by Robert Graf
She followed, her entourage trailing after, through the door into a large, unadorned room. Bare beige walls with lit sconces and what she guessed were fifty or more blue cushioned chairs in rows filled the room. A blue-carpeted, center aisle led to a small stage supporting a wooden lectern with Jon's photo in a black frame mounted on the front. She'd had the devil's own time finding a suitable one, finally taking one from a news release when Global bought the company.
"Sit wherever you wish," Landers told them, taking his position behind the lectern. Ann walked to the front and sat in an isle seat, Ellen to her right, her parents behind her. Jon's parents were seated to her left behind her. Several co-workers, some of whom she barely knew, occupied other chairs. She spotted Ian, but didn't acknowledge him, still undecided how to resolve the Swales issue. Overall, a small turnout, about what she expected.
Jon's parents were dressed in black, his mother even wearing a black lace veil. Ann nodded to them. They didn't acknowledge her and continued to stare with fixed stony expressions to the front. She cringed inside. Leaving Alex home was the right decision. She glanced back to the stage, then noticed the muted sound of Bach's Mass in B minor. She'd chosen it after days of fretting about what was appropriate, one of the few classical pieces they both liked.
Landers tapped on the microphone. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jonathan Grey. The program is very simple. His wife will give the eulogy. Any of you wishing to speak may do so after. Afterwards there will be refreshments. Mrs. Grey?"
Ann stood and stepped on to the stage behind the lectern. She took the folded sheet from her pocket, spread it out and looked around the near empty chapel, eyeing each guest before speaking.
"Once upon a time a young boy lived in California, a land of sunshine and earthquakes. His curiosity was insatiable, from when he first began to talk and at times trying the limits of his parents' patience. 'Where does the sun go at night?' 'Why is the sky blue?' Where do the pictures on TV come from?' and many more. His parents tried their best to answer and were relieved when he started school, believing teachers could satisfy his curiosity.
In the beginning that did not happen. As the boy grew and passed up the grade school ladder his questioning did not subside. Teachers wrote letters home saying he disrupted class. They really couldn't complain too strongly, for when he was asked questions, he always knew the answer. He scornfully told his parents that the other students were stupid and lazy, and why couldn't they understand? As a result he had few friends and spent long hours in school and city libraries.
High school started out in the same fashion, teachers unsettled by his questioning and fellow students who shunned him, until he took a science class from a newly naturalized citizen from India. In what his parents thought was a miraculous reversal, their son became focused on science, especially physics, and even blossomed socially, dating in his junior and senior years. Why the change, his perplexed parents asked him, and at school conferences, his teachers. 'He can explain things' he told his parents, referring to the science teacher; other teachers agreed.
Then he started college, and for the first time in his life met other young men and women who were equally curious and bright and frankly bored with their high school experience. Here he also experimented with illegal substances and partying and sex, all, he confided to his new friends, out of curiosity. He graduated with honors in mathematics and physics and went on to graduate school majoring in quantum mechanics.
Now he was truly challenged. He had to narrow his focus and became interested in quantum communication. By this time he had developed his own style of approaching a problem: He read everything he could find on a topic, then laid out a methodical path to reach a conclusion. It was during his research he met a young woman also intensely interested in quantum communication. Her approach, though, was drastically different. She would read a few introductory papers on a topic, think about them for a bit and then jump to what to him seemed implausible conclusions.
They had arguments, some friendly, some not so amicable, especially as she was almost always proven correct after he finished his methodical research. At some point they realized they complemented each other, and respect blossomed into affection and ultimately marriage after completing doctorates.
In post-doc studies they developed a theory of quantum communication that the established practitioners in the physics community pointed out had been proven impossible; they shouldn’t waste their time and precious funds on it. They finally published a paper describing their theory that generated great controversy. Eventually the physics community grudgingly allowed it was possible.
The couple tried to have children only to discover they couldn't, which caused them great distress. They put that grief aside, and by dint of hard work, borrowed money, and admittedly luck, built a device that proved their impossible theory was indeed correct.
By that time they were broke, in debt to friends and family, and had maxed out their credit. At last their luck changed. A major communication corporation decided to gamble on their invention and bought their startup and provided the funding to build a commercial version. At last their device was sold to NASA who installed it on the Jove Explorer for its historical journey to Jupiter. NASA's ship suffered a tragic accident on its voyage, but through the use of their device a rescue attempt was able to succeed.
But at the pinnacle of success the husband suffered a massive heart attack and died."
Ann blinked back tears and took a deep breath. "We shall miss him." She folded her notes, stepped down from the stage and took her seat, staring at nothing.
Landers resumed his position at the lectern. "Does anyone else wish to speak?" he asked in his pleasant uninflected voice, scanning the audience.
The sound of furious whispers caused Ann to glance to her left. Jon's father stood with his wife hanging on to his arm, shaking her head, mouthing "No." He tried to pull away, but she hung on, and he sat back down with the eyes of the entire room on him. He stared fixedly ahead.
Landers didn't react, simply waiting patiently. "There are refreshments in the reception room out the door to your right. If you haven't done so, please take a moment and sign the guest book at the door. There's an online guest book for those of you so inclined. Thank you for attending."
Ann remained seated while the audience quietly exited the chapel. What if someone had learned the ugly details about Jon’s death and questioned her? She prayed no one would be so insensitive. She followed the last guest, a co-worker, out the door into the reception room with Ellen close behind.
Along one wall a buffet of fruits and small sandwiches was laid out along with bottles of differing juices and metal carafes of coffee. She eased though the guests, smiling politely at their words of sympathy and chose an apple juice. She thirstily drank half of it while half listening to the murmuring around her.
"Wasn't that a nice eulogy?" from a woman she thought was an engineer.
"Kind of short, I thought, but they were never very talkative."
"Who's that following her?"
"No one from work, maybe a relative?"
"Who was that guy that started to speak, that the woman stopped?"
"Not sure, had to be relatives."
Ann hadn't noticed her parents approach until her mother interrupted her eavesdropping.
"Ann, that was well done, I never knew Jon was such a problem child."
"Not really a problem, Mom, just precocious. He was a loner, or so he told me."
"You were like that too, always asking questions, though I don't recall any notes from school."
"I was too shy, though I usually answered any questions thrown my way."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Yes, what?" came from her father who munched on a sandwich. "We followed the Jupiter mission and saw you on a news clip at the Space Center. That must have been very stressful, yet satisfying that your machine worked so well."
"I've made no decisions; right n
ow I'm just lying back and trying to gather my thoughts."
Her mother's gaze focused on her face, like one of her lasers. "Are those cuts? What happened?"
Shit, she'd hoped the makeup would conceal them. Never could hide anything from her. Ann opened her mouth to answer when Jon's parents pushed their way in.
"What are you going to do with my son's ashes?" demanded Jon’s mother. His father just glowered at Ann.
Her parents stepped back, looking annoyed.
Don't react, be cool, after all they're grieving. Leave the urn on a shelf in the house, scatter them at sea, she had no idea. "I haven't decided."
"We have a family mausoleum."
She hadn’t known that. "Did you ever discuss that with Jon?"
"Of course, we took him there when we buried my mother. His grandfather was already there. Didn't you have a trust or will?"
Ann bet he’d asked if she'd gone to heaven or hell. "There's no mention of preferences in his will."
"Why haven't you shown us a copy of the will," his father asked, eyes narrowed in a suspicious frown.
Ann’s face flushed in anger, and she forced herself to focus. "The wills were drawn up by corporate lawyers and are strictly between us and Global. I'm not at liberty to divulge their contents to anyone."
By now the room had fallen silent, the other guests focusing their attention on the unfolding tableau; Ann could feel the collective gaze pressing on her like a strong wind.
"That's unacceptable," he sputtered.
"She has no choice, Mr. Grey," Ian interjected, pushing his considerable bulk forward to stand beside Ann. "Corporate policy doesn't allow her to discuss those matters."
"Who are you?" Jon's father demanded, clearly flustered by Ian's intimidating presence.
"Allow me to present Ian MacDougal, head of Global Communication security," Ann answered, grateful for the interruption. "Back to Jon's ashes, I'll consider your request very carefully and decide later."
"Hmmph," his mother snorted. With a parting glare at Ann, she grabbed her husband's arm and dragged him, protesting, out of the room.
"Thank you, Ian," Ann replied, unwilling to be more than polite.
"No problem. I must be off, but wanted to compliment you on the eulogy. Jon would have approved."
She wasn't so sure of that. "That's kind of you. I'll contact you next week. We need to talk."
He nodded and turned away.
Ann's patience and stamina had evaporated, and she desperately wanted to escape.
"Mom, Dad, are you returning tonight?"
Her mother answered. "No, dear, we're staying over in San Francisco and flying back in the morning. We had hoped to visit with you after the service, but I can tell you're barely coping now. This must be very hard on you."
"I'm exhausted, and you're right, I wouldn't be very good company." And how would she explain Alex? "I'm sorry; can I take a rain check?"
Her parents’ faces expressed resigned disappointment. "Yes, dear. We'll hold you to that. Come visit when you feel up to it. We can put you up in your old room; it's mostly used for storage now."
Relief flooded through her, another arrow dodged. "That's a plan." She hugged her mother and then her father. "Have a safe trip."
She spotted Ellen standing by the door, observing the crowd, and walked over. "I'm ready to go."
Ellen led the way out to the parking area and her car, all the while scanning her surroundings.
Ann didn't begin to relax until Ellen merged onto the main thoroughfare and the funeral home disappeared from view. She sagged into the seat feeling as limp as an old dishrag. Would there be anyone to do the same for her? Would that person feel as relieved after their duty was carried out? Did it matter? She needed a drink and Alex, not necessarily in that order.
"How was the memorial service?" Alex asked, sitting on the bed as she changed out of the suit and donned jeans and a sweatshirt.
"It went, and I need a drink," she replied, giving him a quick kiss on the way to the kitchen.
She found a half bottle of Gordon's in the refrigerator and a bottle of tonic. She dropped ice cubes in a glass followed by equal amounts of gin and tonic. "Want one?"
"I'd better not, I just took another Vicodin," he answered, carefully sitting down at the breakfast table.
"That bad?"
He grimaced. "The hand throbs, and I get headaches, sometimes it's more than I can bear."
She took a long swallow and felt a jolt as the gin hit her insides. "Ah, that tastes good.” She put the glass down. “Let's see that arm." She lifted his shirt and examined his arm in its sling. No swelling or red streaks above the cast. "Looks good."
He eyed her quizzically. "You a medical doctor, too?"
"Nope. I had an infected cut as a kid and developed blood poisoning, red streaks running up my arm. Scared the hell out of me, and I never forgot." Especially the brown, smelly gunk that erupted when the doctor cut it open and cleaned it out and restitched.
She took another swallow. "Not many showed up, just my folks, Jon's, Ian and several co-workers I didn't know very well. I made it through the eulogy OK. Then afterward Jon's parents cornered me, nagging me about the ashes and demanding to see the will. That might have turned ugly, except Ian intervened. I made my excuses and left." Another swallow and she could feel the effects, warmth spreading throughout her insides. Anymore and she'd be drunk. "Did you get ahold of your other daughter?"
He smiled ruefully. "More like Elise got ahold of me. She's more intuitive than Lynn. We never could keep secrets from her."
"You told her? Everything?"
"Yes," he admitted in a defensive tone. "She's coming up tomorrow."
For an instant she wanted to swear at him, but that wasn't fair. Who leaked the sabotage rumor, anyway? Can't have it both ways. "How did she take it?"
"Not well. The bombing horrified her. Nothing I said could assuage her fears even after I described the security."
She'd learned to live with the fear or at least not think of it too often. "Can't blame her. And us as an item?"
"She's withholding judgment until she meets you. I wouldn't worry about that aspect, not too much anyway."
Tomorrow should prove interesting. "Did you see any more references to my rumor?"
He grinned. "Hand me my tablet."
She grabbed his tablet and placed it in front of him.
He typed a few one-fingered commands and turned it towards her.
She stared in astonishment at the hits on 'EntCom sabotage' - 500,000. "That's incredible. It's been, what, three days? Pick one."
He selected a "jupiterwatch" link. She scanned the blog entries: NASA covering up sabotage; Toffler refuses to discuss EntComs (with a picture); Contact with crew for families only; EntComs survive bombing (with a link to the lab explosion); EntCom inventor dies under mysterious circumstances (a link to the Independent Journal).
"They all like this?”
"Pretty much. Some are downright scary. Conspiracy lovers pointing to the government, Chinese, terrorists, you name it. The one common thread is that NASA is sitting tight, though how long that lasts is anyone's guess. My very unofficial eyeball poll is the jury smells cover-up."
She snorted. "The wisdom of the crowd. Anyone touch on fact checking?"
"Not yet, though the questions about what EntComs had to do with the sabotage gets repeated over and over."
"I feel sorry for Toffler. I'm surprised the White House or Congress hasn't stuck their nose in. After all, the President gave that speech extolling the wonderfulness of the mission." Leading to her question to Jon that started it all. She should tell Alex, but not now.
"They have. The usual 'White house spokesman says President stands behind NASA', etc. Some senator is calling for an investigation. The foreign press is getting into it too." His eyes twinkled in amusement. "Is this what you wanted or expected?"
"I sort of guessed what would happen, but had no concept of the speed."
"Wha
t if it messes up the FBI’s investigation?" he asked, meeting her gaze.
She flushed. "We've had this discussion, remember? So this pushes them, good." Maybe she'd had too much to drink. "Please, let's not argue, it's done."
"Sorry. What's for dinner?"
Good question. "Beats me. I've not been much of a hostess lately. You choose something."
"You trust me to cook?"
"You're not crippled. I've got a bread book written by a one-armed Jesuit. He baked for dozens of brother monks, or whatever they call themselves." She got up from her stool and grinned at him. "I'll help, but dinner's on you. If we're out of something or need an ingredient, write it on that pad hanging on the fridge. I'm going to take a long bath."
She ran the bath and stripped while it filled. She settled into the hot foamy water and let her limbs relax, sighing in contentment. Between the drink and the heat she dozed, finally emerging when the bath cooled; she'd nearly morphed into a raisin. Dressed in her robe and slippers she wandered out to the kitchen. Alex was standing in front of the stove, stirring something in a large pot. She sniffed, garlic and..."Spaghetti?"
He continued stirring. "Yeah. It took a little experimenting, but I was able to fix a simple sauce of olive oil and garlic."
"Your hand?"
"Better, but I'm not going to push it."
She laid out the plates, utensils and glasses for the Zinfandel. Alex awkwardly strained the spaghetti and brought it to the table while she fetched the flavored olive oil. They sat and she mixed the oil and spaghetti and served.
"L'chaim, "she intoned, clinking her glass against his and taking a sip.
He smiled. "To us."
Her phone chirped. She continued eating, and it continued chirping. “Damn thing.” She got up and retrieved it— Collette.
"Dr. Grey, I've detained a man claiming to be a reporter for the Chronicle. I checked his ID, seems legit. He insists on seeing you, and I can't prevent him. What do you want to do?"
"Put him on."
A stocky, casually-dressed man, maybe in his forties, gazed at her. "Dr. Grey, I'm Gerome Litton, the science reporter for the Chronicle. I'd like to talk to you about the EntComs and their role in the Jupiter expedition."
