Caught in the Middle

by Gayle Roper

  Trudy McGilpin’s funeral had turned into An Event, Amhearst-style, with state congressional representatives, county commissioners and officeholders from the surrounding towns and townships sitting with local dignitaries in impressive ranks. All these illustrious folks sat directly behind the McGilpin family, who crowded together for comfort. There was no riderless horse with boots turned backward in the stirrups, but the funeral was a decidedly impressive acknowledgment of Trudy’s standing in the community.

  It was a nice funeral as funerals go. Her brother, Stanton, told little stories about Trudy, the older sister and advice giver. Mr. Grassley, her law partner, told about Trudy, the charming woman, gifted lawyer and wily politician. The mourners laughed several times in a gentle, reverent, I-remember kind of way. A longtime friend from high school sang a couple of songs, and I marveled that she could do so without breaking down. I listened to Dr. Robison, the imposing cleric who led the service. His majestic voice swooped and soared about the sanctuary, by turns somber, then intimate, then full of urgency, his robes billowing with every movement of his arms.

  “She’s not gone as long as she lives in your heart,” he assured, his hand placed on his chest. “She’s not gone as long as your memories unreel on the screen of your mind.” Hand to head.

  I thought that he’d be great in community theater, declaiming Shakespeare like an American Richard Burton.

  “She accomplished so much in her short life. Let her be an example to you of what you can do with dedication and hard work. Be all you can be!” He threw his arms wide at the magnificence of the thought. “It would be the ultimate tribute to Trudy.” His voice dropped dramatically to a whisper. “It would make her proud.”

  Tripe, I thought cynically. Pure tripe. Lord, when I die, let them say something of more eternal significance at my funeral. Please.

  Suddenly Dr. Robison looked less regal and more human as he said, “She always sat in the tenth pew on the aisle. I’m going to miss her smile every Sunday.”

  His voice broke, and he had to pause and swallow his grief. In that moment I liked him very much.

  Dr. Robison raised his arms for the benediction, and as the congregation bowed, suddenly I could see Don Eldredge. He was seated near the front of the church, head unbowed as he stared straight ahead.

  Last night’s conversation with Curt leaped to my mind.

  “I honestly think he killed her,” he had said.

  “Curt!” I had cried. “You can’t be serious!” It was a foolish comment, but I couldn’t help it. It just popped out.

  “I wish I weren’t,” he’d said. He slumped into his chair, all his fierceness gone. “I wish I weren’t.”

  I stared at him in silence while he stared at the floor. I couldn’t put together enough coherent thoughts to come up with a reasonable question or comment. Finally I managed, “Do you mean that you think Don killed Joan—as in murder?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I think maybe as in manslaughter. See, she died from hitting her head on the fireplace hearth.”

  “And you think Don—what?” Obviously he couldn’t hit her with the hearth.

  “I think Don pushed her. I think she fell as a result of his manhandling her.”

  “What did he tell the police?”

  “He told the police that he came home and found her dead.”

  “And they believed him?”

  “They saw no reason not to believe him.”

  “Did he have an alibi?”

  Curt nodded. “He was at Ferretti’s having coffee with one of his cronies.”

  “Well, then…” I didn’t know what to say or think.

  “But Joan had this unexplained bruise on her right upper arm,” Curt said. “The police think someone grabbed her hard enough to leave the mark, but there’s no way to know who that was or when it happened. Just sometime premortem.

  “I think Don came home from work, and they got into an argument. He grabbed her arm and shook her, causing her to lose her balance and fall. Or maybe he pushed her away, causing her to lose her balance. It wasn’t premeditated. Nobody, including me, thinks that.”

  I felt a wash of relief. “So it was an accident!”

  “Yes. And no. When she fell and struck her head, she hit the area just behind the left temple. If she had hit anywhere else, she’d have had a bad headache, maybe even a fractured skull, but she probably wouldn’t have died. As it is, she didn’t die immediately. If Don was responsible for her fall, he left her there, and she died because of that desertion.”

  The anguish in his voice broke my heart.

  “I struggle with these facts all the time,” Curt said. “I know that, as a Christian, I’m to love my enemy and all that good stuff. And I take those concepts very seriously. So here I am suspecting a man of Joan’s death, not a particularly loving thing. And I suspect him with no proof, only my gut feeling, again not particularly loving.”

  I made some small sound, wanting to be sympathetic and supportive. I hadn’t the foggiest idea how I’d feel if someone did something hurtful to my brother, Sam, but I knew it wouldn’t be especially loving.

  Curt started stirring his coffee again, and I reached out once more to him. This time he dropped the spoon and grasped my hand. I felt like a lifeline he was holding on to for dear life. Maybe I was.

  “I find I can leave the situation and its resolution in God’s hands if I don’t have to be around Don,” Curt said. “It’s hard for me because I’m a fixer, a problem solver. I like order. I like to have all the answers.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said drily.

  He gave a weak nod. “But when I see him, I can’t act naturally. I find myself dealing with a seething anger that frightens me.”

  We sat in silence for a while until suddenly he turned my hand over and kissed my palm. I jumped gently at the unexpectedness and the sensation.

  “Sorry,” I said, blushing. “It tickled.”

  He grinned halfheartedly, dropped my hand and said, “We’d better clean up and get to Reeders’. Doug will be wanting his beauty sleep.”

  Hours later I lay in the guest room at Maddie and Doug’s and stared at the new floral border, aching on Curt’s behalf. I knew what it felt like to be alone in a new town, to feel like I was swinging in the breeze with my usual footing ripped from under me. But I also knew I had pulled the footing loose myself, and I had a loving family waiting back in Pittsburgh if I needed them. Curt was alone as only someone with no living family can be. His parents were dead, killed by a drunk driver, and his only sister had died not long after, perhaps because of deliberate negligence on the part of another.

  That, my dear Jolene, is alone. And that is pressing on, in spite of loss and pain and unanswered questions.

  I admired Curt, more than I wanted to admit.

  But Don—a killer?

  I knew that in the vast majority of murders and killings, family members and friends were responsible. I knew that the police knew this far better than I did. They hadn’t arrested Don. Had they questioned him? They must have for his alibi to have become known. Besides, they’d be negligent if they hadn’t.

  But Don? Manslaughter?

  Dr. Robison’s mighty voice boomed, “Amen!” and I dragged myself back to the business at hand. I had to write about this funeral, after all.

  The line for the cemetery was long, long. Had the funeral director tried to observe political protocol in the order of cars in the procession? I imagined there were more than a few in attendance who actually cared who went before them—or more probably whom they went before. Petty people. They deserved to bring up the rear with the press.

  It was overcast and cold by the grave, though the KYW weatherman had told me on the way over that things would warm way up by evening. For now, though, the baskets of flowers were already shriveling as they lay on the crusty snow.

  The McGilpins sat on folding chairs by the open grave, eyes behind dark glasses. Mr. McGilpin grasped his wife’s hand, and Stanton had hi
s arm around her shoulders. How does a mother cope with burying her daughter?

  I looked at all the people standing with heads bowed against the nasty wind. What were they thinking? What did they feel?

  “I am the resurrection and the life,” intoned Dr. Robison. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

  Did the McGilpins believe in Jesus? Not simply the historical Jesus, but Jesus, the Son of God who died for their sins? That’s where the hope of life after death came from.

  “Oh, death, where is thy sting? Oh, grave, where is thy victory?” asked Dr. Robison, who didn’t answer the questions. After a short silence, he said, “Into Thy hands we commend her spirit. Amen.”

  At the amen, the funeral director handed carnations to the family and those standing nearest the grave. One by one they walked to the coffin and placed the carnations on the lid. Mrs. McGilpin was led away by her husband and son, her hand pressed against her lips to hold back her sobs. As the rest of the mourners released their flowers, they, too, walked silently to their cars.

  Standing to the side, I allowed the mourners to leave, my heart heavy for them. I shivered, and not from the wind wrapping its frigid arms about me or the cold pushing its way up through my boots. I glanced back at the grave.

  Don alone still stood there, carnation in hand. He stared at the coffin for a long, unguarded moment. Rarely had I seen such raw pain. A shudder ran through him as he bent down and placed his flower with the others.

  Then, instead of straightening, he put out his hand and placed it gently on the coffin in an intensely intimate gesture, as if he were caressing Trudy herself. I felt I was intruding, and I looked away to give him privacy.

  So I had been right and Jolene had been wrong. There had been something beyond friendship between Don and Trudy. Poor Don. How ironic that if he did hurt Joan, he lost Trudy in much the same way. An injury left too long untended.

  I glanced back at Don just as he straightened. Our eyes met, and I was rocked back on my heels by the emotion I saw there.

  Anger. Fierce, white-hot anger.

  FIFTEEN

  Trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I slipped into Patrick Marten’s viewing/funeral and took my place at the end of the condolence line slowly moving toward Liz Marten.

  Pat’s death is not your fault, I told myself.

  Of course it’s not, I answered. I know that.

  Then why do you feel so guilty?

  It was my car.

  And you think that makes it your fault?

  I just want to make them hurt less.

  It was a good thing Jack couldn’t hear me talking to myself.

  “It’s your fix-it complex,” he’d say in that mocking tone he always used whenever I told him how I hurt for people and wanted them to be okay. “It’s your God complex. Why do you think you’re the one who should deal with every crisis? Why do you think you’re the one who should make everything better? Just a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? You’re Merry Kramer, girl reporter, not Mother Teresa.”

  Suddenly, standing in line waiting to talk to Liz Marten, I experienced the strong mental zap of profound insight. I felt like a cartoon character with a lightbulb suddenly going off over my head. I had to force myself not to look around to see if others noticed me glowing in an electric halo.

  It wasn’t presumptuous to try and help! God made me with the desire to help, and He seemed to give me the ability to comfort people. It was a God-thing, not a me-thing! It was good, and Jack was wrong.

  “Merry!” Annie had to say my name several times, I was so lost in thought. She gave me a great hug. “Mom will be so glad you came.”

  “Are you sure? I feel like I come equipped with bad associations.”

  Annie shook her head. “Truth to tell, Mom thinks you’re pretty nice. And she loved your article on Pat today. It was kind and accurate.”

  Liz turned from comforting the man and woman ahead of me. “Merry.” She hugged me.

  All I wanted to do was cry, and I blinked like mad to keep from weeping. I wasn’t successful. “I’m so sorry, Liz,” I blubbered.

  She smiled crookedly. “Aren’t we all. But what about you? Are you all right? I read about Andy shooting at you.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  She looked skeptical. “I’d feel terrible forever if anything happened to you because of us.”

  Guilt. The one emotion there’s always plenty of.

  Hannah stood beside Liz, her hair washed and curled today, but the life still gone from her face. Liz reached to the girl and slid an arm around her waist.

  “You remember Merry, don’t you, Hannah?” Liz asked.

  Hannah shuddered at Liz’s touch, and Liz drew her closer still.

  “It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” she said, obviously not for the first time. “It’s not your fault.”

  Hannah smiled wanly. Words, even the warm words of Pat’s mother, couldn’t make the guilty feelings stop.

  I hugged Hannah. “She’s right, you know,” I said. “I feel guilty, too, because it was my car, but I know I’m not. And neither are you. You aren’t responsible for Andy.”

  Hannah looked at me. “I know that in my head, but I can’t believe it in my heart.” She turned and walked over to stand beside Pat’s casket.

  Liz watched the girl. “I hope her trust in God is deep enough to handle this. Believe me, that’s the only way to live with the pain.”

  I had used untold tissues by the time the service was over, but I left more comforted than I had felt at Trudy’s. When the congregation sang “It Is Well With My Soul,” I knew that here in this little church, in spite of the questions and the pain, God was allowed to be God.

  I didn’t go to the cemetery. I had an article to write, and another trip to another cemetery on this gray and dismal day would make the writing impossible. I’d be too spent.

  Not surprisingly, I found Don hard at work at his neat desk before the great window. I knew he’d have to do something to work off the emotional complexities of his loss of Trudy, and what suited him better than getting lost in his beloved paper? A workaholic like him certainly wasn’t going to go calmly to Stanton McGilpin’s for the after-funeral meal. Not for him the chatter and comfort of people who shared his grief. Not with his secret pain and that anger gnawing at him.

  I watched him staring at his terminal. I knew why he hurt, but I hadn’t the vaguest idea why he hated, or whom.

  I blinked. Hated? Don hated? Where had that come from? I had no idea, but I knew I was right.

  Don hated.

  Poor Don.

  As I chewed on that thought, I turned on my terminal and typed my password. Whiskers. Not very secret if you’d ever been to my house, but I’d never invited anyone from the paper to my house. Besides, who wanted my work? We’re not talking supersecret documents here. We’re talking reporting on community events open to anyone who cared to go to them. We’re talking adequate writing, not the stuff of Pulitzer prizes.

  Two special people were laid to rest today in Amhearst, two people who died violently and before their time.

  I wrote about the funerals for a bit, comparing and contrasting them. I mentioned the love obvious at both and the sorrow of the bereaved. I mentioned the endearing simplicity of Pat’s and the affectionate pomp of Trudy’s. And I got more and more melancholy.

  I save my text and went to my e-mail. Maybe there’d be a message from Sam to cheer me up. He wrote me regularly from school, and I loved hearing from him. It was great to read his few lines and to respond with a few of my own.

  Merry, what in the world are you doing? I talked to Mom last night, and she’s certain you’ll be murdered in your bed. If you are, she’ll blame herself forever for letting you leave Pittsburgh. I recommend you do your utmost to stay alive. It’d probably be best for both of you.

  I grinned. He was such a sweet guy.

  Sam, not to worry. I plan to stay alive as long as I possibly can—which I t
hink will be until I’m about ninety. They won’t let me go anywhere alone, anyway. Oh, they did let me go to a couple of funerals today without an escort, but they’re keeping a good eye on me. Thanks for caring, though. Just don’t let worrying about me get in the way of your schoolwork. Gag! I sound just like Mom!

  I clicked Send, then hit the icon for my next message. Up it flashed, and I began to read.

  I didn’t do it! I mean it! I didn’t shoot at you! I didn’t ever do anything to you. I mean, why should I? You don’t know anything about what happened to Pat. That’s what I was trying to tell you last night.

  I stared at my screen in disbelief. My heart was racing and my stomach had that funny I-might-throw-up feeling. I checked the sender’s name immediately, though I knew who it was. Witz. As in Gershowitz.

  I didn’t do it! I mean it!

  He’s good, I thought. He knows how to get to me. I know he’s a killer and a liar, and yet I want to know why he claims he’s innocent. I want to understand him and his story. I read on:

  But I do know something you’d like to know. You’re a reporter, right? So you want a great story, right? Well, I got one for you. You won’t believe it.

  He was right. I didn’t believe it. Andy Gershowitz was e-mailing me!

  The paper printed its e-mail address, Amhearst-News.com, for letters to the editor. Working from that address, he’d probably sent the same message to every permutation of Merrileigh Kramer he could think of. And MKramer wouldn’t have taken much imagination.

  Meet me, OK? We need to talk face-to-face. Meet me at Brandywine Steel at 5:45. I won’t hurt you. I promise. But I got to tell someone what I saw before the cops get me. I want to tell you. And believe me, you want to hear.

  He was right. I did want to hear. Every reporter wants to hear when the object of a manhunt wants to talk.

  I’ll be waiting by the door on the east side. It’s sort of dark there, but don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.