“I’ll try,” Fred says gamely. He stuffs the documents into the accordion file he brought them in, hands the bundle to me. “I haven’t done more than skimmed the surface. But you should read everything, you might find stuff in here I can’t put together.”
Our work finished for the night, we have a drink, a real one, without a coffee excuse.
Fred leaves. I go back inside. It’s lonely in this big house, but for some unexplainable reason, I feel safe tonight. No one is going to come after me here. There’s a sacredness to this place that can’t be breached, not by Roach, or any of his hired killers. I’ll keep my gun handy, though.
I retreat into my old bedroom, which still has Andover and Yale pennants on the walls. My father hung them—my parents truly were proud of me. It’s time I showed them they had a reason.
• • •
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep but I get a few hours, waking before dawn. Catharsis sleep, aided by last night’s bourbon. My head is clear, though—despite drinking whiskey, I have no need for a red one.
The lead story on the local television news before the Today show is about the fire and my mother’s death. I watch like a ghoul. I’m sure there are prominent stories in the Washington, Baltimore, and Annapolis papers as well. My mother was well known and, more important, well loved.
I plug in my PowerBook and check my e-mail. There are dozens of messages of condolence. Buster, of course, sent one. He’s blown away by this, is there for me any way he can be, just let him know. He’ll see me at the funeral.
We still haven’t had our meeting, I realize, but that’s on the back burner for now.
Among the others is one from Johanna Mortimer, like everyone else expressing her shock and dismay; her mother had called and given her the awful news. She hopes I’m bearing up under this dreadful tragedy. She’s flying down from Boston tomorrow morning, and will accompany her mother to the funeral. She adds that I need not reply, she appreciates how busy I must be, and how grief-stricken.
I compose a general reply and send it out to everyone, thanking them for their support and informing them of the time and place of the service—day after tomorrow, eleven in the morning, First Methodist Church.
The phone rings. My brother. He and Emily will be down later today, to finalize the arrangements—funeral service, burial in the family plot, caterer for the wake afterward. We’ll talk about the future, if there’s anything we need to discuss, when he gets here. They won’t be staying in the house, too many memories he can’t deal with. They’ve taken a motel room in Jamestown.
My sister, too, calls. She’ll fly down the morning of the funeral, but she’ll have to return home immediately after. Later, when her schedule permits, she’ll come down and go through mother’s things, help close up the house.
What strikes me, talking to the two of them about this unspeakable family tragedy, is how unemotional we are toward each other. The three of us haven’t spent any time as a unit for years. Even when I used to visit New York I would get together with my sister for an hour or two, no more. Neither she nor my brother ever visited me in Austin, Madison, anywhere I lived. After this is over, we’ll probably never be together again. We will go our separate ways, live our detached lives, as we’ve been doing. Our mother was the connective tissue. Now there’s no glue.
Mattie, ever dutiful, makes breakfast for me. Her face is swollen—I’m sure she was up all night, crying. We talk about her future. She’s been thinking about it, and she’s decided she would like to leave as soon as it’s convenient—she can’t bear the thought of living here without my mother. She has an old friend in Salisbury, on the other side of the Bay, a woman her age, who has extended her a welcome for as long as she wants to stay.
“Whatever you need,” I soothe her. “This house is more yours than mine, or Sam’s, or Dinah’s. You put your life into it—we were just passing through.”
Maureen shows up around ten. We hug each other, as much from need as from love. “Are you all right?” Her eyes search my face for clues.
“I’m getting by. Don’t have a choice, do I?”
“I missed you last night.”
“I needed to be here.” I’m not going to tell her that Fred came over later, or what he and I talked about. She’s here to help me get through my mourning, not play detective, which she wants me to drop.
“What can I do to help?” she asks.
“Nothing. Sam’s arranging all the details. He’ll be down later today.”
Her face tightens. “I shouldn’t be here when he comes.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t like me. I don’t want to be a discordant note on what’s already going to be such a sad couple of days. He has the right to be in his house without having to be polite to someone he doesn’t like.”
“He likes you fine,” I say defensively, both of us knowing the opposite is true. “Sam’ll be okay. Don’t worry about him.”
“Friction in your family is the last thing you need now.”
That’s true; but I don’t want to deal with it until I have to. “Johanna’s going to be here,” I tell her, changing the subject. Seeing Johanna will make her feel better, a friendly face in the crowd, even if the circumstances are lousy.
“Who?” she asks, her face blank.
“Johanna Mortimer. Your friend from Boston.”
“Oh. Johanna. I didn’t make the connection.” She pauses. “She’s coming? I thought she barely knew your mother.”
“She’s coming with her mother,” I explain. “Her mother and mom were friends.”
Maureen looks concerned. “Did you tell her I’m here? About us?”
“I didn’t speak with her. She left me an e-mail. She’s coming down tomorrow.”
“I wish she wasn’t,” Maureen says.
“Why not?” I asked, surprised. “It helps to have a friend with you at a time like this. I’m not going to be able to be with you that much, I’ll have to deal with everyone else. There’s going to be hundreds of people coming to the funeral, and then back here afterward.”
“Johanna doesn’t know anything about us,” Maureen says. She’s visibly uncomfortable.
“So?”
“It’s going to be embarrassing.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You and me, Fritz,” she exclaims impatiently. “We’re lovers. Anyone can look at us and see that.”
“So what? We’re not hiding anything. Everyone knows that already.”
“Johanna doesn’t. Her feelings will be hurt. And she’ll be angry with me. She liked you, Fritz. She talked about you.”
“We were together one time. Love happens, Maureen. She’ll forgive you.”
She resists my entreaties. “All I’m saying is, you don’t need any more tension right now than you already have. Your brother and his wife, the funeral, plus what’s going on with Roach.” She pauses. “Is he coming to the funeral?”
I hadn’t thought about that. “I sure as hell hope not.”
“He and your mother were friends, weren’t they? He’s your next-door neighbor. It would be impolite for him not to show up.”
“Fuck him. He can’t come.”
“Why can’t he?” she asks. “No one thinks he had anything to do with the fire, or her dying—except you.”
“He knows,” I say vehemently.
“If he’s involved.”
“Oh, fuck, are we still beating up on this? He is involved, you know he is. Jesus, Maureen, don’t you believe that, after all that’s gone down?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Fritz. It’s what can be proven,” she points out rationally.
“He isn’t coming,” I say with finality. “If I have to call him and disinvite him myself, he is not coming to the funeral of the saint he killed, or whose death he’s responsible for.”
“You’ll be opening Pandora’s box if you do that,” Maureen cautions me.
“So what? This is my m
other’s funeral. I can decide who I want to come to it, and don’t want.”
She pulls back. “Do what you want. I’m telling you what I think, that’s all.”
“Which I appreciate, but that would be too much. Anyway, he isn’t coming. I’ll take care of that, one way or the other.”
We go outside. It’s hot and sticky. I pull my T-shirt away from my skin. I know what I want to do, right now. “Let’s go see the birds.”
Maureen looks at me, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”
“What else am I supposed to do? Mope around here and feel more sorry for myself than I already do? We’re not going to be here much longer, and neither are they.”
“Do you think that’s wise, considering?”
“I don’t give a shit. You said it before—it’s my property. I can go anywhere on my property I want, whenever I want, with whoever I want. What’s Roach going to do, burn my house down again?”
We drive down to the shell that was my home. It’s a skeleton now, burnt shafts sticking up into the sky. I take a quick look-see around.
“Is there anything worth salvaging?” Maureen asks.
The bile is rising in my stomach as I look at the remains. “I don’t know. After the funeral I’ll come down and sift through the ashes. Maybe there’s something.” I kick at a rock. It skitters across the dirt. “What the fuck does it matter? It’s just stuff, it’s not a life. Nothing matters compared to that.”
She doesn’t say anything in response. She takes my hand and squeezes it. That’s the best anyone can do for me right now.
My boat is serviceable—the fire didn’t reach my makeshift dock. We get in and I push off, going to the island of the birds, the only refuge I have left now.
When we get there I walk right into the middle of the birds. I don’t feel delicate around them—I want to be surrounded by them, enveloped by them. Maureen follows behind, moving tentatively, not wanting to disturb them. She’s also nervous about being here.
Fuck Roach, is what I’m thinking. If he’s watching, more the better. I turn toward his property and give him the finger.
“Fritz,” Maureen says, reproaching me.
“It made me feel better. Look, if he’s spying on me, it doesn’t matter, and if he isn’t, then it doesn’t matter either.”
I’m sure he has me under surveillance, but I don’t think he can see us here. A small note of consolation—in this place, at least, I still have some privacy, some autonomy over my life.
Ollie and the sandhills occupy their usual spot in the low marsh. I stare at Ollie. He seems to be looking at me, but I don’t know for sure if he is. I want him to, that’s why I’m here. I want to keep the connection for as long as I can.
“Do you think he recognizes me?” I ask Maureen. She should know, she’s the expert.
She considers my question. “For his sake I hope not, but birds do bond to people. All animals can. Not as easily in the wild as a pet would, but they do. Whether he’s had enough time with you to bond, I don’t know. But it looks like it to me.” She points at him. He’s standing straight and tall, one leg raised. “He’s definitely looking at you.”
“Are you saying that to make me feel good, or is it true?”
“I can’t guarantee it,” she says, touching me lightly on my forearm, “but I’d bet money on it. There’s a connection between you two, Fritz, I can feel it.”
Hearing that, even if it isn’t true, makes me feel a little better.
“Pretty soon I’m going to have to contact the proper authorities and let them know he’s here,” I say, as much for myself as for her. “The time has come. You’re going to be leaving, going back to your regular life, and so am I now—leaving. It’s time he was taken care of. I don’t want to chance him getting shot, once hunting season starts.”
“It’s for the best,” she agrees. She hesitates. “Where are you going to go, when this is over?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t had time to think about it. Everything’s happening so fast.”
She takes my hand. “You should come with me, Fritz.” She squeezes, hard. “You have to come with me. There’s no other possibility.”
She’s right. We’ve come too far now to not go all the way.
“I want to be there for you, Fritz.”
“Me, too.”
An old life ends, a new one begins. We come from dust and, like my mother, we will all return to it. But what we do in between makes the difference. My mother knew that, which is why she had a great life. I’m just beginning to understand. And I hope, when I get to the place she did, I, too, will have made some kind of difference.
• • •
Sam is at the house when we return. He’s on the phone with Bill Morton, the pastor. He talks a moment longer, then hangs up, gives Maureen a sour look, but doesn’t say anything.
“Will you be speaking at the service?” He looks right through Maureen. “The minister wants to know.”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I answer. “I don’t think I want to.”
“I don’t, either.” He fans himself. “We should keep it short. She would have wanted it that way, no frills. And those old friends of hers’ll keel over in the heat if we dawdle.” He slumps into an overstuffed chair. “Christ, I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Yeah,” I answered dully. The reality and finality of it is starting to sink in.
“Would you like me to make some iced tea?” Maureen whispers in my ear.
“That would be nice, thanks.”
She goes into the kitchen. I sit across from Sam.
“You shouldn’t have moved back here,” he says.
I flare up. “Don’t start in on me, I mean it. I feel as bad about what happened as you do. But I’m not responsible for it.” Which is a bald-faced lie. If he really knew what was going on, he’d kill me.
We glare at each other in strained silence. Maureen returns with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. She pours one and hands it to Sam. He takes it without thanking her.
“Thanks,” I make a point of saying, as she hands me the other glass.
“You’re welcome.” She looks at Sam for a moment, then turns and leaves the room.
“You don’t have to be rude to her,” I tell him, irritated by his boorish behavior. “Mother liked her.”
“She shouldn’t be here,” he snaps at me loudly enough for Maureen to overhear. “Only the family should be here.”
“What, there’s a rule?”
He gets up heavily. “I have work to do. Are you sleeping here tonight?”
“I don’t have anyplace else to go, so yes.”
He looks in the direction Maureen left. “Is she?”
He’s trying to rile me deliberately. I’m not going to bite. “I don’t know. She didn’t last night.”
“She would if you let her. Wild horses couldn’t stop her. Harvard professor,” he sneers. “Yeah, and I’m Michael Jordan.”
I bite my tongue. If I was married to Emily, the original Iron Maiden, I’d be bitter, too. In a couple of days we’ll go our separate ways and I won’t have to deal with him anymore.
“Are you going to be here for dinner?” I ask, steering the conversation away from his mean-spirited hostility. “Mattie’ll want to know.”
He shakes his head. “Emily’s waiting back at the motel. She’s taking mother’s death hard. She couldn’t bear to be here in the house today.”
His wife has never had honest feelings for anyone, including my mother. I don’t say that, though. There’s a time and place. This isn’t it.
• • •
Sam leaves. Mattie asks Maureen and me what we want for supper. We pass; neither of us has any appetite. Mattie retires to her room, in the far reaches of the big old house. She’s already started inventorying her stuff, deciding what she’s going to take and what she’s going to leave behind. She can have almost anything here she wants, as far as I’m concerned. My sister will take some of mother’s clothes and h
er jewelry, my brother will take much of the library. The only items I’d like to have are my father’s old hickory pigeonhole desk and swivel chair that have been gathering dust in his study since he died—my mother left that room as it had been when the old man was alive. Sam will probably take them, though—primogeniture. I was the afterthought, it will be ever thus.
We watch television, we have a few drinks, some cheese and crackers, we’re pretty quiet with each other. Before you know it, the eleven o’clock news is on. My mother’s death and the shack burning down is still a story, but not as prominent. In two more days, after the funeral, it will be a nonstory. An event from the past, part of history.
Maureen tidies up the dishes and glasses. “I’d better be going,” she says, stacking the dishwasher. “Come with me, come on. Why torment yourself staying here with ghosts?” She takes me by the hand, tries to pull me along toward the front door.
I resist. “I don’t want to leave the house alone.”
“That’s crazy. Besides, Mattie’s here.”
“It’s not the same.”
She doesn’t argue further. “Okay. Do what you have to do.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “I wish you’d tell me where those pictures are. If anything happens to you—” She stops. “I don’t mean it like that.”
“I know.”
“I want you to be safe, that’s all. I want to be able to take care of you, Fritz. I want you to want me to take care of you.”
“I know. I will. When this is over.”
She leaves. I go back inside. The big dark house feels like a tomb. I lie in my old bed, staring at the ceiling. I don’t get much sleep—the memories keep me awake.
• • •
The next day goes by in a blur. Sam is in and out, conferring with the funeral director, the minister. Friends of my mother drop in, bringing covered dishes for tomorrow. We hug and kiss, the usual mourning rituals.
Maureen drops in mid-morning to check on me, make sure I’m okay. Sam, hovering nearby, keeps shooting her dirty looks. Emily, also here now, does the same. They’re so fucking proprietary, as if they have the right to decide who’s here and who isn’t. If our mother were still alive, she and Maureen would be chattering away like two magpies.
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