Never Come Back

Chapter Seven

Paul’s face was flushed as we drove to the house. I thought maybe it was from standing in the morning sun. Or maybe stress and grief. But I also remembered the way he’d walked away from the man at the cemetery. The big gestures, the dismissal. He gripped the wheel tight as he drove.

“Who was that you were talking to?” I asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“The man at the cemetery. Is he a friend?”

Paul didn’t respond right away. His eyes pointed straight ahead, fixed on the road and the traffic.

“Just someone we used to know growing up. He’s nobody.”

I thought about asking more, then remembered my own awkward encounter with the past in the cemetery. I decided not to press it. Some things were better left alone.

About fifteen people came back to the house after the graveside service. The die-hards, I supposed. They were waiting politely on the porch when we pulled up. The gathering passed with a lot of muted small talk. Comments about the weather were popular, as were compliments about the food. I realized an eternal truth: death makes people hungry. Either because they’ve decided to embrace life to the fullest in the wake of another’s death, or maybe because they don’t know what to talk about at such an event. In any case, the guests made a nice dent in the food. No one held back.

Paul seemed distracted during the gathering. When I was a kid, he would glide from group to group at family functions, talking to everyone with equal enthusiasm and energy. A funeral didn’t compare to a Christmas party, and I attributed his lack of energy to the accumulated toll of the previous days’ events. He sat on the couch, an empty paper plate balanced on his knee, and nodded thanks to the people who came by to talk to him.

I tried to play hostess. I made sure the bucket was full of ice, that enough napkins and plasticware sat on the small kitchen table. Some of the ladies helped as well, and they never failed to give me a gentle pat on the arm or back. I didn’t thank them for the kindness, but I appreciated it more than they could know.

Mrs. Porter came up to me again, and rather than let her dictate the subject of the conversation, I decided to initiate.

“Did my mom say anything to you about her health?” I asked. “Any complaints or worries?”

Mrs. Porter scrunched up her face, as though giving the question a good thinking over. I knew Mom had spent a lot of time at the library, checking out books for both herself and Ronnie. I wondered if she had said something to Mrs. Porter that she hadn’t said to anyone else. Something that would make the possibility of murder less real.

“You know, it’s been a month since I’ve seen her,” Mrs. Porter said. She was wearing a floral dress with a lot of purple in it. She raised her hand to her chest and said, “I had to read about this in the paper.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Had she said anything to you about her health?” Mrs. Porter asked.

“No,” I said. “But she liked to play things close to the vest, as I’m sure you know.”

“The last time she came into the library she came alone,” Mrs. Porter said. “That was unusual. She always brought Ronnie with her. I asked about it because I thought maybe Ronnie was sick.” She lowered her voice. “I know his disability can cause other complications. But she said he was fine. She said she had an appointment downtown.” Mrs. Porter nodded her head to emphasize the last point. “She seemed to be in a hurry.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“I said a month,” Mrs. Porter replied.

A month. Shortly after our fight. “And you didn’t know where she was going?”

“I didn’t ask,” she said. “I’m a live-and-let-live kind of person. I figure most things are none of my business.”

“Of course.”

“This whole thing is terrible. Just terrible.”

Yet neither of us had any idea how much worse it would become.