hadn’t demurred even though it was a four-hour drive on mostly county roads if keeping to the legal speed limits and there were no detours or stops. He had little difficulty booking a room in a nearby motel. He remarked when checking in that he was surprised there were vacancies over the holiday weekend. The owner replied, running his credit card, “Well, you meet anyone from here in Milwaukee even admitting that they’re from up here, you’ll hear the finality in their voice. That’s their way of saying they ain’t ever coming back.”
Initially he thought they would make a picnic outing of it, a mini-honeymoon, but Joan wished only to visit the small cemetery just outside of town. She would bring new plastic flowers to replace the old and, standing behind her parents’ headstone, recount in a barely audible litany the events of the previous year. Then she would move on to aunts and uncles, repeating the same story or at least taking the same time to address them.
The Friday before they left, she would pick a bucket of violets – purple and white, it didn’t matter. After talking to the grownups, she would carefully place a few of the violets at the foot of the headstones of the many children that kept company with their parents. She would kiss her fingers and touch the grass above where she said their heart was still beating.
Thomas felt sorry and swallowed when May rolled around. These visits didn’t appear to provide any comfort for Joan. Occasionally he could beg off, finding an excuse about work, or it being only fair they spend Memorial Day with his family. “My great uncle Carl died in the Korean War.”
Efforts to address how these trips seemed to depress Joan didn’t work. Suggestions of counseling were dismissed. “You just don’t understand. I’m the last of my family and that’s a big responsibility.”
~ * ~
Thomas rolled his feet over the side of the bed, whispering, “I’ll heat the baby bottle while I’m changing her.”
He shuffled down the hall to the kitchen, putting a saucepan already filled with water on the stove. He removed a bottle with milk from the refrigerator and, after placing it in the pan, turned the flame on low. Returning to the hall, he switched on the light, a signal that Joan could quickly run to the bathroom while he got Selma. He waited until he heard the toilet flush before retrieving the baby and the bottle from the kitchen.
As he returned to the bedroom he thought, how sad, after we lost the first two and the doctor learned about Joan’s family, he said there must be a genetic disposition for the miscarriages and early deaths. She had nodded. “My mother told me all the Bajlics had weak blood. Is that the same thing?”
Thomas switched off the hall light signaling that he was on the way back with Selma and the bottle. He sighed, thinking that this weekend was especially hard with Joanie going on about how well Selma travels and how nice that she’s getting to see a little bit of Wisconsin at a young age.
He tiptoed into their bedroom and rolled back the blanket, gently laying the doll next to Joan.
“Here’s the bottle, dear. I’ll just go to the bathroom and come right back. Selma’s always been good nursing and then falls asleep as soon as I put her down. Sleeps until I’m out of the shower and dressed. Glad the nursery school’s working out.”
Thomas leaned over and kissed Joan on the forehead. “She’s lucky to have such a loving mother.”