Lucy sat on the ground and stared at the large gray artifact that
held her secret. It was a hot, humid summer day, and tiny beads of
sweat were breaking out on her forehead like glistening drops of
honeysuckle dew. She didn't mind the heat and ignored it, focusing
all her attention on the worn, barely legible writing that was pure
poetry to her mind and perfection to her heart.
She lay her body back down in the grass, shaded by the coolness of the large, fragrant magnolia tree that towered overhead. When I die, may I be buried under a magnolia tree like this one. When I die, let someone discover my memory someday and love me like I love him.
Lucy laughed out loud at the thought of this. It was so ridiculously romantic, so absurdly surreal and so immersed in fantasy that she thought herself insane.
She carefully tore apart the petals of the large, white flower one by one and let them fall into her dark chocolate colored hair. Her light cotton skirt was sticking to her shapely thighs with the moisture of her skin's secretions. The petals were soft and wispy, like the feathers of an angel. When Lucy was a little girl, she would imagine the magnolias to be tiny ethereal beings that looked over her when God was too busy with the rest of the world's problems.
Lucy had led a charmed life but there had always been something missing. A deep, dark, hole in her soul and emptiness in her heart that ached in her subconscious even while she was asleep. Her only escape was to come here, to sit under the tree and to toss the angel's wings over the ground where he lay. She only hoped for a miracle.
She had discovered him at the tender age of ten. She was out frolicking in the large pasture behind her grandfather's house, talking to herself, the birds and nature. Lucy had an imagination like no human child. She could make friends with the wind, if that is all she had to talk to, and she was quite content.
Her parents were killed in a car accident when Lucia was a baby. Her grandmother passed away a year later of a broken heart, and her grandfather raised her single-handedly.
Her grandfather was her only family. Until she found him.
It was an overcast day when she first discovered it. It was late in the evening. The crickets were out and the sun was setting. Lucy knew her grandfather would be calling for her soon, but she wanted to explore a thickened area of high weeds she had spotted under a large magnolia tree. Making her way through the wild flowers and brush, undaunted and fearless of snakes or spiders, she stepped on an uneven piece of ground that almost threw her off balance.
Lucy stood there with an uneasy, eerie feeling as she slowly realized she was standing on a gravesite. Her immediate reaction was to jump off, for she had been taught somewhere never to stand directly upon a burial ground. But something kept her planted firmly as she fell to her knees and began to dig through the dirt in front of her with bare hands.
Her fingers bleeding, she finally uncovered the stone marker.
Anthony Angelo Gregorio
Born August 15, 1936
Died September 30, 1961
We choose our own fate,
Fate does not choose us.
Lucy fell madly in love that day with a man who was no longer alive. Thirty years later, she was still in love with Anthony Angelo Gregorio. The mystery of his life and death would soon unfold.
"Anthony was a good kid," her grandfather said, as he smoked his pungent cigar and whittled away at his latest wooden carving.
"He came around these parts around 1955, I reckon. Young fella, ‘bout eighteen, nineteen years-old. I wanted to help him, after all, in some ways he was family, being Sicilian and all. His folks were from the Old Country, they immigrated here to America and lived up north. Jersey, I think."
Her grandfather spoke with a southern Italian accent that was ever so slight. He always smelled of cheap cigars and whiskey. Lucy thought this aroma to be wonderful and magical -- at least, when Grand Papa was in one of his good moods.
"What did he look like, Papa?" she asked with eager innocence and loving abandonment.
"Well, Lucia, he was a good-looking boy.” He took a long swig out of the beaten, unpolished silver flask he kept by his workbench. “Quite handsome, I suppose. Dark hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. Eyes that were so intense they sparkled like gold."
"Gold, Papa? He had golden eyes?" Lucy's dark eyes widened.
"Yes, Lucia, the eyes of a Saint."
"What was he like? Was he kind? Polite? Funny? Strong?"
"He had a warm heart and a gentleness about him uncommon for such a sturdy man. I hired him right away to help me with the farm, load stock at the store. Good worker, that Anthony. But he always seemed a bit down, unhappy, almost disturbed. He was somewhat of a loner. He died young. It was a shame."
Her grandfather took another drink. His eyes looked hazy and distant.
Satisfied and unaware, Lucy went off to play in the fields once again, her imagination set free with her adoration for Tony.
"You come here often?"
The voice startled Lucy out of her state of reverie. She quickly sat up, embarrassed and somewhat frightened.
As she shielded her eyes from the sun, she could make out the form of a young man standing before her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You looked like you were peacefully asleep, but I wanted to make sure you were alive."
His face was now in view -- a gentle, round face -- with full lips and dreamy eyes. He possessed the face of a cherub with bright golden eyes.
"Tony?" she muttered under her breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Your name? What is your name?"
"Joe. Nothing fancy. Short for Josef. And yours?"
"Lucy. Nothing fancy. Short for Lucia."
"Ah, Lucia. What a lovely name. It fits you better than Lucy. Let me guess . . . Italian?"
"Well, yes. My heritage, anyway. I am sorry, I didn't mean to . . . "
"It's okay, Lucia. I will go. I don't want to bother you and become a nuisance. It was nice meeting you."
"You too, Joe."
She watched him as he walked off into the distance. Lucy noticed she was shaking violently.
Had Tony finally come back?
Jane hugged Lucy as she entered her office.
"It's been a while, Lucy, how are you?"
"I’m fine, Jane. Just fine."
"Well, that's great to hear! Are you here for a reason or just to visit?"
"Well, I needed to talk about something that has happened."
Jane sat on her overstuffed couch and picked up her paper and pen. She was warm and amicable, never judging Lucy and always offering her advice that was based on human concern, not clinical definition. Her graying ash brown hair was cut into a fashionable bob, and she was dressed in a sharp, but relaxed navy suit.
As long as Lucy had been seeing her, she often wondered what Jane's relationship with her second husband was like - after all, she failed once before herself. Jane would tell her things, personal things, things that often surprised Lucy. She formerly believed a therapist's role was to keep a professional distance. But it helped Lucy realize Jane was as real and as human as anyone else.
Lucy began therapy shortly after her painful and abrupt break-up of an engagement with her fiancée, Russell.
Of course, it all started because of the “incident”.
"Dammit, Lucy!" Russell shouted during one of his fits of anger.
"What is this? You call out another man's name in your sleep, you act as though you are miles away sometimes and you cry after we make love. Who is he?"
Lucy could not answer. How could she tell Russell his competition was a mere ghost of a man? A man she loved deeply but never met? Never would meet? A man she knew every intimate secret about through his poetry she discovered one day in her grandfather's barn as an adolescent?
And so Russell broke the engagement because she was "cheating" on him. Little did Russell know the truth of the matter was Lucy was completely faithful to him, in all ways but one. Her heart.
"Is it Tony again?" Jane asked, staring into Lucy’s wet and glazed-over eyes.
"Yes," she barely whispered.
"Have the dreams started again?" Jane scribbled in her notebook.
"No. Not really. It's just that . . ."
"Yes? Go on."
"He appeared to me today. At the gravesite. He was so real. It was him, I know it was - he looked just like he does in my dreams. The only difference was, he said his name was Josef."
Jane got up and held her close.
"Will I need the medication again?" Lucy asked, tears streaming down her face.
"Maybe not, honey. Maybe not."
Longing
I sit here in the silent shadows of my room,
Darkness near,
Alone.
A swirling cloud of wanting, desire,
Needing,
Reaching out to emptiness.
So very near, a glimpse of hope,
A love so deep it haunts me,
Like a prisoner.
I wane for your touch, your life, your presence.
If you could be with me my love,
Skin touching, warmth, kissing me.
I have nothing to offer, not now,
Bare pockets, fragments of youth,
Nothing left.
A skeleton of a man, a shadow of a future,
And yet, it haunts me.
You haunt me. Longing.
I will not be here when you come.
“Who did you write this poem for Tony?” she asked, as she stared at the worn, parched pages.
“For you, my beautiful, precious Lucia. I knew all my life you were to exist someday . . .somewhere in this universe . . . waiting for me.”
“But you didn’t wait for me,” Lucy answered, looking more lovely than ever in her white lace gown. She was an angel, a princess sent from heaven with a halo around her head like a crown. Tony smiled at this almost religious vision of perfection. He found it odd that she would be the one to look so spiritual.
“I couldn’t wait for you. Lucia, we weren’t meant to be.”
“But I love you. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“And I love you too. I always did. I always will. But my time here wasn’t your time here. You must accept that.”
“Tony, how could you leave me? Why did you do it? Age is nothing, when we met means nothing . . . you could have waited. If you knew then, why didn’t you wait for me?” Her iridescent brown eyes filled with tears like bursting summer storm clouds.
“That is why I couldn’t go on. Without you, life was meaningless. But time passes faster on your side. We will be together someday.” Tony stroked her hair in his usual protective, gentle manner.
“I can’t wait. Let me join you, Tony. Please let me.”
“No, LUCIA.”
“Tony, please, I want you. I love you. Let me come to you!”
“NO. LUCIA! NO.”
“Tony,” she pleaded.
“Lucia. Promise me you will live.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
“Promise me,” he was shaking her now, almost violently.
Tony began to vanish before her eyes. “Mother, Father, Papa . . . now you!”
“Live, live, live, live . . .” His words faded into nothingness.
Lucia awoke near the window covered in a cold sweat. Her heart was thumping wildly. She had no memory of walking out of her bed and no idea how she got there, standing alone in the parlor with a large pair of scissors in her hands.
The dreams were back.
She read aloud to him on the grassy knoll.
Living
Living without you, my love
Is too painful, something must give,
I am becoming weary, worn, tired
Of breathing, awaking, seeing, hearing,
Thinking of it causes even more hurt.
This existence must cease.
I once lived for you,
I will always live without you,
It can never be except in another time,
Past or future, one and the same.
I love you.
But I must leave you.
The color of your burgundy lips flashes before me.
It drips from the hands that would have touched your face.
We choose our own fate.
Fate does not choose us.
“That’s a haunting passage. Did you write it?” His words came from the silence like honey flowing from a jar, barely in motion, soothing, almost inaudible.
“No.” Lucy quickly shut the book. Her abrupt motions accidentally tore one of the pages. She inadvertently gasped.
“I’m sorry. I’ve startled you again.” Joe looked wounded and shocked by Lucy’s sudden reaction.
“The page, it’s torn,” she began to cry softly, “it mustn’t be torn, ever.” She was humiliated and angered by his presence at the same time. How could a stranger see her like this?
“Are you okay? Lucia, right?”
He remembered her name. She looked up at his kind, but unsettled face.
“Tony, it’s been so long.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Josef. Joe. I met you here once before, about a month ago.”
“Ah, yes, Joe.” She hid her face in shame.
He sat beside her as though he had known her all of his life.
“Hey, look. It’s none of my business, but . . . who was he?”
Lucy remained silent.
“It’s okay. Like I said, none of my business. Just thought you’d like to talk about it.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, you seem to come here an awful lot. I figured he must have been someone awfully important to you.”
“You’ve seen me other times?”
“Well, uh, yes. Often. I didn’t want to bother you. You always look so – anyway -- I’m not a stalker. I live down the road.”
“His name was Anthony. He was my lover.”
“Oh?” Josef seemed taken back and surprised. There was an awkward silence as he shifted his weight in an uneasy fashion.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Lucia snapped.
“Look, I need to get going.” He stood up and nervously wiped the leaves from the back of his trousers. “Again, it’s none of my business, but, well, I looked at the grave marker and it says he died in 1961. You can’t possibly be that old and . . .”
Lucia stared at the ground. A magnolia blossom was gently blowing in small circular patterns at his feet.
“If you need help -- I can help -- damn.” He ran his hands through his thick, straight hair in frustration.
“I don’t need any help, okay? I know he’s dead. I know I wasn’t alive. You are right, it isn’t any of your business.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”
Lucia watched as Joe left her sitting in the grass that covered Tony’s secret.
“When I am gone, honey, I want to know that you will be okay.” Grand Papa was a shell of his former self. His eyes were sunken into his skull like a Halloween mask. The cancer had eaten away every ounce of life left in him.
“I will be fine, Grand Papa.” Lucia held his hand. She was a woman now, a college graduate with a job of her own.
“Promise me something, Lucia.” His voice was now barely a whisper.
“Anything, Papa, anything.”
“Live, my child.”
“What?”
“Go out. Make friends. Find a nice man and make him your husband. Have children. Don’t stay caught up in your fantasy world forever.” He was drifting away from her fast.
“What ever do you mean?”
“Don’t make my mistakes, Lucia. The boy, Anthony. He is gone. He never was yours, Lucia. He never was yours to begin with. . .” Grand Papa began to choke.
“Don’t speak anymore, I’ve got to get the nurse.” Lucia turned to run out of the room. She stopped dead cold in her tracks.
Tony was standing in the doorway.
“Tony! Thank God you’re here!” Lucia rushed into his arms. He held her tight.
“See Papa, see? He is real? Papa?”
Her grandfather was staring into the space where Tony stood as though he had seen a ghost, and yet at the same time a smile began to spread along his face.
“Anthony Gregario?”
“Hello Mr. Cazarro. How have you been?”
Grand Papa choked again – this time even worse.
“Tony, don’t ask him to speak. He’s not doing well.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’ve come for him.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, love, it’s his time.”
“You’re taking Grand Papa with you? Tony, no! You can’t! He’s all I have left!”
“I am sorry. Lucia. I came because of you.”
“You came because of me? What are you talking about?”
“Anthony was a good boy . . . almost family, you know.” His eyes shut and he gasped his last breath.
“Grand Papa, don’t leave me!”
Tony held her close as her grandfather passed on to a happier place, where the magnolias were always in full bloom.
Janet came the day after Lucia’s first suicide attempt. She sat on the edge of her hospital bed and smiled as though trying to kill one’s self was the most natural thing in the world.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine. My wrists feel like I slit them.”
“A man named Russell is outside waiting to see you. The doctor thought perhaps we should speak first. Is he someone you want to see?”
“No. Not like this.”
“Your charts say you have no immediate family. I take it you two are not married?”
“No. Tell him to go. He is nobody to me.”
“Do you have anyone to call?” Janet asked without a flinch on her face.
“Only if you have a direct line to God,” Lucia turned her head. It felt like a ton of bricks.
“We shall talk again.” Janet rose and gracefully left the room undaunted by Lucy’s mean disposition.
Janet did indeed return. Russell never did.
“I wrote you a poem myself.” Josef look almost frightened of Lucy. She was sitting in the grass knitting a burgundy sweater. It was Tony’s favorite color.
“Why do you bother with me at all?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. His cherub face and his cherub lips reminded her of Cupid. She giggled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I am insane, that’s all. You are talking to one crazy woman.”
“Lucia, I know something bothers you. I can see it in your eyes. I’ve noticed the scars on your wrists. But I DO NOT think you are insane.”
“Most people around here do . . . I am in love with a dead man, a ghost.”
“I know your parents were killed when you were very young and your grandfather raised you. I know you tried to -- well, you know -- not long after his death. I know you are alone. Your apparent fascination with this man, I don’t know so much about. Or maybe I don’t want to know about it.”
“My therapist tells me I created him in my mind because I needed guidance. You see, I loved Grand Papa dearly, but he was an alcoholic. I needed a father.”
“I am the adult child of an alcoholic too, you know.” He looked into the distance, past her, as though he could see his own demons.
“Joe?”
“I gotta go.”
He dropped a folded piece of paper into her lap. After he walked away, she read the awkwardly written lines:
Magnolia Blooms
She is a flower, forever blooming,
Her petals white and pure.
A picture of southern beauty,
Graceful, patient, demure.
Her pollen intoxicates me,
She is my hope and my cure.
Soft petals brushing on my face,
A scent so light and so pure.
There is someone waiting for you,
A poet he may not be.
But he is alive and breathing,
Perhaps that someone is me.
The past is not a part of us,
The future holds the key.
I am here if you need me,
My only love, Lucy.
“It’s a silly poem, he can’t write like you,” she laughed as she dropped the magnolia petals into his hair. His head was comfortably propped in her lap, looking as handsome as ever amongst the delicate fabric of her dress.
“But Lucia, he loves you. I hate to sound cliched, but it is the thought that counts.”
“You’re not jealous are you?”
“Jealous? Why, of course not! I am happy for you! I think he’s a nice guy.”
“Do you really, Tony?”
He sat up and grabbed her shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes.
“YES. Lucia, listen to me. He is the one for you – not me.”
“Why do you always have to speak like this?”
“Because, my darling, it is true. As much as we love each other, it is impossible for us to be together. I was a coward, a wimp. I saw into the future and I didn’t like what I saw – so I ended my own life. I can’t let you do that to yourself, Lucia. You’re bright, beautiful and now you have Joe. He is the important one now.”
“But I’ll never let you go, Tony. Never.”
“You never had me, Lucy.” His gold eyes glistened in the sunlight.
“You sound like Papa .”
“Maybe he was right.”
“Make love to me Tony,” she whispered. “So I’ll never forget you.”
“I don’t know if I should .”
“Make love to me. Please.”
“If you promise.”
“ Promise?”
“To live. Always remember we choose our own fate. Fate does not choose us.”
“I promise. I love you, Anthony. I always will.”
Anthony Angelo Gregario’s lips touched hers with the heat of the southern noonday sun. Her body tensed as it felt the sensation of both pleasure and pain merging into a passion that lit into the core of her soul.
She quivered as his hands found their way from her hair down to her breasts, that heaved and swelled from the confinements of her white lace dress. The sound of the torn fabric echoed like the torn parchment paper of Tony’s journal that day so long ago.
Lucia caught her breath as his teeth lightly teased her bosom, as she gave herself freely to Tony for the first and last time. His touches, his kisses, his caresses were acts of intense lovemaking, a gift to her as a woman, a human, a life. As he tended to her private garden, he nurtured and fed her blossom with his tongue, parting the petals ever so lightly, releasing the fragrant pollen and taking it in like a hummingbird drinking dew.
He brought his own essence inside her, reaching so deeply it touched her heart. She called out his name to give it closure, as she peaked into the vastness.
She was freed of her fears of abandonment. Lucia was finally able to live.
“I wrote you a poem,” she said as they left the meeting hand in hand.
The wind was quite chilly this November and Lucia was glad she finally finished knitting the burgundy sweater. Several members of the ACOA group had commented on how good Josef looked in that color.
“Well, my favorite color is burgundy,” he blushed. “The same color as my face about now.”
She laughed aloud and squeezed his arm. She was proud of both him and that sweater.
“Let’s see. Well, this isn’t a poem!” Joe exclaimed.
“Of course it is, it’s words and I wrote it!”
“That doesn’t make it a poem!”
“It is the use of heightened language and rhythm,” she laughed.
Josef stopped in the cold, bitter air. He looked her straight in the eyes and read:
I love you, Josef.” Lucia smiled. She had kept her promise.
“I love you, Lucia.”
“We choose our own fate,” she replied.
It was his turn to smile.
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