Cycle One G: Interlude Domestica
“…You place the flowers
in the vase that you bought today….”
(“Our House” " Graham Nash)
Sun streamed through the window onto the foot of the bed. A tabby cat stretched out on the floor across the length of another patch of light. The sun’s intensity told Ducky it was just past noon. As he began waking up more completely, he realized he and Celeste were still tangled together, Celeste on her side, head on his shoulder, arm draped across his chest. This was the best of all possible ways to wake up.
Celeste opened her eyes, smiled. They lay naked in a bundle of bedclothes, clothing strewn all around the bedroom. “Damn. We’re back to trashing beds again, Ducky.”
“At least we didn’t break it this time…” They looked at each other and started laughing uncontrollably at the memory.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if the bed hadn’t been your great-grandmother’s antique…” Celeste giggled. “You weren’t supposed to be in it, you know. It was MY room " the guest room at your parents’ house.” She dissolved into laughter again.
“Believe me, that bed saw more action than a cheap hotel room. Whoever said the Victorians were repressed wasn’t getting the whole picture. Great-grandmother Mallard had eleven children. You and I were just the final straws, as it were.” Ducky smiled, kissed Celeste and pulled her on top of him. “Did we leave off somewhere? Or should we just start over?”
“I love do-overs!” Celeste purred. “Let’s do this!” Ducky spent quite a bit of time following, then giving in completely to her lead.
When he awoke the second time, the sun was slanting orange and casting long shadows. He’d slept most of the day away. Celeste was gone, but he had been covered by a quilt " the only covering left on the bed. He felt rested, relaxed, finally at peace and at least ten years younger. His clothes were nowhere to be seen, but on the chair was a pair of sweatpants and a Johns Hopkins University sweatshirt. With no alternatives, he put them on.
The smell of garlic, lemon and ginger wafted in from the kitchen and he realized he was absolutely ravenous. He wandered into the kitchen to see Celeste putting a pot of potatoes on the stove. She smiled when she saw him.
Ducky returned it. “Please tell me you’re making your lemon chicken.”
“I’m making my lemon chicken.”
“One more of the million reasons to love you.” He hugged her. “Are these” he indicated the clothes, “yours?”
“The shirt is. The pants are left over from Christopher’s tenure. Sorry if they’re a bit baggy, but he was somewhat taller than you…”
“Bigger round the waist, too.” He adjusted the drawstring again. “Where are my things, anyway?”
“In the dryer.”
“Ah. Thank you.”
“All part of the service. Next time you come for an overnight, pack a bag, will you? Otherwise I’ll flash back to my days as a cougar and start calling you ‘Christopher’ in the throes of passion and that just wouldn’t be politic.”
“No it wouldn’t! And this wasn’t an overnight, technically. I got here just after seven this morning. It’s been, what?” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “Ten hours?”
“A memorable workday, hmmm?” Celeste picked up a colander full of green beans. “Speaking of work, how about working for your supper and trimming these for me?” She handed Ducky the beans and guided him to the sink. “Want an apron?”
“No. A chef’s knife would be nice, though.”
“In the block to your right…”
He put the beans on a cutting board and started trimming them. “Knife is a bit dull. Have you got a whetstone?”
Celeste shrugged. “I don’t know. Somewhere. Maybe.”
“You should take better care of your equipment, Celeste. You know, you can tell whether or not a knife wound was made by a sharp or dull knife just by the pattern it leaves at the point of entry?”
“Cheez Whiz, Donnie, I really need to know that!” She rolled her eyes. “Thankfully, you’re a better chef than I am, which is why you care about the condition of my knives, I suppose. I’m a cook at best. I’ve mastered exactly four dishes in my life if you don’t count Jell-o…lemon chicken, lemon cream cake, coconut chocolate chip cookies and Scotch oatmeal " thanks to you, by the way…”
“You have always proven to be an apt pupil…” He grinned wickedly. He finished his task with a flourish. “Beans are ready for blanching!”
“Very good, Doctor! Would you mind going out to the herb garden and bringing in some fresh dill? Just the leaves, please? And I’m going to need some help picking out some wine. I’m still a Philistine about that.”
She opened a cupboard door, revealing an assortment of dusty bottles, standing upright. Ducky was appalled. “That’s not how you should store it!” He started checking the labels, noting that it was mostly inexpensive domestic vintage.
“I haven’t had time to dig the wine cellar!” The stubborn pout was suddenly familiar. “Not a priority. My house. My rules. Follow them and I’ll let you play here.” Celeste crossed her arms.
He had to disarm before she had a chance to entrench. “You’ve already let me play here.” He smiled, kissed her on the cheek and went back to the bottle collection, finally selecting a halfway decent bottle of California chardonnay. “Where did you get all this, anyway? Bargain bin at the liquor store?”
“Holiday gifts from colleagues, mostly. Nice touch with the cheek-kiss, by the way. I’m willing to back off.”
“I can’t get away with much under your scrutiny. I never have been able to…my charm just ceases to impress you.”
“I just have a very finely tuned bullshit meter. And I use you as the gage by which to measure all others…”
“Do I deserve this?”
“Probably not.” She kissed him full on the mouth. “Now. Go collect the dill.” She handed him a pair of scissors.
It felt nice falling into the old pattern of doing what he was told. As he carefully trimmed the feathery leaf fronds from the dill plants in her herb garden, Celeste came out and began cutting some flowers " sunflowers, marigolds, larkspur, baby’s breath.
“Is this enough?” He held up the bunch of dill.
“Plenty, thanks!” She smiled as he joined her. He snipped off a sprig of baby’s breath and put it behind her ear.
“Beautiful!”
“Thank you! And for once, I really feel that way.” They melted together, stayed in the kiss for a very long time.
How could he have lived this long without her? “God, I love you!”
“I love you!” she replied. “But if I think about how much, I’m afraid I’ll cry and who wants…?”
“Over thinking again, Celeste.”
“One of us has to.” She bit her lip, took his free hand and started toward the door. “I suspect you’re pushing things back again. Holding things in. Looking at me as a distraction.”
“Not at all!” How could he tell her that she was starting to put him together again? That he never wanted to be without her in his life " that he had no intention of wasting another moment with doubt or anger or fear or grief? The trials of the past brought him to this house in Baltimore, to this overgrown late summer garden, full circle to Celeste.
“Then just tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you feel.”
And he did. They talked over dinner, honestly and freely. Painful truths, hopes, fears. Both of them spoke with candor that they had never expressed to each other before. All came forward over a simple meal, prepared together, prepared with love.
Later they sat together on Celeste’s comfy couch, finishing the last of the wine. “I have one last confession. It’s not a bad thing, but I think it will help me put things into perspective. Perhaps give me a clue as to where to go from here.” Ducky set his wine glass on the coffee table, gathered Celeste closer.
“All right. I’m listening.”
“It’s about how Mother died. She was in hospice care for the last three months of her life.”
Celeste nodded.
Ducky took a breath, gathered his thoughts. “There wasn’t much left of her at that point. She was unresponsive most of the time. When she was awake, she was disoriented. About two weeks ago, she no longer recognized me. She would call to her parents, carry on conversations with people long dead. It was very hard to take.
“Early last week she stopped eating. She wasn’t interested in food at all. When she refused water, I knew it was a matter of days. Part of the hospice arrangement is no extraordinary means. People pass with a minimum of intubation, medication is as needed for pain. It is designed to allow loved ones to pass with dignity and in a warm, home-like, loving environment. I was allowed to stay in the room with her for as long as I wished. I was there for two days. Death came quietly as I held her hand. I see its aftermath every day. But it is never easy to watch it come…”
They sat in silence. It was all that was necessary. There were really no words that could carry away the grief. It was enough that they were finally to carry it together.
Ducky finally spoke again. “I called you first, Celeste. Before I rang Jordan, or Jethro or made any other arrangements. I called you first.”
She turned slightly to look at him, brushed his hair back from his face. “I know you did, Donnie. Don’t ask me how I know, but I knew that the moment I heard your voice.” She snuggled closer. “I guess you decided and didn’t even know you had.”
He kissed her gently. “You are the love of my life, Celeste.”
“Good thing. Because you’re the love of mine.” There were tears on her cheeks but he couldn’t tell if they were hers or his.
And it really didn’t matter. They sat in comfortable silence, tabby cat stretched across the back of the couch, grey cat sharing their laps, purring.
Crosby, Stills and Nash played softly on the stereo…
“They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other.”
It was the beginning. Again.
On the bedroom dresser, a muted cell phone vibrated, its blue screen flashing the caller’s identity:
“Jordan Hampton.”
End: Cycle One
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