I know it’s still early when he gets out of bed. I peek with one eye at the alarm clock as he heads for the bathroom – it’s 9:06, to be exact. Okay, so that isn’t really early-early, but for us on a Saturday it might as well be four AM. I close my eye again and snuggle into my pillow, figuring he’s just going to the bathroom and wait for him to come back, crawl into bed and spoon up behind me.
When I hear the shower start a moment later, though, I attempt to break out of my groggy state. What exactly’s going on? We don’t have anywhere to be – we’d talked about Christmas shopping, but not until the afternoon. I wonder if maybe he’s going for a run, or up to the basketball courts to shoot hoops, but why would he shower before that? By the time he comes back in his towel, running another one over his damp hair, I’ve rolled over and sat up a bit.
“Hey,” he says, smiling before he opens the dresser to pull out a pair boxer shorts.
“Hey. Whatcha doin’?” I ask through a yawn.
“I just need to go take care of something real quick. I’ll be back in about an hour or so.”
“Ooo…am I getting a present?”
“No, greedy. Sometimes it isn’t all about you,” he teases, grabbing a sweater from another drawer.
“Seriously, where are you going?”
“I’m going to the cemetery,” comes the answer from inside his sweater.
I was not expecting that answer. “Oh.”
“Yeah. My parents asked if I could take the wreath out to my granddad’s grave, clean off the stone, that kind of thing. Today’s the first day the cemetery allows Christmas decorations, and with Dad’s arthritis and it being so cold, I just told them I’d take care of it.”
I smile to myself as he finds his belt because yes, this is exactly the type of thing that Jim would volunteer to do, early on a Saturday morning with six inches of snow on the ground. Granted neither of his brothers is close enough to make the drive in less than an hour, but even if they lived next door to the cemetery Jim would still gladly do this for his parents.
I give a final stretch, then get out of bed. He looks at me in the mirror above the dresser. “What are you doing? You don’t have to get up yet.”
I’m already taming my hair into an acceptable pony tail. “I wouldn’t be much of a future wife if I didn’t go with you,” I tell him, an elastic band in my teeth. He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, but I swat him on the butt as I join him at the dresser. “I want to, buddy, so just shut your mouth,” I warn as I give him a smile.
----
Twenty minutes later we’re on our way to the Dunmore Cemetery, my hands warming on a cup of coffee we’d stopped for at Dunkin’ Donuts. The sky is an icy blue, free of clouds, and it feels a little strange that on a day so beautiful we’re heading to a place that’s so sad, so devoid of life.
Jim seems like he’s in good spirits, but he’s also been quiet. I wonder what he’ll be like in this setting. After a year and a half together, as unbelievable as it seems, we haven’t had to attend a funeral, or visit a sick relative in the hospital. This is the closest we’ve ever been to death together, if that makes any sense. We’d actually known each other when his grandfather passed away several years ago – it was shortly after Jim had started at Dunder Mifflin, within his first few weeks. We were hardly friends, but I can clearly remember his somber expression and downcast eyes as he asked where he was supposed to get the paperwork requesting family leave. I’d arranged for a bouquet to be sent to the funeral home and I kept the sweet thank you note he’d left on my desk when he returned a few days later; despite signing the card from Michael and the staff, he’d somehow known that I had arranged the whole thing.
We had never talked about his grandfather much as friends, but since we’ve been together I’d learned, through both him and his family, that “Granddad” (who Jim was named after), had died suddenly. He’d had cancer, but it had been in remission and everyone had thought he was on his way back to being as healthy and active as ever. I also know that Jim and his grandfather were really close and, mostly from long chats with his mom, that Jim took after his namesake in a lot of ways: his sense of humor, his easy smile, his creativity.
It makes me ache sometimes that I’d never gotten to meet this man that meant so much to Jim, to know I’ve forever missed out on a part of his life; that I’ve missed any part of his life. I’m silly about these kinds of things, I guess. I’d gladly hop in a time machine just to get a chance to watch Jim on the playground with his elementary school friends. I’d love sit in the bleachers and cheer for him at one of his JV basketball games, give anything to have watched him cram in the library for one of his finals in college, highlighting lines in his textbooks like I’ve seen him do so many times on forms at work. I wish, somehow, I could have been a part of everything he’s done and been.
Thoughts like these make me worry that maybe I’m too in love with him, if there is such a thing; that I’m almost obsessed with him. It could just be that with Roy, our lives had been intertwined from day one, practically. Our stories involved the same people from high school; I’d known his family as well as my own by the time we graduated. So much of Jim was a mystery to me, despite the fact that we had almost spent every day together for years, hours upon hours of talking and storytelling. Jim had his own history, his own cast of characters that starred in a past that I didn’t know anything about. Since we’d gotten together we’ve spent even more hours sharing, but I’m always desperate to hear more, poring over photo albums and almost demanding to know even the smallest details. He just laughs when I try to keep him talking past a certain point - “That’s all I’ve got, Beesly,” he’s said so many times, but in some way it’s never enough. I can’t relive his past with him, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t tried.
As we drive into the cemetery small mausoleums line the side of the road, the light colored stone gleaming in the sun. This is the same cemetery my grandmother’s buried in, and as a kid I always imagined that those buildings were like miniature temples, or as I put it, “American pyramids.” I almost say that now, to lighten the mood because I notice that Jim’s expression has turned a little more solemn, but it doesn’t seem right so I just bite my lip as we pass them. I feel so…lacking, I guess. Despite knowing him better than anyone, I don’t really know where his head is right now. I want to be here for him if he needs me, but I’m not sure how - I just feel awkward and clumsy with him so quiet and unreadable.
Jim navigates through all the twists and turns, finally guiding us to a back section that has oak and pine trees scattered across it. He turns to me with a small smile. “Here we are,” he says quietly. I nod, for lack of any other response, and we climb out of the car.
I wait for him on the sidewalk as he retrieves the brightly decorated wreath and its stand from the backseat, shivering just a little. He slams the trunk and joins me on the sidewalk, gesturing with his free hand that we need to head to the left. I step as carefully I can over the blanket of snow, avoiding any gravestones I see. We’re silent again as we walk, maybe fifty or feet or so. Jim’s pace slows to a stop at and he nods ahead of him.
“This is it.”
He takes a few steps forward to wipe his gloved hand over the pink granite slab, wiping away the snow that’s settled over the words etched into the headstone’s surface. I glance to my left – there’s a small pine tree not six feet away, already decorated by some early morning visitor with silver and gold ornaments. “It’s really pretty out here,” I manage, then cringe, because how stupid does that sound?
Jim nods again, his back still to me as he continues tending to the ground around his grandfather’s grave and setting the wreath on its stand. “Yeah, it is. Grandma and Granddad picked this plot out themselves. They loved the trees.”
“Do you know who decorates? The pine tree, I mean?” I ask, because it’s something to say.
“Um, I think it’s the woman whose mom is buried right there,” he replies, pointing at the grave next to his grandfather’s as he stands again. I take a step or two closer to him and he gives me a half grin. “Makes it more festive, huh?”
For a split second I wonder if he’s teasing me, but then I realize it’s his way of letting me know – maybe subconsciously – that he needs this, needs our lighthearted banter, so I find a smile. “Very,” I agree. He grins fully now, his eyes issuing a silent thanks before turning their gaze on the headstone again. Mine follow suit, and I’m taken aback when I read what’s engraved there.
HALPERT tops the wide stone, centered and in a font my graphic design-addled brain recognizes as Copperplate Gothic. On the left is James’ name and the years he lived. However, to the right of that is Frances Jean; underneath the year 1925 and a hyphen.
His grandmother’s name and the year she was born. His grandmother, who is still very much alive, healthy and probably baking cookies in her tiny house in Dickson City.
My expression must’ve changed and Jim obviously notices because he clears his throat. “They picked out everything together,” he repeats softly. “When Granddad died, I thought it was really weird that…y’know, there was Grandma’s name too.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. He shrugs.
“I asked her if she thought that was morbid, because I kinda did. But she just sort of smiled and shook her head no.”
“It’s not morbid at all,” I say, and I mean it.
It isn’t that I’ve never seen a headstone like this before, or even one where both names are engraved even if only one person has passed away. It’s just that suddenly…I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s a portent of my future, but not at all dark or frightening. Don’t misunderstand: I’m “fancy” enough to admit that I am terrified of death. I’m even more terrified of losing the people I love, and Jim is at the top of that list. But seeing this doesn’t fill me with dread, like it might have at another point in my life. I actually feel calm, at peace – for maybe the first time, I’m suddenly so certain of just what it means to agree to marry someone, to tie your life – your whole existence – to someone forever. To know that even after all your days together are over you still want to be inextricably linked to the one you love.
That seems strange, because I was engaged to someone for years and almost took those vows that would’ve bound us for life. I can’t – and won’t ever – dismiss the love Roy and I shared, but I know I never had a moment like this when we were together. Maybe I got too caught up in wedding plans and daydreams; maybe we were just too young when he initially proposed for me to fully grasp what that promise of forever really meant. And, to be totally honest, I’m not sure that I even understood it this time, with Jim. Not until now.
I rub the backside of my engagement ring with my thumb and smile to myself, tears pricking at my eyes. I will never know Jim’s past in its entirety. No matter how many questions I ask, how many stories I hear, how many pictures I study, I will never know everything. And it isn’t that I’ve just suddenly lost interest in trying – I’m sure I’ll always want to know as much as I can. But this simple hunk of granite, glinting in the December sunshine, reminds me that I will always be a part of Jim’s present, and more importantly Jim’s future. We’re two people who are making one life together. One day there will only be one of us – because how often do people get the bittersweet happy ending of leaving this earth at the same time? Even then, somehow, in some way, we’ll still be together. That fact overshadows any of the past we haven’t shared.
I can’t be sure exactly what Jim is thinking, but I know it must be similar to what’s running through my mind, because when I glance at him he’s already looking at me with a soft smile is on his face.
“You okay?”
I nod, and tuck my hand into his. “I’m great.”
“Ready to go?”
“If you are.”
“Yup.” He casts another look at the stone, nods a silent goodbye and we walk hand-in-hand back to the car. Before I walk to my side I put my hands on his shoulders and press my lips to his. “What was that for?” he asks, rubbing my back.
“I…” I’m not sure exactly what to say, so I just kiss him again quickly. “Thanks. For letting me come,” I whisper. He smirks.
“Wouldn’t be much of a future husband if I didn’t.”
Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm not sure I'll ever get this chapter to be what I pictured in my mind, but I'm more or less pleased with the result. Let me know if I got it right.
Spoilers for "Weight Loss." But really, if you don't know that spoiler, why are you reading fan fiction? Get to NBC.com! ;)
Spoilers for "Weight Loss." But really, if you don't know that spoiler, why are you reading fan fiction? Get to NBC.com! ;)
