Chapter 1 - August 10, 2010

I sat in the second row of Helping Hands Baptist Church, the Big House, listen to Allan speak. Mary-ann’s casket, a chestnut oak with weaves of red running along the trim, sat before the stage.

            “I couldn’t tell you when I first realized she was forgetting. We all forget things, right?” Allan was a man of eighty-six. Hunched in the shoulders, hips and knees made of plated metal, and glasses as thick as bulletproof windows. He fought to keep his body still and his back straight, his arms planted firmly on the pulpit overlooking the congregation. “We forget the pin to our credit card, even though we’ve been using it for the last six years. We forget our grandbaby’s birthday, and even the recipe for a pie crust that goes back ten generations.”

            I had been part of their story for the past three years. A news article about a woman found on the stoop of an old, brick home in East Brooklyn caught my eye one morning as I sat in the office, thumbing through month old newspapers. Her hands and face were covered in dirt, and she was wearing a white and purple bath robe, one slipper, and held a curling iron in her left hand.

            Mary-ann Cauldwell. Mama, as she was called in her neighborhood. She spent most of her life caring for others. Whether at the soup kitchen she and her best friend Sharice opened together, or at the Big House, her presence was felt like that of a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. She didn’t know any better than to put a smile on her face in the hopes of sharing it with someone else.

            “There’s only one of me. But God gave me a big enough heart to share it with those in need,” she’d say as she scooped a ladle full of gravy over mashed potatoes.

            Allan dabbed his forehead and returned the kerchief to his breast pocket. His suit was bold, violet with pinstripes from shoulder to heel. Underneath he wore an orange vest over a black shirt and plum tie. On his feet were black, snakeskin loafers. “I thank God she didn’t stray too far that day,” he said.

            A parade of ‘amen’ went about the room.

“And that Ray McKinley was kind enough to wait with her until I arrived.” The crowd looked left to where Ray was seated. He raised his hand and waved it humbly.

As a reporter, I’ve come to find myself so wrapped up in deadlines that I miss the emotion. Maybe I was better at it thirty years ago. But, after thousands of stories, I grind to get the work done because I know there’s another story right around the corner.

But, there was something about Allan, something about Mary-ann. There was something about seeing how many people had come to the Big House to say goodbye; that instead of analyzing the story that needed to be written, I just found myself being there.

Allan wiped his head and neck before continuing. “I don’t scare easy. And that’s saying much ‘cause I worked the iron yard for forty years, and I’ve been a deacon here at this church for twenty-five. And we all know God’s people got some problems.” He smiled, looking over at Bishop Anderson.  

“Yes Lord,” a woman shouted. Others laughed and a wave of heat shot through the room.

            “That day I realized what true fear was. I could say it grips you, tightening its chain around your neck making it hard to breath. But fear is a choice, and in that moment, I chose to feel helpless.” Allan walked to the middle of the stage and sat on the top step.

            It was almost cliché. Cardboard cutout of the deceased face, a handful of bouquets placed on the stage and on top of the casket. A large sign where people could write loving notes sat on a stand. But if you knew Mary-ann and what she meant to this community…

I felt that after three and a half years, she became Mama to me too.

            Allan propped a leg up and rested his arm over his knee. “When I looked into my Mary-ann’s eyes that day I knew how wrong I was. God did not give us a spirit of fear, and he couldn’t have proven that more clearly than he did through my wife.” Several hands waved through the air accompanied by a shout of amen.

            “She wouldn’t want to be remembered for much more than her smile, and her heart. I know she would only ask that each of you strive to bring joy to others in everything that you do.” Allan stood slowly, walked down the steps and stood beside the casket. “It’s funny how life works. Even in her most forgetful days, who she truly was as a person never really went away. I want to thank Sherry and Michael for coming.” He stepped forward and took the hand of a petite, white woman of twenty-nine.

            “Their son Landon, because of his curiosity, became my wife’s best friend during her last year here on this earth. He brought a piece of her spirit back, but more importantly, brought back her smile. Their snow angels, card games and pirate adventures ended up being the last thing she remembered. I could not have asked for a better way for her to cross the finish line. And for that, I thank you.” 

            Landon stood and wrapped his arms around Allan’s leg. Allan tenderly kissed his head, then pulled him away and walked Landon to the casket. From his jacket, Landon removed a small snow globe and placed it on the stand, the tiny crystals falling weightless to the bottom.                  Tears began to draw lines down Allan’s cheeks. The fans stopped. The room fell silent save for the gentle whimper of a heartbroken husband. Allan let his weight fall on the casket, the sobs gaining strength. Bishop Anderson walked to his side and placed an arm around his waist, lifting him back to his feet. Bishop gestured for the choir to begin singing as he walked Allan back to his seat.

Allan cupped his hands over his face. His body jerked as the words of Mary-ann’s favorite hymn rang out.

Lord if I. Find favor in your sight. Lord please, hear my heart's cry. I’m desperately waiting, to be where you are. Across the hottest desert, I’ll travel near or far.

The congregation stood, hands raised to the heavens as if helping to carry her spirit home. The chorus rang throughout the room with tears of worship, shouts of praise. For Your glory. I will do anything. Just to see You. To behold You as my King.

As a fifty-three-year-old Italian Catholic, it’s fair to say, that day I truly experienced God for the first time.

It’s said that Alzheimer's is a disease that attacks the brain. Strips someone of remembering who they are and those around them. A disease that buries them inside their own mind. I like to think of Alzheimer’s, not as someone losing their memory, but as those loved one’s accessing memories they thought they had lost themselves.

We sang until our eyes dried out and our voices strained for sound.

Her daughters, Carol and Stacey, stood at each end of the casket, while her sons, Aaron, Prince, Luke, and Paul, lifted their mother and carried her down the aisle.

The sun hung bright and only a dusting of clouds speckled the pale blue sky. Six city blocks were barricaded as the hearse moved slowly toward Lucas Berry Cemetery, a tail of nearly a thousand-people trailing behind.

“Mama’s in heaven cooking up her famous cornbread and gravy,” Bishop Anderson said as the casket was being lowered. “Jesus is gonna be in for a treat.”

“Amen,” someone from the crowd said.

“Yes, Lord,” said another.

Bishop Anderson took Allan’s hand in his. “Second Corinthians tells us, ‘Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction. Let us pray.”

Though I felt encapsulated by the moment, I knew I still had a job to do. I pulled the thirty-five-millimeter camera Allan gave me as a Christmas gift in our second year, and began taking shots. It felt like time had stopped, or I was stuck in one of those movie voice-over scenes at the end, where the camera slowly pans to a wide shot of a city scape, and someone is leaving you with a profound statement.

I made an entire album of that day as a gift to the family. Something they could always go back to when they found themselves forgetting. It’s interesting how pain and loss bring people together, bring them closer to a God they spend so much of their time trying to run away from.

By the time I made it back to Allan’s house, the sun had fallen below the buildings. The evening train crunched overhead. The city had lulled to evening meals in front of the television.

“It’s good to see you again,” Paul, the eldest, said as I entered the house. He was a gentle man with a kind smile underneath a handful of scars. ‘An accident in the kitchen as a child,’ was all I knew.

“It’s good to see you too. Unfortunate it’s under these circumstances.” I hung my blazer over the back of a chair in the entryway.

“It was only a matter of time. She’s in a better place sharing that smile with God’s kingdom.” Paul smiled again, his eyes telling of a sense of peace. “You’ve been here enough to know where things are. I’m sure the family that’s still here would love to see you.”

The hallway was scattered with family photos dating back to the early 1900s. My favorite, was their wedding. Mary-ann was nineteen, Allan twenty. Her face was thin. A sharp jawline that merge into a dimpled chin. ‘It was the Native American in her,’ Allan had said. Her eyes were wide with joy and her mouth sprung open in a smile that was truly a gift to this world.

Allan looked almost embarrassed. When I asked him, he said it was because he just couldn’t believe he had gotten so lucky.

As I walked into the kitchen, I saw little pockets of people talking. Just behind the chatter was the sound of a record player playing Gladys Knight, Neither One of Us Wants to be the First to Say Goodbye. I walked to a small table with assorted cheese and fruit.

“Hey man, glad you made it,” Aaron said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. He was the busy bee of the family. Always working, but he sure took after his mother with that smile. “I gotta run. I’ll catch up with you later.”

With an awkward wave, I watched as he disappeared down the hallway and out the front door.

The family room was where I had spent most of my time if I wasn’t at the hospital observing Mary-ann. A love seat wrapped in plastic sat to the right, a side table with a feathered lamp next to it and a coffee table in front. Two reclining chairs were straight ahead, angled just right to see the box television and bookshelf along the main wall. It was there I found Prince sitting in one of the chairs, cradling a cup in his arms.

We had grown close during our time together, and though he didn’t often show it, I could tell this whole thing was really hitting him hard.

“Hanging in there?” I asked, setting my plate down on the coffee table and finding a seat in the other chair. Prince shrugged and took a sip of gingered ale. “Your mother was an amazing woman Prince, she really was.”

“She didn’t remember any of us by the end,” he said.

A man in his fifties and nearly six foot five, Prince was certainly a gentle giant. “I think her story isn’t about what she remembered. I think it’s more about what she helped others remember.” It was hard to find any words, let alone the right ones, in a situation like this; so, I sat back in the chair and allowed for silence. It was what he needed.

            “When will your story be finished?” Prince asked after a long while.

            “My deadline is in three months. But I should have the first draft done in the next couple of weeks.”

            “She would have liked to have read it.”

I saw as his lips tighten into a thin line. I fumbled forward in the chair and rested my arms on my legs. “I’m sure I’ll find myself reading it to her by the grave.”

            “That’d be nice,” he said, falling back in his seat.

            “There he is,” a voice said from the other room. Allan burst through a handful of people with a napkin in his hand and a weathered smile across his face. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it back.”

            “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t. The photographs can wait, and the story isn’t finished without an ending.” I got up from my seat and greeted him with a hug. “I swear you’re the only man in this world that could pull that suit off.” Allan let out an airy laugh, coughing several times into his elbow.

            “You’re too much Sal. Mary-ann sure would have liked you in her early days. I’m glad I got to her first.” He laughed again, this time grabbing me around the neck and pulling me in tight, laying a friendly kiss on the top of my head.

            “I’d like to bring over the photographs sometime next week. Let you pick the ones you’d prefer to see in the book,” I said, pulling away.

            “I would like that,” he said. “But speaking of endings. I had an idea.”

            “What’s that?”

            “I’m not sure what yet. But, that boy Landon, I’d like to do something special for him in her name.” Allan rubbed his chin in thought.

            “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Take some time to think about it and when I see you again, we can talk more.” He held out his hand and I shook it firmly.

            “You’re off huh?” he asked.

            “I think that’d be best. I’d like to get home before it gets too late.” I hugged him again, his bristled chin rubbing coarsely against my cheek.

            “Take care. Thank you for everything,” Allan said as I pulled my coat over my shoulders and trudged back outside.

            The moon lit the ground in spots as I walked to the R train. The forty-minute ride gave me time to jot down some thoughts on the day and how I wanted to steer the story to a close.

            A beautiful woman with long, brown hair, freckles and a red trench coat sat across from me. Her eyes were glued to her phone, smiling at a video and bobbing her head slightly from left to right. It’s amazing how much of the world they miss out on, and it only seems to be getting worse.

            I arrived back at my one-bedroom condo to the wagging tail and wet tongue of my pit mix, Scout. Cracking open a beer, I sat by the window watching the city fall asleep and wake up all at the same time.

            After a long while, I walked into my studio. It was a twelve by twelve spare bedroom I converted into an art room with a pop up dark box. A sketch table sat in the right corner, a desk with a typewriter was positioned next to a small closet filled with art supplies. Sliding doors led to a small balcony where on a cloudless night, the sky lit up like New York City itself.

            After hanging a few photos, I sat down to start the last chapter.