Rules Get Broken

by John Herbert

  When she finally released me from her embrace, she held me at arm’s length and looked at me intently. “I’m so sorry, son,” she said, shaking her head as if she were still trying to believe the news.

  She looked over her shoulder at Jennie, who was still sitting on the lounge chair, very much aware something was terribly wrong. “I haven’t said anything to Jennie,” she said quietly, “but she knows something has happened. Anyway, I thought you might want to be the one who tells her. Or I can if you want me to.”

  “No,” I said more emphatically than I’d intended. “I have to tell her. Not you.” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Where’s John?”

  “He’s inside taking a nap. He was in the pool all morning, and he’s tuckered out.”

  I looked over at Jennie. “Hi, sweetheart,” I called out as normally as possible. “Just sit there for another minute, and then I’ll come over to talk to you. Okay?”

  Jennie nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  Father Bob put a hand on my shoulder. “John,” he said, “why don’t I take your mom and dad inside and talk to them while you talk to Jennie?”

  Before I could respond, he turned to my father. “Bill, come inside with Dorothy and me for a few minutes.”

  My father, looking like a beaten man with his hands in his pockets, head down, shoulders hunched forward, didn’t answer. He just put out a hand for my mother to take, then turned around and walked towards the back door. Father Bob gave my arm a few reassuring rubs and followed my parents inside the house.

  I was now alone, standing on the pool deck in the brilliant sunlight, with Jennie staring at me, eyes wide with apprehension. I walked over to her and sat down. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. She looked steadily at me, but knowing I couldn’t look at her without breaking down, I turned away and stared at the shimmering pale blue water in the pool. But she was not to be put off any longer.

  “Daddy,” she said in a very small voice, “is Mommy going to be all right?”

  Oh God, I thought, watching the ripples the breeze made on the water’s surface, how do I say this to my little girl?

  “Is she, Daddy?”

  I turned back to her and somehow found the strength to look directly at her, right into her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart,” I answered. “Mommy’s going to be all right now, because Mommy went to heaven this morning to be with God. And now that she’s in heaven, she’s not sick anymore. And she’s not in pain anymore. Now she’s one of God’s angels.”

  I started to cry. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be strong for Jennie, but I couldn’t be. I couldn’t look at her and tell her this and be strong all at the same time. So I took her hands in mine, looked into her eyes and cried.

  But Jennie didn’t cry. She just sat on the lounge chair watching me. “Does this mean we’ll never see Mommy again?” she asked.

  I freed one of my hands from hers and wiped my eyes with the back of it. “I’m afraid so, sweetheart. But we’ll always remember Mommy. I’ll make sure of that. We’ll have our pictures of her. We’ll have our memories of her. And she’ll always be with us, inside our hearts, forever.”

  “But she promised…” Jennie reminded me, her voice filled with confusion and pain. “She said she’d come home soon.”

  God help me, please, I prayed silently to myself as I looked at her little hand entwined in mine. Help me say the right thing.

  “And Mommy told you the truth when she said that,” I began carefully, ever so carefully. “She thought she’d be coming home to us. Really soon. But she didn’t know how sick she was.”

  We sat looking at each other, Jennie without questions, me without answers.

  “I miss Mommy,” she said finally.

  “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

  The seconds continued to pass, and as they did, I realized there was nothing else to say. I had told Jennie her mother was dead. What more could I say? At least for now. There would, of course, be questions—hundreds, maybe thousands over the coming days, months, years—but for now there was nothing else to say.

  I got up slowly. “Why don’t we go inside and give Grandma and Grandpa a big hug? I bet they could really use one. What do you think?”

  Jennie climbed off the chair without a word. Like her grandmother, no tears, no hysterics, just a terribly heavy sadness radiating from inside her little body. I put out my hand for her to take and felt her cool little hand slide into mine as my fingers wrapped around it protectively.

  “We’ll be okay, sweetheart,” I said as the two of us walked across the pool deck. “You and me and John. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Father Bob left the house a little after two. He gave Jennie a big hug and a kiss and told her to listen to Grandma and Grandpa. He told my father to be strong for the rest of us, and he told my mother how lucky Jennie and John and I were to have her on our side. Then he put his arm around my shoulders and looked first at me and then at my parents.

  “I’m going to ask John to walk me to my car,” he said. “He’ll be back in a minute. John,” he continued, “come with me. I want to talk to you before I go.”

  I followed him out of the kitchen onto the pool deck and around the back corner of the house to the driveway. I thanked him again for coming and for all his support. He didn’t respond, but when we reached his car, he turned around and looked deeply into my eyes, first one, then the other, before he spoke.

  “Remember, John,” he said, “God is with you. Always. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. There will be times when you’ll feel you’re alone, but you’re not. He’s always there. Watching you. Guiding you. Protecting you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  I nodded and tried to give the impression that I agreed with him, that I knew he was speaking the truth. But I said nothing. I knew if I did, my words would fail me; and he would know that I knew God had turned his back on me and my children. So I just looked at him and nodded, hoping my eyes were not the window to my soul.

  We stood next to his car for several seconds, and from his expression I suspected Father Bob was wondering if he’d succeeded in getting his departing message across to me. And that made me wonder how he could expect me to believe God had any interest whatsoever in protecting me or my family after what He had allowed to happen this morning.

  Finally, Father Bob patted the back of my head and opened his car door. “Take care of yourself and the children, John,” he said as he got in. “And call me if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I will, Father. And thank you again.”

  I watched his black sedan go down the driveway until it reached the street, and then he was gone.

  As I came back into the kitchen, I heard my mother telling my father they should try to rest for a few hours. “I’m tired, Bill,” she said as she wiped the dinette table. “I’m tired, and I’m drained. I don’t know what’s ahead of us tonight, and tomorrow’s going to be tough. So I think we should use this afternoon to get our strength up if we can.”

  “You’re probably right,” my father agreed quietly. “How about you, son?” he asked, looking past my mother at me. “You look like you could use a few hours of rest.”

  “No, not now, Pop. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. You and Mom go ahead. Maybe I’ll sit outside for a while with the kids.”

  “I think you could use some time alone,” my mother countered. “John’s still asleep, and maybe Jennie would like to take a nap for a while with Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “Can I sleep next to you, Grandma?” Jennie asked, obviously taken with the idea.

  “As long as you lay still so Grandma can rest.”

  “I can lay still, Grandma,” Jennie assured her.

  So before I knew it, my parents and Jennie were heading across the family room, leaving me in the kitchen, grateful for the quiet but immediately uncomfortable with the prospect of being alone. I watched them walk down the hall, and then I went out onto the pool deck. I stood in the sun, feeling its warm
th on my face and on the top of my head, and decided to move one of the lounge chairs out of the shade. After dragging a chair over to where I’d been standing, I sat down, took off my sneakers and put my head back. I closed my eyes, sighed deeply and tried to focus on all that had happened in the last few hours and on what I needed to do now.

  The silence around me was broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rattle of a locust or the swish of the breeze in the pines around me. And the silence was frightening, because it underscored my solitude, my aloneness. I opened my eyes, hoping to see something that would lessen my fear, but the expanse of cloudless blue sky only made me feel smaller and more insignificant and more isolated.

  I lay on the lounge chair for the better part of an hour, thinking one minute about the kids, trying to figure out how I was going to take care of them, and the next minute about myself, trying to figure out how I was going to live without Peg. I tried desperately to gain control of my racing thoughts and rising panic—to think logically, to make plans—but after a while I realized my efforts were doomed to failure. I sat up and swung a leg over each side of the chair.

  “I should start calling people,” I said out loud. “That’s what I should be doing. No one knows Peg has died. None of our friends. None of the people at the bank. Somebody has to tell them, and I guess that somebody’s me.”

  I considered the enormity of the task before me and thought about how each call would affect someone—some just a little bit, some a lot, some probably more than I could ever imagine. But I knew the calls had to be made, so with what seemed like the weight of the world on my shoulders, I put on my sneakers and went into the house.

  I decided to use the phone in the library rather than the one in the kitchen because the library had a door I could close for privacy. I walked through the family room and down the back hall and past the guest room, where the kids were staying. I peeked in; John was flat on his back in his crib, still fast asleep. Across the hall my parents’ bedroom door was ajar; judging from the silence, they and Jennie were asleep too. Other than the muted whine of the air conditioning unit outside, the house was silent. Again the silence and loneliness pressed in on me.

  I went into the guest bedroom where I was staying, retrieved both my address book and Peg’s, and crossed the hall to the library. Carefully shutting the door behind me, I sat down at the desk, opened my address book first, and started to make my calls.

  Oddly, most of the calls were the same, which made them easier to make after the first few, their sameness acting as a kind of anesthetic, numbing the pain of having to deliver this kind of news.

  “Dave?” “Mike?” “Bob?” “Frank?” “Hi. It’s John Herbert.”

  Always a question as to how I was doing.

  “Well, I’m not doing too well, really, which is why I’m calling.”

  A deep breath every time for strength and composure.

  “Peg died this morning, and I knew you’d want to know.”

  Another question, always the same. Different words sometimes, but always the same question.

  “We don’t know what happened. She seemed to be doing pretty well last night when I saw her; but she had a high fever all day, and they think that caught up with her some time Saturday night or early Sunday morning.” Another deep breath. “Anyway, I wanted you to know. We don’t know anything about funeral arrangements yet, but as soon as we do, someone will give you a call.”

  Always an expression of sympathy, sometimes barely understandable through the sobbing.

  “I know. I know. I’m going to miss her too. More than anyone can imagine. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a million calls to make, and I’m going to come apart if I stay on here any longer.”

  Then a good-bye, the receiver placed back in its cradle, a finger finding the next name and the next number; and I started all over again. And again. And again.

  Thirty-Eight

  We had dinner Sunday night at the kitchen table at seven-fifteen—my parents, Jennie, John and I. Neither my parents nor I felt like eating, but my mother was a great believer in the palliative effect of food, so dinner was served at the usual time regardless of the events of the day.

  Dinner was eerily different from any we had ever shared before—not just because Peg wasn’t at the table with us, but because of the almost total absence of conversation. I think neither of my parents knew what to say, either about Peg’s death or about the days ahead, and chose to remain silent rather than say the wrong thing. I said nothing because I knew anything I said would reflect the fear and confusion that filled my mind, and I didn’t want to add to the pain and suffering around me. And I think Jennie said little because she was taking her cue from the adults. Even John was lured into being uncharacteristically quiet by the absence of anyone else’s voice and by the hypnotic clink and scrape of utensils against plates.

  We finished eating about seven forty-five and were about to start clearing the dishes when my mother got up from the table and went over to where Jennie was sitting. Without a word, she lifted Jennie out of her booster seat and onto the floor, took her hand and started to lead her down the hall in the direction of the back door.

  “Where are you going, Mom?” I asked.

  “Outside,” she replied. “I want to show Jennie something.”

  “It’s gonna be dark in a few minutes,” I pointed out. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No, it can’t,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  Curious as to what was going on, I left my father sitting at the table drinking the last of his coffee and followed the two of them. I came outside just in time to see my mother kneel down beside Jennie.

  “Look up at the sky, sweetheart,” I heard her say. “Do you see that star there, just over the trees? The really bright one?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jennie replied quietly, looking first at the star, then at her grandmother, then back at the star.

  “Well,” my mother continued, “now that Mommy’s in heaven, that star is Mommy’s star. And do you know what that means?”

  Jennie shook her head somberly, still looking up at the star.

  “It means that whenever you want to talk to her, all you have to do is find that star, and she’ll be right there listening to you. Any time you want.”

  Jennie turned away from the star and looked intently at my mother. “Will she be able to talk to me?”

  “No, sweetheart. She won’t be able to talk to you. But she will be able to hear everything you say to her.’’

  Jennie turned back to the star and stared at it thoughtfully for several moments. “I love you, Mommy,” she said softly.

  Oh, Jesus, I thought. I can’t handle this. Not tonight. I just can’t.

  But before I could go back inside, Jennie turned away from the star towards me, and in spite of the fading light, saw my face and realized I was about to cry.

  “What’s the matter, Daddy? Don’t you want to talk to Mommy?”

  A deep breath and another silent prayer for strength. “Nothing’s the matter, sweetheart. I just got a little sad when I saw Mommy’s star.”

  A second of silence as I wondered what to say next. “Why don’t you talk to Mommy with Grandma for a few minutes, and then I’ll see you inside when you’re done?”

  Jennie nodded and looked again at the star just over the tops of the trees. And for the next four or five minutes she and my mother had a conversation with Peg while I stood just inside the back door, trying to pull myself together and wondering what the two of them were saying.

  At first I marveled at my mother’s ability to listen to her granddaughter talk to a tiny point of light in the early evening sky. Then I found myself wondering if maybe Peg could hear the two of them. And then I wondered if maybe I were losing my mind.

  Thirty-Nine

  I got out of bed early Monday morning, August 18th, knowing I had a lot to do and worried about not having enough time. For starters, I had to complete the last of my telephone calls to
friends and co-workers. I had stopped making calls shortly before dinner Sunday night and hadn’t been able to summon the strength to continue making them after dinner. I estimated I had at least twenty-five calls still remaining. I could have asked someone else to make them—several people had volunteered the day before on hearing the news—but I felt this was something I had to do, something that couldn’t be delegated to someone else.

  I also had to call the funeral home to make certain the hospital had released Peg’s body. If not, I had to find out why and deal with the problem. I had to go home and pick out a dress and some jewelry for Peg to wear at the wake, and I had to bring everything to the funeral home and then select a casket. I had to ask a few people to let everyone know the first viewing was tonight and provide information regarding time, location, directions and so forth. And last, I needed to call the florist and then Father Bob about the funeral service to be held at Saint John’s Episcopal Church in Huntington on Wednesday.

  At five after seven I found the next name in Peg’s address book. I picked up the receiver and started to dial. The Monday morning calls were different from the Sunday afternoon calls. Sunday afternoon, I had the distinct impression again and again that my call had shattered an otherwise peaceful and relaxing summer weekend. People had answered their telephones expecting the call to be simply another little event on their path to Sunday dinner, bed and the beginning of a new work week. But the people who answered their telephones on Monday morning shortly after seven o’clock—some obviously awakened by my call, some awake but not yet functioning, others moments away from leaving the house for work—answered warily, seemingly already prepared for bad news.

  Throughout the morning my folks took turns watching the kids and calling their friends whenever the line was free. The emotional strain on the two of them was evident in the way they looked, moved and talked. Neither of them had slept well, and dark circles under their tear-reddened eyes dominated their faces. My mother still managed to move around the house with purpose, albeit a little more slowly than usual, but my father seemed to find the task of moving himself from point A to point B almost more than he could handle.