by Liz Adair
“Okay. Now for a shower. Upstairs with you,” Punky ordered.
Again Cassie complied, climbing the stairs slowly, like an old woman. She leaned against the doorjamb of the bathroom while Punky turned on the water in the shower and undressed only when she was told to.
“Get in,” Punky commanded, holding the shower door open. “And be sure to wash your hair.”
“Yes, mother.” Cassie didn’t smile when she said it, but Punky’s heart lightened a notch.
While Cassie was steaming up the bathroom, Punky stripped the bed and gathered up the dirty clothes that lay in a heap on the floor. Depositing them in the washing machine in the hall, she decided to wait until the shower was off before starting it and looked in the linen closet for a second set of sheets. She was just finishing the bed when she heard the water turn off and the shower door open. Cassie emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
“That’s better!” Punky smiled at her.
“I’ll just sit for a moment,” Cassie said, sinking into a chair. “That wore me out.”
Punky perched on the edge of the bed. “No wonder. Have you eaten anything in the last four days?”
“Um . . . I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“What have you been doing all this time?”
“Mostly I’ve been sleeping.”
“For four days? Sleeping?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but for me it seemed the only way I could stay sane. And . . .” Cassie paused, as if wondering whether to tell a secret. “It was a way to bring Chan back.”
Punky regarded her friend. “You did say something about staying sane. How could you bring Chan back?”
“I would dream about him. Oh, Punky, it was so real! One time he was sitting with me on the balcony, and he was singing a song to me in Spanish, and he was leaning toward me as he sang, and he was so close that I could feel the heat of his body. It was so real, so wonderfully real that I couldn’t bear to wake up!”
“But you did.” Punky rose and went to the closet.
“Yes. I did.”
Emerging with a navy blue pantsuit in hand, Punky laid it on the bed. “Well, welcome back to reality,” she said tartly. “And welcome to the opportunity to put your faith to the test. You sigh and say you didn’t get what you want in love. I’ll tell you this, you got more than most of the rest of us can even dream of. You abandon the world and want to die because the love of your life is gone. Well, you’re not the first person in the world that has happened to. Now your job is to go on and make something of your life. Be of service to others. And believe that you’ll see Chan again and that the ties of marriage can last beyond the grave.”
Cassie was tearing up again. “But we weren’t sealed in the temple.”
“That can be taken care of. But not if you’re going to spend the rest of your life in bed. Where is your underwear?”
Cassie pointed and Punky tossed some snowy lingerie into her lap.
“Now get dressed,” Punky said. “There are things you’ve got to do. Have you been to the Social Security office? How about Chan’s bank? Were you a signer on the account? Do you have a death certificate?”
“The mortuary gave me a copy of the death certificate. I haven’t looked at it because . . .” Cassie didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she stood and padded into the bathroom, where Punky heard sounds of activity.
“How about his family?” Punky called. “No one was at the funeral. Have you contacted them?”
“He was an orphan. He had no family.”
Punky went down to the kitchen, and when she returned with another mug of soup, Cassie had her slacks on and was pulling a stretch top over her head. Her hair was still damp, but it had been combed and was pulled back and fastened at the nape of her neck.
“You look a hundred percent better! Here. Drink this and then we’ll go.”
Cassie sank back into the chair again. “Where are we going?”
“That’s up to you. You just need to start dealing with life without Chan. Hard as it is, you’ve got to start.”
“All right,” Cassie sighed. “We’ll start with Social Security.” She took a sip from the mug.
“Do you have Chan’s card? Do you know his number?”
Cassie regarded Punky over the rim of the cup. “It’s probably in his wallet. It’s still in the bag from the mortuary, there on the floor of my closet.”
“I’ll get it.” One whole wall of the large master bedroom housed two closets with louvered swinging doors. Punky opened the one on the left, returning momentarily with a black plastic bag that bore the silver inscription: Desert Hills Mortuary. Fishing around inside, she retrieved the wallet and handed it over. “I wish I had known about these clothes. I would have put them in this load of wash. You probably wouldn’t want Levi’s in with your light blue sheets, though. Want me to dump these in the hamper?”
“Um . . . no. Just put the bag back where it was. I’ll deal with it later, after I figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of his clothes.”
While Punky did as she was asked, Cassie opened the wallet with a pounding heart and trembling fingers. There was very little to be found: a hundred dollars in cash and an Arizona driver’s license. There was no Social Security card, no credit cards, no picture of a loved one.
“Ho, will you look at that!” Punky cried, looking over her shoulder. “The license has this address on it!”
Cassie smiled wryly. “He probably did that the week before he left. He had time off and spent it getting ready for the wedding. I was working night and day. I’d have been better off to spend the time with him, don’t you think? We never know.”
“Well, I know this. You’d better drink that soup. We’ve got lots to do today, and we need to get at it.”
As it was, they only went to the Social Security office, and that was frustrating. They had to wait an hour before they got called to talk to a caseworker, and then she kept saying that there was no Chandler Jordain that matched the information on the death certificate in Cassie’s hand. Punky was getting a little testy with the clerk, but Cassie insisted that they leave it for now.
“If you’ve been dealing with the government as long as I have,” Cassie explained on the ride home in Punky’s green VW beetle, “you know that lots of data gets lost. The death certificate may be wrong. The information that is there is what I gave them. I thought that Chan put down on the marriage license application that he was born in Wyoming. But maybe it was Wisconsin. I was filling out my papers when he was filling out his.” She sighed. “I know it’s very un-Mormon not to know these things, but I was too excited to pay attention.”
Just as they pulled into the condo parking lot, Cassie remembered something. “Chan has a briefcase at home that he carries when he travels. I didn’t even think about that. I’ll get in it and contact his employer—I have to call them anyway, to tell them he won’t be . . . won’t be making the next trip for them.”
“Good job. Then they can give you his Social Security number. Let’s go give you some more soup now. You’re looking a little peaked.”
“Thanks, Punky. You’re a true friend. But I know you’ve got rehearsal tonight. You go on to that. I’ll be fine.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Cassie raised her right hand. “I’m all right now. I just needed someone to speak sternly to me. And feed me chicken noodle soup.” She got out of the car and watched as Punky backed out of the parking space.
The window of the green beetle rolled down. “There’s another can of soup in the cupboard. I’ll check tomorrow to see that it has been eaten,” Punky said before driving off.
Cassie smiled tiredly and waved. Then she walked up the sidewalk to her door, steeling herself to open her dead husband’s closet for the first time.
12
As soon as she closed the front door, Cassie was hit with a powerful wave of ennui, as if the atmosphere of her home were weighted and pressing down on her, smothering
the oxygen out of her system and sapping her energy. She leaned against the door and considered the stairs, which seemed to go on forever. Her legs didn’t feel as if they could make that climb right now.
Turning her head to look in the opposite direction, she saw late afternoon sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows, making a rosy rectangle on the unglazed tile floor. “I’m hungry again, I guess,” Cassie muttered. “I’ll get some of that soup, and then I’ll tackle the closet.”
Whether it was the soup itself or the act of preparing it, a demonstration that she, Cassie Jordain, was willing to live, she felt better after she ate. The doorbell rang as she was cleaning up, and Cassie’s heart sank. Standing with a pot in one hand and a dishtowel in the other, she tried to decide which was the more unwelcome experience: ignoring an insistent doorbell and waiting until well-wishers left, or opening the door to people she didn’t have the energy to entertain. The doorbell rang again. Suddenly drawn by the thought of someone on the other side of that door anxious for her welfare, Cassie set down the pot and opened it. Bishop Harris and his wife were just turning away.
They didn’t say anything about her appearance, but their eyes widened as she opened the door, and Sister Harris gathered Cassie up in a motherly hug, whispering damply, “Oh, my dear!”
They were an older couple, in their late seventies. He was a retired structural engineer, and they had lived and worked and raised their children in Montana, moving to Scottsdale following his service as a full-time mission president. Bishop Harris was of medium height and sparely built, with clear blue eyes and sharp features. Sister Harris was softer, less angular, with a halo of white hair framing a face that showed in every line, every wrinkle, her compassionate nature.
Bishop awkwardly patted Cassie’s shoulder. “We’ve come to see how you’re doing, but I need to talk to you about something, too. Mother, will you sit in the kitchen for a minute?”
“Is that all right, Cassie, if I go in there?” Sister Harris asked. “I don’t think I’d want anyone ordering someone into my kitchen, even if he was the bishop.”
Mystified, Cassie said, “No, that’s all right. Go ahead, Sister Harris. You and I can sit here in the living room, Bishop.”
When they were settled, the bishop fiddled with a rolled-up paper he was carrying as he regarded Cassie. “This has been hard on you.”
Tears welled up, and Cassie shook her head as she wiped her eyes on the dishtowel. “I’ll be all right.”
“Have you been out of town? Several people have come by. We tried to look in on you on Saturday, but you weren’t here. I wondered if you were traveling with your work.”
“I just finished a project. I have a seminar to teach at the end of the month, but until then I’m here in town.” She took a moment to wipe her eyes again. “I haven’t been ready to see people until today.”
“Are you doing all right?”
“I’ll get through this, Bishop,” Cassie said quietly.
“Would you like a priesthood blessing?”
Cassie considered. As she thought about it, she asked, “Can I ask someone else to do it?”
“Certainly. Your home teacher, perhaps. Or a friend. He needs to be a worthy priesthood holder. Who would you like?”
“Ben Torres. You’ll have to excuse me. I can’t seem to keep from crying.”
“Do you want me to arrange it?”
Cassie nodded, blowing her nose on the dishtowel.
“All right. I’ll do it. Now, what I came to talk to you about: Everything happened so fast,” Bishop said apologetically. “I had no more than met Brother Jordain, when I heard that you were married.”
“It was a whirlwind courtship,” Cassie said. “I’m glad we didn’t wait to marry.”
Bishop nodded. “The next thing I know, I’m asked to do his funeral. I only talked to him once.”
Cassie didn’t say anything. Her eyes were on the paper in the bishop’s hands.
He cleared his throat. “I got to thinking about him. Your husband. You said he didn’t have any family, but I knew he’d have a ward family somewhere—the folks who sent him on his mission. People who cared about him. I thought maybe they ought to know about him being gone. So, I called Salt Lake to see about his records.”
Cassie brightened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think about that?”
“I called just before the Church offices closed, and the lady was reluctant to help me right then. Wanted me to call back, but I convinced her to stay an extra minute and look it up. This is the only Chandler Jordain they have in the Church. It’s a fairly unusual name. There were several Christopher Jordains, and she tried to talk me into one of those, but I knew you said his name was Chandler.”
“Yes. I love the name! I had hoped . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.
Bishop Harris cleared his throat again. Unrolling the paper, he handed it to Cassie. “The printers were off, so they didn’t do a printout. She just dashed off the name and ward. She put his age in, too. The thing about it is, Cassie, I don’t think this is your Chandler Jordain. It says he’s from Edmonds, Washington.”
“Washington! Yes, that works. I was remembering the W but was thinking it was Wyoming.” She looked at the three lines scrawled on the paper.
“It’s not a good copy. I’ve got an old dinosaur of a fax machine that I had in my engineering office in Montana. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to buy paper for it. But look there, on the last line. This fellow is eighty-three years old. It can’t be your husband.”
Cassie’s face fell. “No. Chan was thirty-three.” She sighed. “There’s an answer to all of this,” she declared. “I’ll find it when I go through his things, I know. I just haven’t been brave enough yet.”
“Do you need someone to be with you when you do that? Sister Harris could come and help.”
Cassie shook her head. “It’s something I’d rather do myself.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“No. It was good of you to come by.” She held up the paper. “And thanks for this. It was a good try.”
“I think I’ll call and ask about one of those Christopher Jordains,” the bishop said, rising. “My father spent his whole life thinking his middle name was Michael. When he was fifty he sent for his birth certificate so he could get a passport and found out it was Mitchell. If your husband was an orphan, it’s possible that something like that could have happened.”
Cassie stood, too. “Yes. You’re right. Do you want this back?” When Bishop shook his head, she crumpled the paper and dropped it in a wastebasket before following him to the door.
“Are you ready, Mother?” he called.
“Coming.” Sister Harris emerged from the kitchen, wrapping some knitting around her needles and stowing the project in her purse. She again enfolded the younger, taller woman in her arms and hugged her tightly. “Bless your heart,” she murmured. “Bless your heart. Life is hard sometimes.”
“Yes it is,” Cassie whispered.
“I’ll get ahold of Brother Torres,” Bishop Harris said. “If he can, we’ll be by tomorrow evening. I’ll let you know.”
They said their good-byes, and Cassie closed the door behind them. Leaning against it for a moment she felt the grain of the wood on her forehead. Turning her head, she eyed the stairs. They didn’t seem nearly as long and steep as they had earlier. I can do this, she said to herself and walked purposefully forward.
She made it to Chan’s closet door on the momentum from that single declaration, but she faltered with her hand on the handle. The memory of that last week before they were married came flooding back. Chan had worked all Wednesday afternoon, moving the banker’s boxes of files that were stored in the left-hand closet, putting them on shelves he had built in the office. Thursday morning he had moved in most of his things, and she had slept with his closet door open that night so she could wake Friday morning to the sight of his clothes hanging there.
Cassie h
ad opened the closet only once since the accident, and that was so Bishop Harris could put Chan’s luggage and briefcase away after he had driven the convertible from St. Alphonse to Cassie’s.
“I can do this,” she said aloud again and turned the handle.
The closet was pathetically empty. She hadn’t noticed before that he had so few clothes. Even if his suitcase were unpacked, which it wasn’t, the hangers would only occupy two of the available eight feet of hanging space. It made his occupation of her house and bed seem even more fleeting than it had been, and she began to feel the sorrowful malaise creep over her again.
As a defensive reaction, Cassie grabbed the suitcase and carried it over to the bed. Hefting it up, she undid the fasteners and let it fall open, bracing to have her heart wrung by the sight of her dead husband’s clothing inside. Curiously, it was like looking at any stranger’s suitcase. She picked up a plastic bag stuffed with dirty clothes and looked inside. A faint aroma of cigarette smoke drifted up, and she frowned, but then remembered marathon meetings of her own where smokers defied the rules and lit up, to the consternation of all abstainers. She had returned home with smoky clothes, too.
Carrying the dirty clothes bag to the washer, she discovered the load of clothes that Punky hadn’t turned on. She added Chan’s bag to it made a full load, then put in the soap and started the washer. Then she unpacked and put away the toilet articles and shoes. Just as she was stowing the suitcase in the closet, the doorbell rang again.
Cassie hesitated only momentarily before heading downstairs to answer it. On the way she rehearsed excuses for not receiving company, but when she opened the door she found Erin, the complex manager’s daughter. She was seventeen, with honey-colored hair and doe eyes. “This came for you earlier in the day,” she said kindly, handing a letter to Cassie. “I was there when the postman came by. He said you didn’t answer your doorbell, and I didn’t want you to have to go down to the post office for it, so I signed.”
Cassie looked at the fat, legal-sized envelope addressed to Mr. Chandler Jordain.
“Are you all right?” Erin’s dark-fringed eyes got big. “You’re as white as a sheet!”
