Summertime

by Elizabeth Rigbey

  ‘We’ve been telling each other what made Eric Schaffer special for us. I’d like to try explaining not how Eric was special, but why. Yes, I’m a psychiatrist, as most of you know, and my professional training is relevant to what I’m about to say. But don’t worry, I’ll waive my usual fee.’

  There is a ripple of movement which could be amusement but Larry changes cards and carries right on.

  ‘If we want to understand people then we usually start with their childhood. Not easy in Eric’s case: he almost never spoke about his early years. We know he came from a small, homespun community in the mountains and that life there was devoted to the church. Not the strict orthodoxy of the Mormon church but some splinter group which, because of its isolation no doubt, had developed history, beliefs and rituals of its own.

  ‘We don’t know much about his family but we can guess that it was a loving one. As the youngest of eight children, Eric probably enjoyed extra attention from his mother as well as the love and interest of his elder siblings and, if his community was polygamous and his father had other wives, maybe there was also the affection of his extended family. How do I know this? Because Eric was a loving man. I’ll bet everyone here was the recipient, in some way, of Eric’s love. His wife and daughters of course, but many others, to a greater or lesser extent, benefited from his ability to give love and to receive it. He can only have learned that in his childhood.

  ‘Second, Eric was a kind man. He empathized with the suffering of others and that’s because he had suffered himself. We don’t know how. As a child. When he left his family behind as a teenager and faced the world alone. During his struggle up the academic ladder. He was a brilliant man but, after all, he had no formal education until the age of sixteen.

  ‘We do know that his marriage brought him great happiness, but when his beautiful wife fell sick, he coped because he’d learned in his childhood how to endure suffering. When his son died, a tragedy he almost never referred to, he suffered but he coped. When his grandson died, he suffered but he coped. When his daughter moved across the continent, he suffered but he coped. Most of us in this room can recall some small, quiet act of kindness from Eric. These acts usually said: I understand your unhappiness because I first met unhappiness long, long ago. I want to help you cope as I learned to cope long, long ago.

  ‘Third, he was ruthless. He had to be ruthless to leave that loving family behind and start again, in a world he didn’t know, entirely alone. He maintained that ruthlessness in the best possible way. He was ruthless in his pursuit of the principles he held dear. He did what he believed to be right, whatever the cost to himself.

  ‘Fourth, he gave rocks. If there’s anyone here who hasn’t been given a rock by Eric, please raise your hand. I thought so. Eric had a personal mission to redistribute the world’s rocks. Or maybe he was trying to dismantle a mountain. For instance, the one he grew up on.

  ‘Finally, Eric was an outsider. Life in an isolated, possibly polygamous, quasi-Mormon community at six thousand feet above sea level was probably a little different from the way you and I grew up. After that, Eric didn’t fit in anywhere and he knew it. No wonder he was such a great head of department at the U. He managed his team lovingly without ever getting involved in the factionalism and petty politics of university life. He grew up on Mount Olympus and he could look down on all that stuff. He didn’t join things. He had plenty of friends but he didn’t generally operate in a group. And when he married, he married Tatiana, a lovely immigrant, another outsider.

  ‘Did Eric like to be an outsider? Well, I think it made him lonely. I think he suffered from a deep, deep loneliness which, at some level, we all recognized. I never talked to him about it. I guess I never tried to help. I regret that now.

  ‘A lot of people have asked me: why did Eric die the way he did? Nobody knows the answer to that yet. It seems incredible that such an unobtrusive, sweet-natured man could be a homicide victim, the target of a calculated attack. So I’ve been looking into homicide. I’ve found out a few facts. I’ve found that lonely outsiders feature prominently in homicide statistics. But, we’re not here to talk about Eric’s death and we shouldn’t let the word homicide stand between us and the Eric we knew. Let’s celebrate his life.’

  Larry snaps his cards together and nods at the mourners and sits down to the opening bars of a Mozart piano concerto. For the first time I feel something breaking through my armour. It is not sadness but anger. Larry’s wrong. He’s wrong about Daddy’s early years creating a deep well of loneliness. He suffered, he suffered so much that he attempted suicide. But his great loneliness came later. I know because in the picture of him on the beach with us, he’s laughing. Really laughing, the way nobody can when deep down they’re lonesome and unhappy. He stopped laughing, but it wasn’t because of anything which happened in Utah years back. It was caused by events which happened right here.

  When the ceremony is over, family members leave behind the coffin. First, the Russians, Mother so small that she is almost invisible at their centre. Then Scott and Larry and Jane and me. We are burying Daddy and the sky should be grey, the day gloomy. Instead I am dazzled by the intensity of the sunlight. It bounces off the headstones and monuments and it ricochets off the brass on Daddy’s casket like the ball in a fast, hot game.

  ‘Did you think Daddy was lonely?’ I murmur to Scott. ‘Did you think he was an outsider?’

  He nods. He tries to speak but more tears are falling.

  The earth which is to cover Daddy is without moisture. When the first handful lands on the coffin, a powder-fine cloud fills the grave like vapour. I anticipated that the sight of Daddy’s grave and the coffin within it would make me weak with emotion. I expected to moisten the dirt with my tears. But, while everyone else is doubled with grief, their faces wet, my new metal heart feels nothing. Emotions slide right off its shining surface. I see the coffin buried low and it pleases me that Daddy is becoming a geological stratum, a small seam of humanity in the rocky earth.

  Looking up from the grave I see Mother. A rose drops from her fingers and tears tiny as jewellery trickle from each eye. Like everyone else, she stares, motionless, down at Daddy’s coffin. Behind her, at some distance, I sense movement. A bird, flying from headstone to headstone. I look for it and see that it is a man. I catch my breath. He is not too far away for me to see his face. Ricky Marcello and I stare directly into each other’s eyes. I want to yell. I want to chase him and demand explanations. But the grief of everyone around roots me to Daddy’s graveside and I can only watch as he withdraws rapidly behind a headstone like a snake disappearing into long grass. He moves fast, slipping between monuments and over graves. As he grows more distant my view of him is frequently and at last totally obscured.

  As we start to walk silently back up to the chapel, I am still looking for him. In the road on the other side of the cemetery I see something which could be the flash of chrome moving through the bright sunlight. A faraway roar could be a tow truck or an airplane. Close by, I can hear mourners, slamming car doors, starting their engines, leaving for Daddy’s house.

  Michael Rougemont is standing right outside the chapel as though he’s waiting for me.

  ‘Did you see someone?’ I ask.

  He looks at me, the sun cruelly lighting his strange physiognomy, and nods.

  When we arrive at Daddy’s house the mourners form a long, whiskery line up the porch steps. They are used to wearing overalls for gentle yardwork these days and the suits they have dragged out of the closet smell of mothballs and no longer fit. Mother has been returned to Redbush now and Jane and I shake many hands and receive sympathy. Scott and Larry are both congratulated on their tributes, Scott with warmth, Larry with admiration. Scott reddens at their praise but Larry accepts it routinely. He directs diners to the caterers’ table out on the deck. In the far corner of the porch, obscured by shadow and foliage, I am aware of the stillness of the two detectives.

  Soon people are sitting on the porch, on the d
eck, and in all the ground floor rooms. Only the den has been closed to them. The house buzzes with the murmur of low voices exchanging information, discussing news, predicting the end of the heatwave. This is the first gathering I can recall here. All the time I grew up there was never a party and seldom visitors. Apart from Mother’s shouts, this is the noisiest I have ever known the house.

  When Jane is helping an elderly mourner to a seat and Scott has gone to fetch him some food, Larry appears at my side.

  I say: ‘Larry, did you ever call the police about the guy hanging around outside the apartment?’

  He looks at me in surprise. ‘Once. But it took them so long to arrive that he’d already left. I haven’t seen him for a night or two, maybe he’s given up.’

  ‘Maybe he’s hiding. Sitting in a car.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agrees Larry. ‘It’s not a nice thought.’

  ‘Close the drapes just as soon as it gets dark,’ I advise. ‘Or leave them open but turn out the living-room lights like you’re not home.’

  Larry doesn’t take advice from me on anything, certainly not security matters. ‘I want to discuss this with Kirsty.’ He starts to edge in her direction.

  ‘By the way,’ I call after him. ‘How do you know that Daddy came from a polygamous community?’

  He pauses and shrugs.

  ‘It’s a safe bet.’

  Then he sidles through the people towards the detectives. He engages them in intense conversation. Kirsty listens to Larry while Rougemont’s eyes wander over the room. From time to time he catches my eye but I do not acknowledge him and when he gives me one of his meandering smiles I do not smile back. Later, he approaches me. He is looking even more like a shadow than usual in a dark suit and a dark tie.

  ‘How are you feeling, Lucy?’

  ‘Sort of peculiar,’ I admit.

  ‘Like, you’re not feeling anything?’ he asks. I nod and he nods too.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

  There is a silence. I wonder if he is going to ask me more about the weekend I spent in California. Instead he says: ‘Jim Finnigan is a good guy and he likes you a lot but he doesn’t know you real well. Same with everyone I met in New York.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘You went there to be some other person. That’s the Lucy they know. But the whole time the old Lucy was waiting back here for you.’ I think of my old self in ragged shorts or a blue sundress, hanging around at the airport for the slim, efficient Lucy to emerge from a plane. ‘I sure wish you’d listen to her. Because that other Lucy, the old Lucy, the one you ran away from, she has all the answers.’

  I regard him stonily. ‘What are you talking about, Mr Rougemont? I’m an investment banker. I’ve taken two weeks’ compassionate leave following my father’s death, and on Saturday night I’m flying back to New York city to resume my job.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ says Rougemont, and his mouth is pulled into a shape which could be a smile or a grimace. I turn away from him. Jim has already called to announce that the bank has released tapes of my telephone conversations to the police.

  ‘Do you need a good lawyer, Lucy?’ he asked. I detected a vacuum in his tone where there used to be warmth, as though I’ve been away a year instead of a week.

  ‘Of course not, Jim. Is there any update on Hifeld?’

  ‘Gregory Hifeld’s decided not to sell the company and Jay Kent was downright rude when I tried to follow up with him. Says he won’t be doing any deal which involves us again.’

  ‘Oh boy.’

  ‘Semper thinks your career doesn’t look too promising right now,’ Jim warned me. ‘I did my best with him but a deal which turned so mean plus the police asking a lot of personal questions about you… well, it’s sort of an unfortunate combination.’

  ‘Am I fired?’

  Jim hesitated. Finally he said: ‘You’re not dead yet. But you’re seriously ill. Sorry, Lucy. Things could have been different. They should have been different.’

  When I see Adam Holler and Joe Zacarro standing alone, I go right up to them. I ask them: ‘Well, are you two still going to Remember Death out on the highways? I mean, without Daddy?’

  Mr Holler is stony but Joe’s face breaks into a broad grin.

  ‘Lucy, how the hell did you work out what we do?’ he asks. ‘You must be real clever like your daddy.’

  ‘There are at least two detectives here, Joe,’ says Adam Holler. ‘If you must talk about this, would you do it quietly?’

  ‘Sorry!’ roars Joe. ‘I’m going to tell you our plan, Lucy.’ He leans closer but does not lower his voice. ‘Your daddy always intended to do the bridge. Can you believe that? The bridge! Think of the big chaos, big tailbacks, we can create if we dump a wreck on the bridge. We figured it could be a sort of Eric Schaffer memorial dump.’

  Adam Holler watches the room anxiously.

  ‘Problem is,’ Joe goes on, shifting his weight around uncomfortably, ‘that they have cameras on the bridge. Now that should be a challenge. We’re going to have to drive over it a few times and take a look at those cameras.’

  ‘Shhhh,’ hisses Adam Holler.

  Joe breathes out loudly and plucks at his ill-fitting suit. ‘We gotta be real clever or we’re gonna get caught.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I suggest, ‘I could join you.’

  ‘Hey, Lucy, you gonna help us?’ Joe roars.

  ‘Sure. I like the idea of the Eric Schaffer memorial dump.’

  Joe threatens to get even noisier with delight and Mr Holler drags him away.

  Joni Rimbaldi, Daddy’s former secretary who was due to have lunch with him right after his death, tells me how she was about to leave the house when Scott phoned to tell her Daddy was dead.

  ‘And you know,’ she says, ‘when I opened the closet this morning, I didn’t want to wear the nice navy blue dress I keep for serious occasions. I took out the clothes I was wearing for lunch that day and I knew I just had to wear them to the funeral instead. Isn’t that kookie?’

  She laughs but the laugh is anxious and I try to reassure her. Joni, with her cropped grey hair, is both sensible and predictable and I can see it frightens her a little when she does this kind of thing.

  ‘Is the jacket too bright?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s fine, Joni, you look good, Daddy would have thought so too.’

  ‘I guess I’ll need to change into something warmer this evening. We’re flying out to Maine.’

  ‘Why are you vacationing in Maine when you already live at the most beautiful place on earth?’

  When she retired, Joni and her husband moved up to Tigertail Bay, a seal-infested beach which is annually voted one of the most spectacular in the area.

  ‘My sister’s sixtieth is tomorrow. We were due to fly out yesterday but I just couldn’t miss Eric’s funeral. It would be like standing him up for lunch.’ And she gives a watery half smile.

  When all the funeral guests are eating and there seems nothing left to say to anyone, a woman, tall, slim and white-haired, touches my arm.

  ‘Lucy… I guess you don’t remember me?’

  I study the woman. Her white hair is pinned up loosely. Brown eyes, even features, a kind smile.

  ‘Oh! Mrs Joseph!’ I am a gauche teenager again. ‘Oh, gee.’ I feel my face go pink.

  ‘My hair certainly wasn’t white when you knew me,’ she laughs. ‘And I must have been ten pounds lighter.’ Age has crept up on Mrs Joseph. Her husband is dead, her children are all grown, she has grandchildren. She acknowledges time’s passage with a rueful laugh.

  ‘It’s so good to see you. I’m sorry I wasn’t home yesterday when you called. I’ve hoped for years you’d come down to the valley and visit with us. We all missed you so much after that terrible crash. I hope you’ve forgiven Robert now.’

  When I can’t find any words, she rescues me.

  ‘It took him a long time to get over you. But he’s been married a while and I think pretty well married. They’re in Virginia and their youngest chi
ld is eight months old. I’ve been staying with them. I just got back last night.’

  We talk about how Robert became a doctor after spending so much time in hospital after the crash.

  ‘I guess it didn’t change your life, at least not dramatically,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, sure it did.’ But I don’t admit how, when the Joseph family shut me out, doors closed in my head and in my heart. I say: ‘I wasn’t too mobile for a while and it was the reading and thinking I did that summer which took me into banking.’

  She describes how Mr Joseph died of a heart attack suddenly one morning out in the orchard twenty-four hours after Robert had left to return to the hospital in Baltimore where he was working. He might have saved his father if his vacation had been one day longer. Step is teaching at MIT and Morton, the eldest of the three Joseph brothers, is running the farm.

  ‘But I should have told you how sorry I am about your father,’ she says. ‘I got to know him pretty well over the years and I was very fond of him.’

  ‘You were?’ I had assumed her presence here was no more than neighbourly.

  ‘Lucy, are you going to visit with Ralph and me down in the valley real soon?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I admit. ‘I’ve wanted to for years. But I’m leaving for New York on Saturday.’

  ‘What are you doing after the funeral?’ she asks. ‘Oh, but I guess you should be with your family.’

  I want to be with Mrs Joseph and for an embarrassing, confusing moment, it seems to me that she is my family.

  ‘I can drive over to the farm later,’ I tell her.

  32

  When I cross the aqueduct and turn into the Josephs’ lush oasis in the valley, it seems as familiar and welcoming as home. The evening sun creates pockets of shadow across the lawn and covers the big house in a light so subtle that it feels like a secret.