Lonely Souls

by Rosemary Fifield

He turned to Corey and gently extracted his arm once more. “I need to go talk with Leon about something. Why don’t you go inside without me?”

  Corey tilted her head and gave him a small, confused smile. “Okay. But come and find me, okay?”

  Grant nodded, then headed for the cluster of firefighters standing near the engine they had draped with black crepe in Clay’s honor. He had already spoken with Cynthia Dumaine about his intention to turn in his gear, and she had not tried to talk him out of it. Fast squad members left for a variety of personal reasons, not the least of which was post traumatic stress. She noted that the department could still bring in a personal counselor for those who had responded to the scene, but he knew that wouldn’t help him in this case. He was too personally involved in the entire situation to be able to detach himself from the outcome.

  He stayed outside with the firefighters until it was impossible to avoid going in. By then, Cassie was seated at a long table with her extended family, plus Miriam and a number of other townspeople. His parents had saved him a seat at another table, and there, beside them, was Corey waiting for him to join her. He considered going over to talk with Cassie first, but she was in the center of a tightly packed group, and it would have been awkward to try to have a conversation. Instead, he went to the long buffet table at the far end of the room and filled a plate, then took the seat between Corey and his mother and concentrated on finishing as quickly as he could so he could leave this uncomfortable place.

  Cassie had little to say to the people around her. Beside her, Jeanine sat sniffling and blowing her nose. She had been crying almost non-stop since waking up this morning. Cassie didn’t know how she could keep it up.

  Cassie herself had no more tears. She had no urge to cry. Her ribs ached and her throat was tight and she felt light-headed most of the time, but she did not feel the need to cry. Mostly she felt nothing. Life had become meaningless, each day just something to endure. Whenever she could, she retreated into sleep. It kept her from having to deal with reality.

  Aunt Lucy brought her a plate of food from the buffet line, insisting that she eat, but Cassie was not interested. She was no longer eating for two, she wasn’t nursing, her body was her own now, and no one was going to force her to do anything anymore. She had spent the past nine months as an unwilling slave to her body because of the unwanted child it carried.

  So why did she feel so empty now, and why was she aching to hold the little girl she had named after her best friend and her own mother? The little girl she had named after the two women closest to her, both deceased, in the hopes that doing so would somehow confirm and perpetuate their worth? She had told Sonny and Miriam that the baby was theirs. She had implied she wanted no part in the little girl’s life, even though she knew she would be watching the child grow up practically under her nose. How could she go back on that? Yet, didn’t she have a right to change her mind, as the person who had borne the child and given her half of her genes? She knew they planned to tell her who her mother was, even if Cassie never made an attempt to interact with her as a parent. Even if Sonny ended up marrying someone else someday. She didn’t want to take the child. She could handle having her only half the time. What did they call it nowadays? Joint custody.

  She looked up from the plate she was staring at to find Sonny’s mother watching her from across the narrow table. Miriam gave her a quiet, sympathetic smile. Cassie smiled back and the words just came out. “How’s the baby?”

  “She’s doing well. Natalie’s taking care of her at the moment.” Miriam studied her face. “Would you like to come see her?”

  For the first time in days, Cassie felt a swell of joyful expectation choke her throat. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Or, if you like, I can bring her to you. She has a bassinette, so it’s easy to move her from place to place.”

  Cassie shook her head. “I’ll come to you. When?”

  “Whenever you like. I told Natalie I’d pick her up by three o’clock. It’s almost that now.”

  Cassie nodded again. “I’ll come to your house by four. Thank you.”

  Miriam leaned across the table toward her. “Don’t you ever feel you have to thank me for anything that has to do with your daughter. She’s yours, Cassie Anne.”

  Cassie smiled at Miriam’s use of her formal name. She loved Miriam like a mother; she always had. Her feelings for Miriam were part of why it was so hard for her to not have Sonny in her life permanently. Except now she would. Through their mutual bond with Marcia Elizabeth, she always would have him—and his mother— in her life, in some form, no matter what.

  Beside her, Jeanine was blowing her nose into a paper napkin. “Are you ready to leave yet?” Cassie asked her sister quietly.

  Jeanine shook her head. “I don’t ever want to leave. Then it will be all over. Right now he’s still here.”

  Cassie nodded. She knew what Jeanine meant. Until the funeral tomorrow, Marcia’s spirit was still around, waiting to be released by those who loved her. Cassie’s momentary exhilaration at the thought of seeing her baby dissipated. She would never be able to show her daughter to Marcia. Marcia would never give the little girl a dress-up outfit or teach her how to apply makeup or take her to see Dumbo, Marcia’s favorite movie of all times, so they could cry together when Dumbo’s mother rocked him in her trunk through the bars of her cage.

  Cassie placed her hand on Jeanine’s back and gently rubbed it. “There’s no hurry. Take your time.”

  Grant and Larry gathered sap after leaving the funeral luncheon. Two days of warm temperatures had reduced the sap flow significantly, and they finished in the sugarhouse around eight-thirty. Corey had come along to help after the luncheon, and now she walked up the hill to Grant’s cabin with him as Larry marched on ahead to get into his truck and leave.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  Grant held the front door open for her and followed her inside.

  The cabin was warm; he had started a fire in the stove before going out to collect sap. “Where’s your daughter?”

  “With Allen. He takes her several nights a week.”

  “Where’s he living now?”

  “On Winter Hill Road.” She pulled off her jacket and hung it on a peg near the door, then came up behind him as he added another log to the fire. When he stood up, she put her arms around him from behind and gave him a hug. “I’ve missed you,” she said in her husky voice. “A lot. For a long time.”

  Grant turned within her grasp and put his arms around her in return. It felt wonderful to be able to hold her once more. He pressed his face into her soft, fragrant hair and said, “Me, too.”

  Corey turned her face to his and kissed him on the lips. Her breasts were pressed to his chest and she moved her pelvis forward to make contact, as well. “I don’t have anywhere I have to be, Grant.” Her hands moved to the small of his back as she kissed him again.

  Grant moved out of her grasp, in an effort to keep himself from pulling off her clothes. “I’m not going there, Corey.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a married woman. Separated or not, you’re still married.”

  Corey moved closer and turned her face up to his. Her aqua eyes were pleading with him. “Grant, I love you. I’ve always loved you. Allen’s got someone else. I’m sure he has. This isn’t violating any trust.”

  “Get a divorce, Corey. When it’s official, that’ll be different.”

  Corey grabbed the edges of her sweatshirt and pulled the garment up over her head. Her beautiful bare breasts, with their huge brown areolas around each nipple, were inches from him. “I love you, Grant.”

  Grant drew in a deep breath. He loved her, too, and he wanted her. But none of this was right anymore. He wasn’t going to put himself in these situations anymore. He moved away from her again. “I mean it, Corey. Put your clothes on and go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Believe me, this isn’t easy, but I’ve learned my lesson
. For both of our sakes, put your clothes on and go home.”

  Corey held her sweatshirt to her chest as she frowned at him. “What do you mean, you’ve learned your lesson? What lesson?”

  Grant watched her face, and he knew she would not be tolerant of his former relationship with Marcia. “We’ve been through this before, you and me. This time we’re going to do it right. Everything above board and in the open. We’re grown-ups now.”

  Corey stared at him for a long moment, then turned around and put her shirt back on.

  “Don’t be angry,” he said.

  “I’m not angry.” She turned back to face him. “You’re right. I’ve just always been a fool around you.”

  Grant reached out and pulled her to him once more. “You’re not a fool. I was the fool. I don’t want to mess it up again.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Can I ask you something that you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to?”

  She held onto him as she said, “What?”

  “Why didn’t you and Allen have another kid?”

  “He had testicular cancer a while back. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

  Grant closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Allison’s not your kid, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Corey said, moving back to look up at him. “She looks exactly like his sister Dawn at that age. His mother dug up a bunch of old pictures.”

  Grant smiled at her. “Good. I’m glad.”

  Corey turned away from him and took her jacket from the peg on the wall. “Are you going to Marcia Boardman’s funeral tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “That whole thing is really eating at you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Why? They say there was nothing anyone could do. He shot her in the face.”

  Grant felt his skin go cold. “Who said that?”

  “Loretta Beaumont. He shot Clay in the chest and he shot her in the face. Then he put the gun in his mouth and shot himself. You didn’t know that?”

  Grant fought to keep himself from getting sick. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  Corey stood framed in the open doorway. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept well lately. Good night, Corey.”

  “Good night, Grant. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Pamela Trudell had arranged for her daughter Marcia’s funeral to be held at three o’clock at the First Congregational Church in Chatham Center, Vermont. She knew there were those who believed the sensational circumstances of Marcia’s death negated her right to a memorial service. That alone was good reason for Pamela to arrange one. She would not let Marcia’s worth as a person be judged by a single event.

  No longer a resident of Chatham herself, Pamela consulted with Marcia’s best friend, Cassie Marsh, in making the arrangements. Marcia’s circle of close friends was small, but the shocking circumstances of her death had created the potential for a large number of curiosity seekers and town busybodies to attend the service. Cassie had, in turn, consulted with Miriam Penfield and the members of the Ladies Aid Society on how best to provide refreshments for an unknown number of people at a reception to be held in the church basement after the service.

  The funeral would be a simple one, presided over by the Congregational minister who had agreed to conduct the service. Marcia had attended church there sporadically with her in-laws, especially when Teddy was home on Sundays and holidays, and was not a total stranger to the minister. Pamela and Cassie chose music and readings, and the minister agreed to include the opportunity for remembrances that had become so fashionable at funerals in recent years.

  No visiting hours were held before the church service. Without an open casket, Pamela saw no reason to have people cycle through to pay their respects. She felt free to make that decision because she saw the practice as a family-oriented benefit meant to support the survivors, of which she was the only one. Arthur and Claire Boardman were too devastated by the whole turn of events to participate in any way in their daughter-in-law’s funeral.

  She and Cassie had hoped the media would not be in attendance, but a television station out of Burlington, Vermont, had its mobile unit parked across the street when people began arriving at the church. Cassie, her sisters, and her father sat in the second row to keep Pamela company. Shane and Shelby arrived early to give Cassie moral support and sat in the pew behind her. Grant and his parents joined them, while Dawson, Miriam, and Blake’s former wife, Donna, sat across the aisle near the front. A few more stragglers came in—two members of the American Legion Post who were friends of Teddy’s, the hairdresser and manicurist from Chatham Four Corners, and three church ladies who would help to serve the food. Larry and Suzanne slipped into the pew beside Grant’s parents. It appeared the assembly would be a select few after all.

  And then, as though they had arranged it among themselves to all arrive at once, additional people began to stream into the church. They filled the pews on both sides of the center aisle, leaving the latecomers to stand along the outer walls. As Pamela and Cassie had feared, the curiosity seekers and busybodies had come out in force.

  The minister, faced with more attendees than he had ever seen in his church before, warmly welcomed everyone to the service. In the white and gold casket before him, beneath its spray of roses and sea lavender, lay the body of Marcia Trudell Boardman, a child of God who was making her journey home earlier than anyone there had ever expected, and for whom they had come together to share their sorrow and their prayers. The organist played the first musical selection, and then a member of the Ladies Aid Society read from scripture. The minister addressed the congregation with uplifting words about salvation and the inevitable path all members of mankind must follow and how Marcia was simply getting there ahead of the rest and was basking in God’s love sooner rather than later, while those left behind had to learn to toil on in her absence.

  Shelby sat between Shane and Grant, listening to the sounds around her. The minister’s words inspired the usual shuffles and repositionings in the uncomfortable pews and the occasional whispered comment, but there was no sniffling nor undercurrent of grief as there had been at the previous day’s service. Very few of these people knew or even cared about Marcia. Shelby wondered what Dawson was thinking as he listened to the minister’s lackluster speech in a church full of people with no emotional attachment to his friend.

  Another musical selection was played, and then the minister opened up the floor for remembrances from Marcia’s family and friends. The shuffling stopped as the congregation held its collective breath, waiting to see who among them would stand up to speak about Marcia Boardman.

  Shelby waited and listened. She knew Cassie would not be able to speak about her friend under these circumstances. Dawson would want nothing to do with standing up before the people of this town. She wasn’t sure about Grant, but he didn’t seem like the type of person who would seek that kind of attention, plus he hadn’t been himself since he had responded to the shooting. Still, in a town this size, there must be people who remembered Marcia from high school or knew her as a customer or had attended her wedding to Teddy or were even just friends of her in-laws.

  No one said a word. A few whispers started in the back of the room, and someone coughed. Shelby shifted uncomfortably in the pew. What happened when no one said anything? A few more people began to whisper, and the shuffling of items and bodies began to pick up. The minister would need to call an end to this awkward lack of participation soon.

  In the pew in front of her, Cassie began to sob. The sound broke Shelby’s heart and blunted her natural reticence for being in the public eye. She couldn’t let this memorial service be talked about as the one in which no one had anything to say about the deceased.

  She rose to her feet and turned to face the back of the church. The shuffling and murmuring stopped and dead silence ensued. The wild pounding of her heart made her voice waver as she s
tarted to speak:

  “I was not a friend of Marcia’s. Like most of you, I never took the time to get to know her. And I could have, because some of my friends were her friends. And from them I’ve learned that Marcia was someone I wish I had known.

  “They tell me she was smart and compassionate and loyal. That she loved to read, and she loved good music, and she loved to have fun. I also know that Marcia was a lonely soul. But where some of us wear our loneliness on our sleeve, she chose to cover it up with a wicked sense of humor. And that’s why I wish I had made the effort to know her better. There are too many lonely souls like Marcia among us, and we don’t do a good enough job of connecting with one another.”

  Shelby paused to take a breath, and the church remained silent. Her voice came stronger now.

  “Yesterday many of us were at another funeral. And during this part of the service, many people stood up to talk about the deceased. But today, no one has anything to say. And I think we all know why. No man here is going to stand up and admit he knew or liked Marcia unless he wants to be branded with the assumptions that will be made about him. But yesterday, young women stood up to talk about Clay Beaumont, and no one snickered or made assumptions about them. Why is that?”