Swain and Althea
by Charles C. Cole
Swain Clatchee, community lay minister, and Althea Grover sat in the front seat of Swain’s black Ford Ranger, holding hands and listening to the gentle drumming of a spring shower. To one side was Main Street, ever quiet in this sleepy hamlet, and laid out in front of them was Weezer Township Cemetery.
“I like the sound of the rain,” said Althea at last, trying some good old-fashioned conversation. “I do. It’s soothing, but couldn’t we find a better view?”
Swain smiled patiently. “These are my people, Thea. There are more friends here than strangers. I was either there at the end, with most of them, or I spoke at their funerals.”
Althea pulled her hand away. “I just mean: when I’m with you, I’d rather think of life than death, of the future more than the past.”
Swain and Althea, at opposite ends of their twenties, living almost an hour apart, had only been dating for a few months, having had more conversations over the phone than in person. Swain was an old soul in a young man’s body while Althea was a recent college graduate looking for her next major milestone.
“I think the rain’s stopping,” said Swain, changing the subject.
“Do you want to go back to your room?” asked Althea.
“It’s Miss Mamie’s room; I just board there. That’s why I sometimes like sitting in my truck; it’s more private in a way, more me.”
Althea tried another tack. “Swain, I have a great idea: let’s go to the Lanford Diner. I’m starving, and we can sit opposite each other. Maybe share a milkshake. Would you like that?”
Swain furrowed his brow and stared out his windshield. “I feel I ought to say goodbye.”
“To me?” asked Althea, alarmed and confused.
Swain pointed to the headstones. “To the newest residents, to Ike Noonan and Luke Doolittle. I bet they don’t get visitors very often, even me. Life can move pretty fast: next thing you know, another month’s flown the coop.”
“I’ll wait in the truck if it’s okay,” said Althea. “If you haven’t gotten the hint, I’m not a fan of cemeteries. I’d just as soon not visit more than is absolutely necessary. I’m not saying they’re scary — except maybe at night — but they’re a place... where dreams go to die.”
Swain sighed like he was late for an important appointment and noticed he had a flat tire. “I’ll just be a minute. You don’t have to get out.” He stepped down. The rain was over, but the gray clouds lingered. He glanced back in the cab. Althea looked disappointed. “I won’t be long, promise. I think you’ve got a great idea, hopping over to Lanford: it’s like going out on a real date. You deserve that.”
Swain approached the headstones of his former friends, instinctively touching the silver crucifix under his shirt. He extended a hand over both memorials as if giving a blessing. “Hi, gentlemen. Long time. If you’ll forgive me, I’m gonna make this fast, like that funny auctioneer at the Harvest Festival. There’s a hungry young lady waiting in the truck and—”
“I’m here,” said Althea from close behind Swain, touching his right shoulder. “Please don’t rush because of me.” She read the inscriptions. “Misters Doolittle and Noonan, my name is Althea Grover. I’m from Albany. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you when you were alive, but I guess this is the next best thing.”
Swain took Althea’s nearest hand in his. She was grateful for the gesture.
Later, comfortably seated in a windowed booth at the Lanford Diner, Althea watched Swain noisily finish their “shared” milkshake through a long, pink-striped straw. Swain looked up, suddenly aware of the consequence of his actions. “Dang, Althea, you should have kicked me under the table. I wasn’t thinking. Big emotions make me ravenous.”
“You needed it more, I think,” said Althea.
Swain made a quick recovery. “What do you say we add burgers and fries to our dining experience? Out of order as it may be. I’ll even get another shake, just for you.”
Gently, she asked: “There’s a lot of thinking that goes on in that head of yours, isn’t there?”
“Thea, you don’t know the half of it,” said Swain. “Cemeteries aren’t nearly as scary as the dark recesses of a distracted mind.”
“Oh my,” joked Althea.
Swain reached across the table. His hand was cold from gripping the milkshake. “Please give me another chance.”
Althea’s eyes smiled. “Swain Clatchee, anyone who cares as much about his fellow man as you do, the living and the dead, is worth the effort.”
When the second shake arrived, Althea offered Swain a sip, but he was true to his word: it was all for her. Althea Grover was worth the effort.
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
