Just a Name on a Tombstone

“I can’t sleep,” I whisper into the dark abyss that envelopes my small, drafty bedroom.

 I can hear the creaking of trees swaying against the wind that beats against the shingles of the roof and the panels that line the outside of my small home. I’m not sure who I am talking to even as I say the words out loud; I know that he is not here.

I waited for him since two o’clock this afternoon. I waited outside on the porch swing that hangs from an old oak tree in the backyard; in late August the leaves were still full and green. They dangled from the branches like spiders from a web, providing shade from both the beating sun and from my mothers watching eyes. Every so often though, I would catch her leaning far into the corner of the kitchen window, trying to see me through the brush. I could feel her concern like an old heavy blanket, the type that feels musty and provides not comfort but scratches your skin and causes you to sweat under its weight. She had been weighing me down with pointed glances and hushed conversations for over a month now. Ever since I started seeing him.

“I cannot sleep,” I repeat, a little louder this time. As if saying it again will summon him to me. Only the sound of the wind beating against the house answers my own voice.

He always comes at two.

Never late or early, he just struts into the backyard right on time wearing that ridiculous fancy gray suit, vest and all, with the god-awful black fedora in his hands and those shoes that shine so perfectly that I can almost see my reflection in them. He never breaks a sweat either, not even under al of his layers. I’ll hear his voice before I see him, always singing.

“It had to be you, it had to be you,” he’ll croon smoothly, “I’ve wandered around, and finally found, the somebody who…”

The first time it happened, I was caught so off guard that I screamed at the top of my lungs. No one was home that day, Nan had just passed and whatever time my mother spent out of a bottle, she spent out of the house as well. Nan had lived with us after she started forgetting things, my mother took care of her, and she wasn’t handling her passing with all of her usual grace.

He had just smiled meekly and said, “whoa, whoa there doll, didn’t mean to startle ya.”

His voice had been so calm and the way his words had rolled off of his lips, slick like honey had just done something to me. That’s all it had taken really: the suit, that thick Chicago accent, those bright sky-blue eyes, a flash of that cocky grin...He was different than anyone else I had ever met. Different than anybody I had ever known. Something about his persona had just instantly calmed me down. So, I stopped screaming, and I didn’t run for help even though every instinct told me to. Instead, I just talked to him. And we kept talking, for nearly an hour, though it had felt like mere minutes. We would’ve talked longer, but my neighbors called 911 about a possible intruder because they had heard me scream. That’s the only reason why my mother even knows about us. About him. I wouldn’t have told her otherwise; my parents have been divorced since I was six and my mother is not much of a romantic. To be honest, I never thought I was either, until I met him.

“I can’t sleep,” I whisper again, checking the time on my phone. It’s well passed one in the morning, and everything in me tells me to stay in bed. But something is drawing me out, drawing me to him. I know where he is, it’s where he always is.

I can’t stop myself; I feel my feet pull out from underneath the covers and land on the cool, wooden floor. I bring myself to my feet and look out the window. The city skyline lights up the otherwise pitch black night, and the streetlamps cast eerie shadows across the sidewalk outside my house. Still, I am not afraid. I know where I need to go.

 When he had told me that he wouldn’t be coming back again, I didn’t believe him. We fight sometimes, it can even get ugly to the point that we’re screaming at each other until I’m out of breath and dizzy. That’s usually when my mother gets involved and he’ll stay away for a few days, but he always comes back. Yesterday was different though; we didn’t scream or yell or get into each other’s faces. He was as calm as he was that first day he walked up to me. His eyes, his voice, they were cold enough to send chills down my spine. He said he wasn’t coming back, that he needed something more, someone more.

Someone else.

He didn’t say it was someone else, but I know that’s what it’s all about. I know that’s why he’s not here right now, why he’s not laying down next to me on my bed, brushing stray hairs behind my ear and singing to me softly.

“With all of your faults, I love you still…” I can practically hear his voice; it wraps me in the memory of his arms around me, holding me close to his chest.

I know what I need to do.

I turn on my bedside lamp and begin to shuffle around my room. I grab the photo that sits on my nightstand and study it for a moment like I have so many times before. With a looming sense of urgency propelling me forward, I change into a different outfit, putting on red lipstick to match my dress and fix my hair up. I sneak out of my room and down into the living room, where my mother is fast asleep on the couch in front of the TV with two empty wine bottles for company. I know she would not approve, but I am only going down the street after all. Even at this hour, surely I can be trusted to walk down the street on my own. My mother would disagree, I’m sure. She just doesn’t understand it. She doesn’t understand me. She is fighting so hard to keep him out of my life, to force him away from me. I’ve never felt this way before. When I’m with him, I feel more at peace than I ever thought that I could. When he’s gone though...it’s like I could just break into pieces, smaller and smaller until the windy city blows me away into nothingness. The thought of him with someone else makes my stomach churn and my chest tighten. As I make it outside, I quicken my step down the lonely sidewalk, shadows creeping up over me, making my skin crawl. I turn onto a path off of the street, walking under the large iron archway that welcomes me as if I have just come home. A fog begins to spread across the air, hanging low to the ground. It always feels colder here. I hate it.

I hate that he still comes here.

“Gus,” I call out quietly as his silhouette comes into view.

He’s leaning against a willow tree, staring at the ground beneath him. He doesn’t even startle when he hears me say his name, he knew I’d find him here. He’s always here, moping around the gravestones as if he could just sink into the ground and lie amongst the corpses. There’s no one around the cemetery tonight, leaving a chilling feeling in my bones. Even in his finest suit, he looks like a shell of the man I know, pale and broken. He looks as if he’s been crying; he must have been mourning her.

“Jules,” his voice is low and rumbling, “how’d ya track me down, doll? Spyin’ on me?”

I come to a stop a few feet away from him, his eyes flicker up at me and look me over. I smooth out the bottom of the red dress I’m wearing; it’s not quite like the one in the picture but it’s flattering.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say in a low voice.

He shakes his head disapprovingly, “what are ya wearing, kid?”

I scratch at the goosebumps that spread across my arms, “I thought you’d like it.”

“I can’t see ya anymore, Jules,” he sighs heavily, avoiding looking at me, “it’s no good, me and you.”

“You can’t believe that,” my voice is strained and my body is trembling. I press my lips together tightly as I try to keep them from quivering. My hands shake ever so slightly and I realize that I am still holding the photograph that I grabbed from my room. Before I can shove it behind my back, his arm is reaching out to mine. He catches it lightly and grabs the picture swiftly out of my hand.

I sigh in exasperation, I hadn’t wanted him to see that tonight. 

He studies it closely, as if he hasn’t seen it before, but he has. I grab it back from him and throw it onto the ground. His eyes narrow as he looks at me closely; I suddenly feel silly in this dress, with this hair style, wearing this lipstick. Like a little girl playing dress-up. I know he sees it too.

“What are ya doin’, Jules?” I cringe at the patronizing sound in his voice. His eyes look at me in a mix of shock and disgust, with his eyebrows raised up under the rim of his hat. He rubs his eyes in a vexed manner, he then winds up his arm and punches the trunk of the willow tree hard. I flinch, feeling the bottom of my eyes well up.

“I thought…”

“You thought what?” He’s in my face, eyes searching mine deeply. He reaches a hand towards me and tips my chin up, his voice softens as he whispers, “you ain’t her, Jules. Why are ya pretending?”

I pull away from his touch and drop my gaze to the ground where the photo landed at my feet. I look just like her, everyone has always said that. The picture doesn’t have color but I know that she wore a red dress like this one and matching lipstick, with her hair half up like mine is now. She told me that after I found the photo; of all the things that Nan couldn’t remember, she remembered that night. The last night that she saw him. After that night, her life went on, and she went on to meet my Pop, and they had children and shared an incredible life together. But still, she kept this picture.

“Because I love you,” I whisper in a shaky voice.

“Stop torturing yourself,” he rests his forehead against mine, “I wish things were different too.”

“It doesn’t have to change, Gus. I’m not going anywhere,” I run my fingers over his skin and cup his cheek in my hand; he’s always so cold. He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch.

As quickly as he leans into me, he pulls away and says, “but I am. There’s gotta be more than this.” Anger bubbles up inside of me and I push him back, he stumbles but maintains his footing.

“She’s not waiting for you!” I scream, “she moved on! She’s not waiting for you!” Sobs rack my body and my voice is strangled. My legs can no longer support me and I drop to the ground into the fog, wishing that it would just swallow me up.

He crouches down across from me, his head is hanging low and his voice is small, “I know that, Jules. I know she did. But I can’t hang around, playing pretend with ya anymore. She’s not waiting, but something’s gotta be, don’t ya think? That there’s something more out there? More for me? More for you?” He clears his throat, “I never meant to hurt ya, doll. I never would’ve…You deserve better than this. You oughta be with someone who can make ya happy.”

“You make me happy,” I say through gritted teeth.

He sighs, “you know that ain’t true, Jules.”

“Just go,” my voice is bitter and grainy. I wipe tears from my cheeks briskly and train my gaze to the photograph. Nan was so young then, younger than I am now by a year or so. They look good together; Nan’s smile is big and wide like the picture caught her in a laugh, Gus is wearing his cocky grin, but his eyes hold her like they never want to let go. It’s what we would look like if we could take a picture together. It could never happen though, I’m the only one who can see Gus. He doesn’t show up in pictures anymore.

“Jules…” His voice is a whisper, as if he is leaning right into my ear as he speaks even though he remains squatted across from me. I reach out to him and push back the side of his jacket. There’s a hole in his chest from where the bullet pierced his heart more than ninety years ago. The same night the photograph was taken, the last night that anyone saw him. Until me.

“Just go,” I cover the bullet wound up again, leaving my hand resting on his chest, “maybe there’s more. More than me.”

“Nothin’s more than you, Jules,” he puts his hand over mine, “but I’m not doin’ ya any favors by hangin’ around. You know it, too.” He leans in towards me and I feel his lips touch mine. They’re soft and solid and real. People keep telling me that it’s not real, that he’s not real. Not matter what the doctors say, what my mother says, how many people tell me otherwise, nothing has ever felt more real than when he kisses me. His lips linger on mine for a second and I keep my eyes shut tight. I don’t want to see him leave.

Silence hangs between us, but I feel it. I feel the moment that he leaves. It feels as if a void opens up like a cavern inside of me, sucking the air out of my lungs. When I open my eyes, he’s gone. I pick up the photo from where it lays on the ground. I remember when I first found it amongst my Nan’s things when she moved in with us. I remember the look in her eyes when I showed it to her and asked about him, when I asked about Gus. It wasn’t long after that I started seeing him.

I reach out and touch the tombstone in front of me. My fingers trace over the engraved epitaph, Gustavo Marino, and the numbers below, 1907-1926. Nothing else, no loving words or memories. Just a name on a tombstone.

         “It had to be you,” my voice is broken, and I choke out tears as I sing the words quietly, all alone in the empty cemetery, “wonderful you.” I pull myself against the tombstone as the words flow off of my lips sullenly, “it had to be you…”

My voice trails off into the emptiness of the fallen night.

As I lay curled against his tombstone, I hear the faint sound of footsteps approach me. I look up through tear-soaked eyes to see dusty, weathered brown boots with sharp silver spurs on the backs. I raise my gaze all the way up to his face, taking in his hazel eyes and blonde scruff. On his head he wears a cowboy hat, and right through the center of the hat is a crisp, black bullet hole.

He kneels down on one knee in front of me and with a southern drawl he asks, “what’s the matter little darling?”

With a broken voice, I whisper, “I couldn’t sleep.”