“About your mom?”
I nod. “Kind of horrifying, I know. But Jack heard them. You never heard any?”
He looks frustrated, my mother’s champion even now. “I’m on the far side of Westerly. I don’t hear much of what’s said on this side. Who are the possibilities?”
“Pharmacist,” I say. “Roofer.Gardener.”
He winces. “Roberto Aiello?”
“You know the name?”
“Definitely. Tom was so jealous of the man that he made Ellie let him go midway through the summer season. Aiello was known for liking women, so your dad had cause. But he shared his suspicion with the wrong person, and it got back to Aiello, who threatened to sue for libel. Your mother asked me whether he had a case. That’s how I know the name.”
“Did Mom say whether she was ever involved with him?”
“She was not,” he says with certainty.
I’m about to ask how he can be so sure about this after being circumspect about the rest—whether he asked Mom outright about Aiello—when his eyes shoot to the road. A car has appeared on the cusp of the hill and pulls onto the berm at the very start of the large open circle, as far from Mike Hartley’s truck as possible. The couple who climb out are casually dressed and carry foil-covered plates. I draw a blank on their names.
“Chief Justice Walker and his wife,” Paul reminds me and, standing, extends a hand for mine.
I hesitate, feeling instant panic, thinking that greeting mourners will make this real, that I’m not ready and don’t know what to sayand would rather be anywhere else. I’m that child again, a child of the late Tom Aldiss.
But Paul’s warm hand firmly draws me up. Close to my ear, he says, “When a sick person dies, we see them at their worst. Then friends come to share good memories, and it helps. Let’s remember Tom at his best.”
Chapter 23
Sad news travels fast. We’ve decided to wake Dad here at the house, since it’s the place that he most loved, and though we designated tomorrow for formal visiting, that doesn’t stop others from coming today. After the judge and his wife leave, two of Dad’s former law clerks drop by, as do several of his law partners and, as the afternoon progresses, a steady trickle of locals.
I tell myself that this keeps us from dwelling on the mechanics of death. Paul is certainly right about people wanting to share good memories. Does it help? At a time when you need to smile but can’t? Margo can do it. She is the ultimate grown-up. Anne is the ultimate child and, as such, is allowed to break down and be coddled by these people she has known forever. And me?
Ideally, I’d be on the beach with the waves. Was it just yesterday morning that I’d been there with Dad, when he was short of breath, and I did nothing? Would it have mattered if I’d dragged him to the local ER? Would he have allowed it?
This last question is a crock, of course. It puts the blame elsewhere to ease my guilt.
But I’ll always wonder, which is why I need time alone to process what was and will be. If I talk, I want it to be with Margo and Anne about our issues—or with Joy about death and her grandfather—or with Jack about truths that Tom Aldiss now takes to his grave. I want to talk about the future.
But death defines its own moments, and mourning with friends is where we have to be now.
It isn’t until eight in the evening that we’re alone, by which point we’re too tired to talk about ourselves or anything else. It’s just the four of us nibbling bits of a chicken-ziti casserole from a neighbor, and the farro-and-vegetable dish that Anne’s assistant manager brought with Joy in mind. Not that Joy eats much more than we do. Hunger isn’t a priority, any more than working through our differences is. We’re respectful in a hands-off kind of way. We give each other space.
Margo goes upstairs as soon as the kitchen is clean. Anne takes off for Bill’s. That leaves me alone in the living room listening to Joy, who is in the sunroom picking out pieces on the piano. They’re slow, sad ones, a few strains of “Someone Like You,” then strains of “Fix You.” After a silence comes the opening of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, which I never thought of as sad but which grows more so as allegro slows to adagio. Then nothing.
I wait for her to join me. When she doesn’t, I cross to the sunroom door. Elbows on the keys, face in her hands, and shoulders hunched, my Joy is joyless.
“Oh, baby,” I breathe, rushing to the bench. As soon as my arms are around her, she begins to sob. Swaying, as we did when she was a baby, I rub her back until the tears slow. She wipes them with the heels of both hands. After a ragged exhalation, she regards me with tragic resignation.
“I almost had a grandfather.”
My heart breaks. She so, so wanted this. I could kill Tom Aldiss for stealing it from her—which is a ridiculous thought, but I’m that upset for her. Death is a life lesson none of us escape. I know that. I just wish it had come later.
Then I remember Margo’s words.Accept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept.My father may have died nearly in front of my daughter’s nose, but I won’t have her thinking the timing was all bad. I can change the narrative. Can’t I?
Touching her cheek, I say with vehemence, “You did have a grandfather, Joy. Youdo.You’ll always have memories of this time with him. You made his last days happier.”
Her nose and cheeks are red from planting that morning on the bluff in the sun, and her eyes are swollen and damp, but they hold hope. “Did I?”
“Absolutely. You played the piano for him. He loved that. He loved that you served him breakfast at the shop and made him breakfast at home. He loved that you look like an Aldiss woman. He even loved thinking you were Margo.”
