Inscription

Byron Edgington

You open up the computer just like every morning, see the usual internet detritus jamming your mailbox and, as usual, shake your head and start deleting. “Grow my member three inches…um, no thanks, plenty long enough…bye, bye! Help get sixty million out of my Nigerian account…sorry, plenty of cash on hand…See, ya! Orbitz travel deal to Niagara Falls…in January? You’re kidding, right? Ka-ching! Let’s see, another ad for Zillow…not selling the house, thanks…goodbye! What’s this? Sorry for your recent loss..?”

“Breakfast is ready, John.”

“….right there.” You glance at the ad’s curlicue font, the format like a headstone, the black and bold focus of its lettering, and the morbid, yet tasteful, images. ‘Make his passing memorable with just the right inscription.’ “What in the world..?”

“Eggs getting cold.”

“…right there…Martha, just a sec.” You squint at the ad, reach for the sleep function and then change your mind. Let it go to screen saver. “Right inscription? What in the world?”

Your eggs are just right. Martha always times them perfectly, the ‘old family secret,’ she says, just one of her many tender, if quirky endearments. The toast is well turned, too, with a thick slathering of the Land-O-Lakes salted butter you refuse to give up, even if that moron Doctor Levaya keeps jabbing at you about it: “…the good HDLs, John…too much fatty…salt has to go, John…man your age…” The last visit, a week before your seventy-fourth nearly ended in fisticuffs. You sure told him: “My damn life, and I’ll live it like there’s no tomorrow, ‘cause there may not be.” You thought that was not only clever but funny…and true!

Martha may fix eggs like you want, but she infuriates you, doesn’t she? Always agreeing with the moron, Doctor Levaya. So what if he’s been your family doc for twenty years? “Maybe it’s time to change, Martha.” You’d argued on the way home. Too bad about the tension. The marriage has been a good one, mostly. Not worth fighting over Land-O-Lakes butter, for god’s sake.

“Did you Google something about funerals, Martha?”

“Google… what?”

“Funerals. Or maybe dying? Or headstones?”

“Whatever would I Google those things for, John? Finish your melon. Levaya says it’s good for your…”

“I don’t give a shit what Levaya says…”

“John! You never used to use that kind of language. Is there something..?”

You stare at her, your spouse of forty-six years. Three gorgeous daughters she gave you. Good girls, Meredith, Grace, Lilith. Sure, Lily was a pain in the ass for a time, the marijuana arrest and losing her full ride at Wellesley, marrying a biker, that tattooed Lamont fellow and moving back home when he dumped her, (like you said he would!) back to the Cambridge house with no extra room for Lily let alone the baby. And the tattoos, holy mother of god… You got past it, and good for you, the decision to listen to her about the Peace Corps was perfect: ‘just hear me out, dad,’ she pleaded. Who knew she’d stay in Dominica for eight years? Good work, dad. Sure Martha’s lost some sparkle, and her once gorgeous breasts sag, and it’s been separate beds since your prostate thing. So what? Better this way, you think. Lord, the two of you like to burned the house down in the early days, before the kids came, branding every room, even the front porch of the Cambridge house that night, right after the fireworks downtown. Wonder your fireworks on the porch didn’t bring the police, what with Marty squealing and moaning under you at the ‘moment of truth,’ as she always called it. No wonder old Fenster next door flipped his porch light on and sniffed, loud enough you heard him, and his mangy old collie whimpering at your animal noises. Martha Killeen. Good woman, all in all. You did well, John. Virgin when she met you. Didn’t last long, but it was important, to both of you. Forty-six years. Meredith, Grace, Lily, beauties, all three of them. And Scotty, what a kid. Never thought a grandson would be so much fun…and so much work, his mother away in Dominica all that time. Lily’s a good parent to him now, though. Maybe learned it in the Peace Corps. Maybe…from you?

“John, are you all right?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“Get you anything else?”

“Anything..? No, I’m fine. So you didn’t Google…end of life..?”

Marty stares at you, confused, not quite angry, but not her usual gentle self, either. “I haven’t been on that silly computer for ages, John. Why do you spend so much time…are you watching porno?”

You bristle at the thought. Sure, you blundered into that site a year or so ago, those banal videos of tacky people…(speaking of tattoos) and they were doing it…right there on your computer screen, every position…nothing to the imagination, burning things down willy-nilly. Nothing they don’t do. Those lewd women show…everything… and why do those imbeciles leave their watches on? What’s this world coming to? “No, Martha, for god’s sake. I’d never spend time watching…those idiots never even take off… No, I’m not watching porno, Marty I just saw…this morning, before breakfast…” You point at the computer room. “Just got this e-mail…”

“E-mail? From who, John?” Martha Killeen, head of the class and sweetheart of sigma chi at Colgate. Nicer than what’s her name, that Connie Swift girl, the snooty, ‘me first queen,’ Marty called her. Connie Swift. Kind of stuffy. After Connie dumped you, Marty was the one, wasn’t she? Better than that Dorothy Helmer, for sure, even if Dot Helmer did have daddy’s money, ‘the trust,’ as she called it, and the keys to the Mercedes any time I want them and the passcode to the marina where ‘Fancy Free’ nestled alongside other boats, a sea of masts like so many dollar signs. Dot Helmer. First girl you ever… Right there, below decks. Fancy Free is right. What a body, you actually said it, that first time. ‘Smooth talker.’ Dorothy laughed, her bra and panties flung to the deck, pulling you below, taking charge, rich girl, used to getting what she wanted, and not just the Mercedes, either. Not a virgin after Dot Helmer. Fancy Free. Martha never knew, never will.

“I’ve wondered what you do in that computer room all day. And what’s this about a funeral?”

“I just saw…before breakfast…nothing, I’ll delete it.” You dab the egg off your lip, drain the coffee cup and scoot the chair back. “…be in there if you need me.”

“….just cleaning up here. Don’t forget, haircut at three-thirty.”

“….got it. Thanks for breakfast.”

“Welcome.”

“Dot…I mean, Marty?” Your shoulders shiver. It’s the third time you’ve done that. Good god, man, she’s standing right there in your kitchen. Forty-six years — for god’s sake!

“John?”

“Martha, I just…nothing, I’ll be done by three.”

“Sure you’re all right?”

“Great.” You shuffle into the den, tap the mouse and the screen lights up, casting a glow across the bookcase and leather couch. You fall into the chair, slide the cursor around and open the e-mail. Shouldn’t your loved one have an inscription that tells the world who they were, for all time? Tell us about their life, passion, career and family and let us craft the perfect headstone inscription for you. Ages will pass; your loved one’s inscription will live on.’ Act now: Just $99.00 for a limited time.

You whisper the ad copy, already formulating the words for your headstone. You see the marker. Already there, since your brother Harry collapsed and died a year ago, out of the blue…massive…never had a warning. Sixty-nine, too damn young. Your stone’s four feet wide on its solid pedestal, glowing white marble rippled with silvery strands, deeply etched scripted letters carved into its wreathed and flowing face. You see the names: John P. Elbridge; Martha S. Elbridge. The dates: 1930-…1932-. You imagine carving atop those names, words that will speak for you, your life, passion, career, family now that… Your mind is drawn to the date again: What will he etch there? What numbers will the mason carve next to 1930? Most important, what will the ad… “…what will my inscription say?”

“John, did you call?”

“No, Dot… No, I did not!”

“…going to Grace’s for lunch at noon, you’re welcome to come.”

“Thanks, busy with…thanks anyway.” You hear the dishwasher start, watch the kitchen go dark, Martha stepping out, light on in her study, more sections on the quilt, a surprise for Meredith. Thirty-five next week. Where did that go? Just brought her home from St. Elizabeth’s, clueless first parents, worried she’d stop breathing for no reason. You laughed when she spit up on your tux as you went to leave, Dean Thurman and faculty waiting, tenure after fifteen years and curdled milk on your lapel. How can she be thirty-five? The first-born, ‘high-level CEO’ wanting a quilt from mom? Who knew?

What would Meredith carve there? “She’d put, great dad, even after she found out about…” Kids can’t begin to understand, until they’re old enough… Not like anything happened, Mare. I know how it looks, but….I didn’t say a word when you took up with that Todd, Meredith, not a word. Could have brought it all back up to you, still married to James. Todd losing custody because of you, the whole mess with Grace, and ruining her promotion. Didn’t say a word when you screamed at me, ‘how could you, dad? Tell mom, or I will. Old flame, dad? Used to be my hero! How can she not mean a thing to you? Fuck Dorothy!’ “Didn’t say a word, Mare. Gotta count for something. She’d write ‘great father.’”

You read the fine print: ‘Not available in TN, AR, LA, MO and Il. Subject to local fees. Brochure available on request. See our easy to use guide for assuring the best inscription, and samples of recent carvings. Price does not include actual inscribing.

“What would Gracey write?” You take the framed picture of your middle child. Grace stares back, eleven-years-old, on the dock at Cape May summer of eighty-two, grin that still melts your heart, so happy, and why not? She wrestled that bluegill right onto the dock. Good girl, you said. Should have known about you, Gracey. The way you hung on Katie Upham at your thirteenth, stared at Bacall in that old Vogue by Marty’s chair. I saw you kiss her picture. Should have known, especially when Brian left and your mother tried to tell me. I’m sorry, Gracey. But I handled it, didn’t I? Finally? I accepted Kellie, right? Like my fourth daughter, I said. That counts, doesn’t it? Grace would write, ‘good father.’

You startle when the phone rings. “Yes? Um…no, I’m not interested. I already have…how did you find this number? Is that right? Look, I’m really not interested, I’m retired and…okay, I’m hanging up now.” You’d think they’d get the message. Frightening how they know what we’re doing these days, see all of our activity.

You wonder if it was the porn site, the one with… “Jesus, I watched for thirty seconds, long enough…take the damn watch off at least, you moron, have that kind of respect for the girl.” Jesus, how do they get our numbers? “Martha? You still here?”

“No need to yell, John. Is something wrong?”

“If I died tomorrow, what would you have inscribed on my headstone?”

“My lord, John, what is this fascination…Is it because of Harry?”

“Jesus, Martha, can’t a man ask a simple question?”

“Let’s make an appointment with Doctor Levaya for you.”

“I won’t give up butter, goddammit…”

“John, the language, when did that start?”

“What would you write?”

“I guess I’d say…that you were a good man, a wonderful husband, kind, great father…Why on earth are you asking me this?”

“I had sex with Dorothy Helman.”

“Oh!”

“There’s no reason to lie about it, Marty, I did it and I’m sorry. I promise…”

“John Elbridge! Is that why you’ve been sneaking around? I wondered why all the mystery. Oh, John…I don’t know what to say… Are you still seeing her?”

“Still seeing her? Heavens no, Marty, I haven’t seen Dot for years.”

“Why are you telling me this? We need to see Doctor Levaya, and let him check you…”

“I just wondered what you’d put on my headstone. Is that too much to ask? Look, Marty, I’m sorry about Gracey, I should have understood about her, my own daughter, and that thing with Meredith, when she left James…and with Todd, and the baby, I know I let her down…you, too, but I promised Mare I’d be there for her. I was too tough on Lily, I admit it. But she never should have gone with that low class, tattooed ape…what’s his name…Lamont. I’ll bet he never took his watch off!”

“John, what are you talking…?”

“Sure, we got Scotty out of it, but still. I’m sorry, I never should have opened up that damn porno site…imbeciles don’t respect those girls for god’s sake! You should see the positions they… I’m a good man, Martha, a careful man. Isn’t that so?” You stare at her, your loyal spouse of forty-six years, the gaping mouth, and the astonished look. You feel the shame, the humiliation creeping up your back like showered ice. You want to go to her, embrace her, erase all the blabbering and ranting that just spewed from your stupid mouth. “What is this world coming to, Marty?”

“John, I don’t… I’ll call Doctor Lev…”

“I won’t give up butter, dammit!”