Week 11: Long Distance Dedication

 

“That song was dedicated to Janice, with love from Brett,” I said into the microphone. “More of your requests after the break. This is Lydia with Late Night Love.”

I’d been working on the radio for about ten years. For the last three years my show had been syndicated, and broadcast nationally. I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty much a rip off of Delilah. Sweet love songs and sappy stories. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. I love love and love stories. But I’m just telling it how it is. The show is recorded during the day, and played at night.

My producer, Luke, is wonderful. We’ve been working together since I first started Late Night Love on a small radio station in Connecticut. He screens all the letters, emails, tweets, and voicemails. Unfortunately I can’t acknowledge everyone that writes in. Luke is good at finding the ones that people want to hear. Or, maybe almost as important, the ones I want to hear.

On this particular night, Luke was on fire. The stories and dedications he chose for me to read were amazing. There was the young woman who wanted to dedicate a song to her mom. (Her father recently passed away, and this would have been their 40th anniversary—the first one after he died.)

There was the woman who wanted to dedicate a song to her husband who was recently deployed. She wanted to let him know that she was pregnant with their third child.

Luke handed me the last dedication about ten minutes before our time ended. It was a letter written in slightly shaky, cursive handwriting. Usually, Luke will edit the letters a little, highlight the parts to read on air in bright yellow highlighter. But there were no colorful marks on the paper. I looked at my producer quizzically. He nodded. “Read it all, he mouthed.

“Our last story is a beautiful handwritten letter. It comes from,” I quickly glanced at the return address on the envelope, “Arthur in Idaho.”

Sometimes the writer wants to be anonymous. When that’s the case, Luke will note it somehow. But there was nothing. I looked at Luke for reassurance. He nodded. Good. No future angry letter from Arthur.

Dear Lydia,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been listening to your show for a couple years. The beautiful stories you read brings tears to my eyes. I guess I’m an old softie.

My name is Arthur and I’m hoping that you can help me. I’m 75-years old. Fifty years ago, I lost my first wife, Marie, in a car accident. We had been newlyweds. We were trying to start a family. She was too young to die and I was too young to be a widower.

For two years after she died, I’d bring fresh flowers to her grave once a week. The first month or so, I would go to the florist, grab a premade bouquet, and buy it, head down with tears in my eyes. Eventually, I talked with the girl who worked at the shop.

Her name was Peggy. She was a sweet girl. When she found out that all the flowers I purchased were for Marie’s grave, she started making special bouquets for me. Each arrangement more beautiful than the last.

Over the months, I told her all about Marie, and she told me about her fiancé, Paul. She told me how she moved to Idaho from Connecticut. I looked forward to the visits to the florist and talking to Peggy. She help me get through that difficult time.

She moved away about two months before I stopped going to the florist. I still loved and missed Marie, but I knew it was time to move on.

I never did get to tell Peggy how much her friendship meant to me. How she helped me get through a very dark time in my life.

That’s why I’m writing to you, Lydia. I’m hoping that if you read this letter on air, she will hear it and reach out.

I don’t know her maiden name, but her married name would have been Quigley.

Sincerely,

Arthur in Idaho

“Arthur, thank you so much for writing in. Peggy, if you’re listening, please let us know.”

I closed out the show as I usually do. Thanking everyone for listening, one last shout out to any sponsors, and telling my listeners how to contact me.

As I always did on the drive home, I put in my bluetooth earpiece, and called my mom. We exchanged pleasantries. I told her about my daughter’s baseball game the night. “So, what did Luke find for you tonight?” I told her a couple of the stories from the recording. “And the best for last?”

I told my mom Arthur’s story. When I finished, it was dead air. “Mom? Did I lose you?”

“No. No. I’m still here. I….” She trailed off.

“You what?”

“I think I know Peggy.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“He did mention that she was from Connecticut.” I paused. Then, “What a fucking coincidence.”

“Language, Lydia Renee,” my mom teased.

“Sorry,” I laughed. “So who is it? Do I know her? Someone you went to school with?”

“Lydia.”

“Mom.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Language, Margaret Louise.”

Mom coughed.

Finally, I was understanding. “Margaret,” I said, slowly. “Peggy. Peggy is short for Margaret. Oh my God. Mom. Are you lying to me?”

“I’m Peggy,” she said simply.

This was too much. I had to pull over to the side of the road.

Mom started telling me her side of the story. How she saw how heartbroken Arthur was at first. How he slowly seemed happier and happier until she moved back to Connecticut.

I smiled through her story, yet something was gnawing at me. I finally realized what it was.  “Mom, why were you living in Idaho? And who the hell is Paul?”