“That’s Stanley,” Elaine announced from across the bedroom. I like Elaine a lot. It was unlike her to point out the obvious, that the handsome man in a tuxedo standing next to her in the picture was Stanley, her late husband.
I gave her a watered down version of the exasperated look I generally reserve for my mother. “Yes, I know.”
“No, that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the picture. “And that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the large pewter vase tucked into the shelf on her nightstand. Funny, it looked exactly like the one I had moved to get a better look at the picture.
Urns. Two urns. Filled with Stanley’s ashes. How fun! I couldn’t wait to see my mother’s reaction. (She was in the room with us, but she can’t hear a thing.) I pointed to the large urn on the nightstand and tried to be as deliberate as possible as I mouthed the information. “Stan-ley’s-ash-es-are-in-there!” She looked horrified. I was delighted.
I had always liked Elaine; now I was simply in awe. She had just sold her house in New Jersey and was showing us her new apartment in Manhattan. It was a daunting move for a woman in her eighties, even one as lively as Elaine. But she was not alone. She had brought her dead husband with her. A little creepy, maybe, but it seemed to make so much sense.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, like which part of Stanley is in the tiny urn, but I settled on “why two?” Elaine explained that the large urn by the bed, the one containing the bulk of Stanley, was there for bedtime chats. A bit one-sided, I would imagine, but chats involving Stanley and Elaine were always a bit one-sided. I remember marveling at how quiet he was compared to his entertaining wife. Once, I told him I thought she was awesome. “She is the best,” he said, gazing at her with the kind of love in his eyes I had thought only existed in fairy tales.
Elaine explained that the little one traveled with her. Not everywhere but on big trips, so Stanley could always be by her side. Or at least in her purse. They had planned it this way. Ultimately, their ashes would be scattered together, maybe into the ocean from the deck of one of their favorite cruise ships. But as long as one was alive, they would continue to travel, together. And if Elaine went first and Stanley ended up on a cruise with another woman, he was to cast her ashes off the deck into the wind so they would blow into the bitch’s eyes.
It’s a great love story, the story of the two urns. It’s about two well-heeled people who had all the trappings of a great life but had all they needed just by being together. There was no funeral for Stanley. No speeches, no tearful tributes, no chapels packed with people wearing black and not knowing what to say. Just a quiet ride back home with his wife.
Stanley stayed in the apartment while Elaine, my mom, and I went out to dinner. Walking to the car, Elaine confided that she wished Stanley could have been with her to enjoy her new city life. No doubt she went home and told Stanley the same thing.
And, no doubt, he listened to her intently and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That’s Stanley.
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