by Ann O'Nonymous
Cabbie saw her standing there, two fingers in the air. She didn't wave her arms, whistle, motion -- just those two fingers, stuck up in the air. She looked to be real class – a lady of the first water.
She stood on a corner, and waited as the cab she hailed pulled over and halted. The driver opened the door, asking, "Where to, ma'am?"
She answered softly, "Ash Street Cemetery, please."
The driver looked the woman over carefully. She was dressed in mourning with a black veil and handbag; the latter slung over her shoulder, a black-gloved hand clutching the top.
Seeing her comfortably seated in the rear, he returned to the front, made out his trip sheet start, notified dispatch (there had been a lot of robberies of cabbies lately, so he took extra precautions) by radio, started his meter, and off they went.
The driver started in on small talk. One of the reasons he liked his job – talking to all the different people. He would talk about the weather, sports, politics – once even changed a voter's mind, and where they were coming from, or going.
He waited a block or two then asked, "You visiting?"
"No, live here" came the answer.
"Oh, seeing a relative?"
"You might say that," she replied.
The cabbie noticed a hitch in the voice. He asked, solicitously, "You all right, ma'am?"
"She's dead. The funeral was last month, and I wasn't there. I couldn't be there for her. I . . ." She stopped, and the cabbie heard the sobbing.
"Should I stop; you okay; is there anything I can do for you," came out in a rush.
"No, I'm okay. Just emotions – I've always been too emotional."
"Since you don't have any flowers, and you are going to . . . well, there's a florist about two . . ."
"No – Jean didn't much care for flowers. She'd say, 'Putting flowers in a bowl is just like holding them prisoner – they, like other living things, should be free'."
"Okay," the cabbie replied, "maybe I should just shut up and drive, eh?"
"Oh, I'm sorry! No, talk if you want. It's just that, that . . . I'm not much of a conversationalist."
"Hey, lady, it's okay," the cabbie reassured her, showing he took no offense.
The fifteen-minute drive was passed in silence. Cabbie occasionally looked in the rear-view mirror, checking on his passenger's state of mind. She seemed to be watching out the window, observing the people and passing cars. He made a left turn, went four blocks, then a right.
"This seems to be a different way," she queried.
"Sewer line repairs on Thomas Street," he replied.
"Oh, that's right. I read about that break," she returned. "Heard there was quite a mess in the street."
"Sure was. Old Honest John the other guys call me. Other hacks take you for a city tour; me, it's straight to the destination. Make good tips, though."
Soon the cab pulled up to the large ornate iron gates of the cemetery and stopped. "Any particular section?" the driver asked.
"No, right here is okay."
"I can save you a walk. In those heels and the rough ground. No extra," he said as he put the flag down, stopping the meter.
She laughed lightly as she said, "okay – take the first turn on the right, follow the curve to the statue of an angel."
When they arrived at the statue she said, "I'm okay now – thanks. What's the fare?"
Checking the meter, the cabbie replied, "Nine-fifty. You sure this is okay?"
"It's just fifty feet to the right – I'll be fine. Here's a twenty – keep the change!"
"Lady, that's a pretty big tip . . ."
She laughed lightly and stated, "You deserved it. You seemed to feel quite solicitous of my health – get something nice for your wife. She deserves it, you know."
"I will. And thanks – emm, maybe I should wait."
"No, please go. I'll be here awhile."
The cabbie got into the cab, watched his former passenger as she started up the hill, then called dispatch for his next job and left.
She climbed the small grassy hill and headed for a particular place. In this cemetery, there was none of those big headstones, mausoleums, or crypts. A simple plaque with name, date of birth and death, and a flower or angel ornamentation marked each grave.
She walked over Mrs. Olive Smith, Charles Hawkes, Sgt. Michael O'Rourke and Tim Marsh – five years old. Here she shed a tear for a life cut too short.
She continued the quest, and searching the ground until she found what she wanted – a plaque that read: "Mrs. George Stone, Beloved Wife, March 22, 1940 – April 10, 1998."
Standing there, looking down at a simple memorial that covered a lifetime filled with love, acceptance, stolen moonlight kisses of two lovers – it was just so little for so very much. She started weeping copious tears of grief, sorrow and relief of pain at still being alive. It was the loss of a wife and girlfriend, and now he was alone.
"Oh Jean, my dearest darling. I miss you so much. I just can't stand being without you any longer. Soon, my darling wife we'll be together again, forever!"
With that, George Stone reached into his pocketbook, pulled out a .38 fully-loaded revolver and put a bullet through his head.
*********************************************
© 2004 by Ann O'Nonymous. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all
articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No
portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or
otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.