The Walk

THE WALK

ED WOOTEN

The Halloween activities at the rec center were winding down, so Beth grabbed her coat and we started home. The wooden steps creaked as we descended to the sidewalk. The town’s maintenance crew had applied a new coat of whitewash to the seventy-five year old center a couple of months ago. The streetlights were already on and the almost full moon provided sufficient light for our short walk home.

After all these years, I still enjoy walking with Beth by my side. It’s been over thirty years since we first walked this route together. The first time I ever kissed her was after one of these Halloween parties. I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. She hung out with the cool kids, cheerleaders and football players, while my crowd was the less-than-envious students. She made me breathe hard every time I thought of her, but she was not impressed with me. I remember it as though it was yesterday. We left the party and took a shortcut through the cemetery. As the clouds wisped past the quarter moon, we were startled when one of the feral cats hissed from the cover of some bushes. Beth jumped, but I protected her by pulling her close to me. Before I realized it, I kissed her. It was only a quick peck near her lips, but it counted as a kiss. To my surprise, she didn’t slap me nor recoil away. Instead she leaned toward me and gently kissed me. On the lips. Wow.

That kiss was the first of many to come throughout the years.

Tonight is the thirty-second, no, thirty-third anniversary of that first kiss. The night air is cool, but comfortable, and there’s no hint of rain. The many oak trees that align the street are shedding their colorful leaves in anticipation of the changing season.

I glanced at Beth as we passed under the rays of a streetlight. Her smile exposes her pearly white teeth with her slight overbite. Her skin shows a couple of wrinkles and she’s gained a few pounds, but she’s still as beautiful and breathtaking as always. I am so thankful that she agreed to be my wife.

We passed a handful of trick or treaters who were still seeking to add to their candy bounty. I wondered how many had the dreaded popcorn balls that Mrs. Jones over on Elm Street always distributed on Halloween. I wonder if she ever heard of Snickers, M&Ms, or Almond Joys. As a teenager, I used one of the popcorn balls to deter the advance of a Beagle that chased me and buddy, Butch, one Halloween.  

Beth and I passed costumes of Sponge Bob, Bluey, and Spider Man, but a little girl dressed like Cinderella stole my heart. In addition to the flowing dress and magic wand, she had makeup with sequins that highlighted her sparkling blue eyes. She was so cute, I’d have given her my candy if I had any.

Beth and I still take the shortcut through the cemetery to our house which is within two blocks of where we grew up as teenagers. We’ve lived in the same house since we were married twenty-eight years ago. When we first moved there, we were the youngest couple on the street, now we’re considered well into middle age. There’s been additions and renovations to the house, but our address has never changed.

The only dark time in our marriage was the six weeks from the time a lump was discovered in Beth’s breast until it was surgically removed. It was benign, but the realization that I could lose her has haunted me since.

As we entered the cemetery’s east gate, I realized Beth wasn’t talking very much. I’m sure she’s thinking about Thanksgiving approaching and the visit by our kids and their spouses. Beth always prepares a great feast that would be rivaled by the Pilgrims.

The cemetery is the final resting place for many of our town’s citizens, rich or poor and famous or unknown. The most prominent marker is for the Abney family plot that is surrounded by a knee-high, wrought iron fence. The Abneys owned the cotton mills that strived in our town in the 1950s and 1960s—well before my time, but my dad told me about them. An ex-major league baseball player is buried here. His marker has a baseball image engraved in the marble. Veterans from World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and Desert Storm are interspersed throughout. I’m sure there’s some from the Civil War, but those monuments are so worn that the inscriptions are not legible.

We also have myths and legends of ghosts in our cemetery. From the earliest time I can recall, I remember the ghosts of two townspeople who were murdered by an escapee from the chain gang camp. Chain gangs were a place of incarceration for some prisoners in the mid twentieth century. It was for people whose crimes were too bad for jail, but not bad enough for prison. Chain gang prisoners were used to keep roadways free from debris or sometimes even as construction crews for paving county roads. Legend has it that one of the chain gang prisoners escaped and killed a young couple who were making love in one of the secluded areas of city park. The ghosts of this couple are alleged to travel through town looking for their killer who was never found. When convenient for ghost stories, this same couple haunts the old Benson house located on Chester Street. Ooh, even now, I won’t go to the Benson house.    

Wait. I just realized Beth has stopped near one of the marble headstones. What could cause her to stop? We’ve passed these headstones so often, we’ve almost memorized the names on them.

“What’s up, Beth?” She didn’t respond, but knelt at the marker. She normally kneels at her parents’ markers, but their plot is three rows over.

“Beth, everything okay?”

Again silence.

I walked over, placed my hand on her shoulder, “Beth, are you okay?”

I looked at the marker. My name. My date of birth. My death…two years ago.