But didn’t suffering draw from the same well? Hilda Frieslander had suffered, too. Why stop her?
Rayette stepped out. In white shorts and yellow polo, she was holding herself. She seemed small and lost, so tan she looked African. Seeing her, Brenda felt sure she knew what Rayette Peticore was thinking. After that, what woman could mean anything to Pat Sweeney?
“I was there last night,” Brenda said. “I asked if he wanted to go to dinner. We had some drinks and carry-out.”
“Maybe you went because of what I told you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know anyone here. It didn’t seem pushy.”
“Well, no,” Rayette said. She came down the step and walked along the pool’s edge. “Why not?” She shrugged and walked, holding herself, looking down. “Who wants to eat alone? I met up with some people, after they finished their game. I came over to ask you to join us, but you were gone.”
“I’m worried about him.”
Rayette stopped in front of her, holding herself. “You think he might hurt himself?”
“He spent all day cleaning out his house. He had people in to clean his pool.”
Rayette thought about it. “I don’t know,” she said. “That could be a good sign. When I’m depressed, I get out of it by cleaning.”
“I can’t think what to say to him,” Brenda said. “But I have to go there, and I want you to come with me. You know him. You knew his wife.”
“And the daughter,” Rayette said. “God. Connie was the light of his life, I can tell you that. Let me get some shoes.”
◆◆◆◆◆
Brenda followed the access road, stopping at crossing points for golf carts. The players waved, bounced past. She reached Sweeney’s cul-de-sac and turned.
“Nobody does that—” Rayette pointed ahead to the house. “Leaves the garage door open. People just don’t do it here. You end up with bugs and raccoons.”
“Maybe he just got back from running an errand.”
They pulled up, got out and approached the front door. Blurt it out, Brenda thought. We’re here because we know about the wreck, we came to be with you, we had to. She stepped up the stoop. An envelope was taped to the door. Good, it was something she could deliver, a purpose. She pulled it free and knocked.
“I’ll check the mailbox.”
Rayette jogged back down the drive as Brenda waited. For some reason, she felt better. Maybe it was having no choice, feeling compelled. Things were better that way, when there was no choice. She knocked again. “Patrick? It’s Brenda Contay—”
Rayette came back, mail in both hands. “Some of this is ten days old,” she said. “They must be delivering, then sending it up to Michigan.” Brenda knocked again. “Try the door.” She worked the knob, and the door opened.
“Patrick?”
She stepped in, Rayette behind. At the far end, the living room’s slider stood open. She moved through the hall, past rooms she’d never been in—a bedroom, a den, the dining room table where Sweeney had set his clubs. In the living room, she saw through the open slider that the swimming pool was flooding out over the deck.
“Uh oh.” Rayette stepped next to her. “He’s adding water and forgot. I’ve done that.”
“Check in there—”
Rayette went into the master bedroom as Brenda crossed to the kitchen. On the table rested a desk lamp shining down pointlessly in a room flooded with morning sun. The lamp hadn’t been on last night. That meant Sweeney had walked her to her car, come back and turned on the lamp before going out to clean up. Still open on the table was his notebook. At the end of the list, he had added BRENDA CONTAY in block print, with an arrow to CALLOWAY GOLF CLUBS, COMPLETE SET.
“Brenda!”
She turned away and crossed to the master bedroom. At the far end Rayette stood looking into a lighted walk-in. You had to come here, Brenda thought. Quickly she crossed, ready for what must be waiting. It made sense, who could say it didn’t? She stepped next to Rayette and looked in.
Like a pop art still-life, a shotgun rested on a kitchen chair. Under the chair and shaped to the walls was one of the heavy blue plastic pool blankets. It had been shoved into the corners and tacked to the walls. The small, chalk-white room had been stripped. Brenda smelled Sweeney’s cologne. But he hadn’t done it. He’d cleaned, sorted, gotten everything ready. But hadn’t done it.
“All her things are still here,” Rayette said. “It’s like a shrine.”
Brenda backed out and stepped next to Rayette. In the brightly lighted second walk-in, wire shelves held stacks of neatly folded tops and underwear. The rod was crowded with good-looking blouses and skirts, the floor ranked with pairs of shoes. Like Charlie, Sweeney had not been able to do the practical thing, had not been able to shove his wife’s things in trash-can liners and call a charity. When she visited Charlie in Milwaukee, Lillie Schmidt’s things still hung untouched in her closet.
She turned away. Rayette was now standing beside the bed. It was mounded with men’s clothes, all his things. Shoes in neat pairs were lined up on the floor. On the bed lay suits, sports jackets and slacks still on hangers, two stacks of knitted shirts, one of laundered dress shirts. Brenda reached down and lifted off the top of a shoebox. It held another pair of golf shoes, never worn.
Rayette picked up a sheet of paper. “It’s directions,” she said. “Everything’s supposed to go to the Hospice resale store, or to Goodwill.”
Brenda felt the envelope clutched in her hand, the one taped to the front door. She opened the flap and took out two sheets of paper.
Enclosed, please find your bill for unscheduled maintenance required on the fourteenth fairway, Monday morning, February 11.
Please be advised that owners and renters are required
