by Merry Jones
Derek’s and Charlie’s investment firm.
“So that woman—Sherry McBride. She and Charlie were—they were dating?” Why did I have trouble even saying that? Charlie and I weren’t together anymore. Were almost divorced. Had been free to do whatever we wanted. Even so, I felt a pang.
“MFB,” Jen swirled the ice from her diet soda. “I mean, so she was screwing him. So what? That entitles her to absolutely nothing. What kind of person would make a scene like that? Confront a widow? At the viewing?”
“Actually, that’s pretty standard behavior for her.” Susan licked coleslaw off her lips. “Sherry McBride has a history of stalking. Making threats. Ambushing people. Just last November, an old boyfriend took out a restraining order against her.”
“Really?”
“Wow.”
Silence. Probably, we were all sharing the same thought. That this woman was unstable. Might have been obsessed with Charlie. Might even have killed him?
It was just the four of us. Well, five. Susan’s husband, Tim, was there, too, but he was snoring softly in the easy chair. We were spread out in the living room. I hadn’t left, except to visit the bathroom or grab food off a tray. I hadn’t gone near the study, though. Didn’t dare. Despite the new sofa and fresh carpeting, I knew I’d see Charlie’s body there. Wondered if that image would ever fade.
“So why did she come to the viewing?” Becky sounded angry. “What did she want? Some kind of recognition for sleeping with him? Like to stand in line next to his mother?”
“She said she wanted to face me.” And she’d asked why couldn’t I let go and let Charlie move on. As if she’d thought I was still in love with him. Or, worse, that he was still in love with me. “I think she’s jealous of me.”
“Of course, she’s jealous of you. Look at her—she could never compete with you. Charlie blew it and messed up the marriage, but no way was he over you.” Jen sounded convinced. “If you’d have let him, he’d have come home in an eye blink.”
I doubted that. “But why would she be jealous now? There’s no point. The man is dead—”
“Yeah. And, given her obsessive jealousy, maybe she’s the one who made him that way.” There. The possibility was in the open. Jen had said it out loud.
And Becky agreed. “I bet she was stalking him. Like her last boyfriend. She probably followed Charlie to Elle’s house—”
“But why did he go to Elle’s?”
“Who knows? It doesn’t matter.” Becky dismissed Jen’s question with a wave of her hand. “Maybe he left a book here—”
Or maybe, like Derek said, he was hiding evidence so he could blackmail a client.
“But here’s what I think happened. What’s her name again? Sherry?”
“Yes. Sherry.”
“So Sherry follows Charlie, because she’s an insecure psycho stalker by nature.” Becky leaned forward, animated. “And when she sees Charlie going into Elle’s house, she goes bananas. She assumes he’s there to cheat on her, that he’s been seeing Elle all along behind her back. So she rings the bell. Charlie looks out to see who’s there. When he sees it’s her, he lets her in. They argue. She accuses him of cheating. He accuses her of being a lunatic. ‘What are you doing? Following me?’” Becky imitated Charlie’s baritone. Did a good job. “You know Charlie. He’s not going to take any shit. He gets pissed. He dumps her, right there, and walks away. She’s not going to be treated like that. She goes after him, asking, ‘What’s so special about her? What’s she got that I don’t?’ Charlie ignores her, goes about his business. Maybe he tells her to get out, but she won’t leave. She tails him, yapping, until maybe he shoves her. Or maybe not. Either way, she grabs a knife in the kitchen and stabs him in a final fit of mad envious rage.”
Becky’s eyes glowed. She was breathless, panting. Pleased with herself.
For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then Susan nodded, “It’s certainly possible.” She took another bite of corned beef.
“Is that what your detective friend thinks?” Jen asked. “Because if Becky can figure that out, the cops certainly should.”
Becky bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘If Becky can figure it out.’ As if I’m the least likely to—”
“No. Becky, QD.” Quiet Down. “I just meant that they’re professionals—”
I stopped listening to the words, let myself float upon the back-and-forth of voices. I couldn’t help it. I felt relieved. Hugely relieved. Because, clearly, Sherry provided the police with another suspect. In fact, between her and the client Derek had been talking about, the number of possible killers had tripled in a matter of hours. And I was no longer the only person on their radar.
I was in bed, unable to sleep, events whirling in my mind out of sequence. And, like a rotten aftertaste, Derek’s assertion kept coming back. Was he right that Charlie had come to the house to hide stolen files? I hadn’t found anything. Didn’t believe Derek anyway.
But then I sat up. If Charlie had hidden something in the house, I thought I knew where he’d have put it.
No one knows a house like the people who live in it. Within walls, above rafters, beneath staircases are secret spaces, cloistered corners, nooks known only to inhabitants.
And so it was with our house. Charlie and I knew her skeleton, her flaws and facades, the bare beams under her painted and papered walls. We’d seen her guts when we’d redecorated, redoing the old kitchen and bathrooms, adding the powder room, replacing crumbling old walls and woodwork, enlarging closets.
When we’d rebuilt the front closet, we expanded it into the foyer, leaving the old, smaller one behind it as storage space for luggage and miscellany. Snow shoes. Old golf clubs. Charlie’s bowling ball. Picnic baskets. Beach umbrellas. The storage cubby extended from the rear of the new closet to the underside of the stairway to the second floor. It was a place no one else knew about. A place Charlie might put something he didn’t want found.
I stepped into the front closet, shoved through coats and cleaning bags into the storage space. Turned on the inner light. Smelled mothballs and stale air. Peered into the dimness. Saw nothing remotely resembling a flash drive. Or an envelope. Or a printout. Or anything not covered with dust.
I picked up snow boots, turned them over. Nothing fell out.
I opened a shoebox, found old photos. Charlie as a baby in a pram. His parents at Niagra Falls. His grandma holding him on her lap. Little Charlie on a tricycle.
I sneezed. Closed the box. Knelt and felt under the steps where the light didn’t shine. Found only cobwebs.
Stood. Gave the storage space one more look. Saw nothing but clutter. Boxes and suitcases, a cubby crammed with discarded memories. Wiping off my hands, I turned out the light, pushed through the coats, closed the closet door, and went upstairs to bed. Derek’s words still lingered like the taste of spoiled milk.
The first row was reserved for family. I sat apart from Charlie’s blood relatives, to the left of the aisle. Across from me was Florence in her wheelchair, her hair done perfectly and nails newly manicured. Beside her were Emma, Herb, and their children, and beyond them were a few of Charlie’s cousins, people I’d met a decade ago at our wedding and hadn’t seen since. Ted never showed up.
I was alone on my side of the aisle, preferring not to sit with Emma’s brood. Without children, siblings, or parents to buffer me, I felt exposed. Felt the lasers of staring eyes, and the weight of the unspoken allegations that, if I’d killed Somerset Bradley, I must have killed Charlie. “That’s her over there—she looks guilty, doesn’t she?” Or, “That’s his ex, the one I told you about.” But Susan and Tim sat right behind me. Jen and her husband and Becky sat close by in the same row. Surrounding me like family, even without blood ties. I felt a pang, missing my parents, gone now for fourteen years. Aching, I wondered again if they’d seen the drunk careening toward them, if they’d realized they were going to crash. Had they screamed? Prayed? Cursed? Thought of their daughter? But no, I wasn�
��t going start that spiral. Today was about Charlie. Only Charlie.
The coffin looked polished and tasteful. The flowers were graceful. The room filled to capacity. When I glanced around, I saw people standing along the walls. Charlie would have been pleased, I thought, that so many had turned out to send him off.
The pastor adjusted his spectacles and began the service that Edward and I had planned. Nondenominational. Mostly poems.
“We begin with Three Ecclesiastes.” His voice rang out, nasal and affected, reminding people to follow the programs on their seats. “To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under Heaven—”
I lifted my program on which Edward had printed our selected readings. Tried to follow along. Mumbled, “A time to be born and a time to die—”
Someone took a seat right beside me. Well, who cared? Why should people stand when there were open seats in the family row?
“A time to plant, and a time to reap what has been planted. A time to tear down and a time to build up—”
“You’re not crying.”
Without moving my head, slowly, I shifted my eyes to the left.
“Why not, Elle? Can’t you shed one goddam tear?”
Charlie was indignant.
“Look around you. Everybody—even my ice bitch sister is crying her brains out. Even my buddies, tough guys like Mort. The only dry eyes in this whole place are yours.”
He was sitting right beside me on the pew. Openly, not even trying to conceal himself. And he was talking out loud, right over the preacher. I glanced around, making sure no one else was seeing him. Susan noticed me squirming, mouthed a question, “What’s wrong?”
I whispered, “Nothing.”
Nothing except that the deceased whose life we were there to celebrate had decided to attend his own funeral. Of course, no one else knew that. Charlie was, after all, my own personal hallucination. Or my imagination. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t really there, and I knew it, even though I could see and hear him perfectly, could probably touch him if I’d tried.
The pastor finished his readings, and Derek went to the podium to make a personal statement.
“Those of you who know me know that Charlie and I were more than partners. Charlie was—” Derek’s voice broke, and he drew a breath, looked at the ceiling, bit his lip, collected himself. “Charlie was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. I trusted him completely—”
“Elle, I gotta tell you.” Charlie leaned close, spoke into my ear. “Dry eyes don’t look good. At least fake it. Think about it. Not crying only makes you look more guilty than you already—”
“Stop it. I’m not guilty.” I whispered. “I just don’t cry in public. You know that—”
“Did you say something?” Susan sat forward on her seat, touched my shoulder. Whispered, “I didn’t hear you—”
“It’s nothing.” I told her. I glared at Charlie, annoyed. He wasn’t, couldn’t be there. I was seeing what I wanted or needed to. Hearing him because some sick part of my mind couldn’t let him go. I needed to ignore him, make him go away.
People were chuckling. I looked around—saw that, thank God, the laughter wasn’t about me. Derek must have told an amusing anecdote, something about Charlie’s unbreakable competitive spirit. Or his uncanny ability to sniff out profitable ventures. Or his unwavering determination to excel—
“And there was Charlie, just like the guy said. Flat on his face, passed out cold under the sprinklers, wearing the Easter Bunny suit.” More laughter.
“Do you believe that?” I asked Charlie. “He’s making fun of—”
“It’s okay,” Susan whispered. “He’s just reminding people of the good times.”
Charlie sat impassive, saying nothing. But then, Charlie wasn’t really there.
Across the aisle, Florence asked, “What’s that man talking about? Talk, talk, talk, talk. Enough talk.” Her voice was shrill and loud, and it interrupted Derek’s poignant closing comment. Emma and Frank hushed her, but Florence kept on, demanding to know how long she had to sit there. “When the hell’s lunch?”
Snickers rippled softly across the chapel. Emma scolded Florence, “Mother, keep your voice down,” and stood to eulogize her brother.
As Emma began talking about her childhood and brother, Charlie got up and went across the aisle to his mother. I saw him kiss her cheek. Then he stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders until Florence relaxed and, smiling, nodded off.
I didn’t see Charlie again during the service. He wasn’t with his mother after Emma spoke. Wasn’t around when the pastor led the final prayers, when pallbearers carried his coffin to the hearse, or when Edward escorted the bereaved family to a limousine. Charlie wasn’t there, but others were.
Like the ever-present Detectives Stiles and Swenson. Standing in the corner, as they had been at the viewing. Watching. Conferring. Even as the limousine drove off.
We followed the hearse, led the parade of cars going to the cemetery. I watched Emma’s children, felt regret that I hadn’t seen them in recent years. Doubted they remembered me. I wondered if this was their first encounter with death, if they remembered the living Uncle Charlie. They seemed subdued, stared in moody silence out the window. The youngest wriggled a bit, annoying his sister, but they didn’t squabble. Just grunted.
Frank and Emma sat stonily, Emma no longer weepy. Stoic, now. Long-suffering. I considered telling her that she’d given a touching eulogy, but couldn’t, and not just because I hadn’t listened to it. After her rampage to me on the phone, blaming me for her estrangement from Charlie, all but accusing me of killing him, I wasn’t going to say anything to Emma. Not about her speech or anything else. Ever, if I had my way.
Florence was the only relative of Charlie’s for whom I had true affection, and she was snoring, sound asleep. So I kept to myself as the limo moved out of Center City onto the Schuylkill Expressway, heading toward Bala Cynwyd and West Laurel Hill Cemetery. And then, through the gates, into the burial grounds.
A perfect funeral day. Crisp, cool air. Cumulus clouds dotting the sky. The leaves turning orange. An ominous hint of a chill, a reminder of coming winter. Of inevitable death.
The parade of cars snaked along to the gravesite. And from there, my memories are snapshots. A tent beside the open grave. A large machine, some kind of device to lower Charlie into the hole. People gathering around the hole in the ground, making statements, reading poems.
I clearly remember Susan reciting one. “I Did Not Die,” by Mary E Faye. She cleared her throat. “Do not stand at my grave and forever weep. I am not there; I do not sleep.”
What an appropriate poem, I’d thought. Given that Charlie had not slept much since his death, popping up even at his funeral service.
“I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain.”
Suddenly, Emma wailed as if in pain. Herb comforted her. Florence didn’t stir.
I remember Becky and Jen, side by side, reading the Twenty-third Psalm. Herb reciting the Lord’s Prayer. And later, the coffin being cranked lower and lower into the ground.
I stood graveside, noticed muddy water puddling at the bottom of the hole. Was glad I’d bought the most expensive vault, so Charlie would stay dry.
And then, people were leaving, returning to their cars. Cemetery workers began dumping earth into the hole. Covering Charlie.
I remember Emma hurrying her children. They had a plane to catch, after all. And Florence waking up, confused about the commotion, thinking once again that Emma was her dead sister, Dorothy. Still hungry for lunch.
As I climbed back into the limousine, I remember stopping to look back one more time, half expecting to see Charlie climbing out of the ground.
Instead, I saw someone else. Sherry McBride. Her dyed hair blowing in the breeze, she was standing beside the grave. And she was watching me.
Finally, everyone was gone. I had the house to myself. People
had come back after the burial, drinking, eating, talking, congregating to erase the proximity, the awareness of death. I’d been amazed at how many people cared about Charlie. And, despite the suspicions and rumors, how many people had come out to support me. From school. From the gym. From the neighborhood. From the past.
For two solid days, I’d been surrounded by good intentions. People had hovered around me, touching and consoling. Blanketing me with good wishes. The truth was I felt smothered. Needed air. And solitude.
The last to leave, of course, were Becky, Jen, and Susan. They’d wrapped leftover cold cuts in plastic. They’d run the dishwasher. They’d sprawled out on my red leather sofa and matching easy chair, helping me put away the better part of a bottle of Scotch.
Becky, once again, had offered to stay the night.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” she’d insisted.
“It’s okay. I need to be.”
“Not yet. You’ll have plenty of time to be alone.”
I hugged her. “You’ve done enough for me, Becky. You’ve been here for me nonstop. Go home. Pamper yourself a little. All of this has been hard on you, too.”
She stood her ground, all five-feet-maybe-two-inches of her. Head high. Feet apart. Hands on hips. “What about that woman, the stalker? You said she was there, graveside. What if she comes after you?”
“She won’t. Not tonight.”
“You don’t know that.”
True. I didn’t. “If she comes, I’ll call the police.”
Becky stood up straight, trying to get in my face. Coming up to my chin. “This is serious, Elle. For all you know, she’s who killed Charlie. Which means she might have Charlie’s keys. The police still haven’t found them, have they?”
No, I didn’t think they had.
“And you still haven’t changed the locks?”
No, I hadn’t.
“So she can come in while you’re sleeping—”
“And, if you’re here? What’ll you do to stop her?” Becky wasn’t terribly imposing.
