The Ambassador's wife

“Yes,” Tay said. “And by the way, it’s the middle of the goddamned night.”

He looked around for his wristwatch wondering if it really was the middle of the goddamned night. He couldn’t find the watch, but it felt like the middle of the goddamned night so he thought hewas more than justified in making the claim anyway.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the man said with a note in his voice that sounded like genuine contrition. “I must have miscalculated the time change.”

“Look, who-”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tay. I really am handling this badly. This is Arthur Rosenthal.”

The name sounded familiar, but Tay couldn’t immediately place it so he said nothing.

“I’m a lawyer,” the man added helpfully. “In New York.”

And then Tay realized who it was.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Tay,” Rosenthal went on, “but I thought-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tay interrupted. “I’m glad you called. How is my mother?”

The man didn’t respond right away, and all at once, just like that, Tay knew.

“I’m sorry,” Rosenthal said.

He said something else after that, too, but Tay didn’t register what it was. It didn’t matter anyway. Rosenthal had delivered his message and that, more or less, was that.

Tay’s mother was dead.

That was very much that.

She had died in her sleep, peacefully, the previous night. At least that was what the lawyer named Rosenthal said. He also said that her husband was making the funeral arrangements.

“Why would he do that?” Tay asked.

“I don’t quite understand what you-”

“I’m her son. I can make the funeral arrangements.”

“We just thought that…well, you’re a long way away, and naturally we assumed…”

Rosenthal trailed off into silence, apparently not certain what to say next. Tay could understand that. He didn’t know what to say next either.

Why in God’s name was he starting an argument over who would make his mother’s funeral arrangements? He didn’t have the first idea how to make funeral arrangements in New York, and even if he had he was halfway around the world, it was the middle of the night, and he was over his head in an investigation of the most brutal murder he had ever seen.

“Never mind,” Tay murmured. “Forget it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, never mind. Her husband can make the funeral arrangements. That’s fine with me.”

Could they assume then that Tay would be coming to New York for the funeral, the lawyer named Rosenthal asked?

Of course they could assume he would be coming to New York for the funeral. It was his mother, for Christ’s sake. Or maybe he wouldn’t be. Later he couldn’t remember how he had answered Rosenthal’s question. After that there were some other words, too, but later Tay couldn’t remember what they were either. As soon as he could he thanked the lawyer for calling and hung up.

Tay shut off the light, pulled the sheet around his neck, and rolled over with his face to the wall.

Feelings came and went, flickering in and out of his mind like an unreliable signal on a faulty television set. Sadness, abandonment, the loneliness of the forsaken child, regret for time gone by, for things undone and unsaid — and most of all, sorrow for his inability to share or even acknowledge in any real way the pain, perhaps even the humiliation of the way his mother’s life had ended.

Every thought dislodged feelings deep within Tay and they rained down around him like bombs, setting off little explosions of recognition, remembrance, and regret. When he could take it all no longer, he got up to have a cigarette, but then he remembered he didn’t have any. That left him nothing to do but go back to bed where he laid absolutely still, breathing in and out, counting every breath. It took him quite a while to get back to sleep, but eventually, somehow, he did.

Once during what remained of the night he thought he felt himself crying softly, but that had probably just been a dream.

TWENTY-SIX

The next morning Tay sat in the lobby for nearly half an hour waiting for Cally to come down. He didn’t even bother looking at his watch when he finally saw her walking toward him. He knew full well what time it was and he had no doubt Cally knew as well.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “I forgot to leave a call.”

She looked fresh and bright-eyed and was wearing white drawstring pants, a blue striped shirt, and blue sandals. Tay was wearing a clean shirt, but he had on the same trousers and shoes he had worn the day before and he was certain he didn’t look fresh and bright-eyed. He didn’t comment either on the time or on Cally’s small apology.

“How far is this place where we’re having breakfast?” he asked instead.

“Not far,” Cally said. “Just across the street.”

Tay and Cally left the hotel and walked the short distance to Shenanigan’s in silence. Tay was a little surprised when they got there to find it was more of a pub than a restaurant. The floor was black-and-white tile and green-shaded lamps hung from the ceiling in tight rows. A long mahogany bar, scarred from what looked like years of hard use, ran down one side of the big room and tables surrounded by mismatched chairs filled the other. The whole place smelled vaguely of spilled beer and stale cigarettes.

Tay didn’t see August, although there were more people there than he would really have expected given the time of day. Most of them were lounging at tables reading newspapers and eating breakfast, but there were also three middle-aged men at the bar with half-empty beer glasses in front of them. Silent and separate, they sat and stared at a television set tuned to CNN.

A woman wearing a long, black apron and a red vest over a white shirt led Tay and Cally to a quiet alcove. The bench seat along the wall was upholstered in something that was probably supposed to look like green leather, but didn’t. In front of the bench was a beaten-up wooden table, and on the opposite side of it sat a pair of wooden chairs that could have belonged to somebody’s grandmother fallen on hard times.

The girl brought them coffee. It wasn’t very good coffee, Tay found when he tried it, but he had a lousy night and was bad-tempered and sour, so he drank it anyway. He asked the girl for cigarettes and was pleasantly surprised to discover the place had Marlboros behind the bar. When she brought him a pack, he lit one using a book of matches someone had left on the table, and inhaled deeply. He held the rich smoke in his lungs for a moment longer than usual, which he found improved the taste of the coffee considerably.

“I’m going to go the whole hog,” Cally said, barely glancing at the menu. “I’m so hungry I can hardly stand it.”

Tay couldn’t help but think about the various ways she might have worked up such an appetite.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said closing his menu without much interest, although it occurred to him he probably ought to be hungry, too. The meal on the airplane yesterday evening had been both small and unmemorable and he hadn’t eaten anything since.

They sipped at their coffee while they waited for their food and didn’t say very much to each other. Tay smoked and Cally twisted around in the booth and watched CNN.

“Your friend is late,” Tay eventually observed.

Cally nodded, but didn’t reply.

The food came quickly and when Tay saw the plates piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, fried potatoes, and grilled tomato, he realized how hungry he really was. The waitress also brought a basket of toast and pots of jam, then refilled their coffee cups and silently disappeared.

After a few bites, in spite of everything, Tay began to feel better. He plucked a piece of toast from the