“I thought so,” Carrie said, her eyes satisfied as if she had solved a puzzle. “That’s so sad. It’s ironic that it even came up. I mean, Ginny didn’t know there was any connection.”
“When did it happen?” Blake asked.
“Just a little bit ago. Not even an hour, probably.”
Blake placed her hands carefully on the grocery cart handle and closed her eyes. Poor Tom Kennedy, she thought, gone after all these years. Poor Margaret. She opened her eyes and saw Carrie still regarding her carefully.
“A little prayer?” Carrie asked.
“No, not really. Just remembering Tom before all the sickness. I knew him as a kid. He was as good a man as I ever knew.”
“He won the medal, didn’t he?” Carrie asked, although she knew it well enough without asking, Blake knew.
“Yes, the Congressional Medal of Honor. The highest award our country can give.”
“I suppose . . .”
“Yes, it’s probably a blessing,” Blake interrupted, not quite wanting Carrie to speak the words. “It’s probably time.”
“Are you two still close?” Carrie asked. “You and Margaret?”
“Best friends for years. I have to go to her.”
“I’m sorry to drop it on you like this. I didn’t know all the connections exactly. My husband always says I talk before I think.”
“I’m going to get going, Carrie,” Blake said, beginning to push the cart slowly, her body moving automatically. “Hearing it like this, it kind of hit me hard.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to just drop it on you . . . ,” Carrie repeated.
“No, it’s okay. It had to happen someday. The poor man.”
“If I hear anything, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you,” Blake said.
Outside in the car, Blake sat for a moment after loading the groceries. How strange she felt. Tom Kennedy. Margaret Kennedy. And poor Grandpa Ben, that good man, and little Gordon. She sat for a while and watched people moving back and forth.
She tried to remember what she had in the way of groceries and whether she could go directly to Margaret’s or would have to stop on the way home to unload. She picked up her cell and dialed Sean, her husband, and told his message center what had happened when he didn’t answer. Tom Kennedy, she said. You never met him.
* * *
Margaret made a fire in the old hearth. It was late afternoon, evening really, and she wanted a fire. Grandpa Ben favored the woodstove, knowing that a fireplace was an impractical indulgence, but tonight, just this evening, Margaret wanted a fire.
She performed the task without thinking much about it. She lit a roll of paper, saw it threaten to go out, then catch more merrily and begin to burn, grabbing a bouquet of pine tinder as it caught. Margaret stayed on one knee beside it, feeding it carefully, letting it grow. She broke off a few pieces from a birch log, the thick paper bark on the backside of the wood, and that made the fire’s commitment final. A bright orange flame began to fill the fireplace with light, and Margaret watched for a moment without thinking.
The memory of the phone call intruded only a little. Thomas was gone. Tom. Her husband. The call had been calm and quiet, a short declaration from one of the hospital administrators—what was her name? Margaret tried to recall and couldn’t; she had taken the place of Mrs. McCafferty—who had asked at the outset if this was Margaret Kennedy, wife of Thomas who was a patient in the Bangor Veterans’ Center. Margaret had known, of course. The administrator had wanted to make sure she did not deliver such information to the wrong party, and when Margaret agreed that in fact she was Margaret Kennedy, the administrator had said she was sorry to inform her that her husband, Thomas Kennedy, had expired shortly before afternoon rounds.
Expired, the woman had said. Not died, not passed away, but expired. Like milk, Margaret couldn’t help thinking. Like old cans of tomato sauce.
When she satisfied herself that the fire would increase, she rose and closed the evening blinds. She did not let herself think of Thomas. Not yet. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a scotch, letting it swirl and turn in one of the short highball glasses she sometimes used when she wanted a drink. She poured one for Grandpa Ben, too, and carried both glasses into the living room and sat and waited. A minute or two later she heard the truck arrive. Two doors closed, and then the back door opened and they entered the kitchen.
“In here,” Margaret called. “I’ve started a fire.”
She stood. When Gordon came into the room she gathered him in her arms. His skin felt cold and wet. She marveled, not for the first time, that he was taller than she. When she let him go, he stood awkwardly, apparently not sure what to say. She put both hands on his cheeks and smiled.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s fine,” she said.
“What was it . . . ,” he began to ask.
“Just time,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Just time.”
She hugged Grandpa Ben and then handed him his glass of scotch.
“I thought you might like a drink,” she said to Ben.
He nodded.
“Now, sit with us for a second, sweetheart,” she said to Gordon. “You can run upstairs in a minute. I just wanted to go through things.”
She sat down in one of the two easy chairs. Ben went and put a few more sticks of wood on the fire, then he took a seat, too, the ice in his scotch glass making a winter sound.
“What happens now?” Gordon asked.
He still hadn’t taken a seat. Margaret decided to let him do whatever he needed to do. He moved closer to the fireplace and put his back toward it.
“Well,” Margaret began, “we haven’t discussed much about it. I suppose we avoided it. A simple ceremony? Is that what you had in mind, Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Time has passed by a little,” Margaret said, trying to frame things so Gordon would understand. “It’s been a long time since Tom was part of the everyday world.”
“I know,” Gordon said.
“I mean, his contacts, his friends . . . it’s been a long time. We’ve always thought cremation, if that’s okay with everyone still. Then we could have a small service and inter the ashes. Is everyone okay with that?”
Both Ben and Gordon nodded.
“Maybe a week, four or five days from now?”
“Is that what people usually do?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, a little time. It allows people to make a trip up. My parents will want to be here. Maybe we can arrange to have Father Kamili say a few words. Ben, would you like that?”
He nodded.
“All right then. The American Legion will want to do something, I imagine. I’ll let them know. We’ll put a notice in the paper, too. Maybe some of Thomas’s old football friends will show up. The Millinocket Minutemen.”
She smiled. She took a small sip. Yes, she thought, the fire was lovely and needed. She studied Gordon’s face. He was a handsome boy, slightly fair with the redness she had contributed, and with Thomas’s heavy brows. Sometimes, in the right light, she reminded him of a young Elvis or Marlon Brando—a bright, glimmering handsomeness that surprised her. She knew him well enough, though, to see he didn’t know how to behave exactly. His father was dead, but in reality his father had been dead for many years.
“Gordon,” she said, “don’t feel you have to do one thing or another. Don’t feel any pressure . . . maybe that’s the wrong word . . . any expectation, maybe. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. Your dad has been sick all of your life, and you’ll feel some sort of expectation to mourn in a certain way, and maybe you can’t match that with your feelings right now. That’s what I’m trying to say. Your dad was a fine man, but I realize, we both realize, your granddad and I, that you didn’t have a chance to know him. I’m sorry for that. I’m trying to say just let t
hings come to you. It’s all okay. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Gordon nodded.
Then Gordon saw what Margaret had not. She watched him cross the room and bend down to Ben and take his grandfather in his arms. This loving boy. He held his grandfather while the old man cried. And Thomas was in the room if only for an instant.
* * *
Blake knocked softly on the Kennedys’ kitchen door, then pushed slowly through it. She glanced at Margaret’s muck boots sitting patiently on the porch. If the boots had not been present, she would have looked for her old friend in the barn. She knocked again out of courtesy just as a wind rose and tucked hard against the house. Leaves shook free of the oak beside the front porch and scattered across the barnyard.
Gordon opened the door as she went through it.
“Hello, Gordon,” Blake said and gently looped one arm around the boy’s neck and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I’m sorry about your dad. Very sorry. He was a good man.”
“Thank you.”
“Is your mom home?”
He nodded and she followed him into the kitchen. It felt good to be out of the wind. She glanced around the kitchen. Nothing much had changed. It remained an old farm kitchen, functional and solid, with a fifties-style linoleum-topped table settled against one corner. She had seen a table not unlike it in an antiques store in Portland the week before. She hadn’t made the connection before seeing it now.
“Mom’s in the living room,” Gordon said. “She has a fire going.”
“Okay. Where’s Grandpa Ben?”
“The barn.”
Blake slipped out of her jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair, then walked down the short connecting hallway and stepped into the living room. Her footsteps brought Margaret onto her feet.
“How did you hear?” Margaret asked. “I just called you and left a message with Phillip.”
“From Carrie at the Shop ’n Save. It was just one of those coincidence things. She had just heard from someone at the hospital. I ran some groceries home and then came right over.”
Margaret smiled. It was a tender smile. Blake went to her friend and hugged her.
“I’m sorry, Margaret. He was such a fine man.”
“Yes, he was,” Margaret answered.
“I have such warm feelings about Tom right now. And about you. Tommy Kennedy.”
Blake felt Margaret hug her harder. Blake closed her eyes and held her friend. She stayed in Margaret’s arms for what seemed like a long time. When Margaret released her, Blake had to wipe her eyes.
“Sit, please,” Margaret said, clearing the sections of a newspaper to make room. “I wanted a fire this afternoon. Isn’t that odd? I like the flames.”
“I love a fire,” Blake said, sitting. “And it’s a day for it.”
“Yes, so do I. I always have. I’ve just been reading the death notices. Morbid, I suppose, but I wanted to see how they’re done. We’ll have to post one.”
“There’s time for that, sweetie. We could do that tomorrow.”
“I know, but I feel if I can be efficient about things . . . it helps somehow.”
Blake reached over and held Margaret’s hand.
“And how are you feeling?” Blake asked. “Has it sunk in at all?”
“Oh, a little. I mean, it was such a long time coming that no one can say it was a surprise. Poor Tom. I miss him, Blake. I miss him as a person. But I’m glad it’s over. Glad for him, for me, for Ben, and for Gordon. It’s the proverbial second shoe to drop. Finally it’s come and that’s a relief in a way. I’m being honest. I think I mourned for him so long that I don’t have much left.”
“I understand,” Blake said.
“Would you like some tea? A drink?”
“No, I won’t stay long. Sean is leaving tomorrow on a business trip, and I want to check in on Phillip.”
Margaret stared at the fire.
“I guess we need to have people back after the ceremony. I called my parents and they’re going to come up. I’m having trouble knowing who else might show up. He’s been gone from the world for so long.”
“I’m glad your folks are coming.”
“You know, I’ve thought about this day, about him dying, so many times that you would think it’s been rehearsed and clear in my mind. But it’s not. It’s still a surprise. Nothing has changed, and then everything has changed. I can’t quite get my mind around it.”
“It’s all just happening now, Margaret.”
“I understand that in one part of my mind, but my heart is twisted up.”
Blake squeezed Margaret’s hand. Then she moved closer. She pushed back Margaret’s hair a little.
“You stood by him,” Blake whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone else stand by someone as you did. I’ve never said this to you, but it gave me faith. It gave me faith that humans could be true. It restored me. After Donny, I sometimes thought, well, Margaret is in the world, too. You were like a counterweight to all the craziness that went on around the divorce. You don’t know, but many people saw it, sweetheart. Your son saw it and that’s everything.”
Margaret hung her head. She pressed a wad of tissues to her eyes and cried softly. Blake hugged her again. Something in the fire popped and a small ash flew out and landed on the hearth. Margaret took a deep breath, then looked up and tried to smile.
“The fire feels good,” Blake said, rising. “How’s Ben taking it?”
“He’s Ben. It hurts, I know it hurts, but I keep thinking that this is the tail of the comet. We had the comet a long time ago. That’s the phrase that keeps going around in my head.”
Blake bent down and hugged Margaret one last time. A thick wind hit the house again and the fireplace puffed out a small ball of smoke. Blake shook her friend’s hand lightly and then went out. Gordon sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal.
“Do you know what a great mom you have?” Blake asked as she slipped into her coat.
But Gordon didn’t hear. He had earbuds in and Blake realized he had music jamming his hearing.
Chapter Twenty-nine
How strange it was, Margaret thought, that on the day of her husband’s funeral she must also be a hostess. She wondered about it as a custom, how it had become expected. Were the details of food and housecleaning supposed to take one’s mind off the tragedy at hand? If so, it didn’t work particularly well, because as Margaret moved around the kitchen, trying to keep her black dress clean and not spotted with sink water, she merely felt put-upon.
But at least her mother was there. Whatever differences they had had in the past, she could count on her mom. Her parents had arrived the night before and parked their Jay Feather camper back behind the barn, plugging into a receptacle that Ben had placed there for them years ago. Her father was dressing in the camper; her mother was upstairs, slipping into her own mourning dress. Ben and Gordon had already driven over to the cemetery. Everything was running a little late.
“Mom, we have to get a move on,” Margaret called up the stairs, her hands still wet from the sink.
“Right there, honey.”
“The caterers are pulling in now.”
“Okay.”
Margaret returned to the kitchen and watched the catering van pull close to the house. Two young girls jumped out of the front. Margaret was relieved to see an older woman climb out from the middle of the vehicle. Almost immediately the woman began giving the girls orders. The girls began sliding doors open and ducking inside while the woman came up the stairs and knocked. Margaret let her inside. She was a short, wiry woman who smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, but she gave off an air of competency as well. She wore black trousers and a black smock. She held out her hand; one of the knuckles, Margaret noticed, had been jammed and flattened into something resemb
ling a tree burl.
“Dorothy Gibson, Mrs. Kennedy. I’m sorry about your loss,” the woman said.
“Thank you, Dorothy. Please call me Margaret.”
“We’re a whisker late, I know, but don’t you worry about anything. We have everything in hand. Just point me to the kitchen and we’ll take care of things from there.”
Margaret gave Dorothy Gibson a brief introduction to the kitchen. Margaret was pleased to see Dorothy did not stand on ceremony; she opened cabinets, poked around in the refrigerator, and otherwise made herself familiar with her tools.
“This will all do nicely,” Dorothy said when they finished. “You’ll be back around two?”
“I think so.”
“No worries. We’ll have some appetizers ready to go, then we’ll wait about a half hour after most of the people arrive to serve. People like a drink first. Does that sound about right?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
Finally Margaret’s mom stepped into the kitchen. She wore a black dress that was slightly baggy on her but suitable. She looked good, actually, Margaret noted. She had lost weight and had been doing yoga with a women’s group and her posture and bearing seemed better. The softer winters agreed with her. Her skin held a better tone than when she had lived in Maine.
“This is my mom, Renee,” Margaret said, introducing the two women.
“Daddy should have the car ready,” Renee said after shaking Dorothy’s hand. “I saw him from the upstairs window.”
The two girls arrived with dishes covered by foil. They were cute, probably high schoolers, Margaret saw, and they wore matching black skirts and sweaters. Margaret shook their hands, too, when they put down their dishes, then she corralled her mother and led her outside.
“What a day,” Renee said when she stood on the stairs waiting for the car. “You couldn’t ask for a prettier one.”
“I’m glad it’s a pretty day for Thomas.”
“Me, too,” Renee said.
Margaret felt her mom slip her arm through her own. They stood in the sunlight until her dad arrived with the car.
* * *
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