Carole Ann sat up in the darkness, the arms still tight around her. Her mother's arms. Not Al's. Oh, God, not Al's. Not ever again. The dream that was the truth. No place to hide. She held on to her mother and wept like a child.
"What am I going to do, Mommy? What am I going to do? How am I going to live without him? How did you do it? Please tell me!" And she awaited the answer. Her mother must know, her mother who had lost her husband to a war in a place called Vietnam before it was called a war, when the place was called Laos. Her father, a thirty-two-year old soldier who'd left behind a wife and a seven-year old son and a five-year old daughter who now, every day, ran past a sliver of black marble where the father's name was carved. Thirty-four years ago. Her mother must have an answer.
Instead the mother held the daughter close and whispered her love and sorrow as the daughter again demanded an answer.
"I don't know, Baby. I don't know," the mother replied.
"You must know, Mommy. You've had time."
"I miss him every day. Every moment of every day. It doesn't hurt like it did but I still miss him."
"When did it stop hurting?"
"Not for a very, very long time. I'm so sorry."
So sorry. That's what Carole Ann had said to Al's mother, asleep now in the guest bedroom down the hall, her grief that of a mother mourning an only child. So sorry. That's what Al's father had said to Carole Ann as he'd held her, awkwardly, gently. A man who had genetically programmed gentleness and humor and compassion into his only son. A man who'd mourned and grieved with her for a week and then taken his leave, returning to his second family and law practice in Atlanta with the promise that in thirty days he'd come back and "handle the business and legal end of things." A promise echoed by her brother, Mitch, who, after two days of grief and mourning, also had taken his leave, unable to share or shoulder any of the pain pervading the penthouse. Was that because he was an accountant? Or perhaps he, too, was genetically programmed by a father dead for thirty-four years? Was it fair to think of her brother as cold and emotionless? Was it fair to think that of the father she didn't remember? Did it matter?
Not to the women, to the wives and mothers left with their grief and unable to comfort each other. For Carole Ann was not comforted by her mother. Grateful for her presence, yes. They loved each other fiercely, depended and relied on each other, trusted each other, Grayce and Carole Ann Gibson. But the daughter found no comfort in that love and trust. Not this time.
"You can't help me, Mommy? You can't say or do anything that will help?"
"No," Grayce shook her head many times. "No. I can't help. But I can warn you that the grief will kill you if you don't find some other thing to do with it. I had you and Mitch and you were so young. You needed so much from me. I had to be everything for you, do everything for you. Be both parents. Work two jobs. Love you enough so you'd trust I wouldn't leave you, too. You and Mitch are why the pain didn't kill me. You must find something to keep you alive. Something worth living for."
Something worth living for. Al was worth living for and Al was dead. Fourteen days dead.
"What is worth living for, Ma? Can you tell me that?" But this time Carole Ann didn't expect an answer. Knew there was no answer. She thought about the events of the past two weeks, about the people who had given themselves to her, beginning with Cleo. Detective Graham had refused to leave her until someone came to be with her, until she'd given him a name and number to call. She'd given him Cleo's name and number and she and Billy had been with her every moment until her mother and brother had arrived the following night. nd Cleo had been a presence ever since, handling, managing thinking of everything, like making sure the daily infusion of food and flowers got delivered to hospitals and hospices and shelters.
And Cleo wasn't the only one: The apartment was full of people every day and night for more than a week. The church had been full to overflowing for the funeral, and the procession to the cemetery stretched literally for miles. The newspapers printed thousands of words, the broadcast media devoted many minutes of air time, the public howled loudly about street violence, and the police responded with sweeps and busts that would clog the courts for months. None of it was worth living for.
"Should we have had children, Mom? We should have," Carole Ann answered herself, not waiting for her mother's response. "Then I'd have something to live for now." And she wept again until she returned to the sleep that was no respite from the sorrow of her awakened state.
With the new day came the welcome news that Adrienne, Al's mother, Carole Ann's mother-in-law, would return to her New York home. Carole Ann was relieved, not only because she and Adrienne had never achieved a real closeness in the fourteen years that she was married to Al, but because Adrienne's grief was too heavy. Took up too much space. Adrienne didn't share her grief like Dave, Al's father, who'd held her and wept with her and shared memories of Al with her. Adrienne kept her grief to herself, guarded it as if it were something rare and precious, instead of something foul and festering and dangerous. Even Carole Ann knew enough not to try to hold everything within. She gave it to her mother, to Dave, to Mitch, to Cleo. She'd tried with Adrienne. But Adrienne didn't want to share. So Carole Ann was relieved when she left. Was saddened when her own mother departed the following week, though grateful for the solitude. It was time to be alone. To feel life without Al.
Her aloneness was theoretical, for Cleo came every day and remained with her for several hours each day, compliments of the firm. She had given a month's notice the day after Al's funeral and parceled her time between clearing up Carole Ann's job-related life and Carole Ann's personal life. It was Cleo who sorted the piles of mail and logged all the calls from both answering machines. It was Cleo who ordered and sent the thank you cards. It was Cleo who talked—or in this case, didn't talk—to the press and the idly curious. It was Cleo who blended fruity nutritional shakes and forced Carole Ann to drink them, using the promise of popcorn as an inducement. And it was Cleo who noted the paltry nature of the condolences from the hierarchy of Al's firm. Several of the associates had sent cards, but of the contingent of senior and managing partners, only Larry Devereaux, whom Al had neither liked nor trusted, had visited. And his visits hadn't been in the nature of condolences.
"Are they that pissed off that he was leaving?" Cleo had asked, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "I never thought I'd have the warm fuzzies for Bulldog Bob and the others from our former shop, but I've got to give credit where credit is due: They've been here for you, Carole Ann. The entire firm has."
And they had. Carole Ann had been more than surprised to find the three living founding partners of her firm and their wives in her living room, their sorrow real and palpable; their words of solace as genuine as their offers of assistance; as real as their willingness to welcome her back to the firm whenever she chose to return. And every lawyer and associate of the firm, every secretary and paralegal, every messenger, clerk, and driver had signed or sent a card, visited her home, attended the funeral, had, in some way, acknowledged her loss. Why not the same response from Al's firm since Al's the one who died? His firm had sent a floral arrangement to the funeral, but only Larry Devereaux had visited in person. Twice. The memory still rankled. And caused a flutter of discomfort that she could not define or explain, beyond acknowledging a sizeable dislike for the man.
The first visit was the night after Al was killed. Carole Ann's mother had just arrived from Los Angeles. Adrienne, Al's mother, had been alternating between hysteria and catatonia since her arrival earlier that morning. The apartment was filling with people, and Carole Ann had just come from an extensive interview with Detective Graham at police headquarters that had left her weak and trembling. Her husband had been dead less than twenty-four hours and Larry Devereaux had arrived, asking to speak with her in private. His first words to her hadn't been, 'I'm sorry,' or 'How are you?' or 'What can I do to help you?' He'd asked whether Al had left any work-related files or documents at home. He'd wanted to
check and see. And he'd wanted to know if Al had talked about the case he was working on.
"You came here to talk to me about Parish Petroleum?" Carole Ann had asked, incredulously, and even grief and anger hadn't prevented her from noticing how he'd stiffened at those words.
"What did he tell you?" Larry had demanded.
"Get out of my home," Carole Ann had ordered, and had literally pushed him down the hallway and out of the door. She then she'd succumbed to an attack of the shakes and had to be half-carried to her bedroom by her brother, Mitch, who'd wanted to follow Larry Devereaux and kick his ass.
Devereaux had come the second time the day after the funeral, with the same request: To know whether Al had left any files, "any property of the firm," Larry had said. And to ask whether Al had discussed the particulars of the case he was working on.
"What exactly do you want to know, Mr. Devereaux?" Carole Ann had asked, and watched the color rise in his already ruddy face.
"Al was working on a very sensitive matter, Mrs. Cr.. ah, Miss Gibson."
"What. Do. You. Want?" Carole Ann had cut him off and had stared into the palest of pale blue eyes that had narrowed in anger at her response.
"What did Al tell you about Parish Petroleum?"
Carole Ann had looked at him long and hard before answering, noticing that his tiny, pale eyes were not the worst feature in a face that seemed comprised of parts that didn't belong where they were. There seemed to be too much forehead and not enough chin and insufficient distance between nose and mouth. And the mouth seemed too full to be in such otherwise parsimonious company. "Everything Al said about you, Mr. Devereaux, is true. And he didn't quit soon enough. Now get out and do not ever return." And that day she'd called loudly for Cleo's Billy, and asked him to show Mr. Devereaux to the door.
"Are you all right?" Cleo touched her arm and brought her back to the present.
"I was pondering your question about Al's former colleagues, and the most charitable thought I can manage is it's their fault he's dead." Carole Ann did not need the answering machine to replay Al's final words in her head: '..the head honchos are livid. Larry has been screaming for three hours.Making me nervous. Meeting the boys from Parish Petroleum for dinner.' If they'd behaved in any manner approximating decency then, Al would have come home to her that night instead of...
"Of course, Ernestine has been here several times," Cleo added, once again returning Carole Ann to present. "I told her you'd be in touch..." Cleo left it hanging, left it for Carole Ann to pick up and make the proper response.
"Thanks, Cleo. I will. Do you know what she wants to do? Where she wants to go?" Al had been as devoted to Ernestine as she herself was to Cleo, and she'd pursue a job as diligently for Ernestine as for Cleo.
"Back to school," Cleo replied with a wide grin which expanded at the look of surprise on Carole Ann's face. It was the first time in more than three weeks that anything had moved her sorrow aside. "She'd been wrestling with how to tell Al she wanted to quit. Now she's sorry she didn't tell him, because he's the one who convinced her that it wasn't too late for her become a social worker. She's only thirty-seven."
The sorrow returned to both of them, hung over them, draped across their shoulders like a shawl. "What does she want me to do?" Carole Ann asked.
"Write letters of recommendation and justification," Cleo answered, and explained: "Some colleges and universities now give credit for life experience, and Ernestine says her life has been an experience!"
And Carole Ann laughed again, grateful again for the lifting of the sorrow. She envisioned Ernestine, a combination of Whoopi Goldberg and Mother Theresa, and laughed harder. Ernestine was a long-time volunteer at homeless and battered women’s' shelters and, along with food and clothing and love and compassion, she dispensed a brand of humor that was both rare and raunchy, for Ernestine laughed at misfortune. Made a joke of it. She did not laugh at homeless people or at battered women or at their personal circumstances, but at the pitiful society that conspired to create the circumstances that made such evils commonplace. Ernestine could laugh because she'd walked the walk and talked the talk. Ernestine had spent two years on the street as a battered homeless woman and had told them she began laughing at herself the day she cried herself empty of tears. Carole Ann would recommend and justify the hell out of Ernestine!
"You know I begin at BBG-and-R on Monday," Cleo said quietly, referring to the D.C. branch of the largest firm of litigators on the East Coast.
"So soon, Cleo?" But it wasn't soon at all, Carole Ann knew. May was more than half gone. It was time for Cleo to get on with her life. It had taken Carole Ann exactly one phone call, to a former Columbia Law School professor, and Cleo had been hired on the spot, on Carole Ann's verbal recommendation. Cleo had signed and returned her employment contract before she ever met her new boss, Gerald Larson, whom Carole Ann considered a friend, a mentor, and a thoroughly decent human being. She'd been more than a little surprised to learn that he'd forsaken the classroom for the courtroom, less surprised when she learn the reason: His wife was fighting breast cancer and he needed more money to take care of her and their three children.
"I want you to know, Cleo, how much I appreciate your being here."
Cleo waved away the thanks. The moment was getting too heavy for both of them, and both were grateful when the phone rang. Cleo looked at Carole Ann, who shrugged and turned away. She hadn't answered the phone in more than a month, and saw no reason to begin now. Cleo picked up the phone.
"Hello? Oh! Thanks, Ernesto. Send them up." Cleo hung up the phone and cocked her head in a quizzical look at Carole Ann. "Al's father and your brother are on their way up?" She made it a question and Carole Ann groaned.
"Jesus, Cleo, I forgot! I'm sorry. They're going to handle the business side of things, the things Al always did. The insurance and banking and...and...all the things I hate to do." She blinked back the tears and stood up to go let them in, amazed at the passage of time. If they were back, a month had passed. Al had been dead for a month. Longer: For thirty-six days. She suddenly was aware how quiet it was. How empty. How much she would welcome Dave and Mitch, their arrival nicely timed to balance the void Cleo's leaving would create.
She blinked and took an involuntary step backward when she opened the door. Had she never before noticed how much alike Al and his father were? The older Crandall was grayer and fuller, but as tall as his son and, like him, possessor of an easy, lanky elegance that immediately comforted. Dave hugged her, patted her back as if she were a little girl, kissed the top of her head the way Al used to do, and said he was glad to see her up and about, that he'd worried about her.
Her brother's greeting was brotherly. "You're skin and bone, Sis. When was the last time you ate?" But he embraced her tightly and held her for a long moment before letting go. "You holding up OK?" He searched her face and she was moved by the concern in his eyes. How could she have thought him cold? His love for her was tangible and visible.
"Today, so far, yes. Yesterday, not at all. Tomorrow? Who knows?" She gave him a crooked grin which he returned, their similarity striking in that moment. They were not physically alike, brother and sister. He was square and muscular, like their father, while she was long and willowy, like their mother. But in their faces, the genetic blend of features proclaimed their kinship. "How did you two manage to arrive at the same time? And why didn't you call me? I'd have picked you up, you know."
She led them down the hallway into the living room, where they both greeted Cleo with familial warmth. They made small talk, the four of them, for a while, and drank lemonade and ate cheese and fruit and crackers. Carole Ann wanted it to feel normal, natural. These were her friends and family, people she loved and trusted. People she needed. But they weren't Al.
She turned off the part of her mind that wouldn't be quiet and listened to the conversation as if she were an eavesdropper. Listened as Cleo told them about her new job, about Billy's bad back, about the surprising outpouring o
f support from Carole Ann's colleagues, about the lack of support from Al's. Listened as Dave explained how he had a copy of Al's will and a spare key to the safe deposit box—things Carole Ann hadn't known. Why hadn't she? She hadn't wanted to know. Had never wanted to know about the business of their lives. Was surprised when Cleo told Dave and Mitch that the last five years worth of tax returns were in a box on the floor of the closet in the den, along with bank statements and other papers. Had Carole Ann known this? Surely she must have. She used the den closet. But bank statements and tax returns would not have—had not—registered in her consciousness. Why? She knew it was not that such matters were 'boy things.' Cleo was the most detailed, business-oriented person she knew, more so than Al. That's why she would take notice of something like a box full of tax returns and bank statements. It's why she, Carole Ann, hadn't known about Al's will; didn't know about her own. Where was it? She knew she had one because Al had insisted. Did Dave have hers, too? Or her mother? Or Mitch? And who would handle these matters for her when it was time?
"I'm going for a run!" Her announcement startled them as much as it startled herself. She hadn't run since the day Al was murdered. Since the day she quit her job. Since the day her life changed forever. For more than month she hadn't run. But running was something she could do that still made sense, something that required no part of her mind or spirit or emotion. Running was something that she still needed that still was available to her without emotional cost. She could run still, and practice karate. And cook. She derived sensual pleasure from manipulating the colors and textures and tastes of herbs and spices and food, and this she would do for Dave and Mitch while they were here. Since Al no longer was here to proclaim her culinary mastery, she would cook for Mitch and Dave every day, she decided while running. Running harder and longer than she ever had. For five hours she was out, running, walking, sitting, thinking, weeping, running again, until exhaustion brought her home to bathe and cook and eat and fall into an exhausted sleep that for the first time since Al's death was not shattered by nightmares.
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