She takes a Kleenex out of her handbag and wipes a bird dropping from the face of the headstone; then she slides the geraniums out from the shopping bag and places the pots by the stone. They won’t bring him back. Nothing will bring him back, but the flowers make her feel connected to him. Grieving is about not forgetting.
She flattens the bag and sets it on the ground, then sits. The lidocaine is wearing off, and she feels a sensation—not quite pain—where the mole was removed. In the distance, she sees a man walking a retriever. He should not be here—the cemetery is posted—but she isn’t up to a confrontation.
She still has not given her answer to the editor, a man named Bruce Constantine. “We have to know soon,” he told her last week. “We’re closing in on our deadline for the issue.” He has a nice voice, calm and patient.
She had pretty much decided not to let them publish her piece. Grief is private, regardless of all the nice things Mr. Constantine said. But now she is having second thoughts. She allows herself to be consoled by the idea that no one she knows would read it. Probably not one living soul in Normal has even heard of the Sun. And he said what she wrote would help others. She doesn’t know if this is true. She doesn’t think anything she read could have helped her after Todd died. But the editor’s compliments stay in her head. She wants more and feels guilty for wanting it.
“I don’t know,” she says to Todd’s headstone. “I don’t know what to do.”
WHEN SHE GETS HOME, THERE IS A CAR PARKED IN THE driveway. As she nears, a woman steps out of the car.
“Mrs. Nelson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sarah Rogers. I called you earlier.”
Lord, she has completely forgotten about the appointment.
“Yes,” she says. She’ll be damned if she’s going to apologize for being late.
The woman holds out her hand. “This won’t take long. Just a few questions about your neighbor.”
Rose shakes hands but doesn’t invite her inside.
“As you know, I have been appointed by the court to evaluate and make a recommendation.”
Evaluate. Sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. The woman follows her inside.
“You’re friends with Miss Gates. With Opal?” Sarah Rogers begins.
Rose hesitates. A land mine here. “Hmmmm,” she says, noncommittally. She doesn’t want to get involved, but she doesn’t want to say anything to hurt Opal either. The girl may not be the best mother in the world, but the truth is, Opal loves her boy. More than a father who has shown up only once.
Sarah Rogers opens her briefcase and takes out some papers.
“What can you tell me about Zack? I’d like to know what you’ve observed about his relationship with his mother.”
“I don’t really know them that well,” she says.
Sarah checks her notes. “According to Opal, you baby-sit for Zack.”
“Once,” Rose says. “New Year’s Eve.”
“Did she happen to talk to you about how she came to Normal?”
This is a safer subject. She tells her about how Opal threw a die and drove that many tanks of gas. She tells her that Opal believes in signs.
“And she said you were there when Zack broke his arm. Can you tell me about that?”
Rose hesitates. “I need a glass of water. I’m parched. Can I get you one?” Caught between a rock and a hard place. She doesn’t want to lie. Buy time, she thinks. If she tells the truth, what will happen to Zack? She knows what Ned would tell her to do. But what does her heart tell her? How did she get in this deep?
“Mrs. Nelson?” Sarah prompts.
CHAPTER 33
OPAL
OPAL STRETCHES AWAKE, GLANCES OVER AT THE clock. It’s after ten. It’s been years since she has had the luxury of sleeping late. Except this doesn’t feel like a luxury. It feels like a bunk in hell.
Zack has been in New Zion for one week now, with one more week stretching ahead. It was a mistake to have agreed to the two weeks. She should have fought for one week now and then another later, safely in the future. Maybe Billy would be satisfied with one week. Maybe he would give up altogether. She listens to the too-quiet house. The loss feels physical, hollowness she can actually feel in her stomach, her chest, her throat. Her heart.
She’d feel better if she could hear Zack’s voice, but she hesitates to phone again. Last night’s conversation dissolved into tears on both sides. “Satisfied?” she said to Billy when he’d taken the receiver. “He was fine until you called,” he shot back.
Was he? How would she know? How can she believe anything Billy says? She doesn’t trust him a quarter of a country mile. She should have fought the visitation. What had Vivian told her? It was to her advantage to appear reasonable? She doesn’t want to be reasonable. She wants to have Zack.
Did Billy listen when she told him that Zack likes to have orange juice on his cereal instead of milk? Or that he can’t sleep without Tigger? She knows Billy thinks she’s too soft on Zack. Billy’s philosophy is that he’s a boy, he should be tough.
Thinking of him at Melva’s is worse. Her mama’s rules are rigid as a flagpole: Finish everything on your plate. (Even if it’s cabbage. Or lima beans, which absolutely make you puke.) Bedtime at seven-thirty. (Even if you’re wide awake and just lying in bed makes your skin itch.) No night-lights. (Even if werewolves wait in dark corners.) Her mama’s rules are endless, without heart. Who will protect Zack from Melva?
Fuck it. She reaches for the phone and dials Billy’s number. On the other end, the line rings. Once. Twice. Four times. Seven. No answer. No machine. Where the hell are they? She is powerless here. She has no hands to touch her baby.
She feels the rumble of panic. She wants Zack.
CHAPTER 34
NED
THEY HAVE FINISHED THEIR COFFEE AND THE LAST OF A lemon meringue pie. While Trudy clears the dishes, Ned switches off the television and opens the register. He counts the bills, notes the amount on a slip, pulls an elastic band around the money, and shoves it into the canvas night deposit bag. He has taken to helping Trudy close up. There is something about the routine that settles his nerves.
By the time he’s done, she returns from the kitchen. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asks. “Phyllis needed the car.”
Her daughter is shopping for an apartment, the first step to leaving her husband, although Trudy has seen this scene played out enough not to get her hopes up.
“Sure.”
She waits while he makes room on the passenger side of the pickup. “Sorry,” he says, stuffing greasy rags and a parts manual behind the seat.
“I wasn’t expecting a stretch limo.”
In the confines of the cab, he is aware of her smell, a surprisingly pleasing mix that contains traces of cooking grease and the warm scent of a woman’s body.
She lights a cigarette. “Mind?”
“No,” he says, although he does. Rose will smell it on him. Although he has done nothing wrong, he feels guilty. Oh, sure, he’s had thoughts about Trudy. What man wouldn’t? She’s an attractive woman. But thoughts aren’t action. As far as Rose is concerned, he’s been true to his vows. Never been a question of cheating.
Trudy exhales a lungful of smoke. It swirls around the cab. Ned adjusts the vent window so air is directed at him.
“You sure this isn’t bothering you?”
“No. I used to smoke. Gave it up ten years ago.”
“I tried. Didn’t last a day.”
“You should get yourself one of those patches.”
“Why bother? No one lives forever. Might as well get what enjoyment you can while you’re here, that’s my philosophy. What’s that commercial? ‘Go for the gusto.’ ”
As far as he can see, there isn’t much gusto in her life. He wonders if she sleeps with anyone. There have been rumors over the years— inevitable, a woman like Trudy alone—but never specific names. In Normal, a secret doesn’t stay buried long.
“You’re
quiet,” she says.
“Just tired.” And this is true. He’s glad the weekend is one day away. More and more lately, exhaustion takes him by surprise. He could use a vacation. A real one. Different scenery. Lazy days. Hammock days. Listening to ball games on the transistor. He exhales a long, tired sigh. He’d have as much chance of getting Rose to agree as winning Indy on four flat tires. He pulls up to Trudy’s house. The screen door needs repair. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint.
“Come on in.”
“I should be getting along.”
“Oh, come on in for a minute. I don’t bite.”
“Didn’t think you did.”
“I’ll give you a beer before you head home.”
She’s lonely, he thinks. Living alone like that. Of course a person doesn’t have to live alone to feel lonely. What the hell. Grab the gusto. Or at least a beer. One beer never killed anyone. He steps out of the truck and follows her up the walk, wondering how the hell he’s going to explain beer on his breath to Rose.
The house smells stale, but it’s neat. There is a woven blanket hanging on the living room wall like some kind of painting. The colors are so bold they give him a headache.
“Miller do?” she calls from the kitchen.
“Fine,” he says, hoping it’s not Lite. Might as well be drinking cow piss as that stuff they pass off as beer. He looks around. A row of framed snapshots line the mantel. He crosses for a better look. One of Phyllis, another of Phyllis and her little girl, Trudy’s only grandchild. The third is of a dark-haired Indian child. The Lakota girl Trudy sponsors, he guesses. He picks up the photo. Bright-looking child. Brown eyes that stare straight at you asking to be liked. It’s a good thing Trudy does, sponsoring this child. He wonders if Rose would be interested in doing something like that. Maybe he should bring it up.
He is setting the frame back on the mantel when the first pain hits. Out in the kitchen, Trudy is calling out something, but he can’t respond. The pain isn’t sharp, more like a weight, a weight so crushing he can barely breath. It radiates down his arm, up into his jaw. Christ, it’s like the worst toothache he’s ever had.
“Can or glass?” Trudy asks from the door.
He sinks into an armchair, struggles to get his breath. Christ, his jaw is killing him.
“Ned? You all right? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, relieved he can speak. Already it’s abating, leaving only the memory. But, Jesus.
“You’re sweating. You sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. Just a spasm of some kind. Gas.” He attempts a grin. “Too many donuts and pie.” He puts his hand to his chest, over the fluttery feeling.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She crosses to him, lifts his arm, searches for a pulse with her fingers.
“Whatta you, suddenly a nurse?” he says, managing a smile.
“I’m calling the rescue.”
“No. It’s nothing. Like I said. Gas.”
“Listen. I watched my father go from a heart attack. I’m not watching you. Better safe than sorry.”
What is she talking, heart attack? The worst of it had been in his jaw. Who has a heart attack in his jaw? He corrals enough strength to argue. “I’m telling you, I’m fine. It’s already gone. If you want to do anything, get me some Maalox.”
But she is already off. He listens to her make the call, embarrassed. The whole thing is a big fuss over nothing.
He loses track of time. The next thing, Bud Flynn is walking in the door. He’s carrying a green duffel bag.
“Ned, what’s happening?”
There is a young kid with him, the new paramedic. Jesus, the kid looks like he should be in high school. He tries to make a joke, but doesn’t have the energy.
“Nothing. Indigestion. Too many donuts.” The effort of speech exhausts him.
Bud takes his pulse. Peers into his eyes. “Maybe so,” he says, “but let me examine you anyway.” He opens the bag, takes out a cylinder of oxygen. Over Ned’s protests, he places the mask over his mouth.
The kid sets up another machine. A computer of some kind.
“What the hell is that?” Ned pushes the question out.
“EKG monitor.”
“I tell you I’m fine,” Ned says through the mask. He is embarrassed by the fuss, embarrassed to be found here at Trudy’s house. Christ, it was innocent, him being here, but he wonders what Bud is thinking. That’s all he needs. Rumors about him and Trudy flying around town.
“Let me check your blood pressure,” Bud says.
Ned is done trying to protest. All he wants is to go home. He hopes Rose never hears about this. He’s feeling better.
“Let’s hook you up to the EKG,” Bud says. “Get a picture and see what’s going on.”
“This is a big fuss over nothing.”
“Just let them do their job,” Trudy says.
“We’re here,” Bud says. “Give us a chance to earn our pay.”
“Will it take long?”
“Only a minute.”
The kid wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm and attaches the machine.
Bud checks the printout. “You’re showing some arrhythmia,” he says.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you get to take a ride with us.”
“Where?”
“Mercy Memorial.”
“No,” he says. “No way I’m going to the hospital.” He can’t remember the last time he was sick. Hasn’t even had a cold in years. It’s indigestion. A toothache. That’s all.
“Listen, Ned. It’s in your best interest,” Bud says. “We’d feel better if you go in. Get you checked out. You’ll feel better too. You don’t want to be worried all night. Set your mind at ease.”
Finally he agrees.
They make him lie on a stretcher. They keep him attached to the oxygen.
The kid—Dave—drives the rescue truck. Bud gets in back. As soon as they are underway, he inserts an IV.
“What the hell is that?”
“Saline solution.”
When the IV is secured, Bud calls the hospital. “Late middle-aged man. Chest pain, arrhythmia. High BP. We’ve administered oxygen and have him hooked to IV.”
Late middle-aged man. Christ, they went to school together. Ned repairs Bud’s car.
“Any pain?” a voice says over the speaker.
“Abating.”
“How about I give Rose a call?” Bud says. “Let her know what’s going on?”
“No,” Ned says. He can’t see any sense in worrying Rose. He’ll just get checked out and then head home before she even realizes he’s late. Everyone is overreacting. A man can’t even have indigestion in peace. He wonders if Bud will give him a ride back to Trudy’s to pick up the truck.
“You sure? You’ll be late showing up for dinner, and if she calls the station no one will answer. If she’s like Judy she’ll be imagining the worst. Why not let me call her? I won’t alarm her.” Neither of them mentions the fact that he had been at Trudy’s house. He can just imagine how it looks.
Jesus, he’s got to get on his feet, pick up the truck, and get home. Otherwise, how in hell is he going to explain this to Rose?
CHAPTER 35
ROSE
OPAL IS OUT WORKING IN THE GARDEN AGAIN. SHE’S been at it all day, weeding and watering, fussing over every tomato plant. That girl is hurting, taking badly the separation from Zack. Plus there’s that woman from the court asking questions all over town. And there are plenty can’t wait to give her an earful. The way the courts are allowed to meddle in a person’s life is nothing short of criminal.
For once, the girl hasn’t brought that tape machine out with her. She should have. Maybe it would help fill the silence created by her boy’s absence. But then Rose knows better than anyone that there is no noise in creation that will fill that kind of void. She considers offering her a glass of iced tea, but before she can do any
thing, the phone rings.
It has been more than a week since the biopsy. The doctor’s nurse said they would be calling her in a week with the results, and today is the ninth day.
If it’s bad news, will they tell her straight out or ask her to come in to the office? Surely they don’t just blurt things like “you have cancer” on the phone. She has tried to ready herself for this, but there is no way to prepare. She picks up the phone.
“Mrs. Nelson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Murphy’s office calling.”
“Yes.”
“The doctor asked me to give you a call.”
Her fingers tighten their grip on the receiver. “Yes.”
“We’ve gotten the results of your lab test.”
So tell me, she wants to shout. Just tell me. She is forgetting to breathe.
“They’re negative.”
“Negative?”
“Yes. Absolutely. This is one problem you can forget, okay?”
She exhales one long sigh, thanks the nurse, hangs up. Beneath her breastbone, she feels the hard, black fist open its fingers and flex. People say things like a cloud lifted when they get good news, a weight off their shoulders, a new lease on life. Rose feels the surprising truth of these old saws. Does she want a new lease on life? She does. The fact, the amazing fact—the startling fact—is that she does.
She climbs the stairs to Todd’s room. A shaft of late sun streams through the window, bathing the dresser top, the ceramic tiger he made at summer camp. She strokes the figure. She fingers his watch. Blood is still encrusted in the links of the band, after all this time. She picks up one of the photos. For years she has been unable to allow herself to remember fully the day it was taken, as if memories held the power to . . . To what? Flatten? Crush? Destroy?
She sinks down on the mattress and traces Todd’s face with her fingertip. They had been having a cookout in the backyard that day. She had just come from the house with a bowl of potato salad. Ned was grilling chicken. Todd was goofing around, juggling tennis balls in the air with an air of both intense concentration and grace. He was fifteen. Taller than she was and gaining on Ned. Growing tall; growing away from them. Lately, girls had been calling, giggling when they asked for him. She doesn’t remember what impulse led her to return to the house for her camera. She never was much of a picture taker.
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