True love lives on
Charlie and Mary Kelly
Email|Print| Text size – + By Kevin Cullen
Globe Columnist / January 28, 2008
They grew up around the corner from each other in Edgeworth, in Malden, but Charlie Kelly and Mary Sullivan didn't exchange even as much as a hello until 1946, when they were in their 20s.
more stories like thisHe was just back from the war, in the Pacific, and when he asked her out on a Wednesday she told him she always went to Mission Church on Wednesday nights. And so their first date consisted of riding the T and saying Novenas in Mission Hill.
The dates got more adventurous. They went to the movies, out to eat. She liked him. He had a good heart. He made her laugh. Charlie could always make Mary laugh.
But they argued. He was impatient. She would sometimes dilly dally. They would argue.
And so they went their separate ways. Years passed. But they never found anybody they liked as much as each other.
One day, Mary heard Charlie was in Malden Hospital, real sick. She raced there and visited him. Something rekindled.
Twenty-five years after their first date, Charlie and Mary got married.
They didn't have kids. They had each other. Charlie operated heavy equipment for the DPW in Malden. Mary worked for John Hancock in town.
They did day trips on the weekend. Usually the Cape, or up to Maine. One day, as Charlie sat in the idling car outside, and Mary took forever getting ready inside, Charlie just drove off. Mary thought he went to get gas. He went to the Cape. Alone. Later that night, they laughed about it.
They went to Ireland every year, to the Beara Peninsula in Cork always, to each of the 32 counties eventually.
Last year, Mary got sick. It was touch and go for a while and Charlie sat at her bedside at Mass. General and told her she couldn't die, that he had to go before she did.
"I can't live without you," Charlie said.
It seemed like just as soon as Mary got better Charlie got sick. They switched places, Mary keeping vigil at Lawrence Memorial. Charlie hung in there and she got him home right before Christmas. The next day, he felt weak and was back in the hospital. He was 84 and this time there was no going home.
Mary never left his side, sleeping on a Barcalounger. She begged Charlie not to leave her.
And for 10 days, he would not. Somebody took Mary aside and told her that she might want to tell Charlie it was OK to let go. When everybody was gone, Mary bent down close to Charlie's ear.
"Charlie," she whispered, "if you want to go to heaven, to be with your mother and father, that's OK. But if you ask me what I want, I want you to stay forever and ever."
The Mass was at Immaculate Conception, the church where they spied each other as kids, where they got married, right across the street from the three-decker on the Fellsway where they lived as man and wife for 36 years.
Charlie left something to be read at his funeral:
There was a devoted couple and when the husband died and appeared at the golden gates, St. Peter said that before he could enter, he had to spell a word.
"What is the word?" the husband asked.
"Love," St. Peter replied.
The husband spelled it and St. Peter said, "Enter."
The husband's widow grieved for a long time, and when she died and appeared at the gates, her husband was there, filling in for St. Peter.
"My darling," the wife said, moving toward him. "I missed you so much."
"Wait," the husband said, holding up a hand. "Before you enter, you must spell a word."
"What is the word?" the wife asked.
"Czechoslovakia," the husband said.
In the front pew, Mary stopped crying and started laughing.
Even from beyond, Charlie had made his Mary laugh.
Like always.
Just like always.
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com
© Copyright 2008 Globe Newspaper Company.
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