Small Blessings (16 page)

At one time, Iris remembered, she, too, had believed in almost everything.

*   *   *

Tom stood at the edge of Marjory's grave and wondered who all these people were who'd showed up at this small, quiet country cemetery to pay their respects to a woman who'd barely made a dent in the world's collective consciousness. Tom had never laid eyes on half of them, and they certainly were a motley crew—hippies, yuppies, artistic types, conservative business people, a flock of sour-looking, elegantly dressed older women.

Halfway through the service, it dawned on him that they were Agnes's old friends from Charlottesville. What a mark his mother-in-law must have left. These people couldn't have seen much of her over the last decade, and yet here they were, turned out en masse for her dysfunctional daughter's funeral.

Agnes stood on the other side of Marjory's grave, separate from him by choice, as though shunning anything resembling family support. She looked, Tom thought, utterly defeated and old.

The service was Episcopalian, which Agnes had been briefly during her marriage. The lovely, ritualized words of comfort and hope flowed on. Behind Agnes was the gravestone of one Joseph Hinton Tattle, born September 14, 1931, died January 1958; Agnes's flyboy, dead for all forty-seven years of his daughter's life, still mourned and missed by his wife.

Did Agnes now, Tom asked himself, deserve some time on her own again? Time to fight some more good fights with fellow comrades in rectitude, to flex her muscular character and charisma again, all those Agnes attributes that had rallied all these people to her side today?

His mother-in-law had never sold her house in Charlottesville. If he were truly a good person, would he encourage her to move back there, take up her lawyering and her life again? The thought panicked him.

“Amen!” the priest announced with finality. There was a collective sigh, and everyone but Tom and Agnes quickly turned away from Marjory's yawning grave. His mother-in-law was shortly surrounded by people he didn't know and most likely would never see again. His own crowd from the college hung back a bit, giving him the conventional last moment alone with Marjory. He stared at the mound of flowers waiting to be heaped on her grave, repressed a sigh, and, instead of thinking about his wife as he knew he was expected to, thought about Henry, at home and possibly—if miracles were still allowed in his world—
playing
with Rose Callahan.

Then, as though someone had fired a starter pistol, people from the college surged around him. For long minutes, Tom shook hands and murmured “thank you for coming” over and over and over, to kind face after kind face. Russell Jacobs gave him a hug, which was very un-Russell-like behavior. Tom hugged him back, surprised to find himself hanging on to his old friend for longer than was truly conventional. It felt to him as though their real selves connected during that hug, rather than their usual everyday selves.

Tom made a mental note to talk to him about Henry as soon as possible.

Just as Russell turned away, Tom felt movement at his side and looked down to find Agnes standing there. “Before we leave,” she said, “I want you to come stand with me for a moment at Joe's grave. I sneak up here sometimes by myself to say hello, but today I need some company. Someone who's been right beside me during the Marjory struggles and knows I tried.”

Tom took a risk and reached down for Agnes's hand. He took another risk and said, “Happy to. That's what family's for.”

Agnes looked up at him. Stark gratitude was there and gone in her face as quickly as a passing thought. “Okay, then,” she said, a trace of her old Agnes-ness returning. “And after we check in with Joe, Professor, can we please get the hell out of here and go home?”

 

part two

 

chapter 10

Tom, along with everyone else, had inspected
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
when J. K. Rowling's first novel had appeared at the Book Store. He had not been impressed. Supposedly Ms. Rowling had begun it on the back of a paper napkin, and in Tom's opinion—formed on the basis of that hasty scan—napkin scrawl remained the level of her prose.

But this assessment had been made before Henry. This morning, the day after Marjory's funeral, Henry had pointed at a picture of Harry Potter in one of Marjory's magazines, and Tom had developed a sudden burning desire to read Ms. Rowling's books out loud to the boy. Prose, schmose. This was about Henry
wanting
something. So here he was at eleven in the morning, pushing through the Book Store's front door with Henry in tow, out together in public for the first time, on a mission to buy all the available Harry Potter books.

His whole life, Tom was beginning to realize, had been bifurcated by Henry's arrival. The years before Henry sat on one side; the thirty-some hours after Henry on the other. Despite reason, caution, Marjory's death, and all that alarming money, life again held promise; temporary promise, to be sure, as Henry was only temporarily in residence, but that did not make the promise any less real.

The Book Store, as usual these days, hummed with a cross-section of the college community enriched by a sprinkling of townies. “This is where Rose works, Henry,” Tom said. “Would you like to go say hello to her?”

Henry nodded. “Yes, please.” He spoke so softly that Tom had to read his lips.

They reached the archway into Rose's area, and there she was, rocketing around like a Pachinkoball, exuding composure and cheerfulness at warp speed among her chattering customers. Henry immediately broke free and flung himself at Rose's knees.

Rose swayed but did not fall—and, wonder of wonders, did not spill a drop of the three foamy coffees she carried. She put the coffees down on the nearest table, knelt, and hugged Henry back. People took their cues from her, smiling, nodding, clasping their hands together in demonstrable delight, then quickly turning back to one another to begin twittering about—Tom would have bet Henry's demi-million on this—the campus's newest odd couple: Rose Callahan and this small boy who was somehow attached to Tom Putnam.

The two were in front of him now, hand in hand, Henry chattering away as though he were someone who chattered as a matter of course. What
was
it with this woman? Was she the patron saint of misfits, here to rescue Henry and, who knew, himself?

“Rose,” someone called from one of the tables, “when you get a moment, will you come settle this dispute we're having over Ann Beattie? You knew her in Charlottesville, didn't you?”

“Be right there!” Rose sang out, her eyes on Henry. “Obviously, I can't stay.” She knelt down to give the boy another hug, looking up at Tom as she did so. Tom thought he saw longing sprint across her face. Once again he remembered the look she'd given him in class:
I'm in a bit of trouble here, but please pay no attention …

“There,” Rose said, rising. “Bye for now, Henry.”

“Bye,” Henry said—yes,
said.
“When will you babysit me again?”

Rose looked at Tom. “Soon, I hope?” she said, turning her words into a question.

“Soon,” Tom said firmly. There it was again, that light around her. Watching Rose's face, he felt something in him reach out for her. He was almost certain something in her reached out for him in return, but before he could be sure, she turned her attention back to Henry. “See you,” she said.

“See you,” Henry said.

Still Rose hesitated, as though there were something else to say.

“Who's this?” a woman's voice demanded.

The mood shifted; intimacy shattered. “Hello, Iris,” Rose said. And she was gone.

Tom felt Henry squeeze as close to his leg as the natural laws of the universe allowed. He put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. A blast from Iris was often hard for him to withstand; he could just imagine what it would be like for a six-year-old. “This,” he said, “is my son, Henry. Henry, this is my friend Iris Benson. She took one of my classes yesterday, so I owe her a big thank-you.”

Iris threw up her arms, flaring the sleeves of her voluminous caftan, looking momentarily like a gigantic burnt-orange bat. “You have a
son
?” she bellowed. Once again heads turned.

Tom felt Henry stiffen and pull slightly away instead of shrinking closer, as any sensible child would do. “You talk too loud,” he said, quite distinctly.

“Henry!” Tom was shocked in any number of ways.

Iris lowered her arms and regarded the boy appraisingly. Henry did not flinch. Then, to add to the sum total of the day's surprises, Iris grinned. “You're right,” she said. “Sorry, Henry.” Tom thought he saw admiration sneak into Iris's rather puffy eyes.

“I'm here to buy Harry Potter books,” Henry said.

More surprises were to come. Iris reached down and patted the boy's shoulder. “Good for you. I've read every one of them twice.”

That
, Tom thought,
explains a lot.

*   *   *

They left with all six Harry Potter books, three matching college T-shirts (one for Agnes), two Harry Potter posters, and a book called
Mapping the World of Harry Potter
that Iris had recommended. “It's quite a good atlas,” she'd said, very seriously.

Classes were changing as they headed back across campus. Students streamed by, calling out “Hi, Professor Putnam” in various singsong tones. Tom answered back, calling most of the students by name. Henry, however, paid no attention to any of them. He held on firmly to his bag of books with one hand and to Tom with the other and did not say a word.

*   *   *

The college dining hall was annually ranked among the best in the country by
U.S. News.
The food was described as “southern healthy,” whatever that meant. Everything was served cafeteria style, and as it was better than any restaurant food within a reasonable distance, the big, sunlit dining room was usually packed with faculty and staff as well as students.

Lunch was available from eleven thirty until one thirty. Russell waited until a few minutes after twelve to start through the cafeteria line. Rose's lunch hour, he knew, was noon to one, so hopefully, by the time he filled his tray and made it into the dining hall proper, she would be there.

Only she wasn't. Everyone he didn't want to eat lunch with was, but Rose was not.
Curses! Foiled again!
Snidely Whiplash shouted unexpectedly from Russell's early adolescence.

Well, now he was here, he'd have to sit somewhere and eat. Russell looked down at his tray. As his mind had been on Rose rather than food, he'd made a rather peculiar selection: kale, coleslaw, mashed potatoes with gravy, a small dish of over-mayonnaised tuna salad, two different kinds of pie, and nothing to drink.

Russell's usual lunch was a green salad, a piece of poached fish or a poached chicken breast, fresh fruit, and Earl Grey iced tea. It was prepared for him by his housekeeper (whom the college supplied—another perk!), who came in every morning to dust and tend to his larder.

“Russell, come sit with us!”

Russell looked around to see Nathan Eubanks, head of college public relations, waving at him from a nearby table. Nathan sat among a mixed collection of students and faculty—just the kind of cross-cultural confab he liked to bleat about in press releases. Usually Russell found the man mildly amusing, but not today. “Gotta do some reading for class!” he called out as he kept moving.

Thankfully he'd brought a book with him, so this did not look like the complete lie that it was. Russell moved on through the crowded room, fending off more invitations from both faculty and students, until he finally spotted a vacant table over by the big bank of windows that looked out toward the Quad. Perfect; sitting there he could easily spot Rose if she were running late, and then make a beeline back to the food line so as to “casually” bump into her.

Russell set his tray down on the table and went over to a nearby beverage stand to fetch a glass of water. While he was there, a group of third-years came over to ask him to please be their guest at some kind of dormitory high tea on Parents Weekend. They simply would not take no for an answer, so Russell was forced to accept in order to get back to his post. When he finally made it back to his table, Iris Benson was sitting there with a loaded lunch tray.

“What are you doing at my table?” Russell demanded.

“Eating lunch and annoying you,” Iris said sweetly, pushing out his chair with her foot. “Have a seat.”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Iris tucked into a huge plate of lasagna.

Russell folded his arms. “I wish you'd leave.”

“I know you do.” Iris spoke with her mouth full. It was done deliberately, Russell knew, to offend him further.

People at nearby tables were beginning to stare. Russell looked around to see if there was another vacant table. There wasn't.

Iris finished chewing and smiled up at him with wicked innocence. “So, Russell. Have you met Tom Putnam's new son?”

The world tilted. Russell sat down. “Tom Putnam has a
son
?” he roared. Heads turned several tables deep.

Iris was very pleased with herself. “Yes. His name is Henry, and he's soon to be seven. I met him this morning at the Book Store, naturally, which is where I meet most interesting people around here now that Rose has arrived to attract them. I rather liked the boy. He told me I talk too loud, which I thought showed surprising guts for a six-year-old.”

Russell stared at her. “Tom Putnam has a son?” he repeated.

“Yep.” Iris winked at him. “You should go introduce yourself. He might tell you a couple of useful things about your behavior as well.”

“Tom Putnam has a son,” Russell said for the third time.