by Joe Del Castillo

(image c/o ap news)

Tuesday afternoon, December 9th, 1980, Blake stepped out of the Broadway and 72nd Street subway station. Glancing at the overcast sky, which began to mist, he turned up the collar of his jacket and cursed himself for not wearing a hat or poncho. When he reached the intersection of Columbus Avenue, he saw the crowd standing alongside the office and apartment buildings. This was the end of a line, about five deep, that began one block further, at the entrance of the Dakota, the century-old apartment complex, just before Central Park West. To keep part of the sidewalk clear, the police had gathered them behind wooden barricades. Many held photos, album covers, and homemade posters with pictures of John Lennon. Several sang his songs. Making his way, Blake studied the faces; somewhere, Christine had to be present.

He crossed and squeezed in with hundreds more on the other side of 72nd Street, directly opposite the Dakota entrance.   

Conversations were taking place around him among the densely packed crowd. A woman, in her early twenties, holding a folded umbrella, said, “I couldn’t bring myself to go to work today. I had to come here and pay my respects. Lennon gave us so much, the music and his courage.” 

Blake, not looking at her but scrutinizing back and forth for Christine, mumbled, “Uh-huh.” 

“I never saw him in concert. I didn’t see The Beatles either. Did you?”     

“No, I was 10 and oblivious.” That he had once encountered Lennon, he kept to himself.   

“My father was at Shea when The Beatles played there. It was all fans screaming, you know; you couldn’t hear the music, he would tell me. But it was great to be part of it.” 

“He’s lucky. I’m sure he loves talking about it.”

“Oh no, he can’t. My father died a year ago yesterday.” She tapped his shoulder. “Do you think that’s significant? The fact that they died on the same day, a year apart?”   

Blake didn’t think so and didn’t want to hear some stranger’s life story. Hoping it would end the discourse, he said, “I think it means your dad was a very special person.” 

“He was.”   

Hours earlier, back in his apartment, Blake had pondered calling Christine. He’d stare at his wall phone, consider picking it up, but didn’t follow through. Instead, he called the office and lied, saying he was ill, unable to go in. Well, he was ill, emotionally sick to his stomach, reeling from the reports of the murder of John Lennon the night before. Throughout the morning, he occupied himself by pulling out his Beatles and Lennon’s solo record albums. He gazed at the pictures and read the liner notes, knowing but not yet comprehending that a door had shut, a wall had risen, over his past. Since last night, it seemed the entire world had focused on the Dakota. He watched on TV as crowds had collected outside to hold an impromptu vigil. Seeing that, he decided to join them. No doubt, he would find Christine there. That had to be better than phoning and possibly having to talk to her husband.

The mist turned to rain. The woman opened her umbrella and covered them both. 

“Thank you.” 

Across the street, the police set up a second line for those bearing tokens of appreciation. One by one, the officers allowed them to approach the gates and place flowers and candles. Many took snapshots of the spot where Lennon had been shot. Why? Infinite amounts of images were on the TV and in the papers.

The rain intensified. “Hey, I’m going to get some coffee and wait till this lets up. Want to come along?”

With no sign of Christine and the reality of getting soaked, he agreed.

Sharing the umbrella, they headed to Columbus Avenue and entered a luncheonette. Before long, he second-guessed his decision; the woman wouldn’t stop talking.

“My father died without warning. Only in his fifties, a professional photographer inspecting the images in his lab, when he collapsed. Just like that. Healthy as you and me. Weddings and anniversaries were his specialties, but sometimes, customers requested him to photograph the deceased in their coffins. He refused. He knew someone else would do it, but he always declined, no matter how much was offered. He believed in celebrating life, not death. I’d give anything for another five minutes with him.”

Blake passed her a napkin so she could wipe her eyes. 

She carried on about how she grew up in a well-to-do family, but that as a teenager, she rebelled, rejected them, in particular her father, and moved out, and only visited because of sibling pressure. She admitted that her father’s passing made her reconcile with her family. 

“I know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” she said. “Do you?” He remained silent. “Well, it’s like a nightmare you can’t shake off. During the daytime, that person dominates your thoughts and you’re unable to function, but if you discipline yourself, you can blot him out. However, in the middle of the night, when you try to sleep, he haunts your dreams.”

When she said ‘haunts,’ Blake’s throat constricted, and, as if a gun had been jammed into his back, he almost spat up his coffee. He shut his eyes, took a quick, deep breath, and sighed. She didn’t see his reaction; she stared out the window, watching clusters of people walk by carrying floral arrangements and individual roses. 

“I never showed my father enough love, but he never seemed to resent it. Since I lost him, I’ve made a point of getting closer to my mother and sisters.” She finished her coffee. “Sorry for blabbing so much. What about you? Tell me your story.”

Blake cleared his throat. He had to say something. “Um…I once vowed never to speak to an old friend again. I understand now that wasn’t smart.”

“And?”     

“That’s it.” 

Realizing that he wasn’t going to say more, the woman pointed to the window. “Hey, the rain has stopped.” Outside the restaurant, she checked her watch. “You know what, I’ll have to be going. I need to check on my mother. I don’t know what got into me with all the things I told you. I never act like this, but I do feel better.”

“It’s okay. I guess it’s good to be with someone at a time like this.”

“Thank you for listening.” To his surprise, she kissed his cheek. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

After she left, he stayed on Columbus Avenue, searching for Christine at the line’s end, but there was no sign of her. She could have come earlier, or might arrive later, or he might have missed her by joining the woman. At the corner, he stopped by a shuttered shoe shine stand. The weather-worn wooden box resembled a structure that belonged to another era, one seen in black and white pictures of old New York. He placed a hand on the side and leaned his head momentarily against it. Standing back, he considered getting roses, but dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t change things.  

At his apartment, Blake ate dinner off a tray table while watching the news. Lennon’s career was being reviewed with emphasis on the social and cultural impact of the Beatles. He recalled, yet again, how he and Christine started dating in college and had a shared appreciation for the group and the individual members. After the band dissolved, he was one of those who talked repeatedly, incessantly, of a reunion, but she took it in stride. Things and times change, Christine liked to say. And when she left him for Hank, and Blake finally grasped that she would never return, he refused to say farewell or have any dealings with her. But now—things had changed.  

He dialed her number. “Hello? Ah, Hank? It’s Blake—”

“Hi,” he said. “How are you? How goes it?” 

“I’m…fine. And you?” 

“Life’s good. And yourself?” 

“Same here except for the John situation.”

“Oh man, it’s awful, it’s horrible. I wasn’t a fan like Chrissy, but this is different. All day long, she’s been gazing at that picture with the three of you. I’m sure you want to talk to her.”

“You don’t mind?”     

“No man, not at all. I’ll get her.”  

Blake had anticipated a cautious, possibly suspicious tone, but it was all cheery and friendly. Well, why not? He had married Christine. 

The phone got picked up. “Hey,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Same here. How’s by you?”   

“Not good since last night. I’ve gotten little sleep.” She began to cry. In the background, he heard her husband ask if she was alright. “Yes, just get me some water.”

As she sipped it, Blake imagined the face he hadn’t seen in years. As if he stood outside her home, watching her through drawn, see-through curtains in her window.  

“Some of my friends,” she said, “think I’m taking this too hard. They think I’m overreacting.”  

“You’re not. I know that.” In his mind, he saw her smile.

“And Blake, if I know you, you went to the Dakota.”

“You’re right, I expected you to be there.” 

“I wanted to, but I’m five months pregnant.”

As if he had touched a live wire, he almost dropped the phone. “That’s great. When are you due?”

“Early spring.”

“Are you okay? You’re healthy? No complications?” 

“Relax, I’m fine. Of course, no alcohol for now.”

He recalled parties with her. “That has to make you crazy.”      

She laughed. “And Hank has no sympathy. He likes to show me up with his nightly Scotch. I did want to go in, but he insisted that standing in a crowd for hours wasn’t a good idea.”

“If circumstances had been different, you would have gone.” 

She hesitated. “Oh no, please don’t.”       

She misunderstood. She thought he meant if the two of them were still together. “Christine, Hank’s right. Standing for hours in the cold and rain could have been detrimental to your health.”      

“Oh, okay.” She drank more water. “Thank you for saying that. It’s good that you went.” 

“Hey,” he said. “Remember the time when, down the block from where John lived, us passing that old shoe shine stand, and lo and behold, John’s there, getting his boots polished. We couldn’t believe someone like him would do that. We approached him, said how much we appreciated his work, and he thanked us. Lucky for us, I had my camera, and we got the shoe shine guy to take a couple of photos with him.” 

“For us, encounters that are unforgettable. For John, a random connection with fans.”         

“Something we can tell our kids one day.”

“Oh, Blake—you have children?”

“No, no! Just saying in general.” To avoid her asking if he was seeing someone, he quickly said, “Then that idiot shoots him.”

She started crying again. “There’s going to be a memorial service at our local park. I’ll go to that. How was it like in the city?”

“Like a giant wake. There were flowers and candles everywhere. I don’t know what purpose they serve, but I am glad I went.”

“You still have your copy of the picture?” 

“Of course,” He asked her how her family was doing, and she, in turn, asked him about his parents. To Blake, only weeks had passed since they last spoke.  

“Listen, I’ll have to go now, it’s my nausea time. Know that I’m glad you called.”

“Thanks, I was a bit nervous.” 

“Blake, we both lost a friend, one that we never knew, but felt very close to. As you say, better to talk about it. You be good to yourself.”

“Wait, Christine. There’s something else. You meant — you mean a lot to me.”

“No, Blake, please–”

“Wait, what I’m trying to say is, if anything ever happened to you and I hadn’t spoken to you again, I would have gone out of my mind.”

She didn’t respond. Just silence. He feared he had said the wrong words. Then, she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Blake, we go to wakes and bring flowers as a way of saying goodbye. Did you say goodbye…for both of us?” 

Before his eyes, he glimpsed a faint mid-air spark, as if two invisible wires had touched and made contact, but at the same moment, the spark puffed into smoke. In truth, he hadn’t thought of it, but the right thing to say now was, “Yes, Christine, I did.” 

“Good.” Raising her voice, she suggested he call in the summer to go visit. It would be months after the baby was born, and she should be in a routine. He agreed, but knew he wouldn’t do it. After hanging up, he decided to follow up on saying farewell as he had claimed to have done. In all their time together, he never lied to her. He wasn’t going to start now.  

Blake found some of her old candles stashed away on a closet shelf. He took a few, along with the photo with John, and, close to midnight, he returned to the Dakota. Standing alone by the sidewalk curb, facing the entrance, everything felt different from the day. The corridor, which led to a courtyard cloaked in darkness, was framed by a two-story arch carved from terracotta stone. On the second level, within the arch, were three windows: a center rectangular window flanked by two half-crescent-shaped ones. In the solitude, surrounded by the leftover, wilted flowers on the ground, it was as if he were no longer on a city street, but back in time, before a centuries-old church. He knelt and, from his coat pocket, withdrew three glass jars and placed them on the sidewalk. 

From inside the entrance, a man materialized, startling Blake for a moment. A 35mm camera hung around his shoulder.        

Blake raised his hand. “No pictures, please.”

“Relax, I’m not a reporter. I carry it because you never know what you might see.”

“Sorry, I misunderstood.” 

The man, about twice Blake’s age, crouched down and looked into the black entryway. “It’s terrible what happened. I was a huge fan. Evidently, you are, too. Do you have any special memories? Did you have an extra special connection to John?”

Blake said yes, and, to his bewilderment, he found himself opening up and proceeding to tell, in great detail, about Christine, of how they met, the life they once shared, and the time they met Lennon. Finishing, he said, “Now, I’m here to say farewell to John for us. It’s what she wants.”

“Oh.” The man glanced around him. “And where’s Christine now? She couldn’t be here?”

Blake bit his lip. 

The man gazed at Blake, studying him, as if reading his thoughts. “I see. She’s with someone else. Not easy for you, I’m sure. So, the question becomes, do you know if she’s happy?” 

Blake stared at the jars and nodded.

“That’s good, right? It would be worse if you learned that she wasn’t. You wouldn’t want that, right?” 

Blake nodded again.

“So, rather than mourn, imagine life without them. Try to celebrate your memories of John and of your time with Christine and the opportunity to have known and loved her. ”    

Celebrate? 

“Don’t think it, say it. It’s better if you do.”

Blake glanced up at the windows and carvings within the terracotta stone and down at the candles and flowers. 

“Come on,” the man said. “Get it out.” 

“Yes, yes,” Blake responded. “Life without Christine or John would have been worse.”  

“Good.” The man rose and tapped Blake’s shoulder. “I’ll be going now.” He turned in the direction of Columbus Avenue. Blake watched the stranger walk halfway down the block until he faded into the shadows of 72nd Street. He thought it odd how so matter-of-fact, so accepting the man was of the events.

Blake reached inside his coat pocket, withdrew his wallet, and took out the photo of Christine, him, and John Lennon. He lit the three candles. Cupping his hands to try and keep the tiny flames from blowing out, he said, “Goodbye, John, from Christine and me. And from me, Christine, farewell. Thanks to both of you for what you gave.” 

He dropped the photo into the jar. 

(image c/o independent uk)

Joe Del Castillo lives on Long Island, New York and is a member of the Long Island Writers Guild. He has been published in New Pop Lit, Home Planet News, Loch Raven Review, October Hill, Macrame Literary Journal and Luminaura.