by Liz Moore
The station I’m listening to is the local public radio affiliate that Lauren Spright works for. At the end of a one-hour show, I hear the host say her name.
I remember, suddenly, our encounter in Bomber Coffee, and her offer to host a get-together for Lila and Thomas. It occurs to me, in fact, that I might ask Lauren whether she could do this during Thursday’s funeral for Paula. Spring Garden Day School is closed for the week between Christmas and the New Year, which means that Lauren, too, might be at home.
I retreat again into the bedroom, call her, and leave a message, telling her I have a funeral to go to and asking if it might work for Thomas to come over at that time. A minute later, she calls me back.
—Sorry, she says. I didn’t recognize your number. That sounds great. I’ve been looking for stuff for Lila to do. This break is never ending.
Lauren laughs briefly, and then stops. I’m sorry about your friend, she says.
—Thank you, I say. She wasn’t, I say, she wasn’t a close friend. She was a friend of my sister’s more than mine.
—Still, says Lauren. A friend of the family. No one likes for anyone to die young.
—No, I say. That’s true.
Paula’s funeral is underattended, despite the fact that the PPD has finally released her name. I walk in ten minutes before the mass is due to begin, and seat myself in a pew toward the back, genuflecting out of habit before sitting.
I have two reasons for being here: The first is to pay my respects. I am not certain whether or not I believe in an afterlife, but I do believe in trying to do what is right during one’s own life, and if I don’t know with certainty, yet, that my mention of Paula’s name to the PPD led directly to her death, what I do know is that it was, at least, a betrayal of her trust. I am here, therefore, to make my amends.
The second reason: I feel it is possible that I might overhear something useful while I’m here, may hear speculation about the cause of her demise.
This morning, I dressed myself in black pants and a black shirt and realized, suddenly, that I looked like Gee in her catering uniform. So I put on a gray shirt instead, and kept my hair and face as plain and inconspicuous as possible.
Now, from my pew in the back, I can see that the first few rows on either side of the church are full, but the rest of the room is empty. I recognize most of the people in the church, either from working in the 24th or from high school. All of the attendants seem to me to be in varying degrees of sobriety today. A handful of men sit together, one of them coughing outrageously, another nodding out. A dozen women, some of whom I know I’ve brought in.
The parish, Holy Redeemer, is the one we grew up going to as kids, and the one affiliated with the first grade school we attended. It’s a big stone church, cool in the summer even with no air-conditioning, cold in the winter, as it is today. I have many memories from this church: I made my First Holy Communion here, and then Kacey did two years later, wearing the same dress. I can still see her, dressed as a tiny bride, trying to remember to walk slowly.
It is not out of the question, I know, that Kacey herself might be here. Surely she has heard by now of Paula’s death, and I thought perhaps she might make the decision to come. But I don’t see her anyplace. Not yet. Every so often, I turn back to check the door.
* * *
—
The service begins. The priest—Father Steven, who has been here so long that he also led our mother’s service—speaks quickly, intoning the rites. I imagine, morbidly, that funeral masses in this neighborhood have increased in number in the past two decades. Father Steven seems quite accustomed to his role.
From here, I can see the profile of Paula’s mother, in the front row on the side opposite mine. She’s wearing jeans and sneakers. She doesn’t take her puffy jacket off, but keeps it wrapped around herself, another layer of protection. She has her arms crossed about her middle in an odd way, so that the palms of her hands are facing the ceiling. She is gazing down into them, as if cradling the memory of her daughter, recalling the weight and the warmth of the baby Paula. Wondering what went wrong.
Fran Mulroney, Paula’s older brother, delivers a eulogy that’s mostly about his own anger with the perpetrator. Whoever did this, he says, over and over again, wagging his head back and forth with as much menace as he can muster in a church. Father Steven clears his throat. Toward the end, Fran hints at his anger with Paula, for being in the situation she was in. He remembers her sense of humor, how sweet she was as a child. I just don’t know what happened, he says, several times.
—I wish she made better decisions, says the person who introduced everyone around him to the pills that would eventually undo them all.
* * *
—
The service ends. A receiving line is forming at the back. Fran Mulroney and his mother and someone else, a grandfather, maybe, are standing at the front of it, near the main doors.
Kacey never came.
I slink down a side aisle, and then I position myself in line behind a group of women I recognize from working the 24th. They are friends of Paula’s, and were friends of my sister’s, too.
I look down at my phone, trying to be casual, in case they turn and see me. Most of them, I imagine, would recognize me, despite my lack of a uniform today.
They’re speaking in near whispers, but I can hear snippets of what they’re saying, one word every so often that gives me an indication of their views.
—That fucker, says one, and another repeats, That fucker.
At first I think they are talking about Fran Mulroney. They’re looking in his direction, at least. But then the conversation shifts, slightly. At one point I hear, distinctly, the word cop. At another I hear wrong guy. Bail, I hear. My view is mainly of the back of their heads, but every so often one of them turns to another and inclines her head to whisper something, and I catch a glimpse of her face and her expression, in quarter-turn.
Suddenly, one of them—she is standing at the front of the pack, turning back to listen to something her friend is saying—spots me and freezes.
—Yo, she says to her friend. Yo. Shut up.
All four of them, seeing where she is looking, turn in my direction. I keep my eyes on my phone, pretending not to notice. But I see, peripherally, that no one is turning back around.
The woman closest to me is short and strong looking. She’s wearing purple jeans. She points her finger right at me, almost touching my chest, so that I am forced to look up.
—You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve, she says. Showing up here.
Her hair is slicked back into a low ponytail. She wears earrings that come almost to her collar.
—I’m sorry? I say.
—You should be, says another woman.
All four of them are moving toward me now, menacingly, hands in pockets, chins thrust forward.
—Get the fuck out of here, says the woman in purple jeans.
—I don’t understand, I say.
She snorts.
—What are you, she says. Stupid?
It’s a word I’ve never liked. I frown.
The woman is snapping her fingers in my face now. Hello? she’s saying. Hello? Go home. Leave.
* * *
—
A sudden movement, behind my aggressors, catches my eye. Someone is entering the church, moving in the opposite direction as the departing crowd.
I don’t recognize her at first.
Her hair is light brown, as close to her natural color as I’ve seen it since she was a child. Her complexion is pale. She’s wearing glasses. I’ve never seen her wear glasses before.
Kacey. My sister.
Despite looking healthy, she also looks frazzled, running late, her belly protruding through an unzipped jacket. Under her coat, she wears a white shirt and gray sweatpants. Perhaps the only pants that fit her at the moment, I thin
k. She is weaving, now, past the receiving line.
The woman in purple jeans glances back at her friends and then, wordlessly, two of them come toward me and take me by both elbows.
—Don’t say a fuckin’ word, one of them mutters into my ear. Be respectful. You’re at a funeral.
But instinctively, my police training kicks in, and I spin hard enough to knock one of them over onto her hands and knees. The other lets go.
—Oh, no, says the one who’s still standing. She did not just do that.
I hold up my hands. Listen, I say. I think there’s a misunderstanding here.
Suddenly, Kacey is at my side.
—Hey, she says, looking at the four women, not me. Hey. What’s going on?
—This bitch just put her hands on me, says the woman who was knocked to the floor—forgetting, I suppose, who actually laid hands on whom first.
Kacey won’t look at me.
—She’s sorry, says Kacey, about me. Mickey, tell them you’re sorry.
—I don’t, I begin, and Kacey elbows me, hard. Say it, Mickey. Say you’re sorry.
—I’m sorry, I say.
The woman in purple jeans is looking not in my eyes but at my forehead, as if a target were painted there.
She turns to Kacey. She shakes her head. No disrespect to you, Kacey, she says. No disrespect, I know she’s your sister. But you should watch your back. You don’t know everything about her.
Kacey is quiet for a second, looking back and forth between me and this woman, and then—as if a decision has snapped into place in her brain—she flips the woman off and puts her hand roughly on my shoulder, steering me out of the church, past Fran and his mother, who are watching us, confused. I think suddenly of Kacey as a child, rising over and over again to my defense, just waiting for someone to cross me.
A chorus of jeers follows us out of the church, down the steps, to the street.
From inside, the woman calls out to Kacey one more time. Watch your back.
My sister says nothing to me for a while. I walk toward my car, parked just around a corner, and she walks next to me, her breathing heavy.
I don’t know what to say to her either.
—Kacey, I say at last. Thank you.
—No, she says, too quickly. Don’t do that.
We’re at the car already and I pause, embarrassed, uncertain how to proceed.
She looks me directly in the eye for the first time.
—Dad says you came looking for me, she says.
—I wasn’t, I begin. I am about to deny it. I wasn’t looking for you.
Instead I say, I was worried.
She folds her arms over her middle defensively, above her belly. She doesn’t respond.
—Mickey, she says finally. What were they talking about? Those girls?
—I have no idea, I say.
—Are you sure? she says. Is there anything you want to say?
I swallow. I think of Paula. Of my betrayal of Paula’s response, when I asked her to make a report. No fucking way, she said. Get on every cop’s shit list in this godforsaken city.
—No, I say. Kacey, I don’t know what they’re talking about.
She nods, assessing me. For a long time, we’re quiet. On the street, a pack of kids goes streaking by on dirt bikes, popping wheelies, and Kacey doesn’t speak again until the noise of them is gone.
—I trust you, she says.
Kacey declines a ride.
—I took Dad’s car, she says. He’s expecting me home.
So I walk her to his car, and then I say goodbye, on the side of the road, feeling so racked with guilt that my stomach hurts.
* * *
—
It’s time to pick up Thomas at Lauren Spright’s house in Northern Liberties. She invites me in. The house itself is big and modern, across from a park that bad kids used to frequent when I was small. Back when this neighborhood was still ours.
The kitchen, which looks like it was built for a show on the Food Network, is on the ground floor, in a big open room with a sliding glass door that leads out to a patio. There’s a Christmas tree out there, a real one, covered in white lights. I’ve never seen this before: a Christmas tree on someone’s back patio. I like it.
—The kids are upstairs, says Lauren. What can I get you to drink? Do you want some coffee?
—Sure, I say. I’m still shaken from what happened at Paula’s mass. Holding something small and warm in my hands would be nice.
—How was the funeral? says Lauren.
I pause.
—Strange, actually, I say.
—How come?
Lauren is pouring hot water directly onto ground coffee in a tall glass cylinder. She puts a lid on it that has a kind of stem at the top, and lets it sit there. I’ve never seen coffee made this way before. I don’t ask questions.
—It’s a long story, I say.
—I’ve got time, says Lauren.
From upstairs, the sound of a crash, and then a pause, and then smothered giggles.
—Maybe, says Lauren.
I consider her. It is tempting, actually, to unburden everything I know to Lauren, who’s a good listener, who seems to have an organized and happy life. Lauren Spright and her people seem to have everything figured out. There is a part of me that thinks, looking at her, I could have had this. I could have had a different career, a different house, a different life. When we first became involved, Simon and I used to talk about making a life together, after his son Gabriel was grown. I want to tell Lauren about all the plans I had. I want Lauren to know that I did well in school. I want to pour out the facts of my life into the open, friendly vessel of Lauren Spright, whose broad, pretty face is turned toward me welcomingly, whose very name sounds like something innocent and charmed.
I don’t. I hear Gee’s voice in my ear, telling me, You can’t trust them. She never said who they were, but I’m certain that Lauren Spright qualifies. As wrong as Gee was about everything else, there is a large part of me, maybe all of me, that still agrees with her on this point.
That night, after I put Thomas to bed, my phone rings.
I look at it.
Dan Fitzpatrick cell, it says. When my father gave his number to me, I couldn’t bring myself to save it under Dad. Nothing so chummy as that.
I answer.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and then I hear soft breathing that I recognize as someone else’s.
—Kacey? I say.
—Hi, she says.
—You okay?
—Listen, says Kacey, after another pause. I’m going to tell you something important. And it’s up to you to decide whether or not to believe me.
—All right, I say.
—I know you haven’t always believed me in the past, says Kacey.
I close my eyes.
—I asked around today, says Kacey. I called some friends. Tried to figure out what people are saying about you.
—All right, I say again.
Waiting.
—Are you with Truman Dawes? she says.
—What do you mean? I say.
Hearing his name like this, so suddenly, is jarring. I haven’t heard from him since I clumsily tried to kiss him. Out of guilt and embarrassment, I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about him.
—I mean right now, says Kacey. Is he with you. In the same car. In the same room.
—No, I say. I’m at home.
Kacey goes quiet.
—Why? I say. Kacey?
—They think he’s the one, says my sister. They think he killed Paula and all the rest of them. And they think you know about it.
Every part of me rebels.
No, I think.
This can’t be true. It isn’t possible. My fundamental understanding of Truman does not perm
it me to believe what I’ve just heard.
I open and close my mouth. I breathe.
On the other end of the phone, I hear Kacey breathing too. Waiting for me to respond. Measuring, in my long pause, my trust in her.
I think of the last time I doubted her: how I took Simon’s word over hers; how profoundly incorrect I was. The ways in which that one word, No, affected the course of our lives.
And so instead I say to her, Thank you.
—Thank you? says Kacey.
—For telling me.
And then I hang up the phone.
* * *
—
A churning, uncomfortable dissonance roils inside me. My belief in my own instincts conflicts with my belief in Kacey’s words. The only solution, it seems to me, lies in allowing Kacey’s assertion to be a theory that must be proved—or disproved—with evidence.
I’m down the stairs, knocking at Mrs. Mahon’s door, in a hurry.
When Mrs. Mahon opens it, I’ve already got my jacket on and my purse in my hand.
—I know, she says, before I can say anything. Go do what you need to do. I’ll stay with Thomas upstairs. I’ll fall asleep there if I need to.
—I’m so sorry, I say. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mahon. I’ll pay you.
—Mickey, she says. This is the most useful I’ve felt since Patrick died.
—All right, I say. Thank you. Thank you.
Then, cringing, I ask something else of her. I don’t think I’ve ever asked so much of anyone in my life.
—How would you feel if we swapped cars? I say. Would you mind if I borrowed yours for a while?
By now, Mrs. Mahon is laughing. Whatever you need, Mickey, she says. She fetches her keys from off the hook in her entryway, and I hand Mrs. Mahon my own.
