Ever After (11 page)

Rosemary gets up from the steps and comes over. She motions for the phone.

“I think it was, Leo. I didn't tell Will everything, but Claire Woodman, Bert's mother, told me it was a huge crash with a fire. Bert, Kate, and the babies were coming up from Eugene when it happened. Thank God, little Wills wasn't with them. It's something to be thankful for.”

She hands me back the phone. Her face is pale green.

“Will, are you there?”

“Yes, I think I'm here, Jean.”

She's crying but can talk.

“I know saying we're sorry is not much at such a time, but we are. We'll pray for all of them and you, Robert, Wills, and Rosemary as well. We're going over to Saint Joseph the Worker just as soon as I can get this food off the table.”

She's crying and it's working up to sobs and long pauses. Hearing her cry sets me off again.

“Look, Will, after you've done everything that can be done there in Oregon, would you and Rosemary please come down here for a little rest? You're going to need it. Please?”

“All right. We'll see what we can work into our return flight. Robert's coming with us.”

“You know we have plenty of space. Just come. We'll be ready. You two go to sleep now if you can. Take the phone off the hook and lock the door. If you have any sleeping pills take them. Sleep is what you need most now. I still can't believe it. It must be awful.”

I hang up. I've no sooner hung up than the phone rings. It's Aunt Alice. I tell Rosemary who it is. She comes over to take the phone. I go to the front door and lock it. There are all kinds of other people we should call but I'm not up to it. Neither is Rosemary.

Rosemary is finished talking to Aunt Alice. She's smiling a flat smile.

“She called up not believing what she'd heard. You know how slow she is reacting. This was just too much for her. She thought maybe you were playing some kind of joke. Nobody wants to believe it.” I also call Danny; he has to know.

She's moved into the kitchen and is unsetting the table she'd set for the pizza dinner. I go in and give her a hand. Twice, in passing, we stop, hug and hold onto each other. Neither of us can say a thing.

Robert comes in as we're finishing. He goes straight upstairs and into his bedroom. Rosemary sits in the reclining rocker. Now her face is swollen and red; her eyes are swollen, too.

“We should probably pack tonight, Will. There won't be much time in the morning.”

“Right. I'll tell Robert.”

“Give him a little more time, first, dear. I know he'll be up late: he usually is. Just before we go to bed, you can tell him about packing. Be sure to have him pack his suit, a shirt, and a tie, extra socks and underwear.”

Going up the stairs behind Rosemary I'm reminded of the Myth of Sisyphus, a constant climbing and falling back. We each pull out a bag and start. It all seems so unnecessary. I bring a charcoal-gray suit, the only real suit I own. I also have a summer suit but it needs cleaning. I throw in socks, underwear, a few changes of shirts, an extra pair of shoes, more dressy than the ones I'll wear on the airplane. I peek over at Rosemary packing. She goes about it in her usual, methodical way, carefully folding each dress, skirt, blouse, putting rubber bands around her stockings, underwear.

I go into the bathroom. I look dreadful. I splash water onto my face. I take four Valium out of the medicine cabinet, two for me and two for Rosemary. They're the yellow kind, five milligrams. I've never taken two before. Once in a while I take one when I can't sleep. I hope two will be enough. I hope Rosemary will take hers. She doesn't like taking medicine of any kind, and has a terrible time swallowing pills.

We undress slowly, turn out the light, and climb into bed. The french doors onto the porch are open, letting in a fresh ocean breeze. Then I remember I haven't taken my medication. I slide out of bed and go back into the bathroom. I take my pills for blood pressure and blood sugar, plus some others. I also remember I haven't told Robert to pack.

On the way back to our bedroom, I knock at his door and open it. He's stretched out on his bed fully dressed. His eyes are red.

“Robert, we're leaving so early in the morning that you should pack before you go to sleep. Mom says be sure to pack your suit, a good white shirt, and tie. Take along your best shoes, too; a funeral is an awfully formal kind of thing.”

“OK. But I'm not sure I'll sleep much.”

“We're not sure we will either, but we're going to try. Tomorrow will be a long day, as will the next few days. So dress in your PJs and try to relax. If you want something to put you to sleep I have some pills.”

“Oh, no, that won't be necessary.”

I back out of the room, shut the door. Robert is the same as Rosemary when it comes to pills.

Our bed is basically two twin beds pushed together. We don't like to sleep apart but there's no double bed in this house, which we rent every summer. I usually start out in Rosemary's bed and then as she falls asleep, roll over into the other bed, the one by the french windows.

I close the bedroom door. Rosemary is stretched out on her back in her nightgown but not under the covers. In summer, I sleep without pajamas. I crawl across my bed to hers, snuggle in beside her, and put my arm across her breast. She has her arms up over her head against the bedstead and one leg cocked up. She often begins sleep this way. Her eyes are open, with tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, but there are no spasms of crying or sobbing. She's crying to herself. I put my face against hers; her tears are cold. I can't think of anything to say. I don't really want to say anything, but feel I should. Her voice seems so calm, so far away, so dry and emotionless, not like her at all. She turns to me.

“I never knew one's teeth could hurt so much from crying.”

“For me it's the ears. I had no idea my ears could be so painful from trying not to cry. It's like the earache I used to have when I was a kid. Even swallowing hurts. Probably your teeth hurt from the same thing: trying to hold it in, you're biting down hard.”

There's a long silence. We stay close. I snuggle closer but there's no response. We lie like this. It isn't very late. We're in bed mainly because it's the most private place we know.

We spend an hour this way, not moving; each, I think, pretending to sleep for the other. Finally, it's too much. I roll over to where I've put the pills and a glass of water. I turn back to Rosemary.

“I have some Valium here to help us. We really ought to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be tough, with the flight and then all the emotion in Oregon. I really think you ought to try swallowing these, Honey.”

I hold out the pills. She doesn't move.

“I don't want to sleep, Will. I just want to lie here and think, remember. But you take something. One of us is going to need to be awake and going tomorrow. Have you set the alarm?”

“I've set the alarm on my wristwatch for six-thirty. That ought to give us enough time.”

“Fine. Now listen, honestly, Will. Do you really think we should go all the way to Oregon? They're dead. There's nothing we can do. We'd only be going for the Woodmans. It doesn't seem like a good enough reason. Why don't we stay here where we were with them last and remember all the good times we had together? It was a miracle we had them that last week. Why ruin it by dashing off to the place where they were destroyed? I've never had any desire to visit Oregon. I know Kate was sure I wouldn't like it. Most of the people there are roughnecks, the country scraggly. We hardly know the Woodmans. Why don't we just keep it the way it is?”

I'm shocked. But I shouldn't be. It's the same thing we've been telling our kids. But it seems bizarre not going to the funeral of your own child, her husband, and two of your only three grandchildren. I begin to wonder if Rosemary is all right. She's so much for form, doing the proper thing. I keep quiet.

“Will, if there are any bodies to see, I don't want to see them. They're probably terribly crushed and burned. I don't need that, neither do you. Why are we doing this to ourselves?”

As usual, in her special way, she makes sense. I lie back, quietly, to see if she's going to go on. She knows I hate both weddings and funerals. I went to an aunt's wedding when I was eleven, then to my own, then to each of my daughters', but their weddings were so wonderfully relaxed they could hardly count.

I went to my grandmother's funeral when I was nine, then to my grandfather's when I was fifteen. I was a pallbearer. Then there were the funerals for my mother and father. That's a pretty good record for a man over sixty years old. I've been avoiding weddings and funerals all my life. In fact, I don't see much difference between the two. Rosemary knows this.

“All right, you're right, Rosemary. You know how I hate funerals. I'm sure if Kate and Bert can know what's going on, they'd agree with us. We haven't paid for any tickets so I'm sure we can cancel them. Tomorrow at six I'll call off the limousine. I'll tell Robert. I don't think that'll break his heart. I'll contact Camille and Matt, and tell them we're taking our own advice, staying home. If they want to go, that's their business. What else? Boy, I feel better already.”

I roll out of bed to tell Robert.

“You're so sweet, darling. Don't. We must go. There's no way out of it. But as long as we both know this entire farce is for others, then I feel better about it. I'm sorry if I got your hopes up.”

I roll back onto my bed, take the glass of water, and pop three of those Valium. Maybe we'll have a mass funeral. People who die together stay together.

The pills don't work at first and I can tell Rosemary is still awake when my watch “dedinks” midnight.

But the pills must work finally because when I drop back on the bed, I'm out like a light. It seems much later when I wake to the phone ringing. I stagger across the foot of the bed. Rosemary is rolling out her side.

“You go back to sleep, dear. I'll get it. It's probably one of the kids.”

I dash past her and start down the steps. Rosemary is just behind me. I'm counting rings. It's the fifth ring I've heard when I pick up the phone. I sit down on a chair beside the table near to the desk. Rosemary hovers over me.

I've heard the little “dink” of a long-distance call but then that's all, except somebody breathing heavily into the phone. Nobody makes long-distance obscene phone calls, do they?

“Hello, who is this?”

Then I hear a thick rumbling, a clearing of a throat, the sound of a sob. Even from those, I recognize it's Jo Lancaster, my best friend.

“Jo, is that you?”

“I love you.”

Then more hard sobbing. I can't respond; I'm sobbing so myself. I hand the phone to Rosemary.

“Jo, is that you?”

There's a long pause, then Rosemary walks over slowly to the table and puts the phone in its cradle.

“He just said he was sorry and hung up.”

We look at each other and then break down again. I hold her in my arms. She buries her head into my chin. I can feel her silken skin under her light, white nightgown. Even now, her hair is tickling my nose. I rub my nose into her hair, knowing she'll know and not care. After almost forty years, she knows these things about me.

Finally, we push each other away.

“Rosemary, I think we ought to take a shower. Who knows when we'll have a shower available to us again?”

Without a word, she starts up the steps then turns back.

“Would you wake up Robert, please? You know how hard it is getting him going in the morning. Make sure he's out of bed. I know he slept because I could hear him snoring lightly last night.”

She goes up the rest of the steps. I turn on the living-room light for the limo. Then I realize I'm stark naked and if any fool is up at this time, by Ocean Grove standards, I'm “exposing.” I hurry up the stairs.

I wake Robert and wait until I'm sure he's awake and out of bed. I know better than to carry on a conversation with him. He's a slow starter but his heart's in the right place.

“I know, Dad. I'm up. Honest, I'm awake.”

I go into the bedroom and dress myself in the clothes I laid out last night.

W
E'RE READY
and on the porch when the limo arrives. It's a real limo with a dark blue, plush interior and strap-in seats, the kind that fold down from behind the front seat. Robert sits in front because he has such long legs. The driver is good, and we feel confident. I'm reminded of a funeral. I've rarely driven in a limo except for the few funerals I've been to.

The flight is long and boring. I'm torn between mourning and fatigue. Rosemary falls asleep until we get to Chicago where we change planes. Robert drops off to sleep immediately. I try not watching the film.

Chicago to Portland is even longer. Robert drops right off to sleep again, but Rosemary is just staring at the ceiling of the plane with tears running down her face. I don't feel I can interrupt her thinking. I know she's with Kate. I intrude only when the food arrives. I eat. I can always eat. Usually Rosemary can, too, but this time she only plays with the food, pushing most of it aside. She drinks a cup of tea.

At Portland, Steve and Wills are waiting for us. We give big hugs to Wills and try not to cry too much. Our Robert holds his ground. He never hugs anybody, hasn't since he was twelve years old.

Steve is tall and thin. It's hard to believe he's Bert's brother, but then I remember he has diabetes. He's been giving himself shots for over twenty years. His weight is an important part of his survival.

His eyes are red; we hug and shake hands. We're all trying hard to hold it in. He goes to pick up the car and brings it right to the curb. We throw the baggage in back and climb in. Robert is in front with Steve, and Wills is in back with us. Rosemary is hunting for a seat belt, but there isn't one.