Mrs. Stone’s journal shakes in Rachel’s trembling hands; the poem devours her like quicksand. It is 8:15 AM.
The ink on the page dripped with pain. I read it again…
He died at 8
The funeral was at 12.
He emerged a zombie at 18
Married at 21.
It died at 24.
The second wedding
Was ’94.
5 years later it too dissolved.
Now he lies with me –
Un-alive at 53.
Mr. Stone died at eight? Our records show 1:03. She dated this last night, so he was still alive; must be years. I knew Mr. Stone had been married prior to marrying Mrs. Stone, but twice before? And what’s the whole zombie thing?
My thoughts were interrupted.
“Rachel?”
I jumped at her voice, her journal stuck in my hands, my gaping mouth void of words. Mrs. Stone stood staring at me from across the room. I have no recall of hearing the door open or close.
“Do you want to know?” She whispered.
I could only nod.
She crossed the room, took the book from my hands and alighted on her late husband’s bed. Stroking the fresh bedspread, she unfolded the unlived life of Russell Stone.
My soul is not big enough to contain all that Mrs. Stone relayed to me that day; much of it fell on the floor, never to be heard by another ear. What lodged in me was an education far beyond my Ph.D.
“In ancient times, invading armies would rob the city’s temple, take all its holy objects and burn it to the ground. Such practice was strategic. These barbarians knew that in desecrating the sanctuary, they could subdue the entire nation and cripple their soul.
“It is no different today, though invasions are far more clandestine. Savages infiltrate homes and rob the temples of children—the holy objects of their precious souls: innocence, trust, a pure connection to God, are all pillaged and defiled in the most heinous way. These children survive physically but live unlived lives.
“Mr. Stone was a victim of sexual child abuse?” I whispered. She nodded, her eyes on the floor.
I’m sorry to say I couldn’t find much pity for the deceased. Don’t get me wrong, I am repulsed by such crimes and fiercely advocate the death penalty for sexual child abusers. But Mrs. Stone’s revelation didn’t add up. Mr. Stone’s behavior contradicted the archetypal sexual abuse victim. He exuded confidence, a gentleman’s gentleman; a self-made man.
I looked at the clock. I had a half-hour to get to the courthouse to finalize my divorce and could not afford to partake in her drama another minute.
But I admit I had a more personal reason for keeping pity for Mr. Stone at bay. It just so happens that this same story is what drove me to file for a divorce from Steven.
To be continued….
(read parts one through five online at:
http://thecommunityword.com/online/blog/category/columns/doors-and-windows/)