“So?”
“So, he said he was sorry,” I said in a low voice. “We’re all sorry.”
Mrs. O’Malley went right into “The Old Rugged Cross.”
“Grace, I know you don’t want to, but please come in,” Louanne said, sliding off the railing. “Aunt Michelle will feel bad if I stay here any longer. And my father wants me to mingle, but I don’t know how to mingle today. I can’t do it alone. I need you and Maggie.”
“Remember how we said we’d always be there for each other?” Maggie said, holding out her hand. She was wearing a headband too, but a white one that looked good with her black-and-white polka-dot skirt. “Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear,” I said, knowing I couldn’t let them down. Grabbing Maggie’s hand, I maneuvered myself awkwardly off of the railing. Doc was right—you can always use a hand, sometimes to help you up and sometimes to hold. Today I needed both.
“Yoo-hoo,” someone called from the sidewalk. “Yoo-hoo!”
The three of us turned and watched Miss Doris hurry up the walk toward us.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I just came back from the veterinarian’s office,” she said, breathing heavily. “Mrs. Teaford came home last night. The poor thing smelled like smoke and was covered with soot, and her front leg was broken, but the vet fixed her up. She’ll be fine.”
“Mrs. Teaford was trapped in the bar with us,” I said. “We thought she was a rat.”
“I knew it was a cat,” Lou said, smiling at Miss Doris. “I just didn’t know it was Mrs. T.”
“Well, you three get the reward money,” Miss Doris said, pulling five dollars out of her pocketbook. “Here. You take it and spend it on something fun.”
“Thank you, but Jimmy and Denny deserve it more than we do,” I said, taking the money. “Do you mind if we give it to them?”
Maggie and Louanne nodded in agreement.
“Not at all, dear,” she said, opening the door into the house. “Not at all.”
CHAPTER 33
Uncle Tony was laid out in a coffin on the far side of the parlor. Aunt Michelle, Mrs. Dodd, Louanne’s father, and Vinnie the butcher stood next to him, speaking in hushed tones to the people who had lined up to pay their respects. The curtains on the windows were closed, except for one window in the front, which was wide open. The gold-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace had been covered with Aunt Michelle’s long black shawl. My mother knelt on the bench in front of the coffin with her head buried in her hands; her shoulders were shaking. I bit my lip and started to walk away.
“Wait, we have to sign,” Louanne said, pointing to the guest book on the small table beside me. “Now, before anybody else does.”
“What do we say?” Maggie whispered, turning around to face me. “I never did this before.”
“Me either,” I whispered back.
Louanne looked at the book. “Mr. Cannon wrote, ‘Our sincere deep condolences to all of you,’ and the O’Malleys wrote, ‘We are so sorry for your loss.’”
I picked up the pen and wrote, “I’m so sorry for everything, Grace Denise Bryant.”
After Maggie and Louanne signed, we checked the cards on the flower arrangements to see who sent the biggest one. My mother and Doc had sent a medium-size spray of white gladiolas, so it definitely wasn’t us.
“The mayor wins the contest,” Louanne said, tilting her head in his direction. She pointed to a gigantic wreath of white roses with “Our Hero” on a blue banner across the front. “That man definitely has a guilty conscience.”
Maggie and I smiled.
Mrs. O’Malley switched to “I’ll Fly Away,” which seemed a very lively song to be playing at a wake, but no one except me seemed to notice.
Aunt Michelle gestured to Louanne to come over and sit with the family.
“I have to go over there for a while,” Louanne said under her breath. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back soon.”
Maggie and I watched her go before we wandered into the dining room. There was food everywhere. Salad bowls, platters of sandwiches, casseroles, two hams, and a turkey covered the dining room table, and there were so many desserts that the sideboard looked like a bakery. The strawberry shortcake was melting, and its sticky red glaze dripped off the white platter and onto Mrs. Dodd’s white crocheted runner.
“How come there’s so much food?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach. “I didn’t know you ate at a wake.”
“You always eat when somebody dies,” Maggie said. “Didn’t they do that when your father died?”
“I wasn’t there,” I said abruptly. “Remember?”
“Oh, sorry,” Maggie said. “Don’t be mad; I forgot.”
I shook my head, and we walked into the kitchen to get something to drink. Father Flanagan was standing in front of the window sipping whiskey and looking at his notebook. He nodded but didn’t say anything. I looked past him, out the open window, where Doc and Mr. Miller were crouched down on the back porch, putting beer and soda in coolers.
“I’ll never lay a hand on them again,” Mr. Miller said, choking up. “I don’t know why I’ve treated them so bad.”
Maggie and I backed up so they couldn’t see us but not enough so that we couldn’t hear. Maggie’s eyes were wide open, and she took a deep breath. I put my good hand on her arm and squeezed.
“That’s right, Ted,” Doc said, pouring a bucket of ice in the cooler. “You’ve got a nice wife and two kids. It’s not right to abuse them.”
“I’m so ashamed, Doc,” Mr. Miller said, adding another layer of bottles. “That’s what my old man did to me, and I hated him for it.”
“Sometimes you repeat the past without realizing it,” Doc said, standing up. “Be careful. Sometimes you become who you hate. But if you realize it, you have the opportunity to change.”
Mr. Miller stood up too, and Doc patted him on the back. Mr. Miller took a deep breath and sighed. “Doc, I swear to you on Tony’s grave that I’ll never lay a hand on my family again.”
“I believe you, Ted. Good for you.”
I filled two glasses with water and handed one to Maggie. Her eyes were full of tears, but she gave me a big smile.
“Almost time for the service,” the priest said. “You girls better get in there.”
“Okay, Father,” I said, gulping my drink. “We will.”
There weren’t any seats left when Maggie and I got back to the parlor. We maneuvered to the other side of the room and leaned against the wall. A lot of the men, and women too, were puffing on cigarettes. The room smelled like smoke and sweat and perfume and flowers. Doc and Mr. Howe brought in two kitchen chairs, put them at the end of my mother’s row, and sat down. Mrs. O’Malley pounded out the last notes to “How Great Thou Art” just as Father Flanagan walked up to the lectern. He paused and looked out at the crowd.
I tensed and moved closer to Maggie. The room went still.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” the priest began in a deep, reverent tone. “We’re here tonight to pray for the soul of Tony Dodd.” He looked at Mrs. Dodd and Aunt Michelle and Louanne’s father and lifted his hands. “Life was not easy for this misunderstood man. None of us walked in his shoes. None of us know the agony he endured during his short life. Not one of us!”
Tears welled up in my eyes and dripped down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand.
Father Flanagan cleared his throat. People looked down at their laps, avoiding his gaze.
“Sadly, many of us here made fun of Tony Dodd. Many of us here judged him. Many of us here feared him because he was different.” The priest’s voice rose, and he struck the lectern with the palm of his hand. “Few called him friend!”
I reached over and squeezed Maggie’s hand. She squeezed back.
Father Flanagan looked back at the Dodds and nodded. “Yes, this man suffered greatly, but his spirit never faltered. When the children he cared about were in danger, he put his own life on the line and saved them. Wh
at an example this man was. He gave his life attempting to save a man many would say wasn’t worth it. Many would say the arsonist was wicked and would have let him die.” The priest’s voice rose, and he shook his head. “But not Tony Dodd. He believed every life was sacred. He did not judge!”
Father Flanagan paused—a long, unsettling pause.
“His favorite verse was Romans 12:19. ‘Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine. I will repay,” says the Lord.’”
Sounds of sniffling, quiet weeping, and the creaking of chairs filled the room as people shifted around uncomfortably in their seats.
“And now, please bow your heads and pray. Pray for this good man, Tony Dodd, who I believe is sitting at the right hand of the Father—right now—watching us, grateful that we are here for him and his family. Here to pay him respect. Here to call him friend. For it is never too late to call him that. Let us pray.”
I bowed my head and sobbed.
Mrs. O’Malley softly played “Nearer My God to Thee.” Everyone got up from their seats, waited respectfully until Father had left the room, and slowly made their way to the dining room. A few folks headed out the front door, but most of them stayed. They filled their plates and talked to each other in quiet voices about the fire—about how brave and unselfish Uncle Tony was.
Maggie, Louanne, and I took our food outside on the back porch and sat down on the steps.
“Did you notice that Father Flanagan didn’t say ‘thee apawsels’ even once?” Louanne set her plate down and smiled.
The deep voices of the priest and the men in the kitchen drifted out the open window—along with a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Anyone need a drink?” Doc asked.
“I’ll have one,” Louanne’s father said. “Thank you.”
“Hell, yes,” Dr. Whalen answered. “After that sermon, I bet everyone wants one.”
“It sure hit home for me,” Mr. Howe said. “Make mine a double.”
“Father Flanagan was right,” I said, surprised and impressed that Mr. Howe had admitted he was wrong. Maybe there was even hope for him. “Nobody knew your uncle, Lou; nobody walked in his shoes.”
“They didn’t,” she said, wiping her mouth off with her napkin. “They were positive that he set the fires.”
“Now that Uncle Tony’s gone,” I said. “Maybe they’ll do that with—”
“Shhh,” Louanne said, holding her finger up in front of her mouth. She pointed at the open window. “Listen.”
“Fellas, this old house has been sad for a long time,” Dr. Whalen said. “Ever since Tony got sick, Michelle and Mrs. Dodd have carried quite a load. It was bad enough dealing with his schizophrenia, but how the hell did they cope with the whole town thinking he was the arsonist?”
“Dr. Whalen knows how,” Louanne whispered. “Pills. My grandmother’s on tranquilizers, and he’s the one who prescribed them.”
“What?” I wrinkled my brow.
“True,” she said. “They did help her.”
“Nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors,” Doc said. “People think they do, and they like to talk. Tony proved them wrong in a big way.”
“You’re goddamn right,” O’Malley said. “The Dodds can hold their heads up high. No one’s ever going to forget what Tony did.”
“Easy for O’Malley to say that now,” I said, remembering what he’d said about Uncle Tony.
Mrs. O’Malley started banging out “My Wild Irish Rose,” and the men started singing along. When I was little, my father used to sing that song to my mother.
“Where’s my girl?” Mr. Miller said softly as he stepped out on the porch. “Ready to go, Maggie?”
Maggie’s lips trembled, and she stiffened.
Mr. Miller reached down and held out his hand, and Maggie flinched. Stepping away, he said, “I deserve that, Maggie, but I was just trying to help you up.”
Maggie cautiously reached her hand toward her father; he put both of his big hands around her small one and gently pulled her to her feet.
“Let’s go home, Maggs,” Mr. Miller said, hugging her tight.
“Daddy,” she said, hugging him back.
“Let’s go up and read Aunt Michelle’s Cosmo,” Louanne said after they left. “I’m so tired. My father wants to leave right after the funeral tomorrow morning. I’m definitely going to bed early tonight.”
I hated that Louanne was leaving; everything was going to be different without her. I was going to miss her so much; it hurt my heart. I’ll think about it when she’s gone, I said to myself. Tomorrow night, not now.
We went upstairs and got comfortable on Lou’s double bed. Her suitcases were all packed and in a row next to the door. I laid my head on her shoulder while she flipped through the pages in Cosmopolitan. She held the magazine up in front of my face so I could see one of the featured articles: “Are Our Children Too Soft to Face the Future?”
“I don’t think we’re too soft to face anything, Grace,” she said, resting the magazine on her chest. “Do you?”
When I was little, I thought bad things happened to other people—not to me. I was wrong; bad things can happen to anybody. Maggie, Louanne, and I’d each had bad things happen, but we’d faced them together—the three musketeers, one for all and all for one.
I started to tell Louanne my brilliant observation, but she’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb her. Quietly, I got up and went downstairs; the house was dark and empty. The people still here were out on the back porch talking and laughing.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed nine times as I walked by. The living room lights were off, but the white candles in the cut glass candleholders glowed on the tables, and a spotlight was trained on Uncle Tony’s coffin. Gabriel was lying on the rug not far away. He raised his head when I came in. Louanne was taking him with her tomorrow; she said she’d always wanted a dog.
Doc said it was customary for the family and close friends to sit up with the body the night before the funeral. He and my mother planned on sitting up with Uncle Tony and the Dodds and other close friends, but I was going home.
I walked over to the coffin, knelt down, and forced myself to look at Uncle Tony. You’d never know a burning building had collapsed on him; he looked like he was asleep. His eyes were shut, and his hands were folded peacefully on his chest. Louanne had helped Aunt Michelle pick out the new pinstripe suit and red tie that he was wearing. She’d scattered forget-me-nots around his head on the white satin pillow and tucked her teddy bear, Sir Laurence Olivier, under his arm so he’d never be alone.
I pulled the thank-you note I’d written Uncle Tony out of my sock. I’d stuck it there because my dress didn’t have pockets. I hadn’t been sure I’d even give him the note, but I wanted him to know how sad I was that he was gone, how bad I felt for not really knowing him, how much I liked it when he smiled at me the day I let the cow loose, how much I had wanted to hug him when he was being taken away on the stretcher, and how, even though I’d been afraid of him, I’d always loved him because he reminded me of my father.
Kissing the note three times (once for him, once for my father, and once for me), I stood up on the kneeler and slipped it into the front pocket of his suit. I reached inside the coffin and gently rested my good hand on top of his.
“Something inside me, Uncle Tony, tells me you already know the things I wrote in this letter because you’re in heaven—even Father Flanagan said so. You probably know I need a favor—a big one.” I stopped talking and squeezed his cold hard hands.
“But in case you don’t, would you please tell my dad that I forgive him for leaving me? I don’t hate him anymore. I know he loved me, but he hurt so much—like you—that he just had to make it stop. Please, Uncle Tony, tell him I love him. I’ll never forget him.”
I leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I’ll never forget you either. I love you.”
Acknowledgments
I
could not have brought Stillwater to fruition without the generosity, help, and support of my family and friends.
My husband, Victor, my four children and their spouses, Jackie Hernandez, Steve Hazard, and Anne Jagger, Tory and Maureen Hazard, and Jennifer and Mark Giacalone were my cheerleaders. My brother, Bob Dellinger, and my sister, Jane Waring, backed me right from the start.
My writing group buddies, Larry Andrews, Eddy Bay, Judy Bayer, Gil Beall, Julie Mayerson Brown, Dolores Davis, Jeff Guenther, Laura Hines-Jurgens, Lisa Manterfield, Tom Mooney, Paula Reuben, James Flaherty, and Jean Shriver, critiqued my early drafts and urged me on.
Mark Sarvas, professor at the UCLA Novel Writing Intensive Workshop, helped polish my very first paragraph, and Book Coach Jennie Nash, Julie Artz, Jade Eby, and Laura Franzini, of the Author Accelerator group, improved my revisions. Dan Blank, Founder of We Grow Media, helped me identify ways to connect with readers.
Teri Case, Brian Peyton Joyner, Jack Schaeffer, and Maya Rushing Walker read my last draft and encouraged me to publish.
My book club members, Jerri Beall, Barbara Case, Kathleen Cunningham, Tami Eaton, Jan Faris, Dorothy Jacobi, Grace Mascola, were behind me, and one member, Becky Tortorice, was my first editor.
I’m grateful to my granddaughter, Molly Lowe White, who helped organize and format the manuscript, something I could never do.
My heartfelt gratitude to Naren Aryal, Kristin Perry, and the rest of the staff at Mascot who took my manuscript and made it a book!
I could never have done this without help. As Helen Keller wisely said, “Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.”
NOTE TO READER
Although it happened forty years ago, my father’s death by suicide is still painful—a wound that never truly heals. Working on my “coming of age” novel helped me put things in perspective, see his death in a more positive way, and let others who have lost a loved one this way know that they are not alone.
My novel, Stillwater, is set in upstate New York in the ’50s. Back then, mental illness was considered a disgrace; people with those kinds of problems were ridiculed and feared. People were ashamed to talk about their emotional problems, and if they did seek help, there wasn’t much out there.
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