I was driving away from Edwin’s office when my cell rang. It was one of the private schools I’d called. The woman answered my questions about tuition fees (higher than I expected), whether Kelly would be allowed to switch in the middle of the school year (she would), and whether her academic record qualified her for admission (maybe).
“And of course you know we are a residential school,” she told me. “Our students live here.”
“But we already live in Milford,” I explained. “Kelly would be able to live at home with me.”
“That’s not the way we do it,” the woman stated. “We believe in a more immersive educational experience.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said. That was just dumb. If Kelly was going to be right in town with me, she was going to live with me. Maybe some parents were happy to farm their kids off to a school 24/7, but I wasn’t one of them.
I phoned Sally to remind her that I was going to the visitation for Ann Slocum and likely wouldn’t be at the office or at any of our job sites the rest of the day. When I got to Kelly’s school I parked and went into the office to tell them I was taking her out of school for the afternoon. The woman in the office said a couple of other kids, as well as Kelly and Emily’s teacher, planned to attend.
When Kelly came into the office to meet me, she had a small envelope in her hand. She didn’t look me in the eye when she held it out to me. I tore it open and read the note as we headed out to the truck.
“What’s this?” I asked. “This is from your teacher?”
Kelly mumbled something that sounded remotely like a yes.
“You stomped on another kid’s foot? You did it again?”
She whipped her head around to look at me. Her eyes were red. “He called me Boozer. So I let him have it. Did you find me a new school yet?”
I put my hand on her back and guided her across the parking lot. “Let’s go home. You need to get changed for the visitation.”
I was in the bedroom, taking a third run at doing up my tie so the broad end wasn’t shorter than the thin, when Kelly appeared. She was wearing a simple navy blue dress-something her mother had bought for her at the Gap-and matching tights.
“Does this look okay?” she asked.
She looked beautiful. “Perfect,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.” She scampered off, and just in time. I didn’t want her to see my face. It was the first time that she had ever asked her father for an opinion on an outfit.
The funeral home was just off the downtown green. The parking lot was full. A number of the cars were police cruisers. I took Kelly by the hand as we walked across the lot. Once we were inside, a man in a perfect black suit directed us to the reception room for the Slocum family.
“Remember, stick close,” I whispered down to her.
“I know.”
We’d barely stepped into the room, where about thirty people were milling about chatting in subdued tones, awkwardly holding coffee cups and saucers, when Emily came charging in our direction. She wore a black dress with a white collar. She threw her arms around Kelly and the two girls clung to each other as though they’d not seen each other in years.
They both burst into tears.
Slowly, the small talk descended into a murmur as everyone focused on the two small girls, propping each other up, bonding in a way that few of us could imagine for ones so young. They were joined by grief, and a sympathy and understanding for each other.
I, like most everyone, felt overwhelmed. But I couldn’t bear to see the two of them dealing with this alone, and so publicly, so I knelt down, touched a hand lightly to each of their backs, and said, “Hey.”
Another woman knelt on the other side of them. She looked, at a glance, like Ann Slocum. She flashed me an awkward smile. “I’m Janice,” she said. “Ann’s sister.”
“Glen,” I said, taking a hand off Kelly’s back and offering it.
“Why don’t I get the girls some refreshments?” she said. “Somewhere a little more private.”
I hadn’t wanted to let Kelly out of my sight, but at that moment, letting the girls be together seemed to make a lot of sense. “Sure,” I said. Janice led Kelly and Emily, walking with their arms around each other, out of the room. In one respect, however, I was relieved. Across the room, the casket containing the body of Ann Slocum, unlike my wife’s, was open. I didn’t want Kelly to see Emily’s mother in repose. I didn’t want to have to explain why Ann’s face could be made suitable for viewing and her mother’s could not.
“That just broke my heart,” a woman said behind me. I turned. It was Belinda Morton. Standing beside her was her husband. “Never in my life have I seen anything so sad.”
George Morton, in a black suit, white shirt with French cuffs, and a red tie, extended a hand. I took it, somewhat reluctantly, since he was reputedly the one who’d pushed his wife to open up to the Wilkinson lawyers.
“This is all just, so, I just don’t know where to begin,” Belinda said. “First Sheila, and now Ann. Two of my best friends.”
I didn’t have it in me to offer any words of comfort. I was too angry with Belinda. But this wasn’t the time to get into that.
“We have to believe there’s a purpose in the way life unfolds,” George said, affecting his usual wise manner. I could see the purpose in punching him in the nose. He had a way about him, that he was smarter than the rest of us, talking down to us. Quite a trick, since he was an inch shorter. I had a good view of his comb-over. What surprised me, looking at his eyes beyond the lenses of his heavy, black-framed glasses, was how troubled he appeared. His eyes weren’t red the way his wife’s were, but they looked sorrowful and tired.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said. “Such a shock. Just horrible.”
“Where’s Darren?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him around,” Belinda said. “Did you want me to find him for you?”
“No, that’s okay.” I didn’t want to talk to him, I just wanted to keep track of him. “Will you be home later?” I asked.
“I would imagine,” she said.
“I’ll give you a call.”
She started to speak, then stopped herself. George was looking off to one side, at the other people paying their respects, and she took advantage of the moment to lean in and ask, “Did you find it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The envelope? You found it? Is that why you want to call?”
I hadn’t thought about that in a while. “No. It’s something else.”
She looked even more upset than when she’d watched the girls consoling each other.
“What?” George said, returning his gaze to us.
“Nothing,” Belinda told him. “I’m just… Glen, it was nice to see you.” There was nothing in her voice that suggested she meant it.
She steered George off in another direction to mingle. I had a sense Belinda knew exactly what I wanted to talk to her about. I wanted to deliver a few choice words about her decision to help Bonnie Wilkinson wipe me out financially.
I was left standing there with no one I immediately recognized to talk to. There were several tall, broad- shouldered men with short haircuts clustered together. Fellow cops-it didn’t take a genius to figure it out-but Darren wasn’t among them. I went over to where the coffee was set up and bumped shoulders with a short black woman doing the same thing.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“No problem,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Glen Garber.” I put down my cup and saucer so we could shake hands.
“Rona Wedmore,” she said.
“Were you a friend of Ann’s?”
