Only Death Separated Them -- or Did It?

BALTIMORE — He liked “Seinfeld”; she watched “7th Heaven.” She was petite; he towered. She was the only Orioles fan who could match his fervor.

She favored Liz Claiborne and Oleg Cassini; he wore whatever she told him to. On their wedding day nearly 60 years ago, that was an ascot beneath a tuxedo. Her gown glowed like a pearl. She carried white roses.

There were more white roses last month when William and Carlyn Gray of Towson, Md., were buried in the same grave, her ashes tucked in his casket. They died within 36 hours of each other.

He had cancer; her kidneys failed.

At a luncheon after the funeral, mourners remarked that the timing of their deaths were a fitting end to lifelong love. “They were made for each other and they died together,” said Fred Schroter, the couple’s longtime friend. “This was providence.”

Their relationship was simple but symbiotic. He could barely boil water, and she never learned to drive. She made him sour beef with dumplings. He made her laugh. She called him “Hon” and “Knucklehead.” He called her Carlyn.

Growing up, he was a flirt, an old friend said; she was too pretty to need to be. He waited tables and stole French fries from young women. She charmed the Naval Academy cadets that her friends socialized with. There were plenty of tea dances and taffeta dresses, but nobody caught her eye. Or his. Their friends knew each other, but they had not yet met.

After high school, she worked at a downtown bank. He went to college, then to war.

He still wore his Army boots the day he knocked on her parents’ door in search of a friend who was painting their kitchen. They exchanged a few words. But there was nothing to suggest that she would someday comb his hair like a child’s, or that he would clutch her hand as if it were sculpted gold.

That was early in 1945. By their wedding in 1946, he was already changing. “Big Bill” had a reputation for practical jokes and impatience. He once left his best friend in the dust when the buddy was late to catch a ride.

For Carlyn, though, Bill would wait in the driver’s seat for hours, as she finished up at the beauty parlor or the grocery store. Her friend once gave him a plaque that said, “World’s Most Patient Man.”

She watched his diet like a hawk. Her specialty was hot milk cake; she locked the recipe in her safe. Friends joked that if food wasn’t from Carlyn or on the menu at Peppermill, a local restaurant, Bill wouldn’t eat it.

They had no children, but many nieces and nephews. He walked a niece down the aisle. Carlyn supervised the bride’s train.

He worked in finance; so did she. Thanksgiving was always at their rowhouse in Idlewylde. They vacationed in Ocean City rentals with friends. They were invited to family reunions of people they weren’t related to.

About the time they retired, they moved to an apartment. Their schedule was crammed with baseball games, bridge and morning constitutionals. On Sundays, they went to church and on long drives. Three nights a week, they dined at the Peppermill with widowed friends.

On May 8, they rode together in an ambulance to St. Joseph Medical Center in Towson. They had seemed fairly well until the winter, but their health failed simultaneously.

They stayed in adjoining rooms in the emergency unit, waving at each other through an open door. But soon they were transferred to different floors, then to different facilities. He went a nursing home, she to a hospice.

Where’s my sweetie? she often asked.

She would call to remind him when an Orioles game was on, but he could barely lift the phone, relatives said. She visited several times in her wheelchair, bearing gifts of soda and chips. He wasn’t eating, maybe because she wasn’t cooking.

They would hold hands and talk a little. She despaired over his stubble.

Fix that blanket, she’d say. Don’t you think he needs another pillow? Carlyn, don’t worry about it, he’d say. There’s nothing we can do.

He died July 22, at age 84. She died two days later, at 81. Her eyes were closed when the nieces broke the news about Bill.

Knowing they spent their last days apart saddens friends. “It almost brings me to tears to think about it,” said Norman Tarr. “Bill and Carlyn, who loved each other and were so loyal and faithful to each other, didn’t have the opportunity to care for and comfort each other.”

But Carlyn would say that wasn’t so. She insisted Bill visited her a few days before his death, leaving only when the nurses shooed him out. Her memories were so vivid that the nieces half believed her. She wondered aloud how he would make it home.

She wanted to go home too, she said later that day, in one of her last conversations, with a niece, Deborah Green.

Home to your apartment? Green asked.

No, she said. There are too many stairs.

Home to heaven?

She didn’t answer. She only said: “Tell Bill to pull the car around.”