by Tom Bierdz
“What did you think of the detective?”
“Rollins? I thought he had an atrocious sense of timing. Remember the Jon Benet Ramsey murder, the six-year-old in the child beauty pageant? How the police and the press hounded the mother, suspecting her of killing her daughter? Years later they caught the real killer. That mother went through hell. Not only did she lose her daughter, but she had to endure the abuse of suspicion. I can’t help but see a comparison here when Rollins enters the picture. Bad enough to lose your sister, but then to be a suspect in her death.”
Megan forced a smile. “You do understand.”
“Except in your case, I expect suicide will soon be officially ruled as the cause of death.”
“It better be.”
“Is there anything I can do for you now?”
“Come with me to the funeral tomorrow.”
“Sure, glad to.”
“And,” she said, seizing my arms and pulling me closer to her so that are heads were but inches away, “promise me you’ll never leave me.”
“I promise,” I said, ignoring the chill that coursed through my body.
With the wind diminished, the rain fell straight and soft. On the drive to my place Megan filled me in on the funeral details, and promised to call me when she got home so I knew she was safe.
I poured myself a scotch and reflected on what just happened. I had promised never to leave her, responding to her need when I knew that was impossible, a fairytale, like the wedding vows Hanna and I made for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. No one can predict the future to know what things, or events, will impinge on a relationship. And, Hanna and I were in love, getting married, and believed, at the time, that our commitment was forever. I had fallen off the deep end for Megan, but did I love her? I didn’t know. Possibly. Time would tell. I don’t think I told her I loved her. I don’t remember if I did. I was sure she hadn’t told me she loved me. Yet, I had promised never to leave her.
Was I being too analytical again? Wasn’t it just one of those things that are said in the heat of the moment, that none of the parties feel obligated to uphold, that meet a need in a crisis and provide a link for an eventual solution? Always the giver, the good doctor, I needed to heal her pain and told her what she needed to hear. Will she regard it as such?
16
The funeral was held in the Brawny Lake Christian Church, a small, non-denominational, A frame-style church, built sometime in the sixties to serve the largely summer lake community. Minimalist with rows of wooden pews, an altar stood behind a railing and a few wooden crosses were tacked on the walls between ordinary windows. Absent were the stained glass windows usually seen in churches.
Surprisingly, the church was filled to the brim, almost entirely with Nick’s relatives and friends. Neither he nor Sasha attended church, but the service was held here at his request. Megan claimed to have no living relatives and few people knew she had a sister. Still, I expected to see friends and acquaintances from the tennis club and other community organizations. The contrast between the poor parish and wealthy inhabitants who dressed in their expensive, stylish clothing was glaring.
A pianist played hymns in the sanctuary as the people entered the church. Once they were settled, a young clergyman dressed in a blue suit, powder blue shirt and white tie entered the pulpit. A white stole, with a gold cross and gold ornamental trim, was draped over his shoulders. He said a few prayers, then spoke to the congregation. “What the caterpillar perceives as the end, to the butterfly is just beginning. And so it is with Sasha Kovich. She has gone into her cocoon, her tunnel, our modern-day spiritualists might say, and has emerged as a butterfly, a beautiful creature who has left her worries, those sorrows that bore down on her and caused her to take her own life, to fly freely with God... “
I choked, bit my lip to stem the tears. He could have been talking about Kevin. I could barely tolerate the ache in my heart. Why did I so readily agree to accompany Megan to the funeral? Certainly I should have known I’d be affected. Was this some masochistic need to punish myself for his death? Tears snuck down my face. Had anyone noticed they have thought I was grieving for Sasha. I wasn’t concerned what they would think. I was afraid that if I let go, I wouldn’t be able to stop crying. I tried to imagine Kevin leaving his cocoon, emerging as a butterfly, and take some solace in that.
I focused on Megan and Nick who exchanged angry glances, wondering what that was about. I knew Megan accused Nick of abusing Sasha. I couldn’t account for Nick’s anger but assumed he blamed Megan, at a minimum for her interference if for nothing else.
When the clergyman finished his speech he asked if anyone wanted to come up and say a few words about Sasha. It seemed like no one would when Megan stood and motioned with her arm.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, grabbing her elbow. Her speaking wasn’t planned as far as I could tell.
She nodded, strutted up to the pulpit. Eyeing the crowd, her face contorted with emotion as she prepared to speak, clearing her throat, making false starts. She had the audience holding their breaths. “Sasha was my sister, my only relative, my closest friend. Our parents were both dead when I was eighteen and Sasha sixteen. Just the two of us. We had to be there for one another. We remained close throughout Sasha’s lifetime, talked daily, even after Sasha married Nick. I’m sure Nick resented our daily talks, especially during the honeymoon...”
The audience laughed.
“...but he soon learned to accept, or at least, tolerate our closeness. I didn’t come to tell you about all the wonderful things about Sasha–and there were many–most of you knew her and have discovered her warmth, her infectious laugh, and how she could make you feel like you were that one-in-a-million, special person.”
She paused, her face on the verge of tears. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she offered a rue smile and continued, “Sasha had a dark side. We all have a dark side, but Sasha’s dark side gripped her and never let her go. There were many reasons for her depression, outside forces that were just too powerful for her, and caused her to finally give in. I’m not going to talk about them. I just want all of you to know that there are resources, places and people you can go to for help. You don’t have to end it like she did.” Tears spilled out. She choked up. “Maybe if I’d gotten there sooner...” Her body wavered, then dropped to the floor.
“She’s fainted!” someone shouted.
I dashed to her side, followed by the clergyman and others. I revived her, lifted her up. The clergyman and I both took an arm and escorted her out of the church. The showers had returned so the clergyman stayed with her while I darted for the car, and drove it next to the church where he helped Megan enter the car.
I wanted to take her home but Megan insisted she stay for the burial. She seemed to be recovering so we remained in the car and waited for the crowd to disperse and line up for the cemetery, then joined the caravan, our windshield wipers clearing the way.
The small cemetery stood at the edge of a park. Approaching it from the far side, between the tall firs in the rain, gave the scenic drive a gauzy, otherworldly feel. A tarp provided cover for the most immediate family members; the others huddled under umbrellas. The coffin, with Sasha’s remains, was perched upon the casket lowering device. The pastor recited a few prayers, including the ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ refrain.
I observed Nick as he bit his lip and sniffled, fighting to hide the tears that streamed down his face. He stood a little over six-feet with penetrating brown eyes, thick chestnut brown hair, and a neatly trimmed, close-cut beard that adorned his weathered face. He cut a trim figure in his suit. Even if he was a wife-beater and womanizer, he was grieving and his demeanor convinced me that Sasha still held a special place in his heart. A sister clutched his hand to console him. Some people were good at
masking their real personalities but he didn’t seem like a man who would kill his wife.
Several sets of eyes intermittently darted to Megan as she steadied herself on my arm. They were curious about this woman who they knew only by whatever information they had been fed by Nick and his family, and by her heartfelt speech about Sasha.
Megan held it together until the casket began to lower and the cleric quoted Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The grave is but a covered bridge from light to light, through a brief darkness.”
Once the crowd began to disburse and the pastor had Megan’s attention, I approached Nick. “I just wanted to say I am sorry for your loss.”
Furrowing his eyebrows in a questioning look, he asked, “Should I know you?”
“No. Grant Garrick,” I said, offering my hand.
“Did you know Sasha?”
“No, her sister.”
A look of recognition. “That’s right. You’re with Megan. At least you have the manners and wherewithal to offer your condolences.”
“Well, she...”
“Don’t defend her, Mr. Garrick, that cold bitch doesn’t need your help. She manages to destroy anyone close to her. Take my advice and get as far away from her as soon as you can, before you become another one of her casualties.”
He walked away leaving me stunned.
Megan joined me. “What was that about?”
“Nothing. I just offered Nick my sympathy.” Nothing I could share with her right now, but it was the opposite of nothing. Why would Nick say that to me especially today?
“He never deserved Sasha,” she said, taking my arm and heading for the car. I opened the umbrella.
“I can drive again,” she said, taking the keys. Instantly, as if she had been tapped by a magic wand, Megan’s demeanor changed. All signs of sadness or any other grieving emotions disappeared. She refused to participate in the luncheon at Nick’s. She suggested we have lunch at the club and play tennis later.
I begged off, stating I had to get back to the office. That wasn’t true as I had cancelled all my appointments thinking Megan needed me. But I needed me more. I needed to try to make sense of what I heard and experienced.
“I thought the ceremony, all of it, simple and nice. You agree?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t commented on my speech.”
“Well,” I hesitated, considering how I wanted to express myself. “It was heartfelt. Meaningful. I don’t think people knew how close you and Sasha were until you shared that with them.”
She flashed a full-wattage smile. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
Back at my office, I called for a Chinese food delivery for Bobby and me. We ate at my desk. There was no conference room. The kitchen was in the middle of being rehabbed, it’s progress stopped with Mike McBride’s heart attack. He was a skillful carpenter and liked to work with his hands. Sometimes I thought he preferred it to lawyering. I never used the kitchen so I didn’t mind its current state. Our other eating options were around the coffee table in my office or at Bobby’s desk.
“Fuck the chopsticks,” Bobby said, digging into the Cashew Chicken and Cranberry Chicken cartons and spooning them onto a paper plate. “I didn’t expect you back today.”
“I need to get a report out for the court,” I lied.
“How’s Megan?” he asked, shoveling in a mouthful of food.
“She’s hanging in there.”
“Do you think I should call her?”
“Sure. You know her.”
“I mean, today, after the funeral.”
“She’s got caller ID. She doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to.”
“This cranberry chicken is good shit.”
I smiled at the oxymoron. “Megan wanted to play tennis today. What do you think about that? Her wanting to play tennis right after her sister is put into the ground?”
Bobby chewed, thought about it. “I don’t know. Seems weird. Yet it’s probably a good way to get rid of the anger and pain.”
Maybe, but I wasn’t buying it. It seemed totally inappropriate.
“At school we haven’t started with any of the Chinese dishes. Down the road we’re doing Peking Duck.”
I heard the door open, then Carrie entered the room carrying a package. “Postman delivered this to the wrong office.”
I took it. “Ink cartridge for the copy machine.”
Carrie unwrapped the chopsticks and scooped up a mouthful of Cashew Chicken. “Yummy,” she said.
“I could call in an order for you,” Bobby volunteered.
“She’s done. That mouthful is all Carrie ever eats for lunch. She eats like a bird.” I said. “Sit down. Join us.”
“How was the funeral?” she asked, sitting.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Like all funerals I guess.” Except it really wasn’t. It was Megan’s sister’s funeral and had several highlights that I wouldn’t mind discussing with Carrie, but not now. I needed to sift and winnow first. “What do you think about Megan wanting to play tennis this afternoon? Bobby seemed to think it was all right.”
Carrie gave Bobby a look. “Are you kidding? I’d want to be alone or clinging to someone special. Maybe, even go to bed and hide under the covers. But then, I’m one of those who can’t tolerate the loud parties after the burial. I understand they serve a purpose, but they’re not for me. But playing tennis seems so unfeeling.”
“But it’s a way to release the pain,” Bobby said, defending himself.
“Not my way, but different strokes for different folks,” Carrie said, standing. “I got to get back.”
Bobby cracked open his fortune cookie. “A new challenge is near. It must refer to my cooking test coming up,” Bobby said. “Open yours.”
I did. It read, “Back away from individuals who are impulsive.” I turned the conversation over to the Mariners. Bobby and I lingered a little longer.
Bobby called Megan from the office phone to express his condolence.
“Get your ass over here, big boy, I’m horny,” she said, answering the phone.
“It’s Bobby, but I have been known to quench the fire.”
Megan gulped. “Sorry, Bobby, I saw the number, expected Grant.”
Bobby laughed. “You just dashed my hopes. I called to say I was sorry about your loss.”
“Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it. And a little laughter is exactly what I needed now. Bye.”
17
“June, I just know you’re going to do well. You’re well-prepared and people like you when they get to know you,” I said, exiting my office with Mrs. Merriweather, who suffered from social phobia. She was scheduled to lead a book report at her book club where she barely talked for the six months she belonged. Afraid of being laughed at or humiliated, this was a big step forward for her. Getting through the session without bombing would be a building block.
“You really think so?” she asked, needing reassurance.
“I know so,” I said, smiling and putting my hand on her shoulder.
She straightened her body and walked a little more erect, waving to Bobby as she left.
As I followed her out I saw Gregory sitting in the waiting room, nervously pulling on his right ear.
He smiled sheepishly.
“What are you doing here, Greg?” We didn’t have an appointment and I expected Greg to be back in school.
“I need to see you,” he said, looking expectantly.
“This young lady here is next,” I said, motioning toward her with my head. “I can see you after.”
“Okay. I can wait.” Knowing he would be seen had a calming effect.
“This is pretty cool,” Gregory said, scanning the room. “Much nicer than any of those other places.” He sa
t on the couch, shifting positions several times to get comfortable. “Feels different.”
I smiled. “How did you get here?”
“Bus.”
“What is it that couldn’t wait a couple of days?”
He watched his foot draw circles in the carpeting. “My mother came to see Mr. Gutierrez,” he said, still looking down.
I waited.
He raised his head. “She wants me home.” He looked as if he learned of a death in the family.
“Usually going home is the goal but I’m sensing you’re not ready.” I didn’t know much about Mrs. Liendecker, but I suspected she was receiving public funds for Greg that probably stopped when he went into the group home. I hoped money wasn’t the motivating force to have him home.
“Right. I’m getting along now at the group home and adjusting to the new school. I’m afraid if I go back home I’m going to lose it again.”
“You and your mother?”
“All of it. One thing leads to another.”
“Did you tell your mother you weren’t ready to come home?”
He shook his head. “When she said she was going to talk to Mr. Gutierrez about it, I didn’t say anything.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled on his ear. “I didn’t want to get into it with her?”
“What? A confrontation?”
“Yeah.” He squeezed his legs together, shifted in his seat. “She’s gonna say I don’t love her. It’s not that. It’s cause we don’t get along. She’s gonna pick on me until I can’t take it anymore, then I’m going to do something stupid. Like get into trouble.” He stood, jiggling his leg. “I need to use your bathroom.”
I gave him directions. When he returned, I said, “Two things stand out. One, you don’t feel you have a voice in the matter, and two, you don’t have much faith in your ability to control your impulses.”
