The Astorinos held a BBQ last night. They were kind enough to invite me. We have a great neighborhood but I've been reclusive these past six months. It was nice to catch up.
Calene had a birthday last week, which I made it through without tears. I learned the hard way that paying tribute by kissing the gravestone may be a sentimental and heartfelt gesture, but is a very bad idea when the temperature is 103 degrees and the stone is polished black granite.
Taping a Zoom with the LA Public Library that night was also a solid way of not shedding tears. One must keep it together when the cameras are on. If you get a chance to watch, by the way, note the excellent work of moderator Steve Sandoval.
My sister Mary texted me on Calene's birthday, reminding me that she's meeting Dolly Parton before the rest of us. I thought that was cute.
I didn't realize it until last night that I had never talked with the neighbors about the day Calene died. This is noteworthy because it was the biggest moment to hit our sleepy street in years: the ladder truck from Engine Company 45 that was almost as long as my house and the one next door combined, the ambulance crew dragging in the gurney, the three sheriff's cars parked nose to butt. Alerted by sirens at midday, everyone was out on their sidewalks to see what was going on. They watched as my sister-in-law, the elegant Cate, set a world record for sprinting from her car into the house.
I had never heard it from the neighborhood perspective. Yvette, one of Calene's dear friends, filled me in. I relived it all.
A few tears. Just a few. Earlier in the day another friend had told me "you don't get over” a loss. "You get through it."
Somewhere, I feel like Calene was priming the pump.
So I went to breakfast with Steve this morning. He works in television. We talked about his new show. He was friends with Calene all the way back to high school. This being Southern California, the diner we chose at random turned out to be a Thai-fusion breakfast. And then, you know, in between talking about a celebrity funeral he'd just attended and the second cup of coffee, I felt the tears coming on. Not sobs. Just the slow tears that drip drip drip and you can't blink them away..
The conversation had veered into that Sunday morning six months ago when I had to put the dogs outside, call 911, and leave the front door open so they could get that gurney inside. It was Dom down the street, a retired homicide detective, who knew the symbolism of the gurney being returned empty to the ambulance ten minutes later. I was stoic and functional throughout. Numb.
I mentioned to Steve that the diner's location used to be open space where cattle grazed. On the morning of my wedding I hopped the fence and ran a narrow trail through the grass, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into.
This triggered a small wave of nostalgia. On my drive back home this morning I detoured past the small apartment complex where Calene and I lived the first year of our marriage. The current occupants had bikes and children's toys covering the back porch. Then I swung past a spot where we impulsively pulled over one midnight early in our courtship and made out for an hour. Later on, we'd laugh about it and call it "our spot." It used to be a two-lane farm road surrounded by orange groves. Now it's six lanes and office buildings. It's safe to say no one else will be making out there.
The memory of that night made me happy. That feeling of being completely and utterly in love. Of all the memories I relived this week, that was my favorite.
Ha ha. Sirens just wailed past on the street below as I write this. True.
I've often wondered why grown men (such as myself) feel so emotional and connected to the final verse of “Thunder Road.” I think it's because at the very end, Mary, the elusive object of desire, chooses the guy and they drive off to make a life together. It's a powerful thing when someone you find really special says you're pretty special, too. Special enough to make a life together.
Special enough to park someplace quiet and say I love you for the first time.
Happy Birthday, Callie. Knock it off with the sirens.