Ever After

by William Wharton

  Moreover, the suffering of people with respiratory ailments for decades has been exacerbated by routine field burning, even people with healthy lungs find the smoke-filled air exceedingly irritating. Also, this accident is but one of a series. Highways shrouded by smoke because of field burning are common in Oregon, and that condition has resulted in other accidents.

  Then it gets to the nitty-gritty part.

  Grass seed is big business in Oregon. The crop value of grass and legume seed in 1987 was $250 million and the total is expected to top $300 million this year. Grass seed, Oregon’s fifth largest commodity, is distributed over the country and to more than sixty foreign nations. According to grass industry officials, it brings back hundreds of millions of dollars to the state’s economy. The grass crop represents about eight percent of the state’s total agricultural commodity sales, according to statistics from Oregon State University’s Extension Service. The 1988 crop is expected to bring in close to $1.7 million profit for grass farmers. There are more grass seed growers in Oregon this year because of the higher prices, higher profits.

  This is a big business, one intent on making huge profits, at whatever the cost to the ordinary person. Bill Johnson, for over ten years a dedicated opponent to grass-seed burning, is quoted: “This business of saying field burning is the only way to sanitize fields is absolutely false.” He is president and founder of the anti-field-burning group End Noxious Unhealthful Fumes (ENUF).

  “There are over one hundred alternatives to field burning. There are so many that it’s shameful we haven’t picked up on them. Accidents like this are bound to happen again, the only way you can stop them is stop the burning. Period!”

  I close the newspapers. They don’t do me any good. All this is almost as hard to believe as the reality. The reality that Kate, Bert, Mia, Dayiel are all dead, cremated, probably while alive, in that van. All these statistics, these accounts of hundreds of millions of dollars being made, growing grass for people’s lawns, for football stadiums, baseball fields, are depressing. Was any of this worth the lives of our family? I decide to do something about it—I don’t quite know what yet—but something.

  We start our descent into Los Angeles. In the arrivals’ room, my sister Jean and her husband, Leo, are waving to us frantically. We run to each other, me to Jean, Rosemary to Leo. We hold on tight, rocking back and forth. We”re all crying. Leo’s the first to break it up. Robert is standing apart.

  “Hey, you guys, I’m parked in a no-parking zone. Let’s get over there before I have a fifty-dollar fine to pay on top of everything.”

  He jogs off with a sort of hobble because of his bad knees. Jean takes hold of Rosemary’s hand on one side and mine on the other. Robert stands to one side. I know he’s suffering deeply. We fight our way out of the terminal, past the unending vocal notification, in varying voices, not to park. Leo pulls up beside us.

  We load the van with our three suitcases and pile ourselves in. Leo starts the long drive over the Santa Monica Mountains to the San Fernando Valley, to Canoga Park where they live. For a while, we don’t talk much. There isn’t much to say. Normally, we’d all be talking at once.

  Leo turns back from his driving.

  “What really happened up there in Oregon, Will? We saw the pictures on TV and all, and read the newspapers, but none of it seems to make much sense.”

  Rosemary looks at me again. She still doesn’t want to talk about it. But I want to try.

  “Leo, basically, as far as I can see, none of it makes sense from any angle except pure greed and profit, plus, probably, some political shenanigans. I’d almost rather they’d been killed in a war or something, anything that would have some kind of reason.”

  Jean turns hard and looks at me.

  “You don’t mean that. Who can profit from the death of a young couple and two babies?”

  I open the papers I’m still carrying and pass them over to her.

  “Read ’em and weep. I’ve wept enough; I can hardly stand it any more. You won’t believe what you read but you’ll find out I’m right.”

  I tell them about sanitizing fields and the enormous amounts of money that are being made. It sounds just as crazy when I tell it myself as when I read it.

  As I talk Jean reads through the papers. Her face has turned white.

  “He’s right, Leo. I can’t believe what I’m reading here.”

  Rosemary looks at Jean, at me.

  “Let’s not talk about all this now, please, for me. I can’t stand it. Tell me about your family. I want to hear about families that are alive.”

  There’s a pause, then Leo starts talking. Generally, if Leo starts talking, nobody can stop him.

  He goes on and on about their family, five kids, all graduated from university, all with jobs, all married. He goes into great detail about each of their jobs, how they got them, what they’re earning, what they’re thinking of doing. It’s wonderful. Rosemary was right. It’s the kind of thing we should be listening to, talking about. It makes sense, in what, for the past few days, has been such an insane world.

  We sit back and listen for a while. It’s almost like meditation. I look out the van windows, watching cars go by at fifty-five, sixty miles an hour, reasonable speeds, reasonable driving. We’ve taken the freeway just about all the way from the airport to their house. Everything looks so pale, dry, tired. The sky, the vegetation, the houses, even the automobiles, all look washed out, like old women with tinted hair, mix-and-match pastel-colored costumes with Easter-colored running shoes held on by Velcro latching. It looks like that.

  I notice that Jean and Rosemary behind me are having a quiet conversation. I don’t listen. I don’t listen to Leo either, just nod or go “hmm” or grunt when he pauses. I try to answer any questions he has. I’m still not with it.

  We pull into their driveway. The neighborhood hasn’t really changed in the forty years they’ve lived here. It has just grown up. There are big trees and well-kept lawns, hedges. The houses were built in a tract after World War II to take advantage of the GI bill. Jean and Leo bought theirs new for less than $13,000, which they paid back over thirty years with a GI four-percent loan.

  During those years they had their children, made additions to the house, continually kept it up so that even now it looks new, better than when they bought it. Their neighbors, similar kinds of people, have done the same. It represents the best of California living.

  We climb out of the van. The house is air-conditioned, the drapes pulled against the incessant glare. Calm reigns. I drop down into a chair by the fireplace.

  They’ve added a dining-room in what used to be the patio. Jean’s fixed a full lunch for us. We’re up to our ears with eating in Oregon, but this is love food and soon we start eating. We’re both hungry.

  During lunch, Rosemary asks if it would be OK if we go see Wills. Neither of us feels we had enough time with him before Danny drove him off to his new home. We want to know how he’s handling all this.

  Rosemary calls Danny and we make arrangements for the next day, to visit at eleven. Danny and his wife, Sally, might be at work, but Wills will be home. We each enjoy talking to Wills on the phone. We both manage it without crying. He seems glad to hear from us. Rosemary tells me later that when he heard her, he shouted, “Mom!” Rosemary and Kate have very similar voices and ways of speaking. It is several minutes before Rosemary recovers. I take the phone.

  “How’re things going, Wills? We’d love to see you.”

  “Where are you, Grandpa? Are you in New Jersey or Oregon?”

  “No, we’re right near you here in California.”

  By this time Rosemary has pulled herself together enough to take over. I listen on the extension as she talks, telling him we’d like to come see him. He’s surprised we know his address. Rosemary verifies all the arrangements. Wills is sure it will be OK with his dad and Sally.

  Wills tells us how happy he is to be with his dog, Trooper. He goes on about the things Trooper can do, a
nd about his new bedroom. Finally, we say goodbye and hang up. Rosemary still has tears in her eyes.

  After lunch I phone the Woodmans and talk to Claire. She tells me the governor has just announced that he’s going to call off the moratorium, and that farmers will be burning fields again in a few days. I can hardly believe it.

  I want to speak to the governor personally. But it’s not the kind of thing I can do on a phone yet. I know I’d just break down. I’m still too upset. Besides, writing is my way of communicating. I spend two days composing a letter. Just putting it all down, expressing my feelings, helps a lot. Then I tear it up. I don’t know enough yet about what actually happened. Just to make me feel better isn’t a good enough reason.

  The next day, Wills is waiting on the front steps for us. Rosemary jumps out of the van almost before it’s stopped and runs up to him. They hug and hug. Then I have my turn. He’s a very affectionate child. He’s holding hard onto me by the waist, burying his face into my stomach. I loosen his grip and he leads us inside the house. Jean and Leo each give him a good hug on the way in. He keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  But he plays the part of host wonderfully, showing us the living- and dining-rooms, the kitchen and then, proudly, his bedroom, up one floor, the perfect boy’s room. He leads us on to the upstairs patio, to meet Trooper, his dog, who’s so excited he runs from one to the other of us. Wills shows us how Trooper can sit and shake hands and pretend to pray. He and his dad spent most of last summer teaching Trooper these tricks. Wills isn’t crying now. We go back downstairs.

  He tells us how both his dad and mom are coming home early to see us. For me, it’s uncomfortable hearing him call another woman his mom. Even in death, it’s hard not to be possessive. I know I should be glad he has this feeling of “motherness” for Sally but I can’t help myself.

  We talk about everything except Kate and the babies. He tells us about Johnny, his little brother, who’s at the baby-sitter’s. He shows me some of his drawings and paintings and how he can type on his computer. Rosemary watches, and every now and then Wills runs and cuddles up against her on the couch. I look around. The house is perfectly kept, mostly white or off-whites with both real and artificial flowers for color. I hope Wills will be happy here. It’s so different from the kind of home Bert and Kate kept. Theirs was messier.

  But Wills seems happy. After all, this has been his second home for a few years. If this horror had to happen, it couldn’t be better for Wills. But I still find myself wishing Rosemary and I could whisk him off with us.

  Just then, Danny and Sally come through the door. We all hug and cry. How long will it be before getting together isn’t so traumatic? We talk about how Wills is adapting. They feel he’s doing well, but still wakes crying at night.

  Sally brings out a cake she’s baked and some ice-cream. We ask about the possibility of Wills spending summers with us. Danny and Sally look at each other quickly. It turns out, they’re still undecided as to what to do for summers—they both work full-time jobs—and have already looked into sending Wills to summer camp as early as next week.

  We say we’d love to have him summers, either at Ocean Grove or at the Mill. Rosemary says we’ll pay his fare both ways. They check with each other and seem to think something like that might work. They’ll let us know.

  Sally says there’s something else she wants to talk with us about.

  “You know I work in a legal firm as a paralegal secretary. I’ve been talking to the people there about what’s happened. They’re really sympathetic, but they’re concerned about all the legal problems we’re liable to have. People will be suing each other left and right.”

  It’s quiet for a moment. Rosemary leans forward.

  “Do you mean somebody might sue us because Kate, Bert, Dayiel, and Mia were killed? I don’t understand.”

  “I know it sounds awful but nobody really knows who hit whom in that smoke and it’s just automatic that everybody will be pointing at everybody else.

  “Danny and I are going to be using a legal firm in Oregon called Steele, Cutler and Walsh. My company says it’s the best firm out there for this kind of thing. They’re willing to work on a contingency basis, a good arrangement, where they take only twenty-five percent of any settlement. If you want, I’ll have them contact you.”

  I’ve been listening. It seems to be getting off the subject.

  “But, Sally, we don’t want to sue anybody so there shouldn’t be any settlements. Isn’t there some way we can just defend ourselves without trying to sue somebody else? I really don’t want to become involved with a bunch of lawyers.”

  “Well, maybe you could do it that way, but it would cost you a lot of money in legal fees. No law firm is going to take your case on a contingency basis if there’s no chance for them to make money from it. That’s the way it is.”

  “God, that makes me sick.”

  I look over at Rosemary and she shrugs her shoulders. She turns to Sally.

  “Would you ask these people to contact us, Sally? You have our address in New Jersey, don’t you? Then we can think it over. Maybe we can work together on this.”

  “Yes, I have your address upstairs in my files. I think it’s the smart thing to do. Ask any legal friends you might have. You have enough assets to be at risk. You don’t have the deepest pockets, but deep enough, and that’s what they go for.”

  I’m ready to leave; it’s been more than I can take; dead people and deep pockets! Rosemary stands, too. We shake hands with Danny and Sally. We all give good hugs to Wills. I feel myself going into shock again.

  We fly next day and arrive back at our little house in Ocean Grove. It’s dinner time and although we’ve eaten on the plane, we want to sit on the porch, going through the routines we’ve loved so in the past. There’s cheese in the refrigerator and a bottle of wine. We don’t say much at first, but as we eat, we begin to talk. Rosemary pours some wine.

  “Shall we just get out of here,” I ask her, “should we go back home, or stay on the rest of the month? I don’t know if I can stand it here.”

  “If you can, I think we should go through the rest of the month as if nothing has happened. It may seem impossible and I think we’ll both cry a lot, but it’s probably best.”

  She’s quiet. I realize she’s right. It’ll be tough, but we’ve got to start somewhere and the best place is where we left off. She’s leaning toward me.

  “I think tomorrow, early, we should bike along the boardwalk, all the way to the end and back.”

  I nod. I can’t talk right away, then I pull myself together.

  “You’re right. It’s the best thing. What about Robert?”

  “He’ll work it out his own way. I think sooner or later he’ll want to talk to one or both of us; it’ll probably be you.”

  I nod again and nibble on some more cheese. The light is declining; the sun seems to be setting just at the end of the street. I know Rosemary’s watching my eyes. I feel as if I ought to say, do, something.

  “How does a walk sound?”

  We clear off the remaining cheese, the half-empty bottle of wine, and go inside. I look at the place where I’d been stretched out with my head against the couch. I’ll never watch a ball game from there again. Maybe I’ll never watch a ball game. Kate always thought it was so silly to stay inside evenings, watching baseball, when everything outside was so beautiful.

  I sit in the rocker until I hear Rosemary coming downstairs. She goes out the door first, the screen door slams behind me. Will everything always make me think of them, even a sound behind my back?

  We don’t say much. We walk away from Asbury Park so there’ll be less chance of meeting people we know. Neither of us is ready for that yet. We stop and watch the ocean. It’s calming. We’re holding hands.

  On the way back, we talk. Rosemary thinks we should take Sally’s advice. I agree but only nod. Kate would be so upset to know we need a lawyer because of her. She’s spent most of her life trying
not to make any waves. I think Bert would feel the same way. But it has to be done, and the sooner the better.

  “Don’t make yourself so miserable, dear. It’s all bad enough. We’ll just do what we have to do, try to continue our lives and make the most of it. Would you like to play some tennis tomorrow morning at seven? It’ll be the way it was when you were first teaching me the game.”

  I look at her, Rosemary, my wife. She’s a marvel and a mystery at the same time. And now she’s being so brave and taking me along with her. I know inside she’s got to be hurting even worse than I am.

  “How are you doing it, Rosie? How do you manage? What keeps you going?”

  “I know it’s probably silly, but what I keep thinking is that they’d have been in Oregon for at least two years when we wouldn’t have seen them—some letters, maybe, and a few phone calls. Also, don’t forget, they were both thinking of going to some place like Southeast Asia to teach. You know how Bert loved his time there. That could be another three years. So, for the first five years, anyway, I can pretend that’s where they are. If I want, I can write letters to them, maybe even phone. I just wouldn’t dial. I could send Valentine cards, Christmas cards, make Easter eggs for them. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t think I’m crazy. You asked. This is how I’m going to do it. Some of the best communications in history have been through letters, some not even answered. It’s something I can live with. Look at Benjamin Franklin, your hero.”

  I’m crying. I hold her close to me. I should have known. It’s the way she’d do it, not deny it, but turn the thing into a fantasy, a personal re-creation. I wish I could do something like it. I know writing about the whole thing, what happened, what I’m feeling, will be my way, but not yet: it will all have to be finished, over with. I’ll need to feel that something solid, real, positive, has come from this before I’ll be satisfied, able to live with it. I’m supposed to be the fantasy merchant in our family, the writer, the painter, but it’s Rosemary who’s found the way.