by R.P. Burnham
After talking about it for weeks and postponing it for another week because of rain, on the first Saturday after the summer solstice Myron, Becky and the boys gathered in the backyard of Lynn and Gerry MacArthur’s house for that quintessential ritual of the American middle class, the social cookout. It was a beautiful hot summer day, and everyone was dressed appropriately. Myron wore Bermuda shorts, a tan short-sleeved pullover and sandals; Becky was fetchingly clad in a light-blue T-shirt and dark blue shorts; Gerry wore light summer pants, a yellow short-sleeved sports shirt and white sneakers; Lynn wore shorts, a black bikini top and was bare-foot; and the boys wore swimming trunks in anticipation of using the tank swimming pool for the first time this summer. The beer was cold, the grill was fired up and ready, the salad and hors d’oeuvres of onion dip, baked pita-bread chips and sliced vegetables that Becky brought were on the table, and the adults were sitting at the table under a parasol and keeping an eye on the boys.
Everything was externally perfect, but one of the reasons for this gathering was to have Gerry and Myron get to know each other, and unfortunately this was going very awkwardly. Gerry was a serious, hardworking lawyer who did the nuts and bolts work of deeds, wills and the like. He was tall with a slight tendency towards being overweight. His face was pleasant in a squirrelly sort of way. His brown eyes were wide set and his lips thin. He was also not much of a conversationalist. Myron in turn was by nature reserved and dignified with strangers. From the looks on Becky’s and Lynn’s faces, they were thinking that just as oil and water don’t mix, neither did Myron and Gerry. Myron’s thinking ran in a different direction, one not complimentary to Gerry: he was either a rather boring individual or he was made uneasy by Myron’s reserve (the latter a charitable afterthought). Their conversation kept reaching a dead end. Gerry said it looked as if the Red Sox had great pitching this year; Myron replied that with their great hitting it might be possible to finally grab the brass ring. After a few more remarks this conversational stream piddled out. Next Gerry observed that he was in law school at B.U. at the same time Myron was at Simmons. Myron answered that there were so many students in Boston it was small wonder their paths had never crossed—and it was zero hour for that line of discourse. Next up was the Democratic Party, but when Myron said that he’d lost interest in Democrats when the Democratic Leadership Council turned the party into Republican Lite, it was an abrupt closure for that avenue.
They were rescued from this deadenditis by Lynn’s saying to Becky that Phil still had a penchant for peanut-butter and bacon sandwiches. Myron made a comic face and asked who first introduced him to such a combination. That’s when Gerry held up his arms as if caught red-handed and confessed he’d tried it with Phil one day when some breakfast bacon was left over and he had to make lunch.
His spontaneous action instantly led Myron to let down his guard. “I believe Elvis Presley favored peanut-butter and banana sandwiches. Have you tried them?”
“Weren’t the bananas fried? Lynn interrupted.
“I don’t recall,” Myron said. “I prefer mine raw.”
Everyone laughed, probably as much at his deadpan delivery and droll expression as at the words. He also could see the relief on Becky’s face. It was important to her that the husband of her best friend get along with the man in her life.
So on the first really hot day of the summer the ice was finally broken.
Gerry asked, “Myron, as a reference librarian I bet you get all kinds of questions about weird food. Any interesting ones you can tell us?”
Before he could answer they were interrupted by a fracas among the boys. The mothers called them over and demanded an explanation while Gerry stood up and began to put the burgers on the hot grill, which sizzled and flamed up as dripping fat infuriated the glowering charcoal.
“Phil is being mean,” Johnny said.
“I am not!” the accused replied. “I want to play with my bulldozer, and they don’t want to.”
“Yeah, but we were playing soccer, and when he didn’t want to anymore, he said it was his ball.”
“Can’t you agree to do both,” Lynn asked.
Johnny ignored her. “Phil took the ball away. That’s mean.”
“Yeah,” Trevor said, looking at Becky earnestly, “he’s being selfish.”
Becky’s face reddened at Trevor’s choice of words, but nobody but Myron noticed because Phil yelled “I am not” very loudly. He glared at Trevor. “We played soccer, but Trevor kept kicking the ball bad.”
Myron looked at Becky and smiled. “Blame the coach,” he said, mouthing the words.
But she was too wrought up for smiles. “Can’t you do both? Play soccer a bit longer and then play with the bulldozer?”
The problem was that they couldn’t do both at the same time. The solution, which Lynn came up with, was a diversionary tactic. “Why don’t we test the pool?” she suggested and received enthusiastic yelps in reply.
With Lynn, who was dressed for the role, standing in the pool to supervise the boys and Becky turned in their direction and leaning against the table with her elbows, Myron took up Gerry’s query. “To answer your question, Gerry, I did recently have a patron who wanted to verify a bizarre tale she’d heard.”
Gerry looked curious, but the boys were running a three-ring circus and demanding the public’s attention. With cries of “See what I can do!” “Watch this!” and the like, the two older boys entered into a competition while the adults distributed praise as equally as possible. Phil would jump backwards with an enormous splash, and Johnny would belly flop to make a tidal wave. Then Johnny topped his own spectacular move by swimming underwater across the enormous sixteen-foot expanse of the tank. Phil countered that move with a double underwater somersault. Trevor, who could not swim, jumped up and down in the water and squealed a lot. Finally when Trevor started shivering, the mothers ordered the performers out of the pool, a process that took more than five minutes to complete.
Gerry was attending to the burgers during the circus. He put some that were close to ready at the back of the grill and started a new batch. “Where were we, Myron, before the show interrupted us? Something bizarre, wasn’t it?”
“Quite bizarre, I think. This woman heard from a friend who had been to Thailand that people there regard monkey brain as a great delicacy—raw, mind you. They gather at a table with a hole in the center. It must be adjustable because through that hole a live monkey’s head is showing. With a sword the poor thing is decapitated, and the people enjoy their feast.”
Lynn turned from toweling off Phil and gasped. “Ugh!”
Simultaneously Becky, also tending to the boys, looked up and said, “How horrible!”
As befits a lawyer, Gerry had a different reaction. He asked, “Were you able to verify this story?”
He shook his head. “No, we couldn’t find anything. But it may be true for all I know because I’ve heard of other cruel things that I can verify.”
“Run along and play now, boys. We’ll be eating soon,” Becky said, giving Myron a look.
He watched them go to the sandbox and get the battery-operated bulldozer fired up. “Sorry,” he said to Becky. “I guess I’m not used to being around kids.”
She smiled in response.
“But we can hear it,” Gerry said.
Myron drained his beer. “Well, the one I was thinking of is a Japanese dish of snake and tofu. A big piece of tofu is put in water and set to boil; then a snake is put into the pot. The water starts boiling, and the snake burrows into the tofu because at this point it is the coolest place. There it gets cooked, and everyone enjoys the feast.”
Lynn, getting the hamburger rolls and condiments ready, made a face. “It’s enough to make you a vegetarian.”
“But not today,” Greg said from above the sizzling grill. “These burgers are done to perfection. Let’s eat.”
Lynn called the boys over for lunch, then said to Myron and Becky, “We went to a vegetarian cookout at Melissa and Ralph Brisbanes’
house earlier in the month.”
“Yeah, and it tasted like jail food,” Gerry said.
“Johnny,” Becky said, “I thought you didn’t like onions.”
He was putting the diced onions on his bun because Phil was. A frown was his only answer.
Once the boys had their food and the adults followed, Lynn returned to Gerry’s profane remark. While he was devouring his hamburger with great satisfaction, she said, “You liked the vegetable kebob we had at the Brisbanes, didn’t you? At least you said you did.”
“It was okay,” he said after thoughtfully chewing the roasted cow flesh, “but nothing approaching these burgers.”
Myron was attempting to help Becky clean up the mess Trevor made when his hamburger slid out of the bun and mustard and relish together with the greasy meat landed in his lap. He rose to get the roll of paper towels at the end of the table, sprinkled some water on several of them, and handed them to Becky. Once the mess was cleaned up, he went over to get another hamburger for Trevor. Johnny and Phil meantime finished their meal. When they were informed that dessert of ice cream and homemade cookies would be served later, they went back to excavating the sandbox. Trevor, eating with a forlorn expression registering his unhappiness and with frequent glances at his peer group, remained behind.
Gerry and Myron had a second hamburger, which they washed down with apple juice, both being careful drinkers. They were sitting across from each other. While Becky and Lynn began talking about a recipe for tangy dips, they were on their own. Myron thought about bringing up the Red Sox again, but another subject came to mind.
“I’m curious to know how a lawyer looks at the Chris Andrews case. You know, the guy who exposed Ridlon. What do you think his defense will be?”
Gerry scratched his chin. “I’m not sure he has one except to plead not guilty and make the prosecution prove the case. I suppose he could say he didn’t do it, that the shed was already broken into and all he did was walk up and look in. Even so, there was a no-trespassing sign, and the prosecutor would ask him what he was doing there.”
“Couldn’t an argument about higher laws be made?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The term is from Thoreau. Remember the essay, ‘On the Duty of Civil Disobedience’? He refused to pay his poll tax because the money helped support the Mexican War of aggression. So he broke the law, but he did so in obedience to a higher law. You know, it’s a classic example of the difference between law and ethics.”
He saw Gerry frowning thoughtfully at the same time he saw Becky’s brow furrow. She appeared distressed, but why he could not say. Then she turned away when the boys began arguing loudly.
“So you’re saying the higher law here was because Ridlon was poisoning the earth and indirectly a little boy?” Gerry asked.
“Exactly, and don’t juries have the right to ignore laws?”
“Yes, it’s called jury nullification, so technically they do. I don’t think this will be a case for it, though.”
“Why not?”
“Well, breaking and entering is different than not paying taxes. One’s passive; one’s active. It’s willful disobedience to the law, and not clearly civil disobedience.”
“But disobedience to a higher law if he does nothing.”
“He committed a crime,” Becky said, still following their conversation. “He broke into a place that was locked and had a no-trespassing sign.” She spoke sharply.
“But I do see Myron’s point,” Lynn said. “He didn’t do it for selfish reasons.”
Gerry nodded in agreement. “True. I think the lawyer will bring that point up and emphasize it, but I don’t think it will lead to a not guilty verdict. I’d guess the jury would go for a lesser charge like trespassing. That would be a misdemeanor and just a fine.”
“Even that’s too much,” Myron said. “The guilty party is Ridlon. He’s a money-grubber who doesn’t care for anyone but himself. I know I plan to do all I can to support Andrews.” He stood to get another beer from the cooler. “I don’t know if Lynn has told you that I met this young man when he came to the library in March. He was looking for information on Ridlon Recycling.”
“Myron, I could use another one too. So what kind of a guy was he?”
Myron handed him a beer. “Very intense, I would say. Very single-minded and very dedicated to the cause.”
Lynn, who seemed to be the most sympathetic auditor during this discussion, nodded vigorously. Becky thought she was very pretty, and he agreed. She had reddish-brown hair worn in a ponytail, a pleasant freckled face with dark expressive eyes, and full lips. But it was her effusive and jocular personality that gave an appealing animation to her face. “Someone in the paper, I think it might have been Ridlon himself, called Andrews an eco-terrorist. The word is just a buzzword, though. Like communist used to be. He was trying to brand him with a green scar to prejudice everyone.”
“It might work, though—I mean labeling him. A lot of people will look at Ridlon and see a respectable businessman, then look at Andrews and see his long hair and think he’s un-American.”
“Yeah,” Lynn agreed, “some people actually believe Ridlon is innocent. He claims one of his men dumped stuff from laziness and stupidity. He’s had many good cries about how terrible he feels—always in front of an audience, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Myron said, drawing it out, “some people will believe anything.”
“Like that ghosts exists,” Lynn said.
“Or that God created the world in seven days,” Becky said.
It seemed to become a game, for next Gerry offered another example. “Or that you can have huge tax breaks for the wealthy and increase spending and promise to have a surplus soon.”
“I think most sci-fi stuff is in fantasyland too,” Myron said, consciously changing the subject since it seemed to distress Becky. “A patron came to the library a few months ago to research the theory that the earth was peopled or seeded—I think that was the word he used—from outer space.”
“Are you talking about the sci-fi bit like shows on TV have?” Lynn asked. Not much of a drinker, she sipped at her water bottle.
“Yeah, that’s where he got the idea.”
“That stuff’s not intellectually respectable, is it?” Becky asked.
“I hope not. But I have to be polite to patrons, so I kept my opinion to myself. I did say something indirectly, though. I told him there wouldn’t be many scientific papers available.”
“Couldn’t it have happened, though?” Gerry asked. “I mean not people but microbes from space?”
“It could, but don’t you think it doesn’t really explain anything? It moves the mystery of the origin of life over to another planet, that’s all. If life didn’t start on earth, you still have to explain how it started on another planet.”
“So what’s your answer?”
“Well, partly I’d say it remains a mystery, a miracle. Did you ever think how amazing it is that we have consciousness and that there’s a universe we live in? Logically it makes more sense that there is just nothing. Even when scientists explain how it is possible that molecules grow more complex until they somehow have the ability to reproduce themselves, no one explains why or how there are molecules in the first place.”
Everyone was silent for a while, chewing on that conundrum; then Lynn backtracked. “I can think of another absurdity you see in those sci-fi shows. A space ship is a hundred light years from earth, and they have a chat with some guy back on earth.”
“And what the long-distance rate for that call would be, God only knows,” Becky said.
“Impossibly high,” Lynn said.
“I’d emphasize the impossible,” Myron said.
“I remember a bit of quantum physics from college,” Gerry said. “All the stuff that takes place at the subatomic level those sci-fi writers take and apply to the regular universe. I’ve heard people say warp drive and time travel and all that common sci-fi stuff will
never happen. I’m guessing you’d number among those doubters, Myron.”
“Yeah, I think so. I suppose the scientific attitude is to keep an open mind, but that stuff sounds to me like wish fulfillment, not reality.”
Becky touched him lightly on the arm and smiled warmly. “Two centuries ago no one would dream that TV and phones and computers would be real, so you never know.”
“I guess that’s why we should keep an open mind.”
The boys had kept to themselves in the sandbox for a long time, but now Trevor came over and leaned against his mother’s knee. “What is it, sweetie? Are you ready for dessert?”
He turned his face up to her, his blue eyes wide and imploring, but he said nothing. She hugged him and quickly the expression turned to contentment. “Mommy,” he said as she kissed his forehead, “is it true that the Grand Canyon is ten thousand miles deep?”
She looked at Myron and smiled. “Did Phil tell you that?”
He shook his head up and down very deliberately.
Phil, retrieving an errant soccer ball, overheard these remarks. “I didn’t say that.”
“Did to’s” and “Did nots” were heatedly exchanged, and Johnny came over to clarify the issue. “Phil did say ten thousand miles but he meant it was really deep.”
Further questioning led to the discovery that none of the boys had much notion of what a mile was. Even so, accusations of duplicity and slander were hurled, and Trevor ended up saying to Phil those three little words, “I hate you.”
Becky became the stern mother instantly. “Trevor, you apologize to Phil for that remark. You’re upset, but you still have no right to say such a mean thing.”
Tears sprang into Trevor’s eyes, which Johnny observed with undisguised contempt. “He’s too little to play with us,” he said in a whining voice that suggested he wasn’t all that old himself.
Myron leaned down to be at eye level with the boys. “Guys,” he said, “brothers will be together for a long time. It’s best to get along. There’s an old song that says you’ve got to give a little and take a little.” He looked at Trevor. “My brother was older than me, so I know how you feel.” Then turning to Johnny he said, “I learned a lot from my brother. That’s what older brothers do, see? They bring the young guy along.” He stood, and putting a hand on each of their shoulders, said, “Shake hands like men.”
They did, Johnny with a certain condescension and Trevor hesitantly, as if expecting Johnny to pull his hand up and say “Sucker!”
Becky stood and faced the boys. She favored Myron with a pleased smile and then cast her eyes down at the little ones. “Okay, go play some more.”
Gerry sighed with comic exaggeration as he watched the boys troop over to the sandbox. “Life would be different if those little buggers were girls.”
Lynn arched an eyebrow. “Sugar and spice and everything nice? Is that what you mean? Dad says it’s girls who are the devils.”
“Your father is never less serious than when he talks about women.”
Lynn, gathering crumbs and debris from the table and sweeping them into a cupped palm, favored her husband with another arch expression. “I’m not so sure. Sometimes I really think he divides the world into two kinds of people—engineers and others. And he doesn’t think women are engineers.”
Becky, likewise busy cleaning up by collecting bottles and cups, said, “But you told me he has a third category, one in which he places Myron—those who should have been engineers and somehow missed their calling.”
“He’s dead wrong,” Myron said. “I’d have made a pretty poor engineer.” With Gerry cleaning the grill and the women cleaning up, he offered to get the dessert ready.
“That’s because he means by engineers people who can fix things, Myron,” Lynn said. “And yes, it would be lovely if you served the ice cream. He’s impressed with the things you’ve fixed at the library.”
He went into the house to get the ice cream and a scoop. He found tubs of both chocolate and black raspberry in the freezer and took them both. His search through the drawers of the counter looking for a scoop was unsuccessful, and he had to settle for a large spoon. When he returned to the patio they were discussing Fiona’s new baby. Gerry had just asked Becky if she had seen the new arrival.
“Yes, and she’s a sweet little thing.”
“Who’s she take after?”
“Do you mean does she look black?”
“Only if she does.”
“Well, she doesn’t. Fiona is half white, remember. No, she even has blond hair. Her eyes are brown. Her nose might be a bit flat if that proves anything.”
“That’s an accurate description,” Lynn said. “With her parents, she’s going to be an independent person, I’m sure.” She looked at Myron. “Have you met Fiona and Lowell?”
“I’ve seen Fiona briefly a few times. Lowell I’ve only met once. I was very impressed with both of them.”
“They don’t come to Waska much now,” Becky explained. “It’s at the lake or in Portland they’re to be found.”
Suddenly a great hue and cry arose from the boys. He was starting to serve the ice cream and had been spotted. They rushed over. He let them choose the flavor (all three wanted chocolate) and their mothers the amount. Each got a large oatmeal raisin cookie as well. They sat at the end of the table too absorbed in the business of ice cream and cookies to say much.
Lynn took a pass on the ice cream; Becky said she would have only a small amount of chocolate, but first they went into the house to make tea. While they were gone the two men, now comfortable with each other, talked about the Red Sox for some time. Both had a large bowl of black raspberry ice cream and a cookie. The boys wanted seconds, but the men made an executive decision and said no. They were kicking the soccer ball around with the boys when Becky and Lynn returned wearing a conspiratorial expression that suggested they had had an interesting conversation. Myron guessed Lynn had been updated on the progress of his and Becky’s relationship, but then again it might have been the boys they discussed and continued to discuss as the others played soccer. Gerry hadn’t much experience in the world’s most popular game, and Myron found himself giving tips to all four of his male playmates. By the time they finished their workout and returned to the table, the women were talking about their upcoming vacations.
The boys followed them back to the table and asked to go in the water again, but the women wanted to relax a little after the meal and told them their choices were to continue playing with the soccer ball or the swing set or the bulldozer. They chose the swing set and made cacophonous background music to the continued discussion about vacations.
Myron asked when they were leaving for the Grand Canyon.
Gerry’s eyes brightened. It was obvious he was looking forward to some downtime. “Three weeks from today we fly to Las Vegas. I’m counting the days. We’ll rent a car and drive all around the southwest. We also plan to see Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, the Petrified Forest in Arizona, Mesa Verde in Colorado—that’s where the Indian cliff dwellings are—and then Denver, where we’ll visit a friend from law school, then home with four thousand digital photographs and a couple tons of souvenirs. I especially look forward to the driving.” The last remark was said ironically without a hint of the enthusiasm that had animated his description of their itinerary.
“We’ll share the driving,” Lynn said in a tone that suggested this had been a much discussed topic.
Becky exchanged a smile with Myron. Their planned vacation was going to be quiet and leisurely.
Lynn, ever adept at reading faces, seemed to understand the meaning of those smiles. “When do you guys go to the cottage you have?”
“We’ve already been, but just to open it up. Early August we’ll spend a week there.”
It would be the first time in years that Myron would spend more than a day at the family cottage. He and Alison Rollins did three week-long stints there, but she never liked it. She was a city girl through and thro
ugh. Becky, in contrast, loved the place at first sight. He found that out last weekend when they had driven to the Berkshires for an airing out and general cleaning of the cottage. His sister and her family had used it for a week during a trip to the east a few years ago, and he had made at least one yearly day trip to make sure it had not sustained any winter damage. Now living in Maine, he and his mother had discussed selling the cottage, but both were reluctant to let go of a place filled with family memories. But it smelled musty from disuse and required a thorough cleaning. At least no structural damage had occurred, and all the utilities functioned when the electricity was turned on. They had to prime the pump before water flowed. It was discolored at first and even when clear had what they thought was a funny taste. They decided to bring bottled water for drinking and cooking. They spent about five hours there, and after an early dinner at a local restaurant had driven home.
For the past week the anticipation of spending time together at the cottage had been a frequent topic of conversation, and with undisguised pleasure Becky said, “Ours will be a quiet vacation. The only driving will be getting there.”
“But you won’t see the Grand Canyon and other splendors,” Gerry said.
“They’ll have each other,” Lynn said. “They can sightsee some other time.”
Myron saw Becky blushing and inwardly was pleased that she too was a private person. But Lynn wasn’t through with them. Her smiling face and sparkling eyes clearly showed she was in her teasing mode. “What about a trip upstate?” she innocently asked.
Becky, sponging off the table, looked up. “What? To visit my parents? Yes, we’re going to do that in August too.”
Lynn made one of her comic faces, the one with an open mouth and raised eyebrows that imitated a child saying, “I’m telling!” and which said as plain as plain words that she saw their relationship was getting serious if he was going to be presented to Becky’s parents and that she was pleased that things had come to pass that she had worked for. Becky, not seeing Lynn’s face, saw his and seemed to know by his arched eyebrows everything he knew. Her response was to redden again and appear flustered. Gerry, stirring the charcoal to extinguish the remaining coals, rescued her from embarrassment by asking Myron a question.
“Hey, Myron, has Lynn asked you about the books for next fall’s reading group yet? She wants to get a head start.”
“I was inspired by my father’s reading on his trips,” Lynn explained.
“I’m pretty sure I want to do Arnold Bennett’s The Old Wives’ Tale and another Hardy novel, Jude the Obscure. They’d be my choices. Are they all right?”
Becky nodded and said, “I want to do another Dickens novel.” She looked at the boys who had just yelled louder than usual. Whatever caused the ruckus was instantly over when they saw themselves observed, so she turned back to the table. “Years ago on Public Television they did Bleak House. I never read it.”
“It’s a great choice. Do you agree, Lynn?”
“Sure. Dickens is fun.”
“And I’ve promised Angus The Heart of Midlothian and Macbeth. Later we can choose some others. Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle and The Good Woman of Setzuan, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and something by Dostoyevsky maybe.”
“I took a lot of English in college,” Gerry said. “Too bad I can’t join you. I’ve read most of those books, but…”
“Were you an English major in college?” Myron asked.
“No, polysci was my major, then of course law. But now I have no time for reading. I’m so tired after a day of poring over documents all I want to do at night is veg out and watch TV.”
“Well, that’s what the Red Sox are for. I watch ’em a lot myself.”
“Don’t encourage him, Myron. He watches them enough already.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I—” His mobile phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, extracting the phone from his pocket. He expected the call to be from Annette Duval, who was filling in for the vacationing Dora Ritter at the library. Instead he heard Elaine Neault’s voice speaking very calmly.
“Myron, your mother has had a heart incident.”
For a moment the words didn’t compute, but he heard them because he felt panic rising and his own heart start beating faster. “Do you mean a heart attack?”
He saw Becky snap to attention upon hearing that. She listened intently.
Elaine, in the matter-of-fact and maddening way she had, said, “Well, you see, it’s like this. Her pulse dropped way down. It’s like her heart slowed, you understand. She fainted. That’s when I called 911—wait a minute,” she said in a different, more urgent tone. “I hear the ambulance. They’ll take her to the hospital. I’ll see you there.”
She shouted the last sentence, then abruptly hung up.
“Is it your mother, Myron?” Becky asked. She was at his side now with her hand clutching his arm.
Taking a deep breath in an effort to stymie the rising panic, he looked at her. Her mouth was slightly open, and she looked at him with eyes wide with concern. “My mother’s been taken to the hospital. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.”
He saw Becky exchange a glance with Lynn. She tilted her head in appeal, and Lynn instantly understood her. Simultaneously they said,
“—I’ll go with you.”
“—I’ll look after the boys.”
Then Becky repeated, “I’ll go with you.” Her hand on his arm telegraphed her concern and loving support.
“I’ll drive,” she whispered before rushing over to the boys and speaking to them in a hurried whisper. They looked scared and stared at Myron with uncomprehending wonder.
Lynn said she would gather up Becky’s things for her, so without picking up they walked down the street to Becky’s car.
“Is it very serious, Myron?”
“Very serious,” he said in the flat voice of despair.
On the drive over to Bedford they were both very quiet. The one time he spoke was to share with her that the doctor two years ago had told him his mother’s heart could give out any time so that he thought he would be ready for this. Then his voice trailed off because now that it had happened he saw he was never ready for this feeling of shocked disbelief. She nodded grimly as she slowed for a red light, then reached over and patted his leg. “We’ll get through this,” she said in a quiet, tremulous voice that made him look at her face. She was pale and looked tense. He watched an elderly man walk in front of their car with a bag of groceries that was too heavy for his frail arms. He kept shifting the weight, and in the pained expression on his face Myron could feel the man’s aching muscles. Elderly housing was on the street where he was heading. The man’s frailty and lack of help in getting the food he needed made Myron sad in a different way. He knew Becky was reliving the time she received the terrible news that her husband was dead. He felt helpless and vulnerable, and yet that was the human condition. Everyone suffered. Everyone had losses. Everyone went down to dusty death. The light went green and they started moving. He watched the frail old man for as long as he could as they went through the intersection. The line from Dylan Thomas’s poem came to mind: “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” followed by Yeats’s “An aged man is but a paltry thing,/ A tattered coat upon a stick.” One thing he could do was organize more activities at the library for old people. Even a single ray of sunshine could brighten a dreary day and help them remember their shared humanity and know that they were not alone. It would do honor to his mother’s memory, though it would do nothing to alleviate the pain of losing a husband to murder. For that he would love Becky with a love that blazed bright and strong like a comet across the night sky. Still thinking of the old man, he remembered his mother’s courage and stoicism. “Unless soul clap its hand and louder sing.” She had done that, participating in the fight against injustice even on her sick bed, reduced to only writing checks, to be sure, but at the front lines in spirit. That was the other way he would keep his mother’s and father’s U
nitarian and Quaker spirit alive. He thought of Chris Andrews and the help that young man would need.
They crossed the river, and in the light dancing on the swiftly moving current as it rushed to the falls a quarter of a mile away he discovered hope. Elaine had not said she was dead, only that she experienced a heart incident and that the pulse had slowed. Maybe she forgot to take her medicine today; maybe Elaine gave her the wrong pill. Maybe, his scenario continued, the hospital would give her a massive dose of her heart medicine and she would be all right. This newer hopeful spirit lasted only until they started going past the dingy factories and depressing tenement buildings followed by the dreary conformity of fast-food places and other signs of commercialism run amok that lined the streets before they got to the hospital. By the time they had parked the car and Becky had taken his hand as they walked to the emergency room, he knew his mother was dead.
Elaine quickly confirmed it. As soon as they turned the corner and could see the crowded waiting room forty feet ahead of them, she came out the door from where she had stood waiting for them. Her face wore a somber and grieving expression with a hint of apprehension as if she feared he was going to blame her for his mother’s death. Coming up to him, she shook her head. “She was gone before the ambulance got here. I was with her and held her hand, but she never regained consciousness.” She wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of the apron she was still wearing, a gesture that reminded him again of Mrs. Gamp. “But she didn’t suffer—that’s the important thing. When it happened and she fainted, it was as gentle as a dove cooing.”
He felt Becky’s arm around his back. The pressure of her hand lightly touching him and communicating her compassion and solidarity was what brought the stinging tears to his eyes. “Was she doing anything strenuous?”
Elaine shook her head sorrowfully, then just as suddenly brightened. Her little beady eyes regarded Becky.
“You remember Becky Paine, don’t you, Elaine?”
She nodded as Becky said hello in a quiet voice.
“She was in bed. She had just woke from a nap. She began talking about you, hoping you were having a good time.” She looked away and considered for a moment. “Oh, and she said she was glad it was a beautiful day for your cookout. Her last thoughts were about you and were happy thoughts.”
She spoke in such an unctuous and falsely solicitous way that the beauty of the knowledge was ruined for him. He couldn’t hide the resentment that he knew was gleaming in his eyes and that she saw, but he did say in a tone of grateful acknowledgment, “Thank you for telling me that.” He looked around to see doors on both sides of the corridor. “I would like to see her. Do you know where she is?”
“Yes, dearie. Just go through those double doors”—she pointed with a toss of her head to doors that had a No Admittance sign. “Luckily I’ve got friends here, friends who are always glad to help me. You talk to Mrs. Harris and tell her you know Elaine Neault.”
Seeing the expression on his face, she stopped. He wasn’t sure what he was experiencing—shock, surprise or bemusement at what must be an extraordinary coincidence. For what were the odds that the woman he associated with Mrs. Gamp would actually have a friend named Mrs. Harris, Sarah Gamp’s mythical friend in Martin Chuzzlewit? Would she be mythical, or would an actual Mrs. Harris be seen on the other side of those double doors? He had to stifle an impulse to laugh hysterically.
This sequence of thought, expression and stifled impulse took place in no more than a few seconds. He was quite sure that Becky had not observed anything strange, but Elaine had and clearly found it incomprehensible. Probably she regarded him as a strange duck and had long ago given up trying to understand him. So after a momentary pause and a squinty look from a tilted head, she continued, “She’s a dearie and will be very helpful.”
He nodded, then turned to the door before he had a second thought. “Will you need a ride back home, Elaine?”
She seemed genuinely touched. “No, bless you, dearie. Mrs. Harris will be off duty soon, and I’ll ride home with her.”
Again he nodded, and he and Becky went through the door to a vestibule where three more doors awaited them. They stopped, uncertain what to do. They exchanged a glance, but just as he was about to clear his throat, the woman he took to be Mrs. Harris came out of the middle door.
“Mr. Seavey?”
“Mrs. Harris?
She in no way reminded him of a Dickensian character. She was a prim woman in her fifties with neat short hair, severe black glasses and an air of competence unexpected in any friend of Elaine’s. He knew this unbidden and unexpected thought was uncharitable and instantly resolved that tomorrow when he was settling accounts with Elaine he would give her two weeks of severance pay, perhaps a month.
“Sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Harris said rather mechanically. “Your mother is in here.”
She led them into a small windowless room where on a gurney and under a sheet his mother lay. In a businesslike and yet sensitive manner, Mrs. Harris pulled the sheet down to reveal his mother’s face and then with a nod left them alone.
For a long minute they both looked down at his mother; then Becky, speaking in a hushed whisper, said, “I only met her once, but I instantly liked her and knew that she was a wonderful human being. I’m so sorry.”
“The feeling was mutual. She liked you too. She said she could tell you had a good heart. That, incidentally, is my mother’s principal criterion of human worth. And she should know. It takes a good heart to see a good heart.”
He reached over and gently stroked his mother’s cheek. There was no sign of pain or trauma. The muscles were relaxed, and her face wore the same expression of serene dignity that it had in life. Apparently Elaine was telling the truth when she said that his mother had experienced a gentle and good death.
Arm in arm they looked down at the peace of death. Neither spoke for some time, and then Becky asked, “Will you have to make the arrangements?”
He shook his head. “I’ll have to call my sister in California and brother in Vienna. But the funeral arrangements are all set up. When we moved here she wanted to go to a nursing home so that I would not be troubled by her. Naturally I refused to even consider that, but she made it a condition of her coming to Maine that she would take care of all the arrangements for her death. All I have to do is make one or two phone calls. There’ll be a service in the Unitarian church back home. I’ll have to call the minister, who’s an old family friend, and the funeral director in Connecticut. She even arranged it so that he will contact the people here about the cremation.”
That last word got to him, and he felt the tears coming again. Becky hugged him and let the pain come out into the air. He knew that the reason his mother died happy was because he had met Becky, but this wasn’t the time to tell her that. When they were at the cottage he was going to ask her to marry him. Then he could tell her about his mother’s wish that they be happy together.
Thinking of Becky and a life of happiness, and not his mother, he suddenly felt guilty. A pained expression must have passed across his face, for she looked at him and said, “Would you like a few minutes with your mother to say good-bye?”
He nodded and squeezed her hand to express his gratitude for the sensitivity she had shown. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said in a low voice.
Alone now, he felt awe. This would be the last time he would look upon his mother’s mortal face. He owed so much to her both as a loving mother and as an example of how to lead a decent life that he felt as confused and vulnerable as a child. For a long time he stared at her face with his left hand resting on her shoulder, remembering distant memories like her cooking dinner and phoning someone about a clinic for Mayan Indians, or the time they brought a robin with a broken wing to the animal shelter when he was eight and he learned that every living thing blessed with the gift of life deserved our love and compassion. She always taught by example; she never preached. He never heard her belittle another person, and her
hatred against the perpetrators of injustice was always tempered with a sad compassion for their dark souls that could experience greed and pride and powerlust but not the lovingkindness of human solidarity. During her last years as an invalid she never complained. Pain, instead of narrowing her mind into self-absorption, made her humble and grateful that she could still watch her son’s journey with loving care. In their last conversation this morning before he left the house she was thinking only of him. “I’ll check on you before supper,” he had said, to which she replied, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be happy just thinking of you and Becky together.” Then he had kissed her on the cheek and was glad to further remember that he had told her he loved her. He stepped back, unsure how he was to say good-bye to her forever until another conversation came to mind from earlier in the week. They had talked about Chris Andrews, and she had said that he was on the side of the angels. “The same side you’re always on, Mom” was his immediate reply. Now that she was with the angels, he again saw what the old and frail man had shown him—that the way to honor her memory was to continue fighting on the angels’ side. That would be a good-bye that would last forever.
Panic and Discovery
