by Greg Johnson
After about an hour of this, she saw the doors to the outside near Rich’s where she’d entered, so she left the building and returned to her car. She made her way slowly down traffic-clogged Peachtree, then an even more congested Piedmont Avenue; it was just past five o’clock. But she didn’t mind. There was no hurry. When she reached Rock Springs and turned into her complex a pleasant surprise awaited her, like a reward for her patient drive through rush hour. Outside on the sidewalk she glimpsed Thom, looking fit and handsome in a red T-shirt and jeans, his back to her: he was heading away from his unit and toward her own building. She moved to toot the horn but stopped: she always enjoyed these glimpses of her brother when he thought himself unobserved. His long strides. His inimitable boyish slouch. His habit of rubbing behind his ear with the curled fingers of one hand. Sweet Thom. Her brother. By the time she had parked and gotten out—she left her sack with its gift-wrapped box in the car—he was coming back the other way, and she saw that he was scowling. A dark, heavy-browed scowl that wasn’t quite like him, but she supposed he’d had a rough day. A contract gone awry. A difficult client. She’d fix that, she thought, still buoyed by that queer limitless elation she’d felt at the mall. Yes, this news would surely change his mood: his birthday was next weekend, she’d remind him, and she was going to throw the biggest party of their lives.
“Thom,” she cried out, with a facetious grin. “You can wipe that tragic frown off your face! I’m home!”
But then she felt ridiculous, inane, for he didn’t return the smile. Approaching him, she saw that his skin looked pale, clammy, his eyes threaded with blood as if he’d been crying. He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to change his mind and did something that shocked her: he turned and stalked off, head ducked, toward his own front door, leaving her no choice but to follow.
Chapter 10
“A man wearing two diamond necklaces, a pair of ladies’ diamond earrings, and several bracelets and rings was struck and killed by a speeding motorist on Tuesday evening at the corner of Piedmont and Tenth.”
That was the way Monica Kaufman on Channel 2, with a sad, sympathetic gaze into the camera, reported Connie’s death on the eleven o’clock news.
Along with Abby and their mother and a steady stream of friends drifting in and out of his apartment, Thom watched the news reports and read the papers. The Atlanta dailies gave featured coverage to the accident, and it made the front page of Southern Voice. People talked endlessly about what had happened, what might have happened, why it might have happened, but no answers satisfied Thom or did anything to shrink the mass of leaden grief that again had lodged inside him. Only a few weeks ago, he’d, noticed that when he woke up in the morning, Carter’s death wasn’t the first thing he thought about, and guiltily but gladly he’d begun to breathe easier as if that mass of grief had eroded without his quite noticing, without his permission. But now it was back, and after the first few hours of stunned disbelieving tears, he sat weighted by it, unable to comfort himself or others, able only to talk pointlessly about what and why, what and why. He listened patiently to everyone because he had no choice, but there were no answers he wanted to hear.
There were a few facts on which everyone agreed. Connie had been drinking in Blake’s, arriving about five o’clock and talking boisterously to the bartender and the after-work patrons clustered around him. (But with no mention of his father, who had flown to Atlanta that morning.) Nothing odd about his behavior—at least according to the bartender, interviewed for news reports, who had seen no reason to stop serving Connie the whiskey sours he kept ordering. Nothing odd, that is, until around seven o’clock, when he’d said to the group he’d been entertaining—he’d treated them, all strangers, to several rounds—that he wanted to show them something. That’s when he’d reached into his pockets and started pulling out the necklaces, bracelets, rings. “Sometimes a girl’s just got to show off, dontcha know!” Connie had cried, donning the jewelry. Everyone had laughed, assuming all the jewelry was fake. Connie minced and posed, observing that of course diamonds were this girl’s best friend, and he’d laughed and the others had laughed, and Connie ordered them all another round. He hadn’t taken off the jewelry. He’d kept drinking. Most of the patrons he’d entertained with his lively banter drifted off to home, to dinner, and Connie’s voice had gotten louder and did have, the bartender admitted, an “edge of anger” to it; actually, he was thinking of cutting Connie off, when abruptly Connie lurched off his stool and plunged out of the bar onto Tenth Street.
The facts ended here, for Thom had heard and read so many differing reports of the accident, if it was an accident, that he no longer knew what to believe. It was around eight o’clock and dusk was falling, and there were dozens of witnesses: people in the cars on Piedmont and on Tenth, others having dinner in the outdoor cafes along Piedmont, pedestrians on all four sides of the intersection. One claimed Connie had crossed Tenth legally with the light, and that the man in his maroon Nissan barreled through the intersection, striking Connie head-on. Others claimed the Nissan was making a right turn on red, and that Connie had seen the car and stopped perversely in its path. There were reports that Connie was jaywalking or meandering aimlessly through the busy intersection against the light, looking disoriented, mumbling to himself. At least one insisted that Connie seemed to put himself deliberately into the Nissan’s path, though everyone agreed the Nissan was making the turn much too fast and had not come to a complete stop. The driver, a thirty-something black man in a crisp white shirt and tie, had jumped out of the Nissan and begun shouting hysterically over Connie’s prone, bleeding form, blaming Connie and blaming himself and blaming the traffic, making little sense, so that when the paramedics arrived, they’d put him on a stretcher, too. Later he’d been “sedated,” Monica Kaufman had reported with her earnest expression, with no charges filed against him pending a full investigation.
Thom didn’t care about a full investigation; after the first 24 hours of chaotic activity swirling through his apartment, he wasn’t sure he even cared exactly what had happened. Connie was dead, and would be flown back to Oklahoma City for a funeral sometime next week. Connie’s father, with whom Thom had several quiet, calm discussions, had accepted—to Thorn’s extreme surprise—Thorn’s invitation to the memorial service that Warren and a few others had planned for this coming Saturday, in a Midtown park where services for men dead of AIDS were often held. Mr. Lefcourt had sounded pleased, in his mild-voiced way, and said he would fly back to Oklahoma City on Sunday instead of Saturday morning, as he’d intended. The memorial service, which Warren and a few others had cooked up with Thorn’s reluctant cooperation, would be Saturday afternoon at four o’clock.
Mr. Lefcourt, again at Thorn’s invitation, had been among the dozens of people who dropped by Thorn’s place on Wednesday night, accompanied by Warren. Thorn’s rooms were so full of people, scattered food and drink, intent conversation in various groups, that almost no one knew who he was. Thom had been sitting slumped on the couch between Abby and their mother, talking idly about the news reports, when Warren introduced Mr. Lefcourt as “Connie’s dad” and stepped back, leaving Thom and the others to fend for themselves.
Connie’s father was a small-framed, handsome man in his sixties with short salt-and-pepper hair and startling blue-green eyes. Thorn’s first dismayed impression had been of Connie staring back at him, out of the older man’s face. Mr. Lefcourt spoke in an undertone, had polite if rough-edged manners, and managed to say a few words to everyone without saying much of anything at all. His face was sharp-boned and appealing, especially when he offered a brief smile and displayed the even, white teeth of a much younger man. Yes, as Thom and Abby and Lucille later agreed, it was easy to see where Connie got his good looks; the only surprising difference was the older man’s short stature and dapper thinness, bringing Thom the unwelcome thought that Connie had been an overgrown, overdone version of his father. Thom could imagine they’d had conflicts but there was no
suggestion here of a man who drank (his skin and eyes were clear) or flew into rages (he was soft-spoken, a bit awkward as though unused to large groups). They made small talk for several minutes, they exchanged condolences, then Warren took him back to his hotel.
Two nights later, on the eve of the memorial service, Mr. Lefcourt returned, and this time only Thom, Abby, and Lucille were home. In his soft drawl Mr. Lefcourt told them of his plans for Connie’s funeral, and emphasized that his son’s friends were certainly welcome if they chose to come to Oklahoma City; he would call them later with the details. Thom told him about the memorial service on Saturday, and Mr. Lefcourt stunned them all by accepting the invitation.
“I always heard so much about Billy’s friends, but I never got to meet any except Warren,” he said. On the first evening, he’d explained that at home, Connie was known as Billy. Since both father and son were named Constantine, they’d decided to use Connie’s middle name, William, to avoid confusion. Thom had gaped: Connie had never told him this. Thom apologized when he kept using the name Connie by mistake, but Mr. Lefcourt insisted that was fine; he knew that Warren and all his friends here called him that. He’d never used a nickname, himself, but he hoped they would drop the formality of saying “Mr. Lefcourt” and call him Constantine. Thom smiled and said he would try to remember.
Abby said, gently, “We were sorry to hear about your wife…”
Thom blanched: in his own grief, he’d forgotten about Connie’s stepmother. “Yes,” he said hastily, “Connie told us—I mean, Billy told us about it. I’m sorry.”
Lucille, who sat between her children on Thorn’s sofa gazing balefully across at Mr. Lefcourt, pressed both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my Lord!” she cried. “You lost your wife and child in the same month!”
Mr. Lefcourt looked embarrassed. Since arriving he’d stood with his back to the fireplace, though there was no fire burning. “I’ve been sitting all day,” he told them. Now he rubbed his jaw absently with one hand, using the tips of his fingers as though massaging a tender spot. This took Thorn’s breath away: Connie had used precisely the same gesture, in moments of uncertainty or chagrin.
“Thank you,” Mr. Lefcourt said quietly. “I appreciate that.”
Thom tasted panic, for his mother had begun fidgeting and wringing her hands. An outburst of sympathetic tears might be next.
“I just can’t imagine it!” she cried. “When I lost my husband, you know, it was so awful, but to think—” She glanced desperately at Thom, then at Abby. “I can’t—I can’t imagine,” she repeated.
Mr. Lefcourt stared down at his shoes.
“Do you have someone back home,” Abby said quickly, “to help with the arrangements and so forth?”
“Oh yeah,” Mr. Lefcourt said. “My sister, Billy’s Aunt Deborah—she handled everything with my wife’s funeral, and she’s doing the same for Billy.” He gave a tight smile. “She’s one of these super-organized folks.”
Abby was smiling painfully; Thom saw the grim set of her jaw but knew that Mr. Lefcourt would not.
“That’s good,” Abby said. “Thank God for people like that.”
“My sister Millicent is that way, sort of,” Lucille said, distractedly. Thom knew she was still pondering the magnitude of Mr. Lefcourt’s loss; every few seconds she glanced up at him, as if wondering how he managed even to stand there, alone and unsupported.
“Is there anything we can do?” Thom said. “I mean, I know that Warren is going to pack up Connie’s things, but—”
“No, no,” Mr. Lefcourt said. “Warren’s a nice fellow, though. I told him he could keep the furniture and whatever else of Connie’s he wanted. I hope he’ll do that.”
Thom had spoken to Warren on the phone, thinking the job of boxing Connie’s possessions would be too much for him. But Warren had taken all this with remarkable calm. No, he’d said, he actually found it soothing to pack Connie’s things; each piece of clothing, each knickknack and book had a memory attached. It was his form of therapy, he’d said. Thom had suspected there would be a delayed reaction, that Warren was still numb. Then Warren had told him about the service he and a few other friends were planning. Last year, Connie and Warren had attended a memorial for a very young man—he was only twenty, a Georgia Tech student Connie had flirted with at the gym—who’d died of AIDS. The boy’s friends and family had gathered in John Howell Park, a minister had read a prayer, several of the boy’s close friends had given brief, tear-choked eulogies. Everyone had been handed a bouquet of red balloons, and at the end of the service they’d released all their balloons into the air. To Warren’s surprise, Connie had choked up at the sight of the balloons, dozens of them, wafting upwards and growing smaller, finally disappearing altogether. On their way home, Connie had said that when his time came, he hoped they’d do “the balloon thing” too. Warren had told Thom, “He kept repeating how moving it was, “how you held the balloons in your hand, and then seconds later they were far away, moving out of sight. Just like the boy had done. He said he kept his eyes fixed on one balloon and had the idea it was the boy’s soul ascending out of sight. He started crying again, right there in the car.”
Thom hadn’t known what to say; Warren himself sounded on the verge of tears.
“That’s a side of Connie we didn’t see too often,” Thom had said finally, hoping the words conveyed what he meant. To his relief Warren said quickly, “I know, I know,” and they’d agreed that the memorial service, with balloons, was inevitable. “OK, Warren,” Thom said, reluctant to break the connection. Warren had loved Connie so passionately, and Thom hated the thought of him alone in the condo they’d shared, packing boxes. “Just call if you need anything,” he repeated. “OK, Thom. Bye,” Warren said. The line went dead.
The faces of Connie and Carter and Thorn’s father and yes, of Chip Raines—alive and well in Athens, Georgia—floated through his mind balloon-like, bobbing. They vanished as he blinked his aching eyes.
His entire body ached as he told Mr. Lefcourt, “Yes, Warren’s a terrific guy. I’ve been amazed by how strong he’s been through all this.”
Lucille patted Thorn’s knee, as though reproving him. “It’s awful to lose a friend, honey,” she said, “but poor Constantine has lost family members, two of them. There’s really no comparison.”
Thom knew there was no way to keep his mother quiet, so he decided not to try. At such times, you let people say what they had to say. He noticed that Mr. Lefcourt’s eyes had stayed fastened on Lucille’s flushed, carefully made-up face. One corner of the man’s mouth seemed lifted in a smile, whether of amusement or derision Thom couldn’t quite tell. Tonight, even more than during their first visit, there had seemed a measure of detachment, even of chilly reserve, in Mr. Lefcourt’s demeanor that puzzled him, and not only because the man bore no resemblance to the drunken, cursing parent Connie had described. The man seemed entirely unfazed by his losses. Unshaken. And sober, too. Thom had offered him a glass of wine shortly after he’d arrived, but Mr. Lefcourt had shaken his head curtly. “No thanks,” he’d said, looking off.
Now Thom said, “Mr. Lefcourt, you’re sure I can’t get you anything? A Coke or something?”
“And wouldn’t you care to sit down?” Lucille added, though they’d had that exchange already.
Mr. Lefcourt gave his grim, polite smile. “Ought to be heading back to the hotel. In Oklahoma, we get to bed early.”
Thom glanced at his watch, surprised that it was past ten o’clock. These last few days, he’d lost his sense of time.
They gathered at the door, enlivened by the rituals of leave-taking. Mr. Lefcourt had rented a car and insisted he didn’t need directions back to the hotel; nor did he need a ride to the memorial service, since Warren had given him one of the photocopied maps they were faxing to people—Connie’s few straight friends, mainly—who didn’t know where Howell Park was. Again Mr. Lefcourt struck Thom as amazingly contained and self-sufficient; there was nothing you could do for him.
Just as he’d turned to leave, however, Lucille sprang forward and threw her arms around him. She pressed her newly tinted red hair against the man’s shoulder. “I hope—I hope you sleep well,” she murmured.
Mr. Lefcourt accepted the hug and even, in a measured, uneasy fashion, returned it. After a pause he said, “That’s the tough part, when you’ve lost your spouse. The going to bed, the going to sleep.”
Thom and Abby gaped at this frank admission, but Lucille nodded as though agreeing to an observation about the weather.
“Yes, I certainly remember that,” she said. Oddly, the man’s first intimate remark seemed to have calmed her down. “But try to sleep well,” she added, “and the children and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Thom and Abby murmured their assent as Mr. Lefcourt disappeared down the sidewalk, into the night.
“Isn’t he a nice man,” Lucille said, after Thom had closed the door. “Of course, I’m not surprised. Connie was such a nice boy.”
Thom and Abby exchanged a look that said clearly: Don’t say a word.
It didn’t surprise Thom the next afternoon that his mother had donned her Easter outfit for Connie’s service. A silk floral print, tiny white and pink flowers on a navy background: he remembered that Connie had praised the dress profusely. “I’ve never been one of those queens who wants to be a woman,” he’d said, “but when I see a dress like this!” To Thorn’s amazement his mother had laughed girlishly, thrilled by the compliment. Today she looked pale and weakened beneath a too-heavy layer of makeup. Thom had the fatherly impulse to order her back to the bathroom to wash her face. As she raced around the condo in an overdone impersonation of her motherly busyness from years ago—asking Thom if he’d had enough lunch, if he had a freshly pressed shirt to wear to the service—he saw the desperation in her quick-darting pale eyes and had an uneasy sense of the general aimlessness of her anxiety, her inability to settle down.
