An Illuminated Life

Copyright © 2024 by Corey Stewart

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This is a work of fiction. Any characters, businesses, places, events or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-965253-31-1

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-965253-32-8

For four who illuminated the world:

Joseph Jay St. John, 09.29.1948 — 05.14.2023

Fr. H. David Wilson, 10.25.1939 — 07.15.2023

Harry W. Lawrence, 07.27.1939 — 11.15.2023

Lynn W. Minasian, 10.28.48 — 11.15.2024

and for

Tariq Salam,

whose arrival in heaven in 2024 was—I can only assume— just

as eventful as his first trip to New York,

minus the money sewn into the lining of his coat.

Take me to the Cape Kennedy!

Thank you all for the color you added to my life.

When Porter was little, he had a teddy bear he took everywhere. He would clamp his grubby little hand around the bear’s neck and drag it to preschool and the playground and the soccer field and the Episcopal church where the Haven family had worshipped since Jesus himself was a child, and eventually the fabric in the bear’s neck wore through completely.

I know this because yesterday afternoon we dragged the boxes that Porter had shipped to Italy but never opened out of the upstairs closet and began sorting through them. We were picking through a box of musty-smelling soccer gear when Porter shouted, Head Teddy! and extracted the bear’s head from a jumble of muddy cleats.

What the hell is that?

It’s Head Teddy, he said, holding up the decapitated bear head and tenderly brushing a cobweb from its ear. I didn’t know he was in here or I would’ve rescued him sooner.

Did he used to have a body?

Yeah, of course, Porter said. Delia was going to sew him back together but watch this. He tucked the bear’s head into the crook of his arm like a football. See how portable it made him?

I’m not sure what Porter’s devotion to a teddy bear’s head says about him. Probably that he’s much more into substance over style—which ought to thrill me as my hair turns gray and everything on my body heads south—and he’s also far more sentimental than I’d ever realized, judging by the rest of the stuff in the boxes.

In addition to the bear head and the soccer paraphernalia, the boxes held a whole treasure trove of souvenirs from our relationship thirty years ago. Ticket stubs from Bruce Springsteen’s 1992 concert in Chapel Hill, our third official date. Programs from a classical music concert series we attended on campus. Matchbooks from He’s Not Here, our favorite bar, and from The Angus Barn, where we ate on the night he proposed.

I had no idea you were such a pack rat, I said, inspecting a concert ticket. Lyle Lovett at Wolf Trap, 1993. Geez, Porter! Did you keep everything?

That was a great show. Remember the woman who sang the song about San Antonio and brought the house down? Incredible.

Francine Reed, I said, setting the ticket stub aside and pulling out a copy of The Daily Tar Heel from 1993.

Porter laughed. How did you just pull that name out of thin air?

I had the live album, and Lyle Lovett introduces her at the start of the song. I’ve probably listened to it five hundred times. I put the newspaper announcing our alma mater’s NCAA basketball championship on the floor and reached back into the box. Plus, I knew who you meant, I said, extracting yet another pair of filthy cleats.

Porter pulled a blue leather folder from the bottom of the box, the kind that diplomas come in. Or maybe your brain is just a bizarre Venus flytrap of random facts, he said, brushing dust off the cover. Look at this. Senior Awards banquet at Forten Hall.

Otherwise known as The Porter Haven Awards Show, if I’m not mistaken.

This is the only one I kept. The Scholar-Athlete award. I was proud of this one.

You’re saying you actually did throw something out? Because I’m looking at these boxes and I don’t believe you.

Come on, Beth! You’re making me sound like a hoarder. Everything in here means something to me. Do you see anything from anyone else I dated?

We’re only on the second box.

Well, you’re welcome to keep looking, but I can assure you there’s nothing. He dropped the folder on the ground and pushed himself to his feet, then put his hand on the top of my head. These stone floors are killing my back. I’m going to take Head Teddy downstairs and make a coffee. Want one?

I’ll come down with you. Help me up? I said, extending my hand.

Porter put Head Teddy in a place of honor, right in the middle of the fireplace mantel in his living room. We decided to take a break on the boxes, so when Porter finished his coffee, he went out to the barn to check on his sheep and I walked across the field to my house.

Jenny FaceTimed while I was emptying the kitchen cabinets and stacking all of the glasses and dishes in precarious piles on the kitchen table. I hit the button to accept the call and propped the phone on the windowsill.

What are you doing? she asked as soon as the video connected. Was there an earthquake I didn’t hear about?

Very funny. No, I’m going to paint the kitchen cabinets, I said, standing on my toes to pull juice glasses down from a high shelf. I thought I’d reorganize while I was at it. Do you have a cold? Your eyes are all red.

Jenny shook her head. Scott moved out.

What? I set the glasses on the counter and picked up the phone. When did that happen?

Almost a week ago. I’m so stupid, Bits. I’ve been expecting him to come back every day. I thought we’d laugh about it, you know? Like ‘Ha ha, you won’t believe what Scott did last week.’ But now I don’t think he’s coming back. She sniffled. He said he needs to find himself.

What does that even mean? I asked, leaning against the counter. Has he joined an ashram? Become a Scientologist?

Jenny snorted. Not hardly. Apparently ‘finding himself’ means buying a cherry-red Ferrari and screwing a dental hygienist named Amber.

You’re not serious?

I had no idea anything was even wrong, Jenny said, dabbing her eyes with a wad of tissue. He just announced over waffles that after thirty years of marriage and two children, he’s not sure he still loves me and he needs some time to himself. He didn’t mention Amber, of course. I had to find that out myself.

God, Jen. I’m so sorry, I said. I swear, you can’t trust anyone. Do you think this is just a midlife crisis and he’ll come to his senses?

She shook her head. He rented a place across town, in one of those old buildings they’re converting to lofts.

Where is he getting the money for a Ferrari and an apartment? I asked.

That’s exactly what my brothers want to know, Jenny said. She shrugged. I have no idea. Not from our joint account, which means he’s been stashing money somewhere.

Scott better watch out your brothers don’t beat his ass, I said. I know this doesn’t help, but I’m honestly shocked, Jen. I never would have expected this from him in a million years.

Right? I’m just floored.

What can I do to help?

You’re already doing it. I knew you’d understand, after what you went through.

I definitely understand, I said. This kind of shit is exactly why I’m not going to get married again. I don’t want to spend one more minute of my life wondering what my spouse is doing behind my back.

I keep asking myself what else I don’t know, Jenny said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. How long has this been going on with Amber? Where’s the money coming from? Why didn’t he just tell me he was unhappy? I feel like he had this all planned out, and meanwhile, I was picking up his socks and cooking his dinner, totally clueless. She reached for more tissues and blew her nose. The joke’s on me, I guess. I thought he meant it when he said his vows.

You’re not a fool for trusting him, Jen. You’re supposed to be able to trust your spouse, I said. That’s on him for breaking that trust.

You may have to tell me that a few more times. I feel like an idiot.

I know. I get it. But you’re not an idiot. And trust me, you’ll get answers to all your questions eventually, I told her. Just try not to drive yourself crazy in the meantime. And whatever you do, don’t start reviewing the past. You’ll lose your mind if you start going backwards.

I spotted them on Onondaga Avenue yesterday in that stupid car. She’s tiny, with overfilled lips and boobs, Jenny said. And please tell me who the hell drives a Ferrari in Syracuse, New York, the snowfall capital of America? I hope the bottom rots out from road salt.

He’s just such a cliché, I said. Next thing you know he’ll be getting hair plugs.

I glanced out the window above the sink. Porter was walking across the field toward my house, followed closely by Oliver, who had an enormous tree branch in his mouth.

Nothing would surprise me. Oh, wait, Bits—get this. He wears pastel polos and skinny jeans now. He came over to fix the pilot light on the hot water heater and I about fell over.

I groaned. I cannot imagine Scott in a pastel polo, much less skinny jeans. It’s too gruesome. How are the kids dealing with all of this?

I don’t talk to them about him. They’re busy with their own lives, and I think they’re just trying to ignore what’s happening. Jenny wiped her eyes with her fingertips and forced a thin smile. Let’s change the subject. How’s Italy?

It’s good. You should come over. It would be good for you to get away.

Porter walked into the kitchen with Oliver on his heels. After several attempts to force the oversized branch through the narrow doorway, Oliver finally gave up. He dropped the branch in front of the door and ran inside to check his food bowl. Finding it empty, he came and sat on my feet.

Oh, sorry, Porter whispered. I didn’t realize you were on the phone.

I’m talking to Jenny, I said, reaching down to pet Oliver.

Porter leaned in front of me and waved at the screen. Hi, Jenny.

We were just talking about Jen coming for a visit, I told him.

You really should, Porter told her. This time of year is incredible. We’re headed into a major food season—chestnuts, truffles, olive oil—and the weather is great.

Jenny wiped a tear off her cheek and nodded. And we could finally meet in person. I can’t believe I’ve never seen you in the flesh.

Well, don’t expect too much, Porter said, smiling. But it would be great to have you here. He kissed the side of my head. I’ll leave you to it. Text me when you’re free?

I nodded.

Porter waved at Jenny, then whistled at Oliver, who followed him out the door.

I still can’t get over the fact that you and Porter ended up together after not talking for thirty years, Jenny said when Porter was gone, propping her chin on her hand. Sometimes that’s the only thing in the world that cheers me up. It’s a love story for the ages.

Yeah, well, I don’t know about all that. But he’s a good guy.

Does he still want you to move in with him?

I nodded. He mentions it every once in a while. But I like having my own space. And if it all goes south, I don’t want to have to move out.

I thought things were good between you guys?

They are. But I don’t want to depend on anyone like that again. It’s too risky.

Jenny nodded. Maybe I will come visit, she said. No one will even notice I’m gone.

Please do. I would love that.

I think I will. I’ll call you in a day or two.

Hang in there, Jen. And call me anytime.

When Jenny and I hung up, I went back to emptying the cabinets. I was thinking about a girl who’d been in our class at Saint Francis de Sales Catholic school. Everyone, including me and Jenny, had called her Lovely Lacey. She had the most perfect life: a big brick house in Strathmore, two doting parents, and effortless beauty—the kind of girl who had a figure while the rest of us were still prepubescent blobs. On top of that, she was also intelligent and kind, which made her nickname both a truism and a mark of envy.

Lacey was, of course, the object of fervent male affection. You would think that the nuns holding her up as an exemplar of virtue might temper the boys’ ardor, but it didn’t. Lacey was the goddess everyone wanted, even though it was impossible to imagine her doing anything as crass as letting herself be felt up in the backseat of a Camaro.

Jenny and I often said, as we lay on her side-by-side twin beds thumbing through Seventeen, that if we could change places with anyone, it would be Lacey.

I mean, does she even study? Jenny asked, licking orange Cheetos dust off her fingers. And who has skin that good?

She probably gets professional facials. I ripped the sample of Love’s Baby Soft out of the magazine and held it to my nose. Ew, gross. This smells like something a grandma would wear.

What I don’t understand, Jenny said, wiping her hand on her skirt and reaching for the perfume sample, is how she makes that hideous PE uniform look so good. She held the scented paper to her nose. That smells like baby powder and flowers. Nasty. She wadded up the perfume sample and tossed it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket. It’s just cruel that we have to wear those things in front of the boys. It’s like they’re trying to humiliate us.

We’re burning our PE uniforms the day we graduate, I said, flipping through the pages to find the next perfume sample. I tore it out, sniffed it, and handed it to Jenny.

Ooh, Giorgio, she said, and rubbed the scented strip against her kilt. Do you want some of this?

I shook my head.

She dropped the perfume strip on the floor and dug in the Cheetos bag. They’re fire hazards to begin with. One match and it’ll be an inferno.

Of all the injustices foisted on us at Catholic school, the PE uniforms were the worst. Three times a week, all the girls in our class filed like prisoners into the cinder block basement of the gym. There—beneath a toxic cloud of sweat, angst, and the Impulse Body Spray Sister Mary Michael expressly forbade—we swapped our plaid kilts and blue button downs for a zip-front, one-piece polyester abomination of navy-blue shorts and a horizontally striped blue and white top. But while everyone else tugged the shorts out of their crotch and yanked at the too-tight sleeves for the next hour, Lovely Lacey, who never broke a sweat, somehow managed to look like she’d just dropped in from Fashion Week.

Do you think she had her PE uniform tailored or something? I asked, leaning off the bed to retrieve my can of Tab from the floor.

Jenny nodded. There’s no other explanation.

To further compound the humiliation of being forced to wear a garment that was the love child of prison garb and Auschwitz pajamas, PE for the Catholic boys’ school next door started ten minutes before ours did. Since the two schools shared the gymnasium and fields, this meant that we girls had to parade past the whole herd of leering, pimple-faced jackals on our way to PE.

The boys would stop shooting baskets or running sprints when we appeared and pretend to be judges in a beauty contest, calling out number scores as we walked by. Father Declan would blow his whistle and say, Aye, c’mon, lads, but the boys ignored him and kept up their commentary as we scurried like cockroaches to pass without being noticed. Lacey, however, seemed oblivious. She floated above the fray on a cloud of untouchable perfection, immune to the testosterone fog of the gym and wholly uninterested in the consistent tens she received.

I never saw Lacey again after high school, but Jenny used to see her every Christmas when Lacey came home from Smith for the holidays. Every year, Jenny would report that Lacey had gotten more beautiful and was still dating the Harvard med student from the old money Boston family who’d swept her off her feet at the beginning of freshman year.

In late March of our senior year of college, though, Jenny called with a different kind of update. Porter and I weren’t engaged yet, but we were serious, and he and my Honors thesis and grad school plans were taking up all of the space in my brain. I hadn’t talked to Jenny in almost a month when she called, and she was breathing so heavily into the receiver that I thought something had happened to her. But no. She was calling to tell me that federal agents had swooped into Lacey’s stately family home at dawn the previous morning.

They arrested her father, and then went downtown and raided his office, she said.

Why? What were they looking for?

I have no idea. The paper just says it was a federal raid. You should see the picture on the front page, Bits. Jenny’s mom is standing on the porch in her bathrobe while about ten FBI agents carry boxes out of the house. I feel so bad for them.

I did too. When my mom and Aunt Celia were hit by a drunk driver our senior year of high school, the paper ran endless stories about it, each one accompanied by an unflattering yearbook photo of newly orphaned me. That had been mortifying enough, so I could only imagine how this felt for Lacey and her mother.

Eventually Lacey’s dad was charged with possession and distribution of child pornography, and, after a trial that was front-page news in Syracuse for weeks, was sent to prison.

The next October, Jenny called me in Washington, DC, where I was attending grad school, with more news.

Lacey’s dad is dead, she said. Sliced to pieces.

Are you kidding?

Other inmates killed him. Don’t these prisons have guards and cameras?

Jesus. Poor Lacey.

I know. It’s horrible.

Who would have ever predicted this? Lacey’s life always seemed so perfect.

I remember being so impressed that they had a computer in their house, Jenny said. First one I ever saw. I guess we know why now, huh? And Doctor Harvard apparently dumped her. I haven’t seen her, but I heard she’s back home with her mom.

Remember how they used to go all out for Halloween? Her dad would make those apple donuts and cider—

And we had to come in and show off our costumes, Jenny said. Kind of creepy to think of that now.

Remember Lacey’s birthday party at SkateTown? We thought her dad was so fun because he skated with us. She had that giant pink cake—

I gave her a Barbie Fashion Maker and she already had one and I really wanted to take mine back.

I laughed. You should have.

Anyway, it just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I thought Lacey had a perfect life and look how it’s turned out? What a shit show.

Even though I’d had my own share of tragedies by then—both of my parents were dead by the time Jenny and I graduated high school—it took me a few more decades to realize that having your life go sideways isn’t anything special. It happens every minute of every day to millions of people.

And more to the point, your misfortunes have nothing to do with what you deserve. You can be a good person and go out of your way to never hurt anyone and try to always do the right thing and still have your life skid into a ditch.

The only thing you can do is guard your heart.

I’d learned that the hard way.

Earlier in the week, before the urge to reorganize the kitchen and paint the cabinets had taken hold, I’d started combing through the hundreds of documents stored on my laptop, looking for material that could be reworked into magazine articles and short stories. I felt certain I had pieces from my three months of work on a tourism project in Assisi that I could reuse, but I hadn’t been able to find much of the material. After talking to Jenny and cleaning the insides of the cabinets with white vinegar, I left all the doors open so the shelves could dry and sat down at my computer. My plan was to search my documents by date to find everything I’d written during that time.

The tourism project had fallen into my lap when I was trying to recover from having my life go up in flames. My daughter, Mia, had been killed a year and a half earlier, and in the aftermath of her death, I’d discovered that my marriage was a total sham. I was paralyzed by grief and barely functioning when Porter—my former fiancé, whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in three decades—saw an article online about Mia’s death. She’d been killed by a bicycle courier in central London who’d run a red light and sent her flying. The accident had received an enormous amount of press and ignited a huge firestorm about cyclists’ rights and traffic laws.

After reading about Mia’s death, Porter tracked down my number and called my house in London. And then he called back every day for weeks, patiently listening to me cry and telling me stories about his life in Italy. Eventually he invited me to fly down and visit him, thinking a change of scenery and some sunshine would do me good. I was half-starved and half-crazy with grief and barely functioning, but I flew to Rome. I stayed in Porter’s guest room for four months, and then finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I flew back to England, confronted Crawford, hired a lawyer, packed my belongings, and fled to my uncle David’s home in Chapel Hill to lick my wounds and try to imagine a day when I might want to interact with the world again. An editor I’d worked with several times over the years emailed out of the blue while I was still trying to figure out my next step. She offered me the chance to work on a three-month project in Assisi, Italy. The centerpiece was a new tourism initiative about the life of Saint Francis, but there were several side projects as well, writing about various places across Umbria and Tuscany.

Marco Mastropietro, a historian and Assisi native, was hired as my guide and driver for the duration of the project. He was a real character who became a good friend during the countless hours we spent together in the car. A lot