The Jeweler
Page 2
The nurse came over, looking grim. She took one of Ginger’s shaky hands in hers.
“Hon, I’m going to have you follow me.”
Fender locked the shop door and headed down the street with the ring box in his coat pocket. He wasn’t sure what to do. After a moment, he looked up and found himself in front of the chrome door of the Rendezvous Bar. He nodded. Pop will know what to do.
He stepped inside. This thing was going to gnaw at him. Really, how are you supposed to react when the guy who just bought an engagement ring from you becomes road pizza? He had no idea. If someone else had found it, they would’ve kept it. That thought chapped Fender. I worked hard on that sucker, it’s worth a good chunk of money, and some dumbass off the street could’ve just picked it up. So at least he had the ring. And he had the check Brad had given him. Now what? Now that he had the ring back, was it was stealing to keep the money? Maybe if he got rid of the ring, he could keep the money. But how was he supposed to know who to give it to?
“Sonny!” Fender knew that voice: Pop.
Fender’s dad had retired five years ago and left his son the family business. Fender’d taken it on grudgingly. He was awfully young to be saddled with so much responsibility, and it was a forever kind of responsibility. He liked the finer points of owning a jewelry shop: designing stuff, flexible hours (Fender took a whole lot of license with the word flexible), and sometimes it was even a good conversation starter with a girl who caught his eye. But it was a job, and it was the family “legacy,” and he was Fender Barnes, king of screwing shit up. He certainly couldn’t take on Barnes and Son and then sell it to a schmuck off the street if things didn’t go well. That would kill his pop. And he worried a lot that he’d lose the business. That would definitely kill Pop. And he’s been so happy lately, killing him with my ineptitude just wouldn’t be fair. Pop’s occupation now was holding court in a booth in the back of the Rendezvous. He dispensed advice and opinions to anyone who stumbled into the bar on weekday afternoons. He especially liked to give advice to his son.
Fender made his way to the vinyl booth and scooted in opposite his father. “Hi, Pop.”
Fender got the up and down once-over. “How are you? You look like you’re worried.”
“I’m okay.” Fender paused.
Pop was eating an unusually greasy Rueben. He stopped mid-bite. “Fender, out with it. You’re mulling. It’s enough to give me heartburn.”
“You get heartburn all the time. Look at what you eat, for crying out loud.”
Pop set the sandwich down. “Are we going to chat like librarians at tea or are you going to tell me what you’re here for? I know my son. Cut to the chase.”
Fender shifted, and the vinyl creaked noisily. “This guy bought an engagement ring from me.”
Pop huffed. “You’ll have that in a jewelry store, my son. I’m beginning to wonder if putting you in charge was such a good idea.”
Fender grew annoyed. Pop was right—time to cut to the chase. “He wouldn’t shut up about the girl, and then he walked out in the street and got hit by a car. He dropped the ring, and I picked it up. So, now what do I do with it?”
“Take it to him in the hospital.”
“I think he died, Pop. The way the ambulance took him away, I’m pretty sure…” His voice trailed off.
“Oh. Who’s the girl?” His father focused intently on him.
“What girl?”
“Who was he going to give the ring to?”
“I have no idea.” Fender wished for a second that he’d paid more attention to the love-struck man. What was her name? Did he say it?
“No worries, Sonny. This is what you do. Take the ring to his funeral; they’ll say where it is in the paper. Look around for the saddest girl. That’s the girlfriend. Give her the ring.”
“I don’t know, Pop, this—”
“Fender, this girl, this woman, she needs to know about that ring. This man was thinking of her in his last moments. She should know that, know that he wanted to marry her.”
Fender felt a bad mood creeping up on him. “Maybe she’ll be glad she’s off the hook.” He motioned to a figure behind the bar. He’d take that beer now.
Chapter Two
WHEN POP HAD CALLED five days later, Fender hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.
“Found it for you, Sonny.”
“What?” Fender had tried to clear his voice. He and two of the goldsmiths from up north had been out late the night before. He felt a little hung over. Maybe a lot hung over.
“The funeral. Of the guy. It’s in the paper this morning. Now you can go find this woman. It’s today out at Dry Creek. Four p.m.”
“Thanks, Pop.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Pop, I’ll go.”
“Grouchy! You ought to get more sleep. Bye, Sonny.”
So, just a few hours later, there he was, at the funeral of a person he didn’t even know. But he had to admit, the whole thing had been bugging him. He’d taken the ring home. The little box sat on his dresser and reminded him of the accident each time he reached in his drawer for socks.
He’d dug his one suit out of the back of the closet. He’d even taken a dishrag to the dust that had settled on the shoulders.
The sad fact was that people didn’t even dress up for funerals anymore. He stood at the edge of the crowd and felt stupid in a dark wool suit. Beads of sweat raced from his armpits down to his waistband inside the shirt. What a stupid idea. What the hell was he doing here?
Then the priest started. Well, shit. Now I can’t go anywhere. Who ever heard of somebody leaving a funeral early?
The priest really did say a lot of nice things about Brad, though. Sounded like he knew him personally. That’s nice. Jesus, no one’ll probably even realize I’m dead until the stench is so bad from my condo, the neighbors call the cops. Fender shook himself out of it. I’m supposed to find the girlfriend. Concentrate. The ring box pressed against his chest pocket urgently. Find the girl, Fender.
He looked around. Okay. She’s the girlfriend, so probably near the casket. Not right next to it. He stepped left to get a better view of the chairs under the awning. There were only two. Gotta be Mom and Dad. Sure looked like it. A gray-headed man in a suit had his arm around the woman. She had dark hair, a Nancy Reagan suit, and bony, old-looking hands. She kept her eyes focused on the ground in front of her. A handkerchief was permanently at her mouth in one of the bony hands, stifling sobs.
Behind them. It had to be her. She looked around at the other people. She looked bewildered, almost. She had long, reddish-blond hair. Part of it was pulled into a barrette at the top of her head, and some had fallen into her face.
Her eyes darted around again and rested on him briefly. They were a very deep green. They were wet with tears. She shifted, and he noticed how the hem of her dress floated up with the breeze.
Hmm…This had to be her. Oh, God, I cannot talk to this woman. She is…she’s like…Fender turned around and headed for the car, certain he was the first person in history ever to bail in the middle of a funeral.
Ginger stood still and felt the wind play at the hem of her dress as she looked out over the town. The streets had a haze of brownish smog over them. She could barely make out the cars. She had a strong sense that, for the rest of the city, time moved forward and an ordinary day was in full swing.
But for her, time had paused here, in this green square perched on a dusty foothill. The arch of the cemetery gate signaled a time-out from the regular world. It’d been five days since she had gotten the awful phone call. Ginger felt loss, but it still seemed Brad had gone away, that he was alive somewhere, just not here.
So, she tried to talk herself into it. She focused on the glossy lid of the coffin and reminded herself that he was in there. She wondered if people who witnessed a death were the only ones who really believed the dead person wasn’t just away.
And then it happened. His personality disappeared. He’d had a distinctive walk—a swagger almost—as if he’d been conscious of walking in front of the crowd. But in an instant, his face was expressionless, his eyes not focused anywhere. He fell forward, and his hands did not come up to break his fall.
The paramedics, rushing from the sideline of the field, had descended on him and rolled him over. He’d already become a person again, only a person in pain and distress. His face was bleeding, but the emotion and expression had returned.
What stayed with her was the impression that his personality had evaporated in the afternoon sun. She remembered feeling scared and bewildered as she witnessed his body shutting down.
Maybe if she’d seen Brad’s face just at that moment when he was gone…then maybe she could stand here and realize the void opening in her life. Right now she just felt numb.
The green awning over the grave creaked a bit in the wind, and Ginger looked around at the other people in attendance. Some were visibly upset. Others looked more concerned with finding a good vantage point. She stood at the edge of the Astroturf that lined the gaping hole in front of her. Brad’s parents sat in front of her.
Ginger hadn’t made much of an effort to talk with them. She felt out of place after the hospital. She’d made the awful calls and picked up his parents at the airport the next morning, but afterward there had been a strange stillness to her life. Brad’s folks handled the details of the funeral, and they didn’t seem to care to have her involved. Ever since she and Brad had moved in together, she hadn’t worked during the summer—Brad’s practice was successful, and with her off in the summer, it had given them flexibility to travel. So now she had nothing to do. Even her friend Molly had cooked dinner for her and picked out the navy dress she wore for the funeral.
She’d skipped the open house Brad’s family held and made a brief appearance at the wake. Brad’s mother had come by the house to pick out a suit for him to be buried in and a photograph to place on the casket at the graveside service. But she didn’t touch anything else, and she hadn’t lingered. Brad hadn’t made his family very happy when he’d decided to move out west. He hadn’t really gone home to visit, and they hadn’t come out to see him, at least not since he and Ginger had been together. She simply didn’t know his mom well enough to have anything but brief apologies and sympathies to say to her during her short time at the house. And then Ginger had been left alone.
It was a relief to go to the funeral, really. Facing the prospect of cleaning the house or packing up his things was unthinkable. What would she do with his clothes?
The house was filled with his things, their things together. What upset her was looking at all the mundane stuff. Toothbrush. Who cared about his toothbrush? How could she get rid of it, though? A person accumulated stuff, never figuring he wouldn’t be around to tie up the loose ends. Brad had arrogant, unfinished stuff, like half-drunk Gatorade bottles in the fridge.
And his office. Who’d take his patients? Who’d take care of Zoë? It all washed over her, and she felt powerless against the details. This was her grief, and she had a feeling this was how she would realize the cold fact of it: Brad was dead, and he was not coming back. And people would probably deal with that, eventually. The details would be tied up, his affairs settled, and some other vet would treat Zoë when the dog was sick.
Ginger felt nauseated. A vague uneasiness worked its way up into her consciousness. She couldn’t put a finger on it, and exploring what this was about felt evil and rumbled in her gut. She didn’t poke at it. She let the strange awareness stay under her shock and sorrow.
People crowded around, and she marveled at the variety. Some of Brad’s buddies wore khakis and golf shirts. Older friends of Brad’s parents had flown in and wore dark suits. Women’s attire ran the gamut. Only in the West would casual attire be okay at a funeral. No place was too fancy or too somber for shorts. She thought Brad might have liked that.
It occurred to her, looking around, that she shared no friends with Brad. He had his mountain biking buddies, his fellow veterinarians, his fishing buddies—she knew none of these men except in passing. She had no one to speak to at his funeral, really. That struck an odd chord, and she tried not to dwell on it.
The priest seemed to be wrapping up his homily, so Ginger tried to quiet her mind and listen. He was a client of Brad’s. His golden retrievers were longtime customers, and it was comforting to know this man in black could say something about Brad from experience. She decided she needed to get to know clergy. If she were gone tomorrow, it’d be an anonymous service some holy man would have to give.
That would be horrible. Brad was different, though. So many people could think of him fondly and tell good stories about him. Life is not fair.
Chapter Three
AFTER THE FUNERAL, Ginger retreated to her mother’s house in Washington State. Her parents had divorced some time before, and Mom had chosen to make her home in the wet forests of the Northwest. In the woods, Ginger took long walks in the ever-present drizzle and stared out of the window a lot. At night, she turned on the TV for distraction and did not think of sleep until the sky had edges of pink in the east. She gathered her mother’s Corgi dogs and Zoë’s big Husky fluffiness around her on the bed as the dawn came. Then she fell into the deep sleep of melancholy. Whenever she awoke, she felt as though she was entering a hazy world she wasn’t connected to. And by then, her mother had gone off to work, and she was alone.
What should’ve been a few weeks’ stay turned into two months. Then—suddenly it seemed—autumn crept into the forest. On a typically wet day, Ginger smelled fall in the air as she walked along the path to the house. She kicked at the fallen leaves and pine needles under her feet, and the dogs all bobbed along the trail in front of her. As she approached the house, Ginger saw her mother sitting on the porch in one of the lawn chairs. She had a thick coat pulled up around her chin. Ginger sat down next to her. The dogs continued to circle the porch, sniffing twigs and rocks for clues. Ginger watched the dogs and avoided her mom’s gaze.
“Ginger, it’s time to go back.”
Ginger looked up at her. Her eyes seemed soft, but Ginger knew she’d be firm. So, she packed up and took one last walk with Zoë and the little squat dogs through the mist. Then she headed back to life.
When she opened the door to the house, she shuddered. Tied to the habit of unlocking the door was the expectation of Brad’s voice greeting her from the kitchen. But the house held its tongue, and loneliness settled over her. Zoë seemed to sense the tension of the moment and flew past her into the living room, skidding across the hardwood floor, butt first.
Ginger could not think. She carefully brought her bags into the house, unpacked them, brushed her teeth, put on pajamas, and climbed into bed. She held the grief and thoughts and worries and avalanche of emotion behind a wall inside of her, and lay very still. It was the only way she could figure to function. She could survive and hold on, and maybe later she could handle something more than that.
A few mornings after her return, the dry November air in Boise smelled like snow, and Ginger actually felt an enthusiasm creeping up on her. The season was about to begin, and she could lose herself in the work on the mountain. She would zipper up her winter coat and be surrounded by little girls and boys demanding her attention and love. Teaching them to ski meant distraction, and maybe even smiles.
And it was true. Snow dumped on the resort the week before Thanksgiving, and she went back to the mountain. In the bustle of a new season, it was easy to work and to forget. The one thing that tugged her back to her memories felt a whole lot li
ke guilt. She noticed men. She’d be riding the chairlift and look down to see a strong figure cutting long, lazy curves in the snow. She’d gaze down at the man and wonder about his life. Wonder what kind of woman lay in bed next to him at night, or if he was alone—alone like she was.
And as soon as she remembered her loneliness, she remembered the reason. Then her stomach would turn at the sight of the man. Out of guilt, or fear, or remembering, she didn’t know, but Ginger’s body recoiled, whatever it was.
At night, she did sometimes sleep, mostly because of the sheer physical exhaustion of lifting little kids up from the snow all day. But many nights stretched into day, and Ginger would stare at the ceiling, turning what had happened over and over in her head.
She was torn about the house. Brad, ever the responsible one, owned it outright and had left it to her in his will. She’d never even considered a will, but Brad had his veterinary practice, he owned things, he had things to leave to people. She owned a dog. And a bike her mom had given her when she graduated high school. She could leave a nice set of luggage to someone—her grandpa had bought it for her when she turned sixteen.
Nights passed. She lay in this house that was hers now and stared at its ceiling. She couldn’t imagine selling it, but it felt suffocating. Sometimes it felt safe, but sometimes it was a reminder of so much, it felt like that ceiling would collapse in on her. It was loaded down with so many memories. All of this would tumble through her brain for most of the night, on most nights. If she were lucky, she’d fall asleep in short spurts, waking fitfully and often drenched in sweat. And then she’d drag herself out of bed and go to teach on the mountain.
She wondered when it would all feel okay again.
Chapter Four
FENDER DIDN’T TELL POP the truth. When he’d returned to the bar the night of the funeral, Pop had asked if it went well, and he’d just said yes and left it at that.