Barefoot: A Novel

Tom Flynn cleared his throat and said, “The Patalka girl . . .”

Josh jerked his head. “Didi?”

“She’s dead.”

Josh sucked in his breath. The truck was close and warm, but Josh’s body convulsed with cold. Didi? Not Vicki, but Didi? Didi dead?

“What?” Josh said. “What?”

“She’s dead. She died . . . early this morning.”

“Why?” Josh said. “What happened?”

“Drugs, they think. Pil s, with alcohol.”

“But not—”

“They’re pretty sure it was accidental.”

Tears sprang to Josh’s eyes. The mix of emotions that assaulted him was confusing; it was like too many keys played at once on a piano.

Discord. Didi was dead. Didi was dead? She had, by anyone’s estimation, made a royal mess of her life—car repossessed, behind on her rent, prostitution? But Josh had assumed she would get her act together eventual y; he had thought her parents would bail her out, or she’d meet some poor soul who wanted to take her on. Didi dead seemed impossible. She was such a force, so much herself—with the jean shorts with the white strings, front and center on the cheerleading squad, with the notes she used to pass to Josh between classes, marked with X s and O s and the stamp of her lipsticked mouth. With her hickeys and her adoration of her ferocious cat and her exhaustive knowledge of classic rock, the Al man Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin. There was a time, a long period of time actual y, when Josh had used the word “love” with Didi. She had said the word more often and with greater conviction: I love you, I love you so much, you’re my true love, always and forever. Josh, being male, had responded with: Ditto. Roger that. Yep, me too.

Now, however, he knew more about love, and looking back at what he experienced with Didi, he could see its immaturity, its imperfection. So there was guilt mixed in with his shock and disbelief. He hadn’t loved her wel enough or genuinely enough. He hadn’t given her a strong foundation on which to build future relationships. He may, in fact, have crippled her—unintentional y—because she never moved on.

And, too, in the melee of what Josh was feeling was relief that the news wasn’t about Vicki. That was a horrible thought, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it. He certainly wasn’t happy Didi was dead and Vicki was alive. He was just happy Vicki was alive.

Stil , there was loss. Stil , there was a hole inside of him. The funeral for Deirdre Alison Patalka was held two days later, and Josh attended, wearing his gray interview suit. He may have been imagining it, but he thought he sensed a buzz go through the church when he walked in; he saw heads turn, and the whispering grew louder, though not loud enough for him to make out any actual words. He had no idea how much people knew—

maybe they were whispering because they thought Josh and Didi were stil together and hence he would be cast as the devastated lover. Or maybe everyone knew of Josh and Didi’s fal ing-out, maybe they’d heard that Josh paid Didi off just so she would leave him alone, maybe they held him responsible for Didi’s demise, for her turn to drugs and alcohol, maybe they blamed him for not saving her. Josh had no way of knowing. He saw everyone he used to know—high school friends, teachers, his friends’ parents, doctors and administrators from the hospital, guys from Rob Patalka’s crew, and the actual Dimmity brothers themselves, Seth and Vegas, whom Josh hadn’t set eyes on since his mother ran their office.

Josh’s dentist was there, the ladies who worked in the post office, the manager of the Stop & Shop, the chef and waitstaff of the Straight Wharf, where Didi used to waitress in the summer, the librarians from the Atheneum. The police had to close off Federal Street because there were so many people attending Didi’s funeral that they spil ed down the church steps onto the sidewalk and over the sidewalk onto the cobblestone street and the far sidewalk. Didi arrived in a hearse, in a closed casket that was a somber navy blue, not at al a Didi color, Josh thought, which made it harder for him to believe that she was actual y inside. He was glad, however, that the casket was closed. He didn’t want to see Didi dead, al made-up by the mortician, wearing whatever “suitable” outfit Mrs. Patalka had picked out. He didn’t want to have to gaze at Didi’s face and acknowledge its unspoken accusation: You failed me.

After the funeral, there was an official reception at the Anglers’ Club, but Josh stayed only a few minutes, long enough to kiss Mrs. Patalka and receive, in a somber handshake, an envelope from Mr. Patalka containing two hundred dol ars.

“There was a note on her desk,” Mr. Patalka said. “Saying she owed you this.”

Josh tried to refuse the envelope, but Mr. Patalka insisted. Josh used some of the money to buy beer at Hatch’s; he was taking the beer to the house in Shimmo, where Zach was throwing the unofficial reception for “Didi’s real friends,” “the people who knew her best.”

Josh set the beer down on the passenger side of his Jeep, which he tried not to think of as Melanie’s seat. He took off his suit jacket and threw it into the back; even at four o’clock, it was too hot for it. He hadn’t cal ed Melanie to tel her about Didi, not only because of his self-imposed ban on cal ing Melanie but because Melanie knew nothing about Didi, and how cumbersome would it be to explain that Josh had had this friend—not even a friend, real y, but an ex-girlfriend, a person who defied easy categorization in his life—who had died? Melanie wouldn’t get it, but because she was Melanie, so incredibly kind, she would pretend to get it, and how could Josh find that anything but patronizing? Didi and Melanie were from separate parts of Josh’s life, they weren’t connected, and trying to connect them would require stretching something that might break and end up in a mess. Stil , on his way out to Shimmo, with his tie off now as wel as his jacket and the windows open, al owing the last of summer’s warm, fresh air to rush in, Josh fondled his phone. He scrol ed through his cal s received—there were the two cal s from Rob Patalka, three cal s from Zach, al to tel him the news, he now knew—until he found the cal from Number Eleven Shel Street, from Ted, and he nearly hit the button that would dial the house, but then it was time for him to turn, which he did, abruptly, and the beer slid off Melanie’s seat and clunked to the floor, and while Josh was half bent over trying to upright the beer, he saw Tish Alexander’s car in front of him and the moment to cal Melanie was lost.

It was another beautiful afternoon. If they hadn’t been attending a funeral, people might have come to the Shimmo house in bathing suits. They might have gone swimming right there in the harbor in front of the house. The water was very blue and calm; Josh had never seen water look more inviting. He stood for a minute in the driveway, gazing out across Nantucket Sound. He had been born and raised on this island; there was a sense that this view belonged to him and the others who grew up here. And if it belonged to them, then it belonged to Didi, too, but that