Nine Lives To Die

Tyler Higham shoveled food into his mouth at the breakfast table while his father watched, nostrils flared with disgust at his teenage son’s eating habits.

“Slow down,” Lou reprimanded Tyler as he folded the newspaper, quite forgetting what he himself was like at fourteen.

“Dad, I’ll be late for school.”

“I drive you to St. Anne’s five days a week. You haven’t been late yet.”

Tyler did slow down but scraped his utensils loudly on the plate to irritate his father.

Lou picked up the paper again as his wife said from across the table, “Lou.”

He paid no attention, so Arden raised her voice. “Lou.”

Startled slightly, he set aside the paper before glancing at her. He jabbed at another waffle on the serving plate.

“Will you pick up the dry cleaning?” Arden asked.

“Yes, of course.” Lou poured maple syrup on the waffles.

Tyler resumed speed-eating. Arden laid her hand on his forearm. He frowned but did slow down.

“This isn’t a barnyard,” she said and sighed.

Pushing away from the table, Tyler stomped out of the room.

“I can’t win,” she said resignedly.

“Give him sixteen years.” Lou checked the large kitchen clock. “By the time he’s thirty maybe he’ll act like a man instead of a spoiled brat.”

“If we live that long.” Arden put down her fork.

Lou rose. “I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

He walked into the hall, picked up the large artwork folder by the front door, and yelled, “Tyler.”

Tyler thudded down the stairs, slamming the door as he left the house. It’s doubtful he ever thought about it. He didn’t think he was uncooperative, uncommunicative. He thought his parents were unreasonable and petty tyrants.

Arden heard the whine of the electric garage door as it opened, the whine and thud as it closed. She exhaled loudly. Like many mothers, she found herself in the middle between her husband and her son. Both drove her nuts.

After clearing the table, she loaded the dishwasher. Then she walked into the living room to pick up her iPad to check what still needed to be done for the St. Cyril’s deliveries. The trees and the living room were all decorated in blue and silver, Lou’s demand. It did look seasonal, but it didn’t feel very Christmassy.

Father and son rode in silence in Lou’s Acura MDX. Lou kept his eyes on the road. Tyler stared out the passenger window.

Lou finally said, “Homework done?”

“Yeah.”

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” came the unconvincing monosyllabic reply.

Silence followed, then Lou broke in. “If you want to talk about Pete’s death, I can listen. I know he gave you a lot of attention on the soccer team. He was a good coach.”

“If you say so.”

“Life can be unfair, Son. If you’d take sports a little more seriously, things would go easier for you. You just bull through practices, head down.”

“Coming from you, Dad, that’s pretty funny, telling me life can be unfair.”

“Why?”

“You’re always at me. That’s unfair.”

“I just want you to be the best.” Lou inhaled. “I’m here if you need me.”

“Are you worried, Dad?”

“About you? You’re no longer a little boy, after all.”

“No, about you. You’re getting old.”

“Worried about me?” Lou’s voice rose. A flash of anger reddened his face. He pulled into the line of cars at St. Anne’s student drop-off point. Tyler didn’t wait for Lou to creep up the line. He just opened the door, got out, and slammed it. Lou pulled out of line and headed to work at his advertising agency.

Meanwhile, Arden, laden with a food basket, walked up the shoveled stone path to Charlene Vavilov’s front door.

Cars, SUVs, and one fifty-thousand-dollar truck lined the street in Ednam Forest subdivision. The Vavilovs’ house was overflowing with people, testimony to the great affection felt by all for Charlene. And, of course, to the respect for Pete, who worked hard for many causes. Flowers filled the rooms; the long dining room table was covered with food.

Jessica Hexham directed people. Since Pete’s death, a lady from St. Cyril’s was there from breakfast to the end of the day, to assist, offer comfort, be a friend. Jessica had organized the shifts. One woman was in charge of the door, another the telephone, another the kitchen, and three were in charge of cleanup.

Charlene stood in the living room, talking to everyone. Her two sons flanked her. It was obvious that mother and sons drew comfort from one another.

Harry, Susan, BoomBoom and Alicia, Miranda Hogendobber, the Sanburnes, the social powers in Crozet, all helped, too. Jessica also organized the St. Luke’s ladies. Everything that could be done was done.

Harry and Susan carried out dishes and carried back clean ones laden with more food. BoomBoom ran the dishwasher and Alicia wiped down the glasses so they sparkled. Miranda cleaned coffee cups.

Arden stuck her head into the kitchen. “Need a hand?”

“We’re running out of cups. People are guzzling the coffee and tea, I guess because it’s cold outside.”

“I’ll run home and bring twelve more. Won’t take me a minute. I’m close by.”

Susan gratefully looked up as she had the refrigerator open. “Arden, that would be a godsend.”

The old friends in the kitchen took a short breather.

“Any word from the pathologist?” BoomBoom asked.

“Not yet,” Susan answered. “Ned said everyone in hospitals are on overload because so many people die during the holidays.”

“Really?” Miranda knelt down, looking under the sink for more dishwasher detergent. “Found it.”

“Let me put that on a list,” said Alicia. “Detergent lasts a day at the rate this is going.” She scribbled on a pad affixed to the wall next to a large blackboard.

“That and suicides,” said Susan. “Christmas pushes people right over the edge.”

“Not Pete,” Alicia piped up.

“No. Heart attack or stroke, I would think,” BoomBoom said to her.

“Christmas would be a great time to get away with murder,” Harry idly mentioned. “Just thinking. It would, you know.” Harry shut up as Karen Turner, a St. Cyril’s stalwart, tottered in carrying an enormous vase bursting with white lilies and red roses.

“Water.”

Alicia took the heavy vase from the small woman. “You or the flowers.”

Karen smiled. “Flowers! More just delivered. An interesting arrangement.”

Jessica popped in. “Need reinforcements?” She noted the flowers and smiled. “What do you think, girls?”

“Gorgeous,” came the unanimous response.

Jessica beamed, then hurried back out. She stuck her head in for one second. “Motrin?”

“I’ve got some.” Alicia plucked her purse off a kitchen chair. “Be right out.”

“Jessica sent those flowers, bet you.” Harry was piling hot tiny cinnamon rolls onto a tray. “She has that incredible way of putting disparate things together.”

As the friends talked and worked, Susan silently calculated how they would make up for lost time regarding St. Luke’s food drive deliveries. So many people from both churches were here doing what they could.

What no one knew other than Charlene, law enforcement, and the funeral home was that two fingers were missing from Pete’s hand. Sheriff Shaw had asked Charlene to keep the news to herself for now, not even to tell her sons.

For Charlene, all of this hoopla was surreal. Any minute, Pete would walk back through the door. But instead, Father O’Connor walked through the front door, and that’s when it really hit her.