The Way They Thought That Love Should Be

Like a small chapel radiating off the nave of a cathedral, the den adjoining the living room became a grotto, a shrine to Norman’s memory. A little touch of Lourdes.

The wormwood wall paneling, crisp and glistening with shellac, commemorated his life with photographs and memorabilia. Ellen lovingly mounted each photograph, each in its own special frame: lacy tendrils of ferns carved from cherry wood cascaded like tears around a baby picture of him leaning on his elbows his face pointed upward, eyes popeyed and quizzical.

An oval, pewter frame topped with a bow enshrined his confirmation at twelve: dressed like a grownup with a hat and bow tie, Jennifer thought he looked like a confidence man.

Sleek platinum framed him standing next to his first car: a bright red Ford ’61 Sunliner convertible – the last of its kind, he would muse to Jennifer, who would listen like an inquisitive archaeologist, thoughtfully reflecting on the technology of ancient civilizations.

There was the photo of the lighthouse on Nantucket harbor—the pale suggestion of it in a morning fog just lifting—taken from the ferry as he and Ellen departed for Hyannis on their last vacation together.

Next to that, engraved in Times Roman on a fine linen stock, a toast he had made to Ellen at a dinner party on their 10th anniversary. He had written it all out and read it formally. Now when she read it, it was like saying grace or a beautiful benediction on their life together. Like Stations of the Cross, each of these relics led finally to Norman, displayed like a reliquary on top of a tall, Victorian plant stand.

It was her friend Nancy, a Mormon with a profound belief in the immutability of family ties—ties that extended beyond the grave—that suggested that they kneel in front of Norman and pray.

“Honey,” she glowed, “I can feel him, I can just feel him here.”

She fell to her knees, closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. Ellen hesitated.

Nancy opened her eyes and looked up to her smiling.

“Sweetie, I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry about it. This isn’t a séance. If you haven’t prayed for a while, don’t worry. What we’re looking for here is a little peace of mind for you, and Norman, for that matter.”

Nancy closed her eyes again, and Ellen knelt down next to her.

“Lord, accept our prayer for Norman,” Nancy said. “Norman may be difficult for a while—he has a tendency to sulk. Things like, well, his golf handicap moving up a stroke or two get him down, so we can only image what something like this is doing to him.”

“Nancy,” Ellen said, “Are you always this familiar with God?” “Sweetie, you’ve been off the circuit too long. God came down off His pulpit a long time ago. He’s sweating the details now with the little guy. Wants to know how you’re doing with cholesterol, how many packs you’ve smoked today, have you been good to your stepchildren. Real life stuff.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No, honey, you don’t. But it’s what’s going to get you through. And if I were you, I’d go ahead and keep Norman around as long as you need to.”

Jennifer walked into the den.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We’re praying, sweetheart. Praying for Daddy. We have a feeling that Daddy could use a little moral support right now.”

“Do you know what we call Daddy, Nancy?” Jennifer said with a tight smile.

“I couldn’t guess, honey.”

“Pop –in-a box.”

“Pop –in-a-box?”

“Yes. Daddy’s cylinder is so convenient. Mom puts him in the wine rack while she’s cooking—says it relaxes her.”

“I can understand that.”

“And we take him on walks, and picnics. He fits perfectly in the slot for the thermos in the picnic basket.”

Ellen glared at her.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I am,” she said, and began to cry. Nancy looked around the room. There was a box of pink tissues on an end table. She got up off her knees with a groan, grabbed some tissues and put her arm around Jennifer.

“Honey,” she said brightly, “Let’s take Norman for a picnic. Why not? I could use a little air right now, couldn’t you?”