Without saying goodbye, I said.
And there’s more, Grandma said.
There was.
Over on the far side of Lloyd’s stone was another (of the same ritzy marble), reading:Susan Connor Blaine, Wife & Mother, 1951–2022, and at the base of it lay this bouquet of fresh roses, and propped against the bouquet was an old photo, of her,Susan,when still young, with three little kids, each kid looking, around the eyes, like Lloyd, and Lloyd was in the photo too, super-happy, also young, that is, not all that much older than he’d been when he and I had—
Had parted ways.
Due to me getting blown up and all.
There was one more thing I needed to know.
Go ahead, said Grandma.
Paul Bowman, I said.
What about him? she said.
Jail? I said.
Grandma cocked her head.
No, she said.
Caught? I said.
Never, she said. Still lives in that same old house.
Still alive, I said.
Almost ninety, she said. Not even sorry. Barely remembers doing it. Over the years, he made it okay with himself. In his mind. You know.
Oh, I said.
More or less forgave himself, she said.
Thanks, I said.
Made himself the victim of the story, she said. Rationalized it. The way people tend to—
All right, all right, I said.
Also, look there, said Grandma.
Here were the graves of my mother and father, both of whom had still been alive and sort of young when I’d gotten blown up.
Couldn’t have been easy for them.
Seeing their graves was the hardest blow of all.
I used to come in from school and there they’d be. They used to come in from being out, at dinner maybe, and there I’d be, on the couch, older now, old enough to be left home alone, and I’d jump up and run over, so happy to see them. And we’d do a family hug there by the Jesus in our niche.
Once there’d been no me and then they’d come along and made me and now I was gone and they were too.
It hurt.
Really hurt.
