by Stash (v5)
Gwen stood at the back of the group, a small gap between herself and the others. A few faces turned to notice her. The morning was humid and hazy. Sweat trickled beneath her dark sleeves and her forehead glistened. The stitches over her eye itched.
The priest spoke about the good and noble life of James Anderson, which should not be overshadowed by the last few difficult years.
About his reunion with God.
Gwen had no image of who lay inside this casket. She’d never seen James or even a photograph of him. There’d been no glance of his face through the windshield just before the accident, no screaming imprint in her mind. The way the light had reflected the sky on the glass, the speed of the event—it might have been an empty car that crossed her path. But it wasn’t.
Now the priest sprinkled holy water on the casket. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” And now he made his way among the mourners, flicking sprinkles of holy water from a golden nozzle onto the family. Even in the back, standing to one side, Gwen felt a few drops like the first hint of rain. Cicadas twanged in the nearby trees.
Brian had been against her attending the funeral. He questioned whether she’d be welcome at the service. After she’d spoken to him about it on the phone, he’d come home from work a few hours later in a curt, cranky mood, going so far as to call it a stupid idea.
“Whether I’m welcome or not isn’t the point,” Gwen insisted. They didn’t often accuse each other of having stupid ideas.
“Then what is the point? Why do you want to insert yourself in this situation?”
“To pay my respects to someone who died in an accident I was involved in.”
“Gwen, stop blaming yourself for what happened. He hit you.”
“I’m not blaming myself, but I feel awful.”
“Then send flowers to the family, buy a mass card.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“I think it will only make things harder for you.”
“And I think it’s the right thing to do, even if it is hard. I need to go.”
“Then it’s not about paying respects to the family, it’s about getting closure for yourself.”
Closure. She hated that word. She didn’t believe in it. All those self-help articles and therapists who spoke about achieving closure after traumatic events: death, divorce, downsizing. Such chasms don’t close so neat and tidy; they reveal a new path that alters the course of your life. Like the time she’d had an abortion and afterward visited a cemetery, a different one from this one, in a different city, and sat on a bench until closing at dusk when a guard on patrol approached and asked her to leave the grounds. She’d made up her mind that evening never to have another abortion, no matter what. She didn’t look upon that assertion as an ending or a closure ritual; it was a life decision, one that made a big impact once Brian came along and she became pregnant again, this time with Nora.
The service ended and the group parted and moved about and the teenagers sat together under the canopy of a willow tree. The priest put an arm around James’s daughter, Sheila. Gwen should approach the family, she should say something—to somebody. Express regrets, explain the reason for her presence. She was not a funeral crasher.
Before she could take initiative, one of the men peeled from the group and approached her.
“I’m Walt Anderson—James’s son.”
Gwen had guessed his identity correctly.
“My sister wants to know who you are.”
Gwen introduced herself.
“I was the driver of the other car in the accident. I thought … I wanted to pay my respects. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Walt nodded. “The car my father struck. I’m sorry you had to be involved. He never should have been driving with his condition. It’s kind of you to come.”
Take that, Brian, I told you it was the right thing for me to be here.
“I see you didn’t come through the accident unscathed,” Walt said.
Gwen fingered her stitches. “Oh, this is nothing, nothing compared to …” Compared to a dead man.
“Who is it?” the daughter, Sheila, called out, loud enough that the others present turned their focus on Gwen.
“My father had Alzheimer’s,” Walt explained. “He lived with my sister—at her insistence, although it was very challenging for her.”
“Walter! Who is it?”
Walt shrugged as if apologizing to Gwen. “The car keys were hidden, but he must have come across them while looking for something else, who knows what. And the next thing he’s driving somewhere, who knows where. He talked a lot about the Adirondacks, where he’d grown up, but he was driving in the other direction when the accident happened.”
“That must have been frightening for you, not knowing where he’d gone.”
“It’s like having a two-year-old,” Walt said. “You don’t know what they’ll get into—you can’t leave them alone. I should know, I have one now. That’s my daughter, Mali, over there; my wife is holding her.”
He motioned to the black woman and the youngster in her arms, standing apart from the others.
Gwen went through the list of grandchildren mentioned in the obituary: no Mali.
Sheila made her way over to where Gwen and Walt stood, her husband following several paces behind.
“Sheila, this is Gwen Raine. She was kind enough to come for Dad. She was driving the car that Dad struck.”
Sheila flinched, as if a bug had flown into her face. “You,” she said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gwen said. “Your brother was just mentioning that you cared for your father—I mean, that he lived with you. I’m sure it was a great comfort to him being with his family.”
“You were on drugs,” Sheila snapped.
Now it was Gwen’s turn to flinch. “Mrs.…” Gwen started and stopped. She didn’t remember Sheila’s last name, hadn’t prepared for this.
Sheila moved closer, swaying in and out of Gwen’s face, like a boxer feinting.
“You were high on drugs. You struck and killed an innocent person. I know what happened. I have a friend in the Morrissey police. She told me all about it.”
“Sheila, that’s not what happened,” Walt said.
“You should be in prison. And what do you get—all you get is a black eye.”
“Sheila, please,” Walt said. He tried to put an arm on his sister. She brushed him off.
“What religion are you?”
“Um, well …” Gwen didn’t have a concise answer for the woman. She had a long and convoluted answer that she and Brian worked out with the kids, about how people have different beliefs regarding God and religion and each person has to make their own decision and right now their family was not any one particular religion by name, but their goal was to introduce their kids to … It was the usual agnostic plea bargain from parents who had lapsed. But Nora wanted to wear a white dress and receive her First Communion like other girls in her class. Or celebrate eight nights of Hanukkah. Or at least know more about Episcopalians, the faith both Brian and Gwen had been raised in.
“Just as I thought,” Sheila said. “And you probably have young children.” She crossed herself.
“Sheila, let it go,” Walt said.
“Are you a mother?”
“I don’t see why that matters,” Gwen said, ready to fight back now.
“Oh, those poor innocent babes.”
“We should get going,” Walt said. “We’re expected back at the house.”
But Sheila would not let up. “If it weren’t for God—if it weren’t for the grace of God, where would I have found the strength to care for Dad every day? It’s me, I’m the one who …” She started to cry and fought back tears with the righteous defiance of a martyr about to be stoned.
Her husband, who had yet to say a word, took her arm.
“I’ve got a good mind to sue you for wrongful death. I can, you know,” Sheila said.
“Gwen was not at fault in the accident,�
� Walt said. “The police have already determined that.”
“What are you—defending her?” Sheila spat back.
“Please calm down.”
“A drug addict and a heathen. If the police don’t get you, God will.” She turned to her husband. “Peter, can’t I bring a lawsuit? I can, can’t I?” Now looking at Gwen again.
“You can try,” her husband said miserably. “Come on, now, let’s go. It’s time to go home.”
Peter led his wife away, toward the limousine behind the hearse.
Gwen let Walt walk her back to her car.
“I’m sorry, that was embarrassing,” Walt said.
Now she was sorry she had come and wished she had listened to Brian, although he’d been such a jerk about it that she couldn’t have followed his advice even if she wanted to.
“For me, my father hasn’t been my father for years now—he’s just a shell, his mind gone—but for Sheila, he was still everything.”
“It must be really hard for her,” Gwen said. They had reached her car.
“You know what I said about it being like having a two-year-old? Sure there’s confusion and tantrums and repetitive boredom, but calm and loving moments, too, when your baby’s resting on your shoulder and the love and dependency is so deep and mutual.”
Yes, Gwen remembered that feeling; she missed it often.
“It was like that with my father and Sheila. Imagine losing your two-year-old.”
Gwen shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
He opened the car door for her. “Thank you for coming, Gwen. I appreciate it.”
She got in her car and cried most of the way home, not that it provided any closure.
The Detective Joins the PTA
Allison Witherspoon, former bank vice president now constructing a second career as mom and PTA president, chaired the Morrissey East PTA meeting like a corporate CEO dazzling the shareholders. It was about strategy and results, about serving your shareholders: the students.
In her opening remarks, she made use of a laptop and a projector to show slides about last year’s successful programs—book exchange, Helping Hands, new school sign, bus trip to the New York State Museum, after-school enrichment, teacher appreciation program, visiting author series, and a half-dozen others. She outlined ambitious goals for the coming school year, including three new programs.
All achievable, Allison remarked. If everyone works hard and makes their projects a priority.
She introduced the other PTA officers for the upcoming year: secretary, treasurer, vice presidents.
Allison singled out Gwen for her efforts over the summer on the new school sign, which now hung near the street for every passerby to see. Gwen had made the sign herself, chiseling the words Morrissey East Elementary—A Place to Learn and Grow into a desk-sized hardwood plaque that had been planed and joined by another parent volunteer. She painted the letters using three different colors and recruited a local contractor to hang the sign on a post set in a solid concrete footing. On top of this, Gwen raised the funds to pay for it.
This was Gwen’s second year on the PTA, and her first as a vice president. She missed Nora’s first-grade year because she’d been president of the Parents’ Club at Nate’s kindergarten and that had been obligation enough. She preferred the undercommit/overdeliver model of promises to its frenzied and disappointing opposite. To her credit, she did overdeliver on her selected commitments. Last year, as school banking volunteer, she’d increased the number of student bankers more than 50 percent, by instituting a parent matching program in which parents signed a contract to match each dollar that kids banked of their own money. As a library aide, she developed recommended reading lists by compiling students’ favorite books and soliciting student reviews, which she published in a binder kept in the library.
In her one year on the PTA, she had gained a reputation as a reliable parent with creative ideas, which is why Allison had approached her about becoming an officer candidate, and Gwen had accepted.
When Allison closed her remarks, applause just short of a standing ovation filled the room. What an enthusiastic bunch, Gwen thought—or at least a bunch that rallied around Allison Witherspoon’s rhetoric. She must have been a consensus builder at the bank, the kind of leader who inspired others to join the cause of any project she embraced.
“You’d think she just announced world peace,” Marlene leaned over and said to Gwen.
Gwen had sat in front because Allison had asked the officers to sit in the first few rows. Now Gwen turned around and scanned the room of faces. Many she knew. Almost all were women. A couple of men, one a repeat from last year, another one new. Some people in the back she couldn’t see.
After Allison stepped away, the meeting broke into a refreshment reception. In front of the cookies and brownies and beverages were sign-up sheets for this year’s programs.
Gwen was still in her chair when Sandy Makowski found her and took the seat that Marlene had just vacated.
“Jimmy got Mrs. Mardeki, I can’t believe it,” Sandy said. “I … What happened to your eye?”
“I was in a car accident,” Gwen said.
“That looks like it hurts.”
“No, it’s fine now,” Gwen said. The swelling had reduced and the bruising faded to a dull green that showed up only in certain light, but the stitch line stood out like railroad tracks where her eyebrow had been shaved. The stitches would come out tomorrow.
“But Mrs. Mardeki,” Sandy continued. “I specifically requested a calm and structured environment for Jimmy and who does he get but Mrs. Hustle & Bustle. I was really hoping for Mrs. Quinn. Nora got Mrs. Quinn, didn’t she? I’m really not happy about this at all and …”
Gwen interrupted her. “Marlene’s son, Josh, had Mrs. Mardeki a few years ago and she said it was a great experience.”
“Jimmy’s not like Josh—he’s very introspective and quiet.”
“You should talk to Marlene,” Gwen said. “She knows Mrs. Mardeki well.”
Gwen could blame herself for this onslaught, and similar ones from other Morrissey moms. As a library aide, she got to know most of the teachers when they brought their classes in for library period. During the time the kids browsed the shelves, Gwen chatted with the teachers, getting to know their personalities and asking about their teaching styles and what was going on in their classrooms. She had no intention of gathering intelligence, yet other moms interrogated Gwen for everything she discovered, as if she were harboring classified information.
Sandy was still hounding her. “Do you think there’s anything I can do about it? Should I ask for a change?”
For all Gwen knew, Mrs. Mardeki might be the best third-grade teacher in the world. What a mistake to have nicknamed her Mrs. Hustle & Bustle, all because she ordered her class into straight lines coming and going from the library and kept a close watch on time. Gwen should have kept that name to herself.
“Sandy, I think Mrs. Mardeki is a great teacher,” Gwen said. “That hustle and bustle business is way off target. I don’t know how it got started.”
She had to tolerate Sandy Makowski because her husband, Richard, was the editor of the Morrissey Bee. Gwen had visited him at his office and explained in minimal detail about her accident and arrest and asked if he could keep her name off the police blotter. Richard, long and stooped with black-framed glasses, told Gwen he wasn’t in the habit of suppressing news.
“I wouldn’t want you to do that,” Gwen said. “But it’s not really news at all. Mostly a misunderstanding.”
“You said you were arrested for possession of marijuana?”
Gwen nodded. That was one of the charges. “Sandy and I are on the PTA together. I’ve been a subscriber to the Bee ever since we moved to Morrissey.”
Richard thought for a moment. He took his glasses off and bit the end of the frame. “As long as it doesn’t go to trial, or become part of a larger story. If that happens, I would have to cover it. We’ve paid close attentio
n to the drug issue this past year.”
“I’m glad you have,” Gwen said. “I think it’s important.”
Gwen excused herself and went over to check out the sign-up sheet for the program she was chairing this year, Helping Hands. The sheet was fronted by the plate of brownies she had baked and a folded paper card with her name on it. Why did they have to identify the source of baked goods? The brownies had hardly been touched. The edges were ragged and the tops sunken and cracked. She’d baked them in a hurry with the help of Nate and might have forgotten or mismeasured an ingredient because she’d spent most of the time keeping Nate from spilling the bowl.
There were no signatures yet on the Helping Hands sheet—maybe that’s why her brownies had been ignored. With Helping Hands, you could end up doing very little or doing a lot, depending on the fate of families in the school district. In the event someone got sick or hurt or divorced, or if someone died or a family was struck by any other plight, Helping Hands provided services for the family such as running errands, driving kids, and cooking meals.
Gwen had a disconcerting thought: What if her misdemeanor with the bag of pot had been something much worse and she faced prison time? If the guilt she felt was guilt by law? Would Helping Hands come to the aid of her family? Stricken by cancer, yes, we’ll help you. Sent to prison: not sure.
As this thought crossed her mind, someone came up from behind and a hairy-knuckled hand reached in for a brownie.
“Are you sure you want one of those?” Gwen said, speaking as she turned.
“Don’t tell me you baked those kind of brownies?”
Gwen’s face drained. She stood eye to eye with the square-faced Detective William Keller of the Morrissey Police Department. Did he have some telekinetic power that sensed her thoughts of prison? What an eerie coincidence.