THE CANDLE
What if you could bring someone you love back to life, even for only one hour?
THE OLD MARKET
We’d worked our way to the back of the outdoor market, then through all the side rows and offshoots. Peter was one step behind me, his arms draped with loops of full bags. He didn’t like to shop but had made it through—so far—without complaint. It was our honeymoon.
I smiled at him, and he smiled back. The packing I’d have to do this evening would suck, but today was our last day. Back to Chicago tomorrow. On Monday, we returned to the ordinary world and daily grind.
Peter had been checking his watch—a subtle ‘can we leave soon’ signal—for thirty minutes, so I headed toward the only entrance and exit.
I had seen the old woman alone at the entrance before we went through. That morning, the woman had a single item, and I thought she waited for someone else or hadn’t unpacked more to set out. There was still only one thing before her in the middle of the table: an old chalice-shaped candlestick with the stub of a candle.
The woman’s eyes did not wander. She sat still, not trying to catch people’s eye or engage them in conversation to draw them to her table, as did the other vendors. It didn’t seem to matter if she sold the candlestick or not. I slowed as we approached her.
“Amanda, come on.….” Peter’s low mutter was the first sign of impatience as he caught up to where I stopped.
The woman studied me without expression. In her eyes, deep wrinkles framing them, was such a depth of sorrow that it caught my breath. The bustling noise of the surroundings faded as I returned the woman’s look.
“Hello,” I smiled. The old woman nodded without speaking. “Is this all you have for sale?”
“All I offer.”
Surprised at its heaviness, I picked up the candlestick, a rough, dull, tarnished metal. I rubbed my thumb over the dry surface of the candle stub, and pieces flaked off. But the wick seemed new, never lit, and not brittle like the wax. I turned the candlestick upside-down and checked the base. It was solid, but in the center was a rectangular compartment, a cover hinged on one side, with a tiny latch. I tried to free the fastener.
“That will only open for the owner,” the woman said. Her slight smile revealed the glint of bright dentures far younger than she.
“What’s inside?”
“That’s for the possessor to discover.”
“Aren’t you the owner?”
“Why do you want to know what’s inside?” Those eyes fixed on me as she continued, “Do you like this candlestick?”
“Needs a good polishing.” The woman’s eyes twinkled, amused at my awkward haggling. “Too bad you don’t have another to make a pair.”
“That candle was used.” The twinkle was gone, another emotion darkened her eyes. A shadow flickered in them when she looked at the candlestick in my hand, then to my face, and on to Peter’s.
“You can buy another candle. What happened to the other candlestick?”
“It did what it was created for, and all I… all we asked,” she stood, “this is all I have left.”
I didn’t follow what she meant and thought, time to leave. With frequent glances at me, Peter had scanned the contents of the next table, an assortment of hand-carved salt and pepper shakers. I’d put him through enough for today and started to set the candlestick down. Something in its heft rooted me, and without meaning to, my grip tightened. Peter still fidgeted, moving the shopping bags from hand to hand. He loved me, and I loved him more than anything. The certainty surged through me more than during our marriage ceremony. “How old is it?”
The woman shrugged. “My husband,” a melancholy came back and caught at her words, “bought the set many years ago from a woman who told him a story. Stories,” she shook her head, “were always his weakness. But he was also practical. When we were young, we often dined by candlelight… as much to save money as because he was such a romantic man. Still, it’s good we chose not to use these, until—as the woman told my husband—we needed one of them.”
I shook my head, puzzled. The old woman stroked the wedding band on her gnarled hand as she spoke. Once upon a time, it must have been a better fit with the fullness and firmness of youth. With the finger shrunken with age, only a swollen arthritic knuckle kept the ring on her hand. “How long have you been married?”
“He died suddenly,” she reached out and touched the candlestick I still held, “today is a week past. We were married for sixty-five years.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I glanced at Peter, who stood beside me with a tired smile, and thought of our wedding just seven days before. For a moment, six heartbeats—I felt each one—I wondered about living with and loving him for sixty-five more years. Nothing would make me happier.
“We had a full life together… and even a brief time after.”
I didn’t follow the last part. “Why do you want to sell such a sweet reminder of your husband?”
“He is still here.” The curl of her smile showed, her eyes flashed again. She touched her head and her heart, leaving her hand over a now withered but once full bosom. That’s all I need.”
“What about leaving it to your children?”
Grief dimmed her eyes, the smile gone; clouds over the sun. “We were not so fortunate… my daughter died at birth, and we—I—could not have more.”
“I’m so sorry.” I set the candlestick down to open my purse, deciding a last souvenir, this one, would be fitting.
The woman picked it up. “And this… I want to go to someone young.” Her eyes shifted from me to Peter, who watched, bags now at his feet. “I came here today hoping to find someone young and in love.”
Peter had his wallet in his hand, “How much?”
“Nothing.” Cradling the candlestick in her hands, the old woman passed it to me and her eyes went to Peter.
“We have to pay you something,” he insisted.
“No,” she said, and the sternness of her voice didn’t harden the smile that returned to her lips, “you don’t. It’s a gift.”
“Thank you,” was all I could say. The old woman’s expression brushed my heart; a grandmother-not-to-be’s tenderness for a granddaughter she never had. I handed the candlestick to Peter as the woman folded the cloth on her table.
Seeing Peter inspect the cover and latch at the base of the candle, she said, “It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest,” her eyes glistened, “as its mate did for me.”
As she turned to put the folded tablecloth in a large hand-basket on the ground beside her chair, she murmured, “And so I had him, my love, for one more hour… to say our goodbyes.”
Peter had gathered our things, putting the candlestick in one of the canvas bags. Before the woman turned away, I leaned across the empty table and touched her arm at the elbow. She glanced at me, and I asked, “You say your husband bought this long ago?”
“Yes,” she said, looking into my eyes a last time. “On our honeymoon.” She walked into the crowd and was soon out of sight.
CHICAGO…
Bags were everywhere. Amanda had unpacked their clothes and luggage over the weekend, but the things they had bought were still in boxes and store bags. The one thing that had come out of the bags was the candlestick. She hadn’t even thought about the old woman in the hustle of flying back home and seeing family. But her candlestick was on the mantle over one of those artificial meant-to-look-like-the-real-thing fireplaces.
Amanda turned to Peter, who had, unlike her, had the day off, “That’s all you unpacked?”
“It’s the only thing I was sure of where you’d want it to go.” He walked over to the window and studied the street three floors below. “I still don’t like this area.”
“I’ll be fine.” Before they took the lease, she had seen the high crime rate trending down. Still, Peter had concerns. But this location was the closest compromise of affordability and nearness to the metro and their work.
Peter turned from the window. “As soon as I can finagle a change, I’ll get off the night shift.”
But they both knew they needed the higher income until they paid off their bills, which now would take longer. She contemplated the bags of things they had bought on their honeymoon and sighed.
MONTHS LATER…
The woman with the long legs caught the young man’s eye. She rode the subway with style, graceful like an old Hollywood movie star among everyday people. He scratched at the coarse growth of hair that covered his cheeks and throat in patches and elbowed his friend, who lifted his eyes from his phone. He cocked his head toward the woman just down from them. “Check her out… legs in the blue dress.”
Amanda was wearing the pearls Peter had given her even though she had promised never to wear them without him with her. But it was a short week and a half-day Thursday for Tom, the senior partner’s office birthday party. She was so happy and wanted to finally show them to Sue, her best friend at the office. Besides, she was headed home in the mid-afternoon. No one would bother her in broad daylight.
The two men followed her when she got off.
With the coming three-day weekend—the first long weekend since their honeymoon four months ago—on her mind, Amanda neglected to scan the area as Peter had told her to when going to and from the station.
She entered their building, bypassed the elevator, and headed for the stairs. Great for the legs, Amanda thought. Feeling that good burn in her calves as she went up the steps, she did not hear the rustling sound of the two men moving almost as fast to catch up. They did. Right as she opened the door to the apartment.
* * *
Peter was excited, not just because he was off—no work tonight—a pleasant surprise when he’d shown up for his shift. The promotion he hadn’t told Amanda about had come through. Starting Monday, no more night shifts and a 20% raise. Hallelujah… they’d have breathing room and could save money toward buying a proper house with a yard. Everything they’d hoped for and dreamed. He loped up the stairs to the third floor. Their apartment was just across from the landing. Keys in hand, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
* * *
“We got time,” the scraggly bearded man said, “They ain’t going to complain,” he glanced down at the dead woman and dying man. “Bitch,” rubbing his shoulder, he kicked the candlestick gripped in the woman’s hand, but it didn’t loosen. The two men had split and pocketed the man and woman’s cash. The pearls were smeared with blood. He walked to the kitchen sink to wash them and didn’t see the dying man stir. Hearing a clatter, he stepped into the hallway to call out to his partner, rummaging through the apartment, “Hey, you wanna be quieter… you find anything else?”
* * *
Peter heard them, one in the kitchen and the other in the bedroom, and tasted blood. He hadn’t been there to save Amanda, a worse bitterness. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t breathing. The pool of blood had expanded from under her body from where he lay. His own grew to touch hers.
God, how I love you was all Peter could think as his vision flickered. His head lay next to the fireplace. Amanda’s right hand held the candlestick she had grabbed from the mantle. Staring at the bottom of the base, he remembered the old woman’s words: ‘It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest.’
Not sure what he was doing or why… it took all his strength to pull himself toward Amanda. He couldn’t free the candlestick from her hand but could lift it to see the latch. It opened. Inside was a rolled-up piece of paper. Not paper… parchment. He slid it out to read the writing:
Time within the candle wax
you hold now in your hand.
Sixty minutes in the molten drops
like hourglass grains of sand.
The wick, when kindled for one you love
gives life for that single span.
Not enough to live your dreams
but enough for a moment planned.
Light it with your heart’s last flame
to bring back at your command,
a loved one from what was death.
Now filled with life’s fire fanned.
The matches from the mantle were on the floor, too. Everything was slipping away as he fumbled with the box. Getting one out, the first wouldn’t strike and snapped. A black veil came down as he got another and struck the match. He held the flame to the wick. Dropping the burnt match, he held Amanda’s hand in his left as his right wrote on the tile.
* * *
“What’s that in her hand... and on it?” The homicide detective looked down at the body and the kneeling medical examiner next to it.
“An old candlestick... melted wax and blood.” The ME stood, “She matches the identification upstairs for Amanda Mickson.”
“What’s her body doing on the street with this mook?” The detective nudged with his foot the body of a scruffy-faced man. “While her husband’s body is upstairs, his throat half slashed open, and another man dead in the bedroom with his head bashed like this guy?” He toe’d the body again.
“Here’s the thing,” the examiner removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Where’s the blood?”
“What you mean, where’s the blood? There’s blood on this guy?” He kneeled and pointed at the mook.
“That’s his… I’m saying Amanda Mickson’s. Her jugular was cut. I checked, and she’s bone dry.”
“What?” The detective checked his wristwatch, “Been a long fuckin’ day; what are you saying?”
“I’m saying Amanda Mickson is down here and killed this guy, busted his head open. But I think all her blood, the other pool, not from her husband… is upstairs. There’s no way she could come all this way, chasing this guy, catch and kill him. But that’s how it looks….”
The detective shrugged, “Don’t know, but I think the two fuckers deserved what they got.” He had seen the floor upstairs. Someone had written on it—had to be Peter Mickson—in blood: ‘Read the note from the candle. I love you, Amanda…’ and surrounded it with a heart.
“I think she was dead before her husband. But I won’t know for sure until I get them on the table,” the ME said. He shook his head, unsure what to think or how he would write this up; he beckoned for the waiting men to bag her. “Why would he leave a message for his dead wife?”
“Don’t know… but seems she wasn’t dead… and didn’t wait for no judge and jury,” the detective grunted as he stood. “Let’s go upstairs; I want to see the note again.”
The medical examiner turned to him, “I read it, and it made me think of something. Do you recall your Bible?” The ME shook his head at the detective’s puzzled expression and continued, “A line from the Old Testament in the Song of Solomon: The passion of love bursting into flame is more powerful than death, stronger than the grave.”
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