When they’d moved on, Christopher took their place. He and Lee hugged briefly.
“I walked in and heard that music and all of a sudden I could swallow and breathe again. Thanks.”
She smiled and squeezed his fingers. “Did you get my message?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are your palms damp and trembling?”
He released her hands, making no reply, still uncertain of protocol.
“There’s no reason to be afraid.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Go up and say hi to him, just like you did in your Explorer. That’s all.”
He glanced at the casket and felt his insides seize up. She rubbed his sleeve then gave him a gentle nudge. He approached the coffin with his heart racing, dimly aware of the multitude of flowers surrounding the dais like a forest, so strong-smelling it seemed there wasn’t enough pure oxygen left to sustain life. He stood between two huge bouquets, looking down at the framed photographs of Greg that smiled up at him from atop the closed metal box. There were two: one in his police uniform and cap, the other a very informal shot of him in a striped polo shirt and the green Pebble Beach cap.
Christopher put his hand on the smooth metal beside the picture. “Hi,” he said quietly. “Miss ya.”
How inconsiderate life was. It taught you how to deal with everything but the most important parts—marriage, parenthood, death. These people just stumbled through, making plenty of mistakes along the way. Christopher felt himself stumbling and wished again for family, someone whose hand he could hold, who would understand with no further words at this moment.
He dropped his hand from the casket and discovered he felt better.
Behind his shoulder someone said “Hi.”
He turned and there stood Joey, disconsolate, his hands in his suit pockets.
“Hi,” Chris said, and slung an arm around Joey’s neck.
They stood there listening to Vince Gill. Gazing at Greg’s picture. Choking on the smell of flowers.
Finally Joey hung his head, whacked at the tears in his eyes and whispered, “Shit.”
Chris tightened his affectionate headlock and dropped his cheek against Joey’s hair.
“Yeah, that’s for sure.”
Janice drifted up on his left, twined an arm around his elbow and rested her cheek on his sleeve.
On the far side of the room, Lee Reston accepted a hug from her aunt Pearl and uncle Melvin. As they left her with pats and murmurs, she turned to watch them move away and caught sight of Christopher with Janice and Joey at his side.
What a fine young man he was. Thoughtful beyond mere good manners; considerate of people’s feelings; dependable in tens of ways. He had been a role model for Greg when the two of them met—older, more mature, out on his own already. When Greg joined the force Christopher had taken him under his wing and taught him, in a practical fashion, the best way to deal with suspects and perpetrators as well as the many personalities on the force.
He’d taught Greg how to survive on a day-to-day basis, too: how to balance a checkbook, establish credit, live on a budget, keep income-tax records, maintain a car, buy groceries, run a washing machine. Greg had left home and fallen in with a man who had helped him mature in so many ways.
Christopher Lallek—sensible, reliable, willing.
Even the kids sensed it and leaned on him. He was what Greg had been—a cop, a caretaker of a community, one to turn to in emergencies—and all of them had turned to him perhaps more than they ought since Greg’s death. But his willingness made one reach toward him, as Joey and Janice were doing now. They might very well be using him as a substitute for the brother they’d lost, but what harm would it do? If they radiated toward him, let them. It was no different for them than it was for Lee: saying goodbye to Greg came easier over stories of his life, which Christopher had shared most recently.
Nonetheless, his vulnerability touched her deeply. How uncharacteristic his uncertainty had been when he’d stared at her with daunted eyes and admitted, I don’t know what to do. Her mother’s heart had reached out to him. It did so again as he stood with his arms around her children, once again the strong one for their sakes.
“Lee . . .” Someone else had come to pay their condolences and she turned to the business at hand.
Nearly two hours later, as she finished bidding goodbye to the last callers, Christopher spoke behind her.
“Mrs. Reston?”
She turned, feeling drained and anxious to go home.
“Would you mind if I took Joey for a little while?”
“No, of course not. Where are you going?”
“I thought I’d take him for a ride in my new Explorer, maybe let him drive it a little, cheer him up some.”
“Oh, Christopher, yes, do.”
“You’ll be all right? Janice will be with you?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to go home and collapse.”
“You’re sure? I realize moms need their kids at a time like this, and I don’t want to—”
She touched his hand. “Take him. It’s just what he needs today.”
“Okay.” He smiled and stepped back. “And don’t worry, I’ll bring him back in good shape.”
Joey agreed, without much enthusiasm, but once they were out in the summer air, with the late afternoon sun dappling the boulevard, Christopher sensed Joey growing more interested.
“It’s new?”
“Brand-new.” Chris removed his tie and got the truck moving. “Greg and I were gonna take it out to the lake day before yesterday.”
Joey threw him a dubious glance. “How can you talk about him so easy?”
“What else you gonna do? Pretend he didn’t exist?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t talk about him at all without starting to bawl.”
“So what’s wrong with that? Bawling’s okay. I bawled plenty in the last couple days. So did a lot of other cops.”
Joey looked out his far window and said nothing.
They were riding along the shady streets of Anoka, heading toward Main. “You hungry?” Chris asked.
“No.”
“I am. Mind if I stop for a burger?”
No response. He went through the drive-in window of the Burger King and ordered two cheeseburgers, two fries and two Cokes. Once the food was smelling up the truck, Joey turned to watch Chris unwrapping his sandwich.
“I guess I am sorta hungry,” he admitted.
“Help yourself.”
Eating burgers and fries, they cruised down Main Street onto Highway 10, then headed north toward Ramsey township. In no time at all they were out in the country between cornfields and stretches of woods, where silos stuck up on the horizon and the hot crackle of summer could be felt expanding things all around. Grains bowed in the breeze and crows flapped across the blue sky. On a barbed-wire fence hung a sign advertising hybrid corn. Along a farm driveway a child rode a bicycle. A woman was putting a letter in her rural mailbox and putting up the red flag. A young boy about Joey’s age was sitting on a lawn chair in the shade of a pickup truck with a sign that said FIRST CROP GREEN BEANS. A farmer on a tractor was mowing weeds in the ditch ahead of them, spreading the sweet green scent of grass and clover.
That damned old life again—just rolling on.
“How old are you?” Chris asked.
“Fourteen—why?”
“So you haven’t got your driver’s permit yet.”
“You’re a cop—you should know.”
“Sure I do. Wanna drive?”
Joey’s eyes got wide. His back came away from the seat. “You kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“What do you intend to do, wreck the thing?”
“No—heck, no—I’d be careful.”
“All right then . . .” Chris pulled onto the shoulder. When the gravel stopped rasping, he got out and circled the truck. Joey slid across the front
seat and Chris climbed into the passenger seat.
“Adjust the seat if you need to, and the mirror, too. Have you driven before?”
“A little.”
“Ask, if there’s anything you don’t know.”
Joey drove cautiously but well. He gripped the wheel too hard and sat with his shoulder blades six inches away from the backrest, but he stayed on his half of the road and kept the speedometer steady at fifty.
Chris reached over and turned on the radio.
“You like country?”
“Yeah.”
Travis Tritt was singing “Trouble.”
About seven minutes later Joey asked, “Could I turn onto that road?” It was narrow, gravel.
“You’re driving.”
Brooks & Dunn started in on “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”
About five minutes after that, Joey asked, “Can I turn again?”
“You’re driving.”
They listened to one by Reba McEntire and one by George Strait before Chris asked, “You know where you’re going?”
Joey dared remove his eyes from the road for the first time. “No.”
Chris chuckled and hunkered down in the seat with a knee wedged against the dashboard. “Sounds good.”
They ended up in a little ghost town called Nowthen, got their bearings and made their way back to State Highway 47, where Chris had to take over the wheel. Back in Anoka, Main Street was all but deserted, except for the hot dog wagon, which never seemed to have any business. Passing it put Greg sharply back into both their minds. Chris drove the length of Main and swung past the police department, glancing at the squads backed up near the door. Joey glanced, too, and again Greg was in their thoughts.
Joey remained silent until Chris pulled up at the curb in front of the Reston house. For once there weren’t a half dozen cars in the driveway—just Lee’s, Janice’s and Greg’s. Chris reached over and turned down the radio. Joey sat despondently, staring out the windshield and saying nothing.
Finally he said, “I think he came to every game I ever played in. I just keep thinking all the time, Who’ll come to my games now?”
“I will,” Chris told him.
Joey turned only his head. He studied Chris glumly but made no reply. His eyes looked sheeny.
Chris dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna do okay, kid. You’ve got a hell of a family. Stick close to them and they’ll get you through.”
He saw movement at the front door as Lee stepped near it and looked out through the screen. She stood with her arms crossed like a worried mother who was trying not to be. Even from this distance one could almost sense her relief at Joey’s return.
Joey got out and slammed the truck door. Chris lifted a palm in greeting and she did the same, then opened the screen door to wait for her son.
It’s got to be tough, Chris thought, to give your kids their freedom after you’ve lost two, trying not to worry every minute they’re out of your sight.
He thought about it a lot as he drove home, the picture she made, waiting in the front door with her arms crossed and no smile on her face.
LEEand Sylvia had decided to close Absolutely Floral on Monday, the day of the funeral. Lee was alone when she went in that morning to make the casket spray, which was how she wanted it. Dressed in a lavender smock and listening to Dvorák on the tape player, she arranged one of the most beautiful sprays she’d ever done. It was pungent yet pure, made of fragrant gardenias and clean-lined callas. As she worked she wiped tears on her shoulder. She could not have verbalized why she had to put herself through this. She was his mother—that was all—and this was her trade, working with flowers. This was one last favor she could do for her son before putting him in the ground.
When the spray was finished she telephoned Rodney, their delivery man, and said quietly, “Okay, Rodney, you can come and get it now.”
When he came she unlocked the back door and said, “Hello, Rodney.”
Though he was mentally handicapped, Rodney did a fine job of delivering flowers. His lips were pressed firmly together, zipped up tightly to keep him from breaking into tears: It was the first time he’d seen her since Greg’s death.
He took off his bill cap and worried it with both hands. “I’m sure sorry, Miss Lee.”
“We all are, Rodney,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
When he’d taken the spray and left she turned off the tape player and sat down heavily on a stool in the back room between the walkin cooler and the metal-topped designing table. So peaceful with no customers or employees about, only the buckets of blooms and greens and the familiar herbal smell of cut stems. Lord, it was good to be alone at last. She rested a forearm on the table, glanced down at her hand and noted that it was stained again; after three days away from flowers it had been rather pleasant to have soft, white hands if only for a single day. Now the stains were back. She rubbed at one with a thumb . . . rubbed and rubbed . . . until her vision suddenly wavered. She reached into her smock pocket for a Kleenex and wiped her eyes. Immediately they filled again, faster than before. And finally, there amid the flowers and quiet, truly alone for the first time since Greg’s death, she fell across the metal tabletop and let the storm of emotion happen.
She cried his name, “Greg . . . Greg . . . ,” and wept noisily, until her face and the tabletop were messy and the metal had turned warm beneath her skin. She let her body lie limp on the shiny steel and allowed her heart’s sorrow to spill forth in a rash of self-pity. It’s not fair . . . not fair! All that time and love I put into raising him and now he’s gone. All that planning for his future only to be robbed of it on its very threshold.
When her crying ceased she lay awhile with her cheek in a puddle, resting between the residual sobs that slowly subsided.
Finally she pushed up, wiped her face and the table, sighed deep and long and sat awhile, gazing around the flower shop, letting some restorative thoughts in to replace the victimized feelings.
Suddenly Greg seemed very close, as if he’d been nearby waiting for her to calm.
“Well, I had you for twenty-five good years, didn’t I, hon?” she said aloud. “And what the heck—better twenty-five good ones than a hundred bad ones. Plus I’ve still got Janice and Joey . . . and dozens of others who’ll be gathering for the funeral in less than three hours.”
The funeral. She drew a deep breath and rose from the stool. Well, the truth was she’d just conducted her own private funeral for Greg. The one she’d face at two o’clock would be easy by comparison.
THEfuneral of Greg Reston was attended by 350 law-enforcement officers from all over the state of Minnesota. Their squad cars filled two entire parking lots and more. They made an impressive sight, . ling into the church two by two, dressed in their official uniforms of pale blue, navy, brown, and the pure white that designated captains and chiefs. They had come from Twin Cities’ suburbs and small, distant communities, from police departments, the State Highway Patrol and sheriff’s departments representing every one of the eighty-seven counties. Striding in with stately dignity, their badges crossed by black mourning bands, they filled pew after pew until Grace Lutheran Church took on the blurred hues of an impressionistic landscape. Lee Reston watched them arrive and felt a riffie of astonishment. So many! So impressive! Then, out of all those faces, all those uniforms, one in navy blue stepped forward to distinguish himself.
“Hello, Mrs. Reston.” Christopher removed his visored hat and held it under his left arm. His appearance, in full uniform, gave Lee another start, accustomed as she was to seeing him in civilian clothes. The full regalia—navy blue uniform, tie, name tag, badge, belt, gun—added inches to his stature, years to his age and an uncommon dignity to his bearing. It caught her square in her pride and struck within her a new recognition of his manliness.
“Hello, Christopher.” They shook hands very formally, Christopher maintaining a military bearing. Their eyes said an empathetic hello, but between th
em passed a silent message of support that went deeper than the casual sympathies of most mourners who’d weep today and forget next week. The handclasp lengthened while Lee recognized a strength within him to which she responded in an unprecedented way. It was more than bereaved mother to bereaved friend: It was woman to man.
He released her hand and said, “Hello, Janice . . . Joey.” Though he’d greeted all three, he directed his following remark straight at Lee. “When Greg died our chaplain came in and talked to us. He said something that I forgot to tell you about. He said the last time he talked to Greg, Greg told him how much he loved being a cop, and how sorry he felt for guys who hate their jobs so much they detest going to work every day. He told Vernon Wender, ‘I love my job because I like helping people.’ I thought you’d want to know that today. He was very proud of being a cop.”
“Thank you, Christopher.”
He cleared his throat and glanced at the assembled men nearby. “Let me introduce you to the other officers who are acting as pallbearers.” When he’d done so, and she’d shaken all their hands and accepted their condolences, Christopher spoke to her in the same formal manner as earlier.
“Your son was very well liked on the force, Mrs. Reston.”
“I’m . . . well, I’m overwhelmed . . . so many of you here today.”
“They came from all over the state.”
“But so many.”
“That’s how it is when a peace officer dies.”
“But I thought that was only if he died in the line of duty.”
“No, ma’am.”
A void fell. In the midst of it their eyes met and recognized that his formal attitude felt peculiar after the past three days of close contact.
“Are you going to make it okay today?” he asked, more like his familiar self.
Lee forced a rigid smile and nod.
“Janice? Anything I can do, just say so. Joey . . . I enjoyed our ride yesterday. Anytime you need to do that again, you call me. Maybe next time we can do it in a squad car while I’m on duty . . . with me driving, of course.”
He smiled at Joey, who managed a limp smile in return. Then Christopher went away to greet other family members, with the decorum of a man in uniform.
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