Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  Some moments later, the pall bearers, Lane and Alan among them, came out with the casket, followed by the rest of the family. Maren looked broken. He watched her sink into the limousine, and it wasn’t long before the procession rolled out.

  On the drive to the cemetery, Malcolm rehearsed what he would say to her after the funeral. That he understood his mistake, and he would never do anything like that again. That he would always respect her decisions and safeguard her trust. That he understood that her family came first. That he would put them and their well-being above his own concerns, second only to herself. That he loved her, and he would never tire of showing her how much.

  As the line of cars made its slow progress through the cemetery gates, he tried to relax; nerves and a hungover stomach did not mix. He licked his lips and wished he’d brought a bottle of water. As he followed the car in front of him around a little copse of trees, Malcolm could see the gravesite on a gentle hill in the distance, obvious for the few rows of chairs under a canopy. He’d lost sight of the limo shortly after they’d turned onto Pinhook Road, and the cars ahead of him were pulling over to park on the curb, so he did the same.

  The graveyard was quiet, the rush of traffic on Pinhook muffled by oaks and azalea bushes. Malcolm followed those ahead of him some distance, taking paths between headstones. When he got closer, he could see that the hearse and limousine had parked below the slope on the far side of the canopy. The pall bearers were just positioning the casket. Flower arrangements crowded around the gravesite, and a basket of white camellias overflowed near the head of the coffin. The family members were taking their seats as Malcolm approached. Family and friends filled in behind them, and many more stood in close clusters nearby. Malcolm again chose a spot where he could see just the side of Maren’s face.

  A short, round woman with graying hair stepped up to the small podium between the casket and those seated. She carried a small book in her hand.

  “Many of you don’t know me,” she began. “But my name is Molly Hutchinson, and I worked with Mark at the research center library for 16 years. Librarians are always talking about books…which means that over the years, Mark and I have probably discussed thousands and thousands of books. He was well read even by a librarian’s standards…”

  Those who knew Mark were nodding and murmuring in agreement. Ms. Hutchinson smiled before continuing.

  “And even though he was not what I would call a religious man, Mark was deeply spiritual, and I know he was a great admirer of the poet Rumi. When Erin called on Sunday and asked me to read something for Mark today, I knew exactly what it should be, Rumi’s poem ‘When I die.’”

  She began the poem in a clear, resonant voice. She read like someone who knew that poems required breath and time, that listeners had to be charmed and coaxed. She was more than good. Still, despite the beauty of her words and the coolness of the air, Malcolm was sweating. He discreetly plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across his face.

  The action caught the attention of a young woman a few feet to his left, and she turned. Helene Coulter’s eyes lit with some surprise at the sight of him. A look of sympathy crossed her features. To her left, holding her hand, was Jess Dalton. Thankfully, he did not notice his girlfriend’s inattention, but listened dutifully to the poem.

  Malcolm needed to sit down. The bacon and eggs decidedly had been a bad idea. Either that or he needed an IV to replenish his fluids. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tried to loosen his tie just a touch.

  “Have you ever seen

  a seed fallen to earth

  not rise with a new life?

  Why should you doubt the rise

  of a seed named human?”

  Ms. Hutchinson read on, and instead of allowing himself to slump against a nearby tombstone, Malcolm looked at Maren. She had stopped crying for the moment, and she was listening with rapt attention. He guessed by the look on her face that she had never read the poem before and was hearing it as a sacred revelation of her father. She looked hopeful. And beautiful. He smiled and forgot his misery for a moment.

  The poem came to a close, and the competent funeral director came forward one last time.

  “The family invites you to pay your respects to Mark once more by casting a camellia into the grave. As Mrs. Gardner told me, in addition to being a flower the grows in abundance at the Gardner home, it is a symbol of the eternal union between husband and wife, and it is also a flower for sons and daughters. The family would also like to remind you that you are invited to a small reception at the Gardner home following the service.”

  The funeral director stepped back and extended his hand to Erin, and she and her children rose while the coffin was lowered into the ground. Laurel broke into fierce sobs at the sight.

  “Poor thing,” Malcolm heard Helene whisper. He saw Jess wrap an arm around Helene as Maren and her mother did the same with Laurel. Silent tears were running down Maren’s cheeks. Erin left Laurel to her sister and plucked a camellia from the basket. She stood at the head of the grave a moment and closed her eyes. Except for Laurel’s broken whimpering, there was total silence. Erin tossed down the flower and stepped aside to let her son follow. After Lane, Maren and Laurel approached the grave. Malcolm could see that Maren was whispering something to her sister, and the two girls cast their flowers in together.

  The family then moved further and stood in a little cluster as others came forward. Murmurings of blessings and condolences rolled over the crowd as people threw in their camellias and paid their respects to the family. A rough line formed, and Malcolm allowed himself to weave in near the end of it. Only two or three people came in behind him.

  It was a slow procession, but Malcolm kept Maren in sight the whole time. His world tilted slightly as he bent to retrieve a camellia, and he willed back the nausea that tickled the back of his throat. When it was Malcolm’s turn, he looked down into the grave. The sight of the coffin, surrounded by dirt walls and covered with white camellias, unnerved him. The yawning earth seemed to beckon him to fall in. He took a step back and spoke in a whisper.

  “Mark, help her to forgive me, and I’ll love her forever.”

  He threw down the flower and set his eyes on Maren again. At last, there were only two other mourners separating them. She was talking to the stout little librarian, Ms. Hutchinson, thanking her for the reading. Maren looked up and locked eyes with him, completely unsurprised at his presence. She returned her attention to Ms. Hutchinson, who was telling her something. Malcolm stepped closer to listen.

  “He was a great lover of words. No wonder you’re a poet. You know, he was terribly proud of you,” the woman said, squeezing Maren’s hand. Maren smiled, but Malcolm could see something off in the set of her mouth.

  “Thank you, Molly. And the poem you read meant a great deal to me,” she said, speaking clearly and perhaps more loudly than Ms. Hutchinson had. “You see, I was at school when my father slipped into a coma, so I didn’t get to hear his last words.”

  Malcolm gasped. His blood iced over.

  “Oh, my dear, that’s terrible,” Ms. Hutchinson patted the hand in hers.

  “Yes, it is,” Maren agreed, fervently, never taking her eyes from the woman in front of her, but the words were undoubtedly for him. “But I was being pressured by a professor who said that I was missing too much school, so I left his bedside. And now I can’t get that time back.”

  Oh God.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, dear,” the older woman said, sympathetically.

  “Oh, no, I don’t.” Maren’s eyes shifted to his again for only a second, and their centers had never looked so dark.

  She hates me.

  Hope drained out of him as though he were a paper sieve. With it went half of his strength. Ms. Hutchinson gave Maren a parting hug and moved on past her to Erin, and the man standing in front of Malcolm stepped forward, but he didn’t dare.

  He looked down at his shoes in the grass and willed his feet to
move, but his world was shutting down. Malcolm pulled himself out of the line and veered across the grounds in the direction of his car.

  It was over. Maren would never be his. She would never forgive him. Never love him. His heart beat rapidly, the sensation oddly high in his chest. There would not be another Sunday morning when they made love at dawn. He would not cook her another Spanish feast. They would not laugh over doughnuts or argue about bike helmets.

  Malcolm wanted to run, but he was having trouble dragging air into his lungs. In the days ahead when Maren fell ill, someone else would put her to bed and feed her gumbo. Someone else would dry her hair. At that crushing thought, a fist of pain seemed to constrict around his chest. He lumbered forward past the line of trees that separated him from his car.

  Did I park behind a line of trees? The question was just a whisper in the din of his mind, and he lost the thought to other, more terrible ones.

  There would be no children with Maren’s dark hair and his green eyes. She would never grow round and wonderful with his babies. Black spots hovered in the air before him.

  He would go back to being alone, a wretched man in a wretched life. He would die alone. It didn’t matter if it happened now or later because no one would seek him out the way she had, not if he lived a thousand years.

  Impossibly, the cemetery had gone airless. The black spots spread towards each other until there was nothing else.

  Chapter 29

  Maren

  In the limousine ride back to the house, Maren felt numb. Over the last several days, she learned that grief was exhausting.

  Maybe that’s why so many people bring food.

  The thought, of course, only evoked one of Malcolm, and she shook her head to clear it. The feeling of numbness gaped like a chasm. She tested the sensation against thoughts of her father. Maren pictured him in his deathbed, in the coffin, in the ground. Nothing. She felt nothing.

  This is denial.

  The limo crossed the Pinhook bridge, and an ambulance, sirens screaming, flew past them.

  “Someone else’s nightmare,” Jackie muttered, crossing herself.

  Maren turned her attention back to the people surrounding her. Laurel slumped against her mother, who stared blankly out the tinted windows. Lane sat with his phone in hand, texting someone, already moving on to the next diversion. Aunt Jackie fingered the crucifix at her throat with one hand and idly patted Maren’s knee with the other. This was what was left of her family. Who were they now? Would they find a rhythm without him? Or would it always be like this? This fragmentation. This emptiness.

  But beneath her emptiness, she had to admit that there was something else.

  A twinge of guilt.

  She had felt Malcolm’s eyes on her all afternoon. It seemed to take him forever to finally approach her. When Maren saw the opportunity to show him—vividly—what he had done to her, what he had robbed from her—she took it. She had expected to feel triumph.

  But she hadn’t.

  The limo pulled up in front of their house, and the cars lined down the block told them that it was time to emerge from their collective cocoon. Maren wasn’t really up for more people, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. Her mother must have read her mind—and perhaps the minds of her other children—before she spoke.

  “Okay, guys. It’s a tough day. Maybe the toughest. And there are surely tough days ahead, but we can’t shut down or close ourselves off,” she said to the car at large. “We are still a family, and a damn good one, so let’s go face our futures, grief and all.”

  “Ready to face,” Lane said, saluting her and making his sisters smile. The driver then opened the door for them, and they climbed out.

  Tuva was the first person Maren saw, and her bountiful hug felt as good as Maren could expect to feel any time soon.

  “Mahreen, I have brought you two things which I know will be making you love your Tuva,” she said, pulling back to look down at Maren.

  “What did you bring me?” Maren asked. “And I love you, already.”

  “I have brought you sugar-browned potatoes, and I have brought you Perry,” Tuva said, her face luminous.

  “You did! Where is he?” Maren felt a rush of emotion. Perry! She had not seen him in more than a week. Even after her father had passed, she had never gone back to the little rent house. The family had been overwhelmed with the business of bereavement, which included shopping for funeral attire, receiving countless visitors, and hours of crying.

  “One of your cousins told me to put him in the room upstairs with the Anchorman posters,” Tuva said, frowning doubtfully. “Mahreen, was that your room?”

  Maren laughed.

  “No, that was Lane’s room,” she said. But a memory had snuck in. Of Malcolm. And that awful day. Then her mind pictured his face at the cemetery, completely ashen.

  “Well, Perry is fine there anyway. Let us get you something to eat,” Tuva declared.

  Maren’s appetite had disappeared days before, and she had taken to eating when someone told her that it was time to.

  “Lead the way.”

  It took about 15 minutes of greetings, hugs, and kind words before Maren actually made it to the kitchen, so Tuva decided to take over instead of waiting for Maren to get around to serving herself. The devoted roommate brought Maren a plate that was overflowing with sugar-browned potatoes, lasagna, spinach dip, bread, and salad.

  “You sit here,” Tuva commanded, leading her to one of the island’s barstools. “Let them come to you.”

  And they did.

  Neighbors, her father’s extended family, people who’d worked with her dad, his high school friends, her mother’s colleagues. The list was endless.

  An hour later, she had eaten less than half of what Tuva had served her when the blond Swede returned and took Maren’s plate.

  “In case you are wondering. All of the young people are out on the back porch,” she said. “Let’s go. I think you have been in here long enough.”

  Maren surveyed the room. It hadn’t occurred to her that this was the over-40 set. She’d just assumed that people were here for her father and mother. Maren slid off the stool and followed Tuva outside. As soon as Tuva opened the door, Maren heard a roar of laughter.

  She stepped out to discover what looked like a party. There were people everywhere.

  “Oh, I see you’ve decided to join us,” Lane said, guitar in his lap and gorgeous brunette at his side.

  “No, I think you were just holding out on me—or I wasn’t welcome,” Maren countered, taking in the crowd.

  A volley of protests went up, and Helene stood up from one of the porch steps and came to Maren with a hug. And then she saw all of them. Her people. The ones who were there just for her. Tuva, Helene, Jess, Avery, Rob. Kit Foster and Ryan Aimes from high school. She smiled at them, feeling a little teary and trying desperately not to show it.

  “Actually, Sis, Laurel and I have only been out here about 15 minutes. We sent Tuva in to get you,” Lane said. He had his own cluster of friends, as did Laurel. Maren eyed the girl at his side and decided that she must be the fabled Robin.

  As if on cue, Lane stood and pulled the girl up with him.

  “Maren, this is Robin Davis,” he said, wrapping a possessive arm around the girl’s tiny waist. Maren found herself smiling. “Robin, this is my big sister Maren.”

  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Robin,” Maren said, shaking Robin’s extended hand.

  Lane looked wide-eyed with mock-horror, and Robin cast him a curious look.

  “Finally?” she asked, pointedly. “We’ve only been going out a few weeks.”

  “Well, that’s about as long as he’s been talking about you,” Maren said, paying him back for more than a few of her embarrassing high school dating moments. “It’s actually felt a lot longer than a few weeks.”

  Lane’s friends hooted their approval at the jab, and Laurel must have felt sorry for him because she came to his rescue.

&n
bsp; “Lane was just about to play something,” she said. Lane seized the opportunity to reclaim the spotlight his way.

  “Yes, yes I was,” he said, sitting back down with Robin and settling the guitar on his lap. “Y’all join in if you know the words. Makes it much more fun.”

  Maren felt Helene tug her by the hand. Friends cleared off the cushioned settee, and she and Helene settled there. Helene wrapped an arm around her shoulders while Lane checked his strings and warmed up.

  Then he broke into the nimble notes of Dispatch’s “The General,” keeping time with the heel of his right foot. His rapid imitation of the rushed lyrics had the crowd laughing before the first chorus. Maren beamed at the beauty and life in his voice as he sang about this fight that was not worth fighting. Lane beckoned with his fingers for others to join, and Maren and a few others chimed.

  “So, take a shower and shine your shoes.

  You’ve got no time to lose;

  You are young men; you must be living.

  Go now, you are forgiven.”

  More voices joined for the second round, and someone passed Maren an Abita. She took a pull and gave a sigh of relief. Yes, they would find a rhythm. Not the same one, and they would always be sad, but after the last week, Maren had begun to think that she would never feel simple joy again. And yet, here it was.

  “Go now, you are forgiven.

  Go now, you are forgiven.

  Go now, you are forgiven.

  Go!”

  As the lines repeated, one word pricked at her each time.

  I want to mend your heart. Forgive me.

  She had expected to feel triumph—before she’d seen the look in his eyes. He’d looked like a man sentenced to the gallows. Like someone who had lost the world.

  Maren took another sip of her beer. The trouble was that she didn’t want to forgive him. It felt good to be angry. Her anger burned brighter than her despair. It kept her warm.