Malena Lott - Dating da Vinci

Down the block, two men from the neighborhood walked side by side in their basketball gear, ready for the 2 p.m. pick-up game. Dave the banker and Tom the car dealer, both average players at best, not half as good as Joel. Dave bounced the basketball and with each hit on the pavement, my heart caved in a little more.

“Shall we go inside?” Gabriella asked, noticing them, too. I had spent Joel's first DD in bed all day, telling the boys I was sick while my father took them out for bowling and ice cream. I had lain there all day, waiting for the moment the clock ticked 2:37 p.m., half-expecting something to happen when it did, whether it was an external sign or an internal combustion, but the minute was just like the one before it: heavy with sadness. I had even closed my eyes and imagined him lying beside me on Lumpy, his leg crossed over mine, as he did so often, and curling my hands into his chest where I could feel his heart beat. I felt that Joel deserved something from me in that moment, some eulogy or prayer, but all I could muster was one simple sentence, “I love you, Bear,” and in my mind, I could hear him say back, “Love you big, Ramey.”

Forty-five minutes until the exact moment Joel collapsed on the basketball court. “I'd rather sit here,” I said. “I'm waiting for the boys.”

Donald emerged from his front door, wearing red warm-up pants and a white T-shirt. In an effort to stay fit for Zoya, he played with the guys, though I couldn't recall him ever making a basket, something that inevitably wound up in our conversation after each game. “Missed it by a mile,” he would say. Or, “So close it had to hurt.”

“Howdy there,” Donald said, followed by Zoya, who was dressed unusually normal, meaning no low-cut tops or tight jeans or massive amounts of jewelry and make-up. She wore her thick hair in a pony-tail. While Donald met up with the guys and they greeted and then waved to me, probably feeling badly that they were playing today, Zoya joined us on the bench, now full. She held her arms around her stomach, and I could see she'd been crying.

“You okay?” I asked. I liked that someone other than me could be having a crappy day.

Zoya nodded. “Donald impregnated me.”

Gabriella gasped and hugged Zoya, and I did the same. “Congratulations.”

Zoya began crying. “He gave me bad baby that makes me sick and ugly. I can't do workout or eat food or drink my coffee or fit into my sexy pants.”

“A baby is worth all those things,” Gabriella said, shaking her finger for emphasis. “We'll go shopping for sexy maternity clothes if that's really important to you.”

Zoya wiped the raccoon eyes from her face with her sleeve. “They make such things?”

I nodded. “Very stylish, indeed.”

Zoya's mood lifted. “I love America. Then Zoya happy about baby. Thanks for friends like you.” Zoya took our hands and held them in her lap. “I am sorry for telling you on day of mourning, Ramona. I lit candle for Joel this morning.”

“Do Russians do that?”

“Gabriella taught me. When I am thinking of someone I miss, I light a candle and say a prayer for them. It made me think of Halloween party three years ago when Joel drug chains in attic to scare us.”

Gabriella laughed. “Joel would stop at nothing to try to get the last laugh. God rest his soul.”

I remembered that night, how Joel had begged me to be Frankenstein's bride and, as usual, I agreed. I tried to get the picture of us in my mind, but only bits and pieces of our costume flashed in my mind. How could I forget such an odd image, the two of us in green paint and that black beehive wig with a white lightning stripe? During the middle of the party, Joel had grunted something about making a Frankenbaby with me later, and we had sex in our costumes, which turned out to be sexier than I imagined.

I silently vowed to get every printed photo from our ten years' worth of Halloween costume parties, and put them out as decorations for Halloween. The crispy orange leaves fell toward us, one perfectly shaped oak leaf sailing onto my lap. I grabbed it by its stem and twirled it. “Let's put those little ghost things Joel liked so much on the branches.”

“Oh, the kids will love that,” Gabriella said.

“Joel will love it, too,” Zoya said, catching herself after she'd said it, wondering, I assumed, if I believed Joel still had the capacity to feel such an emotion.

I patted her knee. “You're right. Joel will absolutely love it.”

A hundred little white ghosts swung in the wind when the boys and I walked down to the park. It was 2:48 p.m. I imagined my father, the timekeeper, had known exactly when to pull up, to cause some sort of distraction so I wouldn't be sad. My father's grief had to include how sad he felt for the boys and me. Gabriella had insisted we stop and pray when the time came, so we stood underneath our white ghosts and she prayed us through the minute of his death. I don't even recall what she said, but it sounded like a song: smooth and rhythmic and full of emotion.

William hugged me tightly and let me kiss him on the head and-probably instructed by his grandfather-Bradley allowed me to hug him, too. “We want to go to the park and make a basket for Daddy,” William said, pushing up the frames on his button nose. “I've been practicing at Grandpa's house.”

I felt the tug of a cry, but kept the tears at bay. William was terrible at basketball, perhaps worse than Donald. When William was younger, Joel had tried to get him to make the shot on the regulation court, but the then-five-year-old was much too short for it.

Bradley raised his brows and nodded. “I think he can do it, Mom,” he said. “He wants to make Daddy proud.”

My father turned away to wipe a tear from his face, and Zoya and Gabriella had tears streaming down theirs. I couldn't possibly go to the court while the other men were playing, but I couldn't let my boys down, either.

“We'll all go,” Gabriella said, and my father nodded and retrieved a basketball from the backseat. It was a blue and red Globetrotters basketball, one I had gotten Joel for our first anniversary after we had seen the team perform at an exhibition game.

My father walked beside me and grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “How you holdin' up, pumpkin?”

“On the bright side, it's a pretty day.” Growing up, my father had told my sister and me to always look at the bright side. I often heard him say the same thing to my sons. It had annoyed me growing up, but now I appreciated his optimism. Somebody had to do it.

“That it is, darlin'. Never a bluer sky.”

When we arrived at the park, the players were gathered in a circle, their shirts covered in sweat, their heads bowed in prayer. We stopped until the moment passed and they dispersed. I wondered if Deacon Friar had been right and the deceased could feel our prayers in Heaven. Gabriella had told me once that her mother believed it was like a game show in Heaven, and the person with the most prayers said for them had the highest score, allowing them to move closer to God, like cosmic board spaces, but I hated to think of getting to Heaven like a contest. How many lonely people died that no one prayed for, save the nuns? If Gabriella's mom was right, Joel probably skipped ahead a few spaces that day.

After we said our hellos and goodbyes to the men, we had the park to ourselves and sat on the cool cement bench that the neighborhood had bought in remembrance of Joel, with a silver plaque in the middle that read, “In Loving Memory of Joel Bradford Griffen.” The boys began to warm up and peered over their tiny shoulders at their small audience.

“Ready?” Bradley asked, and before we could answer, he lobbed the ball from the free throw line, sinking it. “Nothin' but net!”