Part 26 (2/2)
When Karrie Haston spotted me on the church steps, she ran over and hugged me until I could feel my own ribs against her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the b.u.t.tons of her dress uniform coat pressing against the b.u.t.tons on mine, our shared grief dulling the hard feelings between us.
Stephanie, who hadn't known Stan and who said she had a million phone calls to make, skipped the service. Along with a group from Beebe's church, Ian and Ben and Jeb Parker acted as pallbearers. I'd been asked to help but was afraid I'd fall while we were packing the coffin out of the church.
Mary McCain arrived at the church without her husband, sparing us all the sight of a former coworker with a brainpan full of mush. I knew the spectacle would have been too much for me and certainly would have been devastating for Karrie, who was still balancing on a tightrope of denial. When I asked Mary how Joel was doing, she replied, ”There are definite signs of improvement.”
Maybe this wasn't terminal after all. Maybe Holly and Jackie and I had a chance. Maybe with time and therapy . . . or with Christian Science. At this juncture, I would eat dirt to have a healing. ”Can he talk?”
”Not exactly. But he tells me what he wants.”
”He blinks? Taps his fingers? What?”
”Well, no.”
”So how do you know what he wants?”
”I just know.”
I had the feeling that Mary, like her mother, was an optimist almost to the point of criminality. ”You think I could visit today?”
”I think he'd like to have visitors.”
”Good. I'll be over later. That all right?”
”I'll be there.”
Absent the mainstays of Stan's life, it was the most dreadfully executed funeral observance I'd ever attended, filled with sour notes, miscues, unprepared partic.i.p.ants, and poorly written eulogies. I knew it had been orchestrated by the widow, Marsha, who'd called the station repeatedly over the past two days to fine-tune the arrangements, sending over lists of demands she said were nonnegotiable. She asked for twenty firefighters to ride the apparatus with his coffin. She wanted a white riderless horse led by a marine in dress blues-Stan had been a marine. Later I called her back and told her the rig wouldn't hold twenty firefighters even if we had them and the marines had turned down our request for the riderless horse and the man to lead it.
At that point she demanded two hundred two hundred bagpipe players to march the three miles with her from her house to the church on foot. As if Marsha could even walk three miles. bagpipe players to march the three miles with her from her house to the church on foot. As if Marsha could even walk three miles.
What was saddest of all was how few of Stan's close friends reached the podium. I tried to let it go, knowing Stan was beyond caring and that, as easygoing as he was, he probably wouldn't have minded even if he'd been there.
It was a short service, with four hymns and a lone bagpipe solo. There were funerals that magnified men, but this one, sadly, had shrunk Stan.
Afterward, I was getting ready to return to the station when I b.u.mped into Linda Newcastle, whom I'd last seen a month earlier at her husband's funeral. She wore the same black dress, her long blond-gray hair in its familiar casual wave. ”They're telling me Harry might have had this syndrome you have.” Everybody in town must have known about me for the word to have reached Linda, I thought.
”That's our working hypothesis.”
”You no longer think he had a heart attack out there in the hills?”
”No.”
”You think he was on the ground for a day or two with n.o.body to help him? Paralyzed or whatever?”
”I'm no authority, Linda. This is all speculation.”
”Harry liked you, Jim. He said you had your head up your a.s.s where your private life was concerned, but he liked you. Excuse my French. I shouldn't have said that.”
”No. He was right. I did have my head up my a.s.s. I know that now.”
”He also said you were kind to others, and being kind to others counted for a lot in Harry's book.”
”Thank you.”
”By the way, if things don't get better for you, what's going to happen to your girls?”
”I don't know.”
”Because I would be more than happy to take them. They're wonderful kids.”
”I'd love to consider that, but we have family.”
”Sure. Good luck, Jim.” She squeezed my hand.
I went back to the station, and as I was walking through the open apparatus doors, Donovan and Carpenter showed up in a s.h.i.+ny black Suburban. It was twenty minutes after noon, which made them tardy by almost three and a half hours. What p.i.s.sed me off more than their lack of punctuality was the beads of water on their vehicle, as if, after pulling into town, they'd stopped to get it washed. I knew those b.u.t.tons of water sitting on the wax job weren't tears for me.
I walked into the building alone.
When I poked my head into the computer room, Stephanie looked up. ”How was it?”
”Like a funeral. Any word?”
”Charlie Drago left a number for you. It's a four-two-three area code.”
”Chattanooga. I'll call him in a minute. I'm going to change.”
”Still no sign of our friends from Canyon View?”
”They're outside.”
On my way upstairs, I heard Donovan and Carpenter at the front door, Donovan's squeaky, high-pitched voice a distinct contrast to his bulky physique. ”h.e.l.lo? Heeellllooooooo?”
Moving almost in slow motion, I went to the second floor and opened my locker, changed into my civilian clothes: jeans and a navy-blue North Bend Fire T-s.h.i.+rt. The next time anybody saw me in my blacks, I would be in a coffin, same as Stan.
It had occurred to me that there were two big ifs in my life right now. The first: Would I make it past this week as a viable human being? The second: If I wasn't going to make it, was I willing to kill myself in order to avoid thirty years in a diaper? I didn't have the answer for the first and couldn't decide on the second.
Beebe's death would allow his wife and children to carry on in a way that wouldn't have been possible had he been relegated to a nursing home. Marsha wouldn't have the nagging worry about whether Stan was being cared for and wouldn't have to feel guilty for failing to visit a man who didn't even know she was in the room. Nor would she have to go through the anguish of divorcing the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d if she found someone else to be a father to her four children.
Downstairs, I found Achara sitting in a chair in the watch office, Donovan alongside, Stephanie in the corridor doorway in the sundress Allyson had picked out for her. Achara had a briefcase and papers laid out on the table beside her. As I walked into the room, we all heard a car door slam outside, a child chattering away. Britney.
”Thanks for the call,” I said sarcastically.
”What call?” Donovan asked.
”The one telling us you weren't going to be able to make it by nine as arranged, but that you'd be here by . . .” I made a production of looking at my watch. ”Twelve-twenty.”
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