Hell, now, that’s something he hadn’t done in a while.
At that moment in Queens, as Ethan Palmer worked on his homework, he thought of his mother in that black dress.
It was the dress she wore at Dad’s funeral. Wearing it today had made her sad again. He didn’t like seeing his mother sad.
Or his sister.
He glanced from his homework at the kitchen table to the living room where Taylor and Rita were playing a video game with the sound off. Ethan liked living here. He’d lived here all his life and he didn’t want to move to California and leave everything behind.
It would be sort of disrespectful to his father.
Ethan picked up his small pearl-handled penknife. His dad had given it to him on his birthday and he treasured it. Such a cool little knife. He never went anywhere without it.
If they moved away, he’d miss his best friend, Jason. He’d be the new kid at school and that would suck. And worst of all, maybe his mom would find a new boyfriend who would become his new dad. He didn’t want a new dad because he loved his dad and missed him so much it hurt.
But his mom was already making big changes, like selling their cabin.
Dad loved the cabin. Ethan loved it. Taylor and Mom loved it, too. They had the best times there, swimming, fishing, roasting hot dogs on sticks over a campfire and looking up at the stars.
Mom cried when she tried to tell him why she had to sell it; that with Dad gone, things were harder now. Things had changed. Ethan begged her not to sell it. But what could he do? He was just a ten-year-old kid.
What would Dad tell him?
Ethan put his knife down and went back to putting the final touches on the map he was drawing for school. Mrs. Chambers said it had to give directions and distance from Queens to a favorite place. Ethan did a map to the cabin at Lake George. He had all the information from a copy of an old map Dad sketched once for Arnie, his friend. Now, it was like Dad was helping him with his homework.
Pleased with the results, Ethan pinned his map on their message corkboard by the back door for Mom to check. Then he wrote on the calendar square for next Saturday, “going to the cabin.”
He sure missed his dad, all right.
Ethan grabbed his knife, left the kitchen, went upstairs to his mom’s bedroom to do what he always did when he felt this way.
He went to her dresser, stood before the special marble box and caressed it with his fingers. He knew it was a cremation urn that contained some of his father’s ashes. Ethan slid his arms to either side of the box, drew his face near, turned his head and pressed his cheek to the top, feeling its surface against his skin.
“I miss you, Dad.”
In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Agent Dutton’s body was committed to the earth. At the graveside ceremony, the FBI director presented Jennifer Dutton with the FBI’s Memorial Star, a medal given to the relative of an agent whose death was caused by “adversarial action.” Then Jennifer Dutton’s father held her as her husband’s casket was lowered into the ground.
After the burial, hundreds of mourners gathered for the reception at the community hall near the church. Jennifer sat in a chair while she, her father and family members formed the funeral receiving line.
This was it.
This is where Lisa needed to do what she had to do.
She took her place in line along with Chan and Watson. It moved slowly. As she neared the family, Lisa noticed the funeral director’s staff delicately attempting to keep the line flowing with respectful requests to “please keep your condolences brief, please, thank you.”
But Lisa needed to do more than console Jennifer.
As she got closer she heard people say, “I am so sorry for your loss,” “Greg was such an amazing person,” “Our sympathy to you,” “We’re going to miss him.”
Lisa found herself standing before Jennifer Dutton, looking into her face, pale, broken, bright red veins webbing her tear-stained eyes.
Lisa took Jennifer’s hand. It was warm, weak.
Lisa held it tight.
“Jennifer, my name is Lisa Palmer. You have my deepest condolences.”
Jennifer nodded, but nothing registered.
“I was with your husband when he died.”
Chan turned and Watson shot a look at Lisa, who with measured words continued attempting to penetrate Jennifer’s grief.
“I was there when it happened.”
“Excuse me—” Chan’s voice was soft “—this isn’t the appropriate time.”
Jennifer blinked as if awakened, her attention focusing.
“There’s something I must tell you,” Lisa said, bending, nearly on her knees so that she was face-to-face with Jennifer, never letting go of her hand. “I have to tell you what he said before he died.”
Jennifer’s free hand flew to her mouth, her face crumpling with fear and an aching to know at the same time.
“We’re so sorry…” Chan grasped Lisa’s shoulder firmly.
“Yes,” Jennifer said to Lisa. “Tell me.”
“He said, ‘Jennifer, I love you.’ Those were his last words. I know, I was on the floor next to him. He tried to do the right thing. To save people. I held his hand as long as I could.”
A harsh, throaty cry rose from deep within Jennifer, forcing her to lift her head back to release it. All attention went to her and to Lisa. Her father put his arms around her as concerned mourners strained to see, prompting Jennifer’s doctor to approach her.
Chan and Watson tried to move Lisa away, but Jennifer wouldn’t release her hand.
“No!” Jennifer groaned to the others. “Let her be, let her be.”
Lisa remained rooted until Jennifer was able to speak again.
“You know, I felt him that day, felt him call out to me,” Jennifer managed to say, her voice a rasped whisper. She pulled Lisa to her and the two women, bonded in grief, held on to each other.
“Thank you for this. Thank you for telling me,” Jennifer said.
Much of the return drive to New York was passed in silence as Lisa suffered the unspoken wrath of Agents Chan and Watson for her perceived violation of FBI etiquette or protocol.
Lisa did not care.
Widow to widow, she knew what had to be done.
Lisa had to give Jennifer Dutton what was rightfully hers.
