Two Lives of Sam Kampku

A stillborn baby is in the story, which some may find to be a trigger.

“MAUSOLEUM STRUCK BY LIGHTNING! ONE DEAD!”

Molly read the headline in her newsfeed and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Seventeen new zombies emerge!” She could hear Sam proclaim in her head.

She winced.

For decades, she and her husband Sam had spent every Sunday morning sipping coffee and reading the newspaper together. Of course, they always did the crossword first, but that was followed by “Headline,” a game in which they read an article title and then made up the story that should go with it. Not long before they retired, the local paper raised its prices and stopped featuring the Frank Longo crossword, so they canceled their subscription and settled for the online version to continue their weekly game. Sam had died over a year ago, but Molly still read the titles aloud each Sunday. Sometimes, like today, she could hear him, and it made his absence more real, but less painful somehow—like he was speaking to her, even though he was long gone.

She clicked on the story and discovered there wasn’t much to it.

“A mausoleum at Grady Memorial Cemetery was hit by lightning yesterday afternoon. The building was undamaged, but a woman who was apparently visiting a loved one interred there was killed. Her name is being withheld until family can be notified.”

“Must have been a slow news day,” Sam chortled in her head.

“Yes,” she whispered back, setting her coffee aside.

That was the cemetery where Sam was. They had bought the vault in one of the mausolea two years after the baby died. Since she and Sam wanted to be cremated, Sam’s thought was that they could all share the same crypt. “One small happy family,” he said.

Molly hadn’t been thrilled with the idea. She wanted their ashes combined once all of them were gone and sprinkled at Disney World, because the baby—his name was going to be Robbie—had never had a chance to visit The Magic Kingdom. Illegal? You betcha’! But Molly had reasoned that if Andy Dufresne had managed to sprinkle dirt from a tunnel spanning miles under Shawshank undetected, her brother Eddie could manage the same with the cremains of two adults and tiny Robbie. Eddie would have actually enjoyed the challenge.

Sam wouldn’t have it. “We have to have some place to visit him.”

“He’s in a sweet urn here with us,” Molly argued. “I want him with us, not on some lonely hill surrounded by strangers.”

“You won’t heal if he’s in the house,” Sam replied.

“You mean I won’t ‘get over it’,” she snapped, hating him at that moment, hating pretty much everyone who had started telling her to move on--pack away the baby clothes, donate the crib or “try for another”. That last one burned the most because it was brutal ignorance from people who didn’t know enough to keep their mouths shut. She had lost her uterus when she lost Robbie. There could not be “another”.

“Molly,” Sam said gently, reaching for her hand. “I loved him, too. I want him to have a memorial.” He wiped his eyes with his other hand.

She squeezed back, but his refusal or inability to understand--the fact that he never called Robbie by name—almost broke their marriage. She knew he loved Robbie, but he hadn’t felt the baby move inside him. He hadn’t slept cradling the sweet child within himself, sharing breath, heartbeats, and dreams. It took a long time to forgive his not knowing their son the way only a mother possibly could.

Molly visited the memorial yesterday. She went every Saturday, rain or shine. It had been threatening to storm, the sky dark, the wind wicked, the air electric and expectant. She was going to put flowers in the little vase that hung on the front of the niche, but when she got there, the vase was gone. At first, she thought it had blown off. She frantically looked all around the monument but found nothing. Her eyes watered, and she fought back a sob. Who would steal something from a grave? What kind of person does that?

Her dismay quickly turned into rage. She stormed back to the car and grabbed the duct tape out of the glovebox. Sam had insisted the tape, a tube of super-glue, and a can of WD-40 were always kept there. “One of these will fix just about anything,” he told her. She also grabbed one of the napkins and the sandwich bag of pretzels. These were her contributions to the “emergency supplies” kept in the compartment.

She dug through her purse until she found a pen, then took several deep breaths, trying to gather her thoughts, waiting for her hands to stop shaking enough so she could write.

“TO THE EVIL PERSON WHO STOLE THE VASE FROM MY HUSBAND’S GRAVE: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUE HOW UPSETTING IT IS TO COME TO HONOR OUR MEMORIES WITH FRESH FLOWERS AND NOT ONLY HAVE NO PLACE TO PUT THEM, BUT HAVE A PART OF HIS GRAVE STOLEN? SHAME ON YOU!”

She signed the napkin note “Mrs. Sam Kampku”.

She dumped the pretzels out of the bag onto the grass. The cemetery was full of squirrels and birds that would surely enjoy them. She sealed her letter inside the empty bag, tore off a length of tape and stomped back to the monument. Thunder boomed, making the ground shudder as she securely affixed her message on the niche that read “Kampku”.

********

Maddie’s heart sank as she read the headline “MAUSOLEUM STRUCK BY LIGHTNING! ONE DEAD!”

If Sam were still here, he would have made a joke about that, but he had been gone six months now, and Maddie read the newspaper alone. She had thought about cancelling her subscription; the Frank Longo crossword puzzles were much harder and far less fun by herself. She kept it because it reminded her of Sam. Keeping their Sunday tradition was like having a little piece of him still here.

She gasped when she read further and discovered it was at Sam’s cemetery. She had talked him into buying the vault there. He had wanted to be cremated; his ashes scattered at Disney World. She wasn’t comfortable with the thought of her body being incinerated, nor was she at ease about her eternal rest being underground with the worms.

“If we get a vault, we can share the space,” Maddie told him.

“Together forever,” Sam said, gently taking her hand. “Not even in death do we part.”

“So, you’ll do it?”

“Disney sounds more fun.”

“Sam, it’s illegal! I’m not going to jail just because that was your favorite place to take Robbie all those years.”

“I’m sure it’s probably just a fine, not hard time,” He chuckled. “Robbie would do it.”

Maddie gave Sam a playful pinch on the cheek. “I don’t want Robbie going to jail, either.”

“It’s just a fine! Robs would enjoy the challenge. You know how much he loves ‘Shawshank Redemption’, same principle.”

“Do you realize how many times he would have to visit the park?” She couldn’t help herself; she was laughing now.

He sighed, his smile faded, but his eyes still danced. “Okay, I can’t bankrupt our only child because of my dream to spend eternity in Tomorrow Land. You win, but I want an outdoor one, not inside a stuffy building.”

It wasn’t something she had wanted to talk about, but Sam’s cancer diagnosis had made it a necessity. That was three years ago. The man had fought the good fight, always hopeful, always maintaining his sweet sense of humor.

Maddie got dressed, grabbed the little vase from the dishwasher, and headed to the cemetery like she did every Sunday.

As she approached Sam’s grave, she cringed at the blackened pavement directly in front of his spot. She ran the rest of the way, fearful that despite what the paper had said, her husband’s grave was damaged.

What she found made her flinch again. The shiny brass cover appeared unharmed, but a plastic bag was duct-taped over the “Kampku” nameplate. Her hand shook as she reached out and tore it down. She tore it open, read the note, tilted her head back at the heavens and screamed.

Rage and disbelief misted her eyes, and she fought back a sob as she searched her purse for her cellphone. Thank God Robbie was her number one speed dial.

“Hey, Mom!” He answered on the second ring.

“Robbie...” Now the sob forced its way out.

“Mom?” His chipper mood vanished. “What’s wrong?”

She took a moment, unable to speak. “Remember how I told you somebody keeps putting flowers on your dad’s grave?”

“Yeah...I said I thought it was nice, but it bothered you because you couldn’t figure out who or why they were doing it.”

“Yes, and I was right to be concerned. Last week the flowers had gotten very wilted and made the vase look grubby. I had to take it home to wash it.”

“I’m sure the person didn’t intend for that to happen,” Robbie started.

She cut him off, her voice going shrill. “Whether that nut case intended to muck up his memorial or not, I am contacting the cemetery director. This is unacceptable!”

“Nut case?”

“Wait until I read you the letter she left me!”