The Deepest Blue

  Chuck heads back into the funeral home. He pauses in the shaded entrance and looks toward us. Maggie waves him in.

  “We’ll get through this,” she says with confidence. “We can both get through this.”

  “I know.” My voice isn’t quite as confident as hers. I’m not really sure I believe what either one of us is saying.

  chapter 13

  The room is already filling with people. I recognize most of them. Jack Sutton from the Lolly Gag is sitting about five rows from the front, and Frank, his first mate, is a row behind him. I look around for Rachel, but she isn’t here yet. A large table has been centered at the front of the room. It’s draped with a white cloth and surrounded by flower arrangements. There are pictures of Dad on the table in frames of all different sizes. Some of them are from Maggie’s house that I didn’t notice had gone missing. Some are pictures of Dad with people from the community. There is an old photo of me and him on the Mighty Mike when I was about eight; Dad used to keep that in his bedroom. Maggie must have gotten it or sent Chuck for it. There is the brass vase that we picked out what feels like a hundred years ago in the middle of the table, big and more heavy looking than I remember.

  “I’m so sorry, Mike,” says Mrs. Clark. She is an elderly lady that Dad did handyman stuff for. She takes my hand in her soft grip and squeezes. “If I can do anything, just anything, you let me know.”

  I nod. She releases my hand and starts walking toward Maggie.

  “Mike,” says a voice behind me. I turn.

  “Jayden, man, I’m glad to see you.”

  He reaches out to shake my hand, but I grab him around the shoulders. He doesn’t back off but gives me a firm pat on my back. His hair is slicked back and looks darker than its usual light brown. He is dressed in a black suit with a purple tie that I think I recognize from prom.

  “I’m really sorry, man.”

  I start to say something, but I’m not sure how to respond. “This totally sucks,” I finally say. “There are no other words for this.” The tears begin to well up in my eyes. “I can’t believe he’s really gone. I can’t believe he’s not here.” My voice cracks a little.

  Jayden looks at his feet. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just really glad you got here.”

  Jayden looks up at me. “Rachel here?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “But she said she’s coming.” I take a quick look around the room to make sure she hasn’t walked in.

  Chuck comes up beside me. “We’re going to have a little family gathering before the service,” he says. “In about five minutes you need to head over that way.” He points to a small curtained area just off the main room.

  I nod, but I don’t know what we could be gathering for.

  “So what happens after this?” Jayden asks.

  “I think some of the ladies that work with Maggie are fixing lunch at St. John’s.”

  Jayden grimaces. “No, I mean after after. Where’re you gonna live?”

  “Oh,” I say. “That after.” I take a long breath. “I’m gonna live with Maggie in my dad’s house.” The words sort of hit me as I realize we haven’t really made any firm plans, we sort of talked about it over pizza. That would probably be the next step—after today, that is.

  Jayden nods. “I guess that makes sense.” He looks around. “What about the boat?”

  “I have no idea. It hasn’t even been a week. We haven’t figured everything out yet.” My voice comes out a little more harshly than I mean it to. Jayden backs up a step.

  “Sorry,” he says. He isn’t mad. I think he just doesn’t know what to say or how to act. Welcome to my world.

  “No, dude, it’s okay. It’s just kind of overwhelming to think about it all.”

  “For sure.”

  I see Chuck waving me over to the side room. “I guess I have to go do the ‘family gathering’ thing.”

  “Yeah. I’ll catch up to you after everything, okay?” Jayden grabs hold of my arm. “I’m just really sorry. I’m here for you, okay?” Jayden gives me a smile like I just biffed on my surfboard and I should get up and try again. I try to smile back, but only half my face cooperates. I take a few steps away, then turn and give him a sort of weak wave as I head toward Chuck and Maggie.

  “I guess we’re all here now,” Maggie says to a tall man in a black suit. His thin, gray hair is combed over his mostly bald head. He is skinny, but his face is warm and sincere.

  “We’ll start with a brief prayer,” says the man. I notice he’s wearing a name tag from the funeral home: MR. STROUD.

  He says a very quick prayer to which we all say “Amen.”

  “Did you get a copy of the program?” Maggie asks, holding a folded piece of paper out to me. I take the paper. On the front is a picture of a large tree near a river. Inside is a schedule of the service: someone is playing the organ, Chuck is speaking, everyone is supposed to sing a hymn. Then I’m supposed to speak.

  “If you’ll follow me,” says Mr. Stroud. The organ is playing something slow and sedate. We all follow him and take seats in the front row. Mr. Stroud stands at a podium. The microphone squeals as he adjusts it.

  I look around for Rachel, but I can’t turn all the way around, so I don’t know if she made it or not. The room feels chilly, fans spinning overhead and cool air spilling from vents near the floor. My jacket feels hot and binding, and the tie around my neck threatens to choke me. I reach up and hook a finger under the knot to loosen it just a little, and then I undo the top button of my shirt.

  “Friends and family of Richard Wilson, we thank you for joining us today to honor and remember Richard and to celebrate his life.” Mr. Stroud shuffles some papers on the podium. “Richard Leland Wilson, age forty-five, was called from this life on Wednesday, June 18. He was born and raised in Moorehead, North Carolina, lived briefly in Seattle, Washington, and most recently resided in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. He was married to Julia Hanson, but later divorced. He is survived by his son Michael and his fiancé Margaret Delaney.”

  I look at Maggie. Margaret doesn’t fit her. The word “fiancée” hits me. She wasn’t—isn’t—really, but she would have been. She should have been. She has her hands clasped in her lap, her knuckles showing white against the dark fabric of her skirt. Her eyes are glued to Mr. Stroud, her lips pressed together as though she is afraid of saying something inappropriate.

  The organ begins playing some song that sounds like it belongs in a church. The organist is a thin woman with silver hair. She gently presses the organ keys. I notice there is no sheet music in front of her, and she plays with her eyes closed as though she can see the music on the inside of her eyelids. When she finishes, Chuck stands and heads to the podium.

  “Rich was an amazing guy. He was a hard-working guy, and he expected the best from everyone. But he was fair, and he was funny.” Chuck clears his throat and then tips his head back slightly. I can see him struggling to maintain his composure. “I never had a better friend, and I’m sure many of you feel the same way.” He grips the edges of the podium as if he is holding it in place. “Rich did everything from his heart. From raising his son,” he raises his arm and gestures toward me, “to helping people around town, he approached everything with integrity, with honesty.”

  I glance to my left. Tears stream down Maggie’s cheeks, her eyes glued on Chuck. I put a hand on her arm and can feel her shaking. A burning ache rises in my stomach.

  “If Rich believed in something, he believed one hundred percent. He didn’t hold anything back. When I told him I wanted to be a lawyer, he believed in me. He helped me get through law school. He helped me get my practice started. Hell, he was my first client.” Chuck lets out a heartfelt laugh, and a few people in the room release a laugh, too.

  “I always knew that Rich would be there for me if I needed him. He was loyal like a dog—fiercely loyal. You always knew that he had your back, no matter what. It was an honor to know him, and in
everything I do, I will continue to strive to be more like him.”

  Chuck wipes at his face with the back of his hand as he leaves the podium. Mr. Stroud takes his place with a black hymnal in his hand. “Would you please turn to page 173 and join in singing ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’ for our hymn?”

  We all sing in disparate voices:

  “Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

  Who biddest the mighty ocean deep, Its own appointed limits keep;

  Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea . . .”

  After two more verses, we stop. Maggie nudges me, and I realize it’s time for me to stand up and say something. I make my way to the front, adjust the microphone, and look out at the faces. The room is filled. I hadn’t noticed all these people coming in, but there are at least a hundred, maybe more. So much for the small family gathering. My heart races. I scan the room for Rachel, but all I can see is a blur of people. I spot Maggie, and she looks at me with an encouraging but worried smile.

  “I’m supposed to say something great about my dad,” I say. My voice echoes in the room. Papers rustle. Someone coughs. “My dad was my best friend. He was everything to me.” My throat begins to tighten, but I see Maggie’s smile, and I swallow hard. “And he wasn’t the greatest at everything. He wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t make macaroni and cheese without turning it into soup.” I smile as I remember all the runny, orange goo that Dad would try to call dinner. “He wasn’t good at laundry, either. One time he washed all my white T-shirts with a pair of red shorts and turned everything pink.” I laugh a little as a tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I hear laughter from people who would recognize my dad in the story. “But he was great with people. All our charter customers loved him. They came back year after year because he was so good. And all the little old ladies in Moorehead loved him because he could fix their roofs, or their leaky pipes, or their broken hinges on their cupboards.” I hear someone sniff. “And people at the dock loved him because he was nice, and he was generous, and he was honest and fair.” I look down at the top of the podium. “He loved Maggie a lot. He loved her because she took care of us. He loved her because she made him laugh. He loved her because she loved me. He loved her so much that he was going to marry her, but someone took that away from us.”

  Now I can’t stop the tears from coming. I can’t look up, not even at Maggie. I hear people sobbing and sniffing.

  “But even though someone took him physically, they can’t take away his love. He had so much of it. No one could ever take all that.” I step away from the podium and sit next to Maggie again. She pats my leg. The organ begins playing again, something I almost recognize. The tune is full of sadness, but full of hope, too. The silver-haired lady who is playing has her head tipped to one side, eyes closed as though she is in rapture. She finishes with a flourish, then rests her hands in her lap and opens her eyes.

  Mr. Stroud stands at the podium again. “The family extends their thanks to those of you who joined us today. You are invited to join the family at St. John’s church on Beaufort Street for a reception. God bless you all and drive home safely.”

  He steps toward us and raises an arm, pointing up the aisle for us to leave. Maggie goes first. I take her hand. Chuck walks behind us. I can hardly see where I’m walking, my eyes are so blurry, and I can barely breathe. We step out of the funeral home into the bright heat of the day. The cicadas are buzzing in the trees like electrical static across wires. I become aware that I am inside the bubble on autopilot again. I know it’s hot, and I’m aware of the buzz, but it comes through layers I can’t see or feel. Chuck steps ahead of me and unlocks the doors, then he flips the seat forward so I can climb inside the VW.

  Across the parking lot, I can see Jayden getting into the driver’s seat of a white sedan. His mom climbs into the passenger side. I think about driving the truck with Dad, struggling to coordinate the clutch and the brake and the gas all at once. Inevitably I would let out one or the other too fast, causing us to lurch forward and slam to a halt. Dad would laugh and say, “Ease it out, son,” or “Lighten up on it slowly,” or some other piece of advice that was, to me, meaningless in my fear and uncoordinated panic.

  I watch the white car pull away from the mortuary, signal, and merge onto the main road. Chuck guides the VW out of the lot and into the flow of traffic. A bouncy country tune comes on the radio, and he quickly silences it. Maggie softly cries. I am completely numb.

  chapter 14

  There is a hushed crowd of people milling around the large gymnasium at St. John’s. The floor is marked with basketball court lines, though the baskets are all raised. I sit in a chair at half court at a round table covered in a white paper cloth. At the far end of the room is a kitchen where ladies from their teens to their eighties are fixing trays of food and filling silver pitchers with lemonade mix, water, and ice. We arrived before they were completely set up, and now they scurry like squirrels to get platters and trays onto the long table in the center of the open space.

  Jayden sits to my right, Rachel to my left. They talk about Asheville, about Jayd getting his license, about what kind of car he will drive. He tells Rachel that his grandparents may let him buy their Camry, and Rachel says something like it’s a good car and gets great mileage. It sounds like I have water in my ear canals.

  The smell of fried chicken and fruit salad mingles with the faint scent of antiseptic cleaner that was probably used to mop the floor. Shoes click and squeak on the wooden surface, and muted voices echo off the high ceiling.

  Maggie sits one table away, smiling politely at each person who touches her shoulder and offers his or her condolences. Chuck had been sitting next to her, but he’s walked off somewhere.

  “Mike?” Rachel says, a look of concern furrowing her forehead.

  “What?” I say, trying to strain through the bubble to be part of the real world—for a minute, anyway.

  “Jayd was saying we should go to a movie later this week. I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. I can’t think past this second, so I can’t make plans for the end of the week.

  “We’ll just check in later and see,” Jayden says. “Maybe you won’t feel like it.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.” Because I don’t. I don’t know how I feel right now.

  Jack Sutton walks toward me, barely able to meet my eyes with his own. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a suit that looks like its better years were sometime in the mid ’70s. “Mike,” he says, extending one hand to me.

  I clasp his hand in mine with a firm grip. “Mr. Sutton.”

  “Son, I’m just so damned sorry. I just can’t believe this whole thing.” He lets go of my hand and wipes at his brow with a white handkerchief he pulls from a back pocket, then shoves his hand back into the front pocket. “I know this is all so fresh, so I won’t bother you with business.”

  “The boat.” I am thinking aloud more than anything.

  Jack looks a bit sheepish, but it’s no news that the Mighty Mike is the envy of many at the dock. She’s less than ten years old, has two sport-fishing chairs in the back, and she’s thirty feet long. Dad kept her in prime condition, too.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage.” Jack looks me square in the eye now. “I’d never do that to your dad. He was too good a man for me to try to take advantage.”

  “I don’t know yet what we’ll do with it,” I say. “I know it’s something Maggie and I will have to think about, but we haven’t had a chance.”

  Jack nods. “No rush, son. Just want you to know I’m here to help.”

  Part of me wants to be angry about Jack asking, but he’s a good guy, and he really isn’t trying to overstep his boundaries. No doubt it took a lot for him just to say anything. I watch as he walks off. He wipes at his forehead again and then stops at the long table to gulp down a glass of lemonade.

  More people mill
around the gymnasium, filling plates with food and talking in hushed voices. Every once in a while soft laughter filters through the air, but it quickly dissipates in the heaviness of the business at hand. I only recognize about half the faces, and it amazes me so many people knew my dad. I’m a little annoyed they all seem to want a piece of my dad, like they can lay claim to him somehow, and I want to get up and yell that he was my dad, and what gives them the right? But Maggie’s words come back to me. My dad touched a lot of lives, but I can be proud that he was my dad—and no one else gets to have that.

  Chuck returns and stands over Maggie, his back to me. Maggie sits up suddenly and looks around the room with panic on her face. I can hear her say, “Get him out of here,” and I wonder who “him” is. Then she looks at me.

  I look at Maggie, then at Chuck. He motions me to him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Chuck puts an arm around my shoulder as if he’s pulling me into a conspiracy against the kitchen ladies. “We might have a small problem . . .” he says. “Julia is here.”

  Instinctively I look around the room. Yeah, I think, as if you might actually recognize her.

  Maggie grabs my arm and pulls me into the chair next to hers. “You don’t have to see her. You don’t have to talk to her,” she says.

  “How do you even know she’s here?” I ask.

  Chuck clears his throat. “I heard her introduce herself and ask where you were.”

  Again I look around the room, more crowded now as people from all over the Outer Banks region arrive to mourn my dad. I spot a woman in an emerald green dress with her hair pinned back, another in a beige skirt and brown shirt with long, dark hair. She could be anyone, I think. I try to draw a picture of her in my mind, try to visualize how she might look now.

  Maggie touches my hand. “If you want to see her, that’s up to you. I just don’t think it’s a good idea today.”

  My heart speeds up at the fear in Maggie’s voice. “Maybe Jayden can drive me home,” I say. “Or to your house.”