About two months after Ako and Ruby started helping Jules, the novelty started to wear off. Ruby had gotten sick the previous week and the dark nights felt more lonesome. It had been a long, rainy winter. More gray than usual for Santa Barbara. As the calendar turned to February, Jules had fallen into a hole. These peaks and valleys of loneliness had become common over the last decade. Jules realized it was the daily presence of Ako and Ruby that had sparked his renewed interest in being social that had slowly evaporated over the solo years after Violet. He felt a tug of emptiness every time each of them left.
Ako’s presence in the mornings gave him something to look forward to. Ruby’s arrival in the late afternoon helped the hours pass and gave him a newfound desire to enjoy his dinners, though he usually ate them as Ruby’s shift ended and she was leaving. Sometimes he called Reva while he ate dinner. Sometimes he watched the Sixers on television, the absence of Embiid was noticeable. The team had no anchor. Still, Jules found himself enthused by the momentous joy of Tyrese Maxey. Other times, Jules ate the tasty dinner Ruby provided alone at the dining table, listening to a podcast that Reva had sent him over email.
He hadn’t seen Seamus in a while, so Jules gave him a call. If the rain held off, they agreed Seamus would come by and pick him up the next morning.
Seamus honked the horn just after 9:30. Jules was ready to go with fresh cups of coffee in thermoses. They drove to the cemetery. Jules recalled Seamus’ first job was in cemetery maintenance. Van Morrison, as usual, was blaring from the Subaru speakers. Jules paused Van’s “Into the Mystic.”
“How old were you when you had that cemetery job?” Jules asked, as they turned onto the tree-lined road leading to the cemetery.
“Oh, 17. Summer before senior year of high school. What a strange job. Something mystical about taking care of the grounds under which people are slowly decaying. When I wasn’t mowing the grass I enjoyed the quiet,” Seamus said.
“Sounds interesting. My first job was at the local drugstore. Stock boy then cashier. Filling up the candies and the Kleenex. Selling people their cigarettes and their soaps.” Jules said.
“Fewer dead people at the drugstore,” Seamus quipped.
“Yes, but we did have some very old regulars,” Jules replied. “I remember the owner of the store, who was also the head pharmacist. He broke down sobbing when one of those regulars, this guy Salvatore, who’d be the first one there every morning at seven, for the paper; when Sal didn’t show up anymore, and we found out that he’d died of a heart attack.”
As they walked about the beautifully-landscaped grounds, Seamus mused about the epitaphs engraved into the headstones.
Jules began imagining what people might’ve engraved if they were going for laughs.
How about “Usually wore clean sneakers," Jules said.
Seamus chuckled and replied, “He lost many socks over the years."
Jules responded, "Refused to say, ‘Thank You.’”
Seamus added, "Danced to the beat of his own drum machine."
Jules replied, "Was unhappy to be here, but tried to smile on occasion."
Seamus finished off the thought experiment with: "Went too heavy on the whipped cream."
Jules enjoyed strolling with his friend along the curving paved pathways, through the peaceful grounds.
“Fish and chips for lunch?” Seamus asked.
As Seamus got into the car, Jules asked for a moment. Jules sat on the bench near the parking lot and closed his eyes.
First, Jules slowly conjured up Violet. The image gradually came into focus, as if Jules was turning the lens. She was walking on the beach next to him, when they were new arrivals in Santa Barbara. They held hands as they felt the warm sand beneath their toes. Their new life together as retirees.
As the tears escaped and slid down Jules’ cheeks, his breathing became difficult. Jules took a long breath in, held it for a moment, and then exhaled, sending his love outward in search of Violet’s spirit. A warmth came over him.
Next, Jules did the same for his deceased brothers. He pictured Sam at Sam’s deathbed, the brain cancer having returned after the tumor was removed. He could still feel Sam’s hand in his. Sam reminded him and Morty to tell everyone how much he loved them and how he wished he’d told them both more often throughout their lives. Jules sent love out to Sam and Sam’s children and grandchildren, briefly picturing each of them as best he could.
Morty. Jules pictured Morty laughing with Reva, from that photo that was in Reva’s photo album. Jules let himself smile and sent that love of laughter back out to Morty’s spirit and his family.
Jules imagined his father, Philip. He took several deep breaths and appreciated Philip for his endless work ethic and for the stoicism with which he handled the burdens of his life. He imagined both Philip and Nina, as they fled Ukraine amidst the violence, as children. Jules sent love out to that image of his parents riding a train to Poland, clutching each other as 10-year-olds, escaping hell. He sent love out to their ancestors. All of those long-lost grandparents and great uncles and aunts and cousins, who never made it to America.
Finally, he imagined his long-suffering mother, Nina, on her deathbed, wheezing. After the lung cancer had reduced her to the oxygen tank and the bed. How he’d sat next to her and read her stories from her favorite author, Dorothy Parker. He could still hear Nina’s rasping cackle as he sat reading her those stories in the final month of her life. He sent his love out even to Nina, who too often withheld open expressions of love toward her children.
When he was about to collect himself and return to Seamus in the Subaru, he stopped.
Jules allowed himself to conjure up an image of Lisa. With some difficulty, he brought her to mind. They were on a train to New York City, so it must have been the early-1970s. He saw her there, sleeping, head rested on his shoulder. He sent out love for those days, and for her, too. That was enough for now.
Seamus asked if he’d been praying. Jules said, “Sort of. Sending out my love to those that are gone. Is that prayer?”
Seamus nodded. “I think so. I did that while we were walking.”
Then the two old friends drove to the restaurant and enjoyed the freshly-battered halibut, a basket of fries, and two ginger ales.
When he got home, Jules was about to send Reva an update, describing his day. Then he looked up above his desk and saw a quote he’d found years ago, during the years he’d spent in grief therapy. He’d forgotten it was there, taped above the desk. Jules had handwritten the quote in blue ink on an index card. The words were from Joseph Goldstein, a Buddhist teacher and meditation guru.
“The wonderful paradox about the truth of suffering is that the more we open to it and understand it, the lighter and freer our mind becomes. Our mind becomes more spacious, more open, and happier as we move past our avoidance and denial to see what is true. We become less driven by compulsive desires and addictions, because we see clearly the nature of things as they are.”
Jules sat with that truth. Being open to suffering was a way to become free. That was true. Freedom was something we had to fight for. Had to fight ourselves to open up and allow in the pain of absence. How constant the effort, fighting against our instinct to avoid the pain, to distract ourselves or numb it away.