Ray saw us here in Pennington—at this time—he’d be curious what we’re doing. He’d say, ‘Let’s have lunch. I could do with a drink.’ ”
Why I am inspired to say this, I have no idea. Lately I have heard myself say bizarre unscripted remarks. Ray might have been consumed with curiosity to know what Jeanne, Jane, and I are doing in Pennington in Jeanne’s car as she parks in front of the Blackwell Memorial Home—but it’s hardly likely that Ray would have suggested lunch at this early hour, mid-morning.
A widow is compelled to say marginally “witty” remarks as a widow is compelled to speak of her husband, to utter his name as frequently as possible, in terror lest his name be lost.
My friends Jeanne and Jane have come to my house to pick me up this morning. I am weak with gratitude, dry-mouthed and excited in anticipation—a funeral home! The very funeral home past which we’d walked so frequently, which it was my idea to call instead of a funeral home in Princeton, early this morning.
“But Ray would like this. In Pennington. Closer to our house. It’s only about two miles away . . .”
How eager I am to believe that, in the parlor of the Blackwell Memorial Home, making these astonishing arrangements for the “disposal” of my husband’s remains, I am behaving normally, or near-normally. I want to think that my concentration—broken and scattered like a cheap mirror when I’m alone—is flawless here, like the concentration of one inching across a tightrope, high above the ground.
Neither Jeanne nor Jane is a widow—of course. Though neither is a stranger to death within the family—Jane’s mother died not long ago—neither woman is a widow and so I am thinking They are better able to humor me. Another widow would be less patient. She would think—Of course , what did you expect? This is what it is to lose your husband. You never knew , and now you know.
The widow’s terror is that, her mind being broken, as her spine is broken, and her heart is broken, she will break down utterly. She will be carried off by wild careening banshee thoughts like these.
In the Blackwell Memorial Home in Pennington, New Jersey, my friends and I are seated in comfortable cushioned chairs in a small room looking out toward Main Street, and on the wood-plank floor are attractive thin-worn carpets. Panes of glass in the tall narrow windows have that distinct look of age. Almost, this might be one of those museum-homes attached to parks—furnishings are spare—“antique”-looking—a large fieldstone fireplace takes up most of a wall—on the mantel is a tarnished-looking but impressive Civil War sword once the property of an ancestor of the proprietor Elizabeth Blackwell Davis—“Betty.”
Betty has a cat, she tells us. The cat is elusive, in hiding. But on the narrow staircase is a cloth catnip-toy.
In this domestic setting that reminds me of the wood-frame farmhouses of my childhood—though the houses of my childhood in upstate New York were austere, even grim, more resembling the black-and-white realism of Depression-era photographs than watercolors of small-town America—it’s being explained to us by Betty Davis that the Blackwell Memorial Home has been the Blackwell family business for generations. Betty has lived in this house most of her life and lives here now—upstairs—with her (adult) son—and the cat; Betty, too, is a widow. I am thinking Ray would like her , I think.
It’s a sign of the widow’s derangement, though a mild sign, that frequently the widow will think My husband would like this.
Others will conspire in this derangement eagerly. Your husband would like this. This is a good decision!
But how strange it is, to be making such a decision by myself, without Ray.
I have not made any “major” decision in my life, I think, by myself—without my parents to consult, or Ray.
As my friends talk with Betty Davis—how much more sociable my friends are, than I am!—I
Why I am inspired to say this, I have no idea. Lately I have heard myself say bizarre unscripted remarks. Ray might have been consumed with curiosity to know what Jeanne, Jane, and I are doing in Pennington in Jeanne’s car as she parks in front of the Blackwell Memorial Home—but it’s hardly likely that Ray would have suggested lunch at this early hour, mid-morning.
A widow is compelled to say marginally “witty” remarks as a widow is compelled to speak of her husband, to utter his name as frequently as possible, in terror lest his name be lost.
My friends Jeanne and Jane have come to my house to pick me up this morning. I am weak with gratitude, dry-mouthed and excited in anticipation—a funeral home! The very funeral home past which we’d walked so frequently, which it was my idea to call instead of a funeral home in Princeton, early this morning.
“But Ray would like this. In Pennington. Closer to our house. It’s only about two miles away . . .”
How eager I am to believe that, in the parlor of the Blackwell Memorial Home, making these astonishing arrangements for the “disposal” of my husband’s remains, I am behaving normally, or near-normally. I want to think that my concentration—broken and scattered like a cheap mirror when I’m alone—is flawless here, like the concentration of one inching across a tightrope, high above the ground.
Neither Jeanne nor Jane is a widow—of course. Though neither is a stranger to death within the family—Jane’s mother died not long ago—neither woman is a widow and so I am thinking They are better able to humor me. Another widow would be less patient. She would think—Of course , what did you expect? This is what it is to lose your husband. You never knew , and now you know.
The widow’s terror is that, her mind being broken, as her spine is broken, and her heart is broken, she will break down utterly. She will be carried off by wild careening banshee thoughts like these.
In the Blackwell Memorial Home in Pennington, New Jersey, my friends and I are seated in comfortable cushioned chairs in a small room looking out toward Main Street, and on the wood-plank floor are attractive thin-worn carpets. Panes of glass in the tall narrow windows have that distinct look of age. Almost, this might be one of those museum-homes attached to parks—furnishings are spare—“antique”-looking—a large fieldstone fireplace takes up most of a wall—on the mantel is a tarnished-looking but impressive Civil War sword once the property of an ancestor of the proprietor Elizabeth Blackwell Davis—“Betty.”
Betty has a cat, she tells us. The cat is elusive, in hiding. But on the narrow staircase is a cloth catnip-toy.
In this domestic setting that reminds me of the wood-frame farmhouses of my childhood—though the houses of my childhood in upstate New York were austere, even grim, more resembling the black-and-white realism of Depression-era photographs than watercolors of small-town America—it’s being explained to us by Betty Davis that the Blackwell Memorial Home has been the Blackwell family business for generations. Betty has lived in this house most of her life and lives here now—upstairs—with her (adult) son—and the cat; Betty, too, is a widow. I am thinking Ray would like her , I think.
It’s a sign of the widow’s derangement, though a mild sign, that frequently the widow will think My husband would like this.
Others will conspire in this derangement eagerly. Your husband would like this. This is a good decision!
But how strange it is, to be making such a decision by myself, without Ray.
I have not made any “major” decision in my life, I think, by myself—without my parents to consult, or Ray.
As my friends talk with Betty Davis—how much more sociable my friends are, than I am!—I
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