“Cousins”

“I-4 is quiet. It’s always dark on these drives, but tonight it’s quiet. The trucks flow past, their drivers heads locked straight ahead, eyes on the grey road. It is foggy and getting foggier, no time to look away from the red taillights of the car ahead, two tiny, smooth red guides along fog-clogged turns. The trucks pass slowly. The names on the doors reveal little about their cargo, only allowing a glimpse at the length of their drivers’ boredom, for how long their eyes have drilled forward, hands tight on the wheel. Thompson Transportation. Atlanta, Georgia. Levy Cargo. Orlando, Florida. Johnson Trucking. Kansas City. Atlas Transportation. Macon, Georgia.

My eyes rest still as the sides of the trucks, steely curtains shimmering in the wet, heavy fog, roll forward, revealing the layer of trees that lined the interstate and the flat land behind it. There would be cows and horses and piles of hay behind the trees, small farmhouses, pickup trucks, and tractors visible in the day but hidden as we continued north. Gabe had played music earlier. A mix for the trip. Nickelback and Coldplay. ‘It’s just some easy listening.’ ‘This is terrible,’ I muttered, twisting the dial back and restoring silence. ‘That’s my song,’ said Gabe. I left it off. It has been three and a half hours without music now, and the quiet was total. Nothing moved outside the car, save for the trucks past my window, and nothing moved inside.”

“‘It’s been a few hours,’ said Allie from the backseat. ‘I’ll take over for a while. At least until Daytona.’ From Gabe, ‘Jesus Christ, finally some relief. Maybe you can cover the last leg when Allie gets tired?’ I said nothing. He knew I would drive, but he knew he wasn’t going to get any conversation out of me this late. We passed a sign for the next exit. Exit 16. Orlando: 30 Miles. Deland: 70 Miles. Daytona Beach: 90 Miles. St. Augustine: 170 Miles. Right: Wendy’s. Burger King. Left: BP. Shell. We went left. I was starving. Gabe and Annie had eaten before they picked me up from work. I hadn’t since breakfast. The restaurants were just past the overpass, maybe a half mile. Gabe and Allie would be a while filling up. Wouldn’t notice a thing. I grabbed my phone and wallet out of the front seat, popped the trunk, and lifted out my little duffle with two changes of clothes. I head down the road, the air wet but cooling, expanding my resolve to leave my cousins behind, if only for a day. We would have to see each other in two mornings anyway. There was no avoiding it. But I could buy a little time.”

“The Burger King is deserted. One car sits in the furthest corner of the parking lot, straddling two spaces. An employee’s, probably. The front of the parking lot is bright, the yellow light from the streetlights along the road cooking the foggy air, but the corner is dark. The car wouldn’t be missed for an hour. Maybe even a few hours, if the guy inside is working a long shift. Each window is up, so this will not be fun. I walk around to the back passenger side window and elbowed the glass. Ella had taught me that move. ‘Don’t shatter the glass where you put your ass. Shatter it where your friends put theirs.’ This time, the window rips away from the rubber holding it in place and falls out in one piece. The car is old. There won’t be anyone in the back, anyway.”

“I head northeast towards St. Augustine, our final destination, now only my destination. It takes only ten minutes for the regret to set in. I knew it might happen, what with completely ignoring my cousins for hours leaving them at a roadside gas station. It is worth the risk any way. I can handle a regretful drive; I’ve had a few. I can’t handle bad music and sad conversation. It had started right away. ‘How are you feeling? We know it’s tough. It’s been tough for us too. It’s so, so hard losing a mother. And we’re sure it’s tough on you to lose an aunt. Auntie Ella, you always called her. We know how close you two were. You two had some great times didn’t you?’ ‘Yeah,’ is all she got back. All I could think was, ‘Too soon. Too soon. Gone too soon.’ ‘We just think this will be a celebration of her life. You know she loved that town, don’t you. Remember when we were in high school and she brought us all there?’ I remember. ‘Sort of.’ ‘Oh, it was so nice. We walked across the bridge, took a tour of the fort, visited all the haunted buildings. And we stayed at that little old hotel. I think that’s my favorite memory of Mom. Everything was so perfect. It was winter, the whole city was lit up. Seems like yesterday that we were there. I’m so glad we have those good times…’”

I’m glad, but not for those times. I remember my cousins then, both eight years younger than me. They were nine when we were there. I was seventeen. They saw the lights and the old town and the pretty bridge and the nice history. I saw why I was there and why I was supposed to look at the old town and the lights and the bridge and the history. He was gone too soon. It was all the priest could say at the wake. ‘Too soon. We lost him too soon.’ My father had been there after the divorce. His wife didn’t even think about custody. She was gone. He was left. Then he was gone. Too soon. The trip was a distraction. My eight year old cousins missed their uncle. They didn’t get it. They didn’t deserve Ella. They wouldn’t have even deserved my father. The sights and sounds of a new city made them smile. The history and the beauty just made me think. It’ll probably do the same thing this time. Another trip to St. Augustine. Same cousins, same reason. And more thinking.”

“I get to the city by six that morning. I pull behind a tiny ice cream shop on Valencia Road and leave the car there. I toss the license plate in the dumpster. Not that I was worried it would be found. The old district of St. Augustine is a long way from and I-4 Burger King. It’s an easy walk to my hotel with a duffel bag, two blocks at the most. Down the hall to the left are the stairs. There is no elevator in The Bridge Inn. Nor should there be. The city is painfully authentic. There is nothing to do now, so I fall onto the bed. I fall asleep an hour later.”

“It’s eight when I wake up. The windows facing over the water are dark. The air is dry. A walk outside would be nice. Some city air. Eight flights of stairs later, I was on Kings Street. The Lion Bridge is to my right, spanning the short stretch of water, golden in the light of the old lamps lining the sidewalks, to Anastasia Island. To my left are three tiny storefronts of pubs. The Garden, The Saint, and Jose’s. I walk past all three, but they are too crowded. It is only eight, still too early for the feeling I liked. I enjoy a bar that was almost empty and getting emptier. Maybe in a few hours I would be back. Straight ahead is a wide park with old Spanish cannons marking each corner.”

“I walk towards its main path. ‘Plaza de Constitucion’ reads an old, black iron sign marking the entrance. Short palms cast wide shadows across the grass and the cracking concrete, marked by fragments of shells. Four old metal benches, black but beginning to rust faced a tall monument, one on each side. An iron statue stands on the monument. I can’t read the inscription, but it is some Spaniard, a conquistador. His helmet has that familiar shape. His garb is elaborate and his sword is drawn. A boy, six or seven, sits with his father on the bench facing the monument’s side. He holds a tiny brass canon, probably purchased from one of the many souvenir shops bordering the square. I sit on the bench at the front of the monument. It is hard but held my back well, offering welcome support after my hours in old car from Burger King. I watch the boy mime a battle as he handles the canon. He sees that I am looking. Distracted, he drops the toy; it clangs off the ground with a muffled ring. Eyes wide, he begins to sniffle and then cry. His father whisks him away, back towards the stores.”

“I stand, intending to head deeper into the town’s old section. I walk first across the square to what looked like an exhibition. As I walk closer, a few dozen tiny stalls came into sight, their owners lounging nearby in green or blue lawn chairs, talking to one another. A mother and her two children browse. Someone sits at the far side of the group of stalls, facing back towards the center of the square where the statue stood. A tall easel rests in front of him or her, an even taller, narrow canvas blocking a torso and a face. Only a pair of black velcro sandals and short, dark legs are visible beneath easel and canvas. I start towards the sandals, admiring as I move the paintings and photos for sale at each stall. Images of the bridge, the square, the city’s several Spanish cathedrals and old fort. The paintings are small, unadorned, selling for $25. The artists turned vendors have flyers advertising studios and websites but seemed uninterested in selling their work. Instead, they talked, unconcerned. The mother with her two children purchases a painting as I walk past her. The artist thanks her without looking up and goes on talking. It is easy to be calm here. No one looks, no one asks. Things are slow. Business is slow, but no one cares. The painter in sandals peeks around his canvas and his eyes pop open in surprise. He waves me over, pointing at his work. I step behind his chair, and old metal foldable with ‘Flagler College’ painted on the back in blue letters.”

“His hair is long and white, hanging to his shoulder and held back by a plain grey bucket hat, its strings swinging loosely against his chest. He wears a paint-encrusted pair of baggy khaki shorts, frayed at the hem and, and a long sleeve white tee shirt that states ‘St. Augustine New Years 1987.’ I get the feeling he has been doing the same thing for a while. Years, maybe decades. Sitting, painting, and selling enough work to keep painting. I look at what was a painting materializing from the ground up. The thin but deep image captures the nearest stalls in the foreground. I recognize myself, hands in pockets and head turned down as I browse, in the painting’s center. The man has given me a head of salt and pepper hair, and I looked shorter than I like to imagine. Slimmer, too. My jacket droops over my shoulders, and a shadow creeps up my face, reaching my cheekbone. I am not flattered, but the painting captures something. Something Ella would have liked. He has placed strings of lights in the trees and red and green bows on each stall. The trees twinkle and the stalls shine, getting a brighter, cleaner treatment than they deserve. The painting is warm, but my image, the figure in the middle, dark, sinks away into lighter areas. I can appreciate the sentiment. The statue’s head is not painted, a hole of white above the lights that top the trees. The man signs the painting, sticks it into my chest, and rubs his thumb against his index and middle fingers. I scramble in my wallet for $25; he smiles.”

“Now the painting is under my arm. I’m not ready to head back to my room so it’s carry it or lose it. That would mean losing $25. I have to pay Gabe and Allie for gas for the trip home, so the idea of trashing the painting bothers me. I keep it. I turn out of the square back onto Kings. I head for the hotel. I look at the pubs, more hopeful this time. It’s only been an hour. They’re still too crowded. I like to drink alone so I don’t say anything stupid. Ella did the same. She loved an old Hemingway quote. ‘I drink to make other people more interesting.’ She wouldn’t want me drinking there. I wasn’t interested in anyone in the bars, so I moved on.”

“It’s Saturday morning now. I hadn’t slept well. Nerves are killing me. My stomach is hot. Burning then settling and burning again as I grow more and more anxious. My forehead warms with sweat, then cools in the room’s blustery air conditioning. I shaved twice and brushed my teeth again. I remembered another funeral. The only one I had attended with my cousins. I sat in the front row. Special access for immediate family. My cousins sat behind me. They were crying. Gabe was ashamed, but the tears slipped out. Everyone in my row was crying, some loudly. I didn’t. And probably couldn’t. He had been gone for three days already. Too soon, but he was gone. This was just a ceremony. I held the white rose he priest had given me in my right hand and tapped it thorns with my left. I felt Ella’s grip on my shoulders and turned. She wore the expression I thought I had put on. Heartbroken but firm. As the chests rose and fell beside us with grief, as cries swelled, crested, and fell silent, we stood holding one another, silent and still. It seems trivial now.”

“I walk to the church. I have my duffel with me, a corner of the painting jutting out in dark blue, green, and yellow. The church is on Kings. It takes three minutes to reach its door. ‘Cathedral Basilica of St. Augustine’ arches over the entrance. I didn’t know it would be a cathedral. Impressive, I guess. But this means a long service. Chanting and incense. It will be hot. Oh well. An hour and a half for Ella. I step inside. It’s too dark. The falling night outside feels more reverent. I look for a seat in the back. They’re taken. No one wants to sit in the front at a funeral. Before I have to move towards the front, a priest steps to the center of the church. ‘Ella Louise’s children would like to say a few words. We know she was gone too soon, but let us remember that she is in a better place.’ I never like that name. ‘Ella Louise.’ It sounded too aged. Anyway, this didn’t feel very Catholic. I had expected a procession. I looked around. A group of kids in white robes were seated behind the priest. One held a tall cross. The procession already happened. I was late. They changed the time. Maybe I should have talked to them in the car. Or turned my phone on. I’m not waiting to see this display. I pull the painting out of the bag and walk down the center aisle. I pass my cousins. They’re weeping. They don’t get it. I hope my face is blank. I approach the closed casket and place the painting flat on top. No one needs to see it. It’s not for them. I turn for the exit but I pause. This was new. I wouldn’t see my cousins again. I wouldn’t be back in St. Augustine. I wouldn’t be back in a church until someone else died. Maybe this is over. I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t have to watch them carry the casket to the hearse.”

“I jog around the church to the parking lot at its rear. I can see the square and the monument. The stalls are empty and will probably be empty until dusk. I look for the newest car in the lot. It’s grey. An Audi. 2013 or 2014. Could be 2012. I was never a car guy. I knock out a back window. This time the alarm goes off. I reach under the steering wheel and feel for three wires. I pull and the alarm stops. Ella taught me that trick, too. Maybe she wasn’t the best influence. I chuckle. She was the only influence. The car starts easily and I cover the one block to Valencia quickly. There is no traffic and I find the ice cream shop easily. The store is busy and has probably been busy all day. The car from the Burger King is gone. I find the license plate where I left it and swap it with the Audi’s plate. The car idles quietly. Back in the driver’s seat I glance at the fuel gauge. I am headed out. I won’t have to pay my cousins for gas.”