Annie thanked him silently for the "veritable." It would sustain her when she mourned his absence. For she mourned his absence even now, as he stood before her.
"I have to go," she said.
Annie held her sons in her arms, first Nick, then Charlie, and felt their broad, manly shoulders shake with sobs. She stroked their heads, her hands absorbing the shape, the warmth. How could she stop? She clung to them. During the funeral ceremony, she sat behind them, refusing to take her eyes off them. She remembered them as children, tiny children, asleep on the big bed in Betty's apartment, Charlie clutching his rabbit and a stale bagel, Nick in a basket. Betty sat upright between, looking first at one, then the other. For hours.
Miranda sat down beside her, took her hand.
Roberts sat quietly on her other side, his long legs tilted off to one side.
"I will miss her forever," Annie said. Her children's heads were beautiful. She could see them through her tears.
"Forever," Roberts said. He put his arm tenderly around her and drew her close. "It's true. You will."
As the cantor chanted his wailing ancient words, Annie cried loudly, as loud, even, as her sister. Then she rested her head on Roberts's steady shoulder and cried some more.
Acknowledgments
I am happy to have this opportunity to again thank my editor, Sarah Crichton, for being so good-humored and patient; and my equally good-humored and patient agent, Molly Friedrich, for being so utterly unlike Miranda Weissmann. Thank you also, Adam and Liz, for reading; thank you, Barbara, for giving me a place to read; and thank you, Janet, for reading and reading and reading.
A Note About the Author
Cathleen Schine is the author of The Love Letter, Rameau's Niece, and The New Yorkers, among other novels. She has contributed to The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, The New York Times Magazine, and Vogue. She lives in New York City.
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