The Visitor

I had been to see Mom every Monday and Thursday for the last two years, since the day she arrived. Not that she would have noticed. My visits had become a comforting routine, predictable and unchanging. Each Monday I would stop at William’s Cafe at precisely 9 am and use the drive-thru to get myself a tall soya misto. William’s gave out stamps and after 8 stamps they let you cash in the card for a free drink. Since it was good for any drink, I usually cashed in on a grande mocha cappuccino with cream and choco-cinnamon sprinkles. A small victory for my limited accountant assistant’s budget, or “stickin’ it to the man” as Dad would say. Thursdays I mixed it up a bit. On Thursdays, I visited Mom in the afternoon after buying lunch at the local Mickey Ds. I had started that routine before the restaurant began listing calories on the menu board, and I wasn’t one to change routines. If I took off my glasses before entering the restaurant I couldn’t see those tiny angry numbers under the prices, and I could remain in denial as to why my clothes felt tighter and my skin kept breaking out like a teenager. I always read the free Metro paper while I ate lunch and checked my horoscope, ever hopeful for mention of a new man in your life, Capricorn or love on the horizon, before stopping at the grocery next door for a bouquet. I looked for sunflowers, tulips, or a few freesias. Freesias have an intense sweet citrusy scent that I always associate with Mom; they were her favorite. She detested silk flowers.

“They’re for cheapskates Kitty, and people with no class.”

If any visitors left Mom silk stems, I would remove them and relocate them to someone who didn’t have anything, usually Mr. Popper. Poor guy was long forgotten. I would also buy a bottle of water on Thursdays to take with me until one day a tap appeared, installed a few rows from Mom, so I could fill her stone vase with water when I visited. I wondered if this year’s new cute groundskeeper was responsible for that. In the spring we began exchanging greetings and typical Canadian weather updates, yelling over the roar of his idling ancient tractor.

“How’d you do? Nice day today! How about that storm last night, Kitty? Gotta get ‘er done before it rains again!”

Actually, the lawn guy did all the talking, I just smiled and nodded, and threw in a few “uh huhs”. In the beginning, I didn’t say much at all, definitely not the brilliant chatty woman that existed in my head. I wasn’t sure how Lawn Guy knew my name; I couldn’t recall ever offering it up but I must have at some point. And I did secretly swoon when he began calling me “Kitty Cat.” I’d never had a pet name before, literally or figuratively. I didn’t know Lawn Guy’s name, although I knew I should ask, take our chitchat to the next level. In my experience with men, albeit sadly limited to family and neighbors, men don’t like to be rushed or pushed, they like to think they are in control of the conversation and moving things along at their pace. I could play that game. Lawn Guy was always there when I went to see Mom, that’s part of the reason I only went on Mondays and Thursdays, his grass trimming days. If I wore my sunglasses and kept my head angled down but my eyes up I could watch him working in the distance while appearing to be bowed in reflection at Mom’s headstone. There were many nights when I dreamt of Lawn Guy’s strong tawny arms, the way he flicked his Red Sox ball cap up with one hand and used his other forearm to wipe the sweat off his head. He would tilt his head back to guzzle from his red aluminum thermos, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Lawn Guy always wore denim coveralls with a red plaid shirt beneath and scuffed brown work boots, his ginger hair kept trimmed to the quick in an old-school buzz cut. I’d arrived a few times just as he was clocking out for the day, vintage hipster stainless steel lunchbox swinging at his side, sauntering off on his walk home. My visits quickly became more about the anticipation of seeing Lawn Guy than visiting my Mom…I knew I would rot in Hell for that.

My dad didn’t visit Mom at Middlemarch Cemetery anymore. Most days he didn’t even remember that he had been married for 46 years. Dementia moved in quickly after she died, erasing the once funny, robust car salesman and replacing him with a silent, nervous, twitchy old man who couldn’t remember to eat or that pants were required in public. I would never admit it out loud but I was relieved that Dad had good coverage and was settled in a senior care apartment with weekly bowling and karaoke nights. He had a full complement of caring staff to wipe away drool, feed and toilet him, much better than I ever could. I was neither willing nor capable of doing any of those things. And I refused to feel guilty about it. When people asked after Dad I’d gush that he was “Living the high life with gourmet food and a social life, and all the blue hairs swooning over him!” An exaggeration for sure, but it’s what people wanted to hear. I didn’t tell anyone that he didn’t recognize me at 8 out of 10 visits and that he would scream, “Get that scary bitch out of my room!”. Or that he refused to eat anything that was served on a plate, or how he purposefully held his cane out to trip people and then laughed when they fell. The last three times I had visited him he spoke to me in fluent German, requiring Gunther the custodian to translate what was some gibberish about Hitler and the war. Dad had served overseas, a desk job he refused to speak about, but had never mentioned any second language skills nor had he ever spoken a word of German at home. I chose not to reveal the truth of Dad’s current state to family and friends. No one would know what to say and we’d all just feel sad, better to give a story people could sit with and feel good about and then get on with their busy lives.

“Hey Kitty, how’s your Dad?”

“He’s doing great!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Say hi for me, will you? Take care!”

By late May the farms surrounding Middlemarch were in full swing, soya fields taking off and the nearby turkey barns alive with their harsh calls. And that smell. Dear Lord. The smell of feces, panic, and death. The wall of stench from those barns had struck me the day they lowered Mom into the ground, but the permanent Middlemarch residents obviously couldn’t object. Might explain the lack of visitors to Mr. Popper’s plot though. I found over time that I became slightly acclimatized to the putrid scent of turkeys and ammonia, but it was never something that I got used to. It didn’t seem to bother Lawn Guy though, and he had never commented on the extreme aroma, unlike the Mayor. Mayor Smiles sported a bandana around his mouth and nose when he came to visit his former wife, Shelley Smiles. Shelley was three rows back from my Mom’s plot and had been quite the character herself. She was known throughout our small town for her backyard poolside tanning sessions, topless, visible to all the traffic that ran on Highway 503. The stories of Shocking Shelley, no doubt embellished as the years went on, would surely outlive any of the Mayor’s mediocre terms in public office.

It was on the drive to see Mom on a Thursday, May 24th to be exact, that I decided I would finally go for it. I would not only initiate a conversation with Lawn Guy, but if all went well I would ask him over to the house for coffee. I don’t know what sparked the sudden feeling of confidence and now-or-neverness but I knew I had to act on it before it disappeared. Perhaps it was my last visit to Dad when he had complained about the lukewarm porridge at breakfast, mistaking me for the home’s service staff. Or it could have been the story I read in the Metro about the man and woman who fell to their deaths on their honeymoon taking selfies at the Grand Canyon. Who knows? When Mom had her stroke, I was reminded of how fleeting life could be. I recognized that fact but didn’t usually act on it. It hadn’t changed me. Until that sweltering May day.

I rehearsed what I would say as I parked my car and walked through the towering gates, a small posy of lilac freesias in hand. I could see Lawn Guy materialize in the back forty, perched atop the old John Deere, making wide circles Zamboni style. He waved when he saw me and started to steer back in my direction, towards the front of the cemetery. He parked a few rows away then climbed down and sat on the ground, his back resting against the massive front wheel. Now or never, Kitty. I made my way over, a nervous smile plastered on my face. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

“It’s a hot one, Kitty Cat! Can’t remember a May this bad. Think I will just take a breather for a sec before I finish the west side.” He seemed out of breath, winded.

“Sure is. Hot that is,” I replied, lamely.

Then silence. I looked at my feet, desperately trying to come up with something.

“Um, is this your only job?” No! Try again! “I’m so sorry. I mean, do you have to work somewhere else tomorrow too, or are you free?”

Lawn Guy chuckled.

“Haha, no offense taken young lady. I do usually cut the ball diamonds and the schools, but not tomorrow. As it happens I am free.”

He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Great,” I exhaled. I went for it. “Uh, would you like to meet somewhere for coffee then?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Lawn Guy replied, still smiling. “How about I see you at the Five and Diner, say 6 o’clock?”

I wasn’t familiar with the Five and Diner. Maybe it was the new cafe on Main or the resto by the exit ramp I’d been hearing about? I would Google it later.

“Perfect, see you then.”

“Oh, and Kitty?” he whispered. “The name’s Otis. Otis Reed Duncan, “he teased.

“Right, I knew that,” I blushed involuntarily.

My heart gradually stopped pounding out of my chest and I could feel my jaw start to unclench and relax as I turned and made my way back to my car. I had done it; I had a date! Well as close to a date as I had ever gotten at least. Coffee with the hot Lawn Guy! Boring predictable beige Kitty had taken a leap and it had paid off. I turned back to see if he was watching me walk away and if he could see the spring in my step, but Lawn Guy was already gone. Tractor and all. Odd. I settled in my car, turned the radio on, buzzed the windows down, and savored the feeling of accomplishment and excitement. Even the repulsive turkey stench wafting into the car couldn’t bring me down. As I turned to exit the gates I noticed Mr. Finegrove, the part-time church pianist, full-time cemetery manager, and all-time town gossip, pulling in alongside me.

“Kitty, nice to see you! Your dad doing okay?” he called over through his open window.

“Yes, he’s great, Mr. Finegrove,” I lied. “I just popped by to see Mom, and had a nice chat with Otis.”

“Ah, good for you.” Then Mr. Finegrove frowned, confused.

“Otis?” he asked.

“Yeah, your groundskeeper,” I reminded him.

“Hmmm, we don’t have any workers named Otis,” he said. “The chaplain’s daughter Susie trims on weekends and we have a local service that comes bi-weekly. But those are the McCain twins, Jim and Jayson.”

“Nope,” I said, a strange feeling of angst stirring in my chest. “I see Otis here every week riding that old John Deere. We chat. I am meeting him tomorrow for coffee at the Five and Diner,” I insisted, my voice and my chin rising defiantly as I boasted.

“You sure that’s his name?”

“Positive. Short ginger hair, usually wears overalls…” I explained, my voice trailing off as Mr. Finegrove’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Does he carry an antique metal lunch box? Pleasant guy? Red Sox cap?” he asked.

“Yes!” I replied, exhaling with relief. “Otis Reed Duncan.”

I was oddly proud of my new connection to Otis, although we hadn’t even had coffee yet. There was an intimacy in knowing a person’s middle name.

“Well, that explains the Five and Diner reference,” Mr. Finegrove chuckled. “I recall it was torn down back in the 70s. I’ve never seen the infamous Otis, but I know Susie sees him often when she’s cutting.”

I forced a smile for Mr.Finegrove, eager to get past the growing uncertainty I was feeling, impatient to get home and select an outfit for my date. Sweat was starting to drip down my temples. Perhaps I would finally wear the floral Gap shift dress I had bought two years ago on a whim. But Mr.Finegrove did not budge.

“Susie says that he’ll appear out of nowhere. But at least he’s a friendly one. Poor guy lost his life and his high-school sweetheart in a farming accident in the 1950s and now spends eternity tidying her final resting place. Was a tractor rollover I think? Not many people know about Otis. I don’t want to scare off future business if you know what I mean, hehe? And he seems harmless enough. Usually only appears to the ladies.”

Mr. Finegrove probably thought it uncharacteristically rude of me when I cut him off by abruptly buzzing my window closed, shifted into gear, and drove away without another word. Perhaps he saw me pull off the road two blocks up, salty tears soaking through the front of my tee-shirt, sobs echoing in the quiet car, and Mom’s forgotten freesias wilting on the passenger seat.

 

Photo by Mitchell Griest on Unsplash