par-allel, after a lifetime in which one had pulled ahead and glanced back, and then the other overtook and surged ahead. They had been eye to eye, and so close.
It had almost made him forgive her growing up, so all at once, so without him.
And now she had gone on ahead, without him, again.
His phone rang. Gordon realized he had nearly fallen asleep.
He let it ring through to the machine. There were twenty-three unplayed messages on the tape, a few that he’d heard come in. Women.
His cousin Dan. A couple from students, which touched him deeply, and three from Tim, who seemed to think he should come over or Gordon would kill himself. “Hey,” said his own slow voice, picking up, his before voice, ready for anything. “Depending on who you are, leave a message for either Gordon or Mr. McKenna, and don’t make it your life story.” Lindsay’s voice filled the room with its urgency.
“Gordon? Gordo? It’s me. I guess you’re not there, but if you need me . . .”
Lindsay could help me write this, he thought. Lindsay and Georgia had been friends since they were children. He picked up the phone, and said nothing. “Gordo? Is that you?”
There was no one who could help him. He put the receiver back in its cradle and let himself drift again.
His father had slept twelve hours straight after identifying Ray and Georgia.
Gordon had offered to do it in his stead, but after an hour of thinking it over, Mark had gone alone to the morgue.
All he had seen, he told Gordon, and told him reluctantly, was a close-up color photo of Georgia’s left hand, with its green diamond engagement ring, pale and unmarked except by the big sickle-shaped scar she’d gotten when they were little, fighting over a croquet mallet, breaking it in half. Then, softly lit behind a plateglass window, they’d shown him the side of Ray’s face that was most intact. The rest of Ray’s head and body had been layered in clean sheets. “But you could see Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 64
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that it wasn’t shaped properly,” Mark admitted. “I really tried not to look very much, because I didn’t want to remember it. I don’t think we should ever tell Keefer this.”
He dreamed of Lindsay kneeling next to the bed, her long red hair down, tickling his cheek.
It was Lindsay. She was there. Where was he? Gordon realized he had, finally, desperately, fallen asleep, and that outside, the sun was low.
He sat up, streaming sweat, chilled.
“Did I miss it?” he asked. “How did you get in here?” Lindsay sat back on her heels, her sleeveless peach-colored summer dress settling like a parachute over her knees. “I got the key from your mom,” she said. “You didn’t answer the phone. It scared the hell out of her, Gordon, if you must know. And me, too.” She’d brought him food. Ham and Swiss, macaroni salad, a smoothie.
He ate thankfully, voraciously, and for once, her solicitude made him feel only grateful, not leashed. He showered while she sat on the closed toilet seat and read the obituary aloud to him; she told him it would be okay to wear a T-shirt and a linen jacket for the viewing, that his father would not have the presence of mind to notice Gordon was not wearing a tie. After all, she told him, everyone knew he had only one suit, and that was for the funeral. And when he was dressed, Lindsay drove, though it crossed his mind that her driving would put them back here, alone together, sometime later that night, unless he fotched an excuse about having to ride home with his parents, which would keep him out of bed with Lindsay, which was where he should stay, and he was grace-less to even think about that, but she looked wonderful, familiarly wonderful, and he could not help but notice the pure white strip of her bra through the open sleeve of her dress. He wondered how much of what he felt for Lindsay was born of her constancy, the reflection of her devotion to him. He would figure that out, once
It had almost made him forgive her growing up, so all at once, so without him.
And now she had gone on ahead, without him, again.
His phone rang. Gordon realized he had nearly fallen asleep.
He let it ring through to the machine. There were twenty-three unplayed messages on the tape, a few that he’d heard come in. Women.
His cousin Dan. A couple from students, which touched him deeply, and three from Tim, who seemed to think he should come over or Gordon would kill himself. “Hey,” said his own slow voice, picking up, his before voice, ready for anything. “Depending on who you are, leave a message for either Gordon or Mr. McKenna, and don’t make it your life story.” Lindsay’s voice filled the room with its urgency.
“Gordon? Gordo? It’s me. I guess you’re not there, but if you need me . . .”
Lindsay could help me write this, he thought. Lindsay and Georgia had been friends since they were children. He picked up the phone, and said nothing. “Gordo? Is that you?”
There was no one who could help him. He put the receiver back in its cradle and let himself drift again.
His father had slept twelve hours straight after identifying Ray and Georgia.
Gordon had offered to do it in his stead, but after an hour of thinking it over, Mark had gone alone to the morgue.
All he had seen, he told Gordon, and told him reluctantly, was a close-up color photo of Georgia’s left hand, with its green diamond engagement ring, pale and unmarked except by the big sickle-shaped scar she’d gotten when they were little, fighting over a croquet mallet, breaking it in half. Then, softly lit behind a plateglass window, they’d shown him the side of Ray’s face that was most intact. The rest of Ray’s head and body had been layered in clean sheets. “But you could see Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 64
64
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
that it wasn’t shaped properly,” Mark admitted. “I really tried not to look very much, because I didn’t want to remember it. I don’t think we should ever tell Keefer this.”
He dreamed of Lindsay kneeling next to the bed, her long red hair down, tickling his cheek.
It was Lindsay. She was there. Where was he? Gordon realized he had, finally, desperately, fallen asleep, and that outside, the sun was low.
He sat up, streaming sweat, chilled.
“Did I miss it?” he asked. “How did you get in here?” Lindsay sat back on her heels, her sleeveless peach-colored summer dress settling like a parachute over her knees. “I got the key from your mom,” she said. “You didn’t answer the phone. It scared the hell out of her, Gordon, if you must know. And me, too.” She’d brought him food. Ham and Swiss, macaroni salad, a smoothie.
He ate thankfully, voraciously, and for once, her solicitude made him feel only grateful, not leashed. He showered while she sat on the closed toilet seat and read the obituary aloud to him; she told him it would be okay to wear a T-shirt and a linen jacket for the viewing, that his father would not have the presence of mind to notice Gordon was not wearing a tie. After all, she told him, everyone knew he had only one suit, and that was for the funeral. And when he was dressed, Lindsay drove, though it crossed his mind that her driving would put them back here, alone together, sometime later that night, unless he fotched an excuse about having to ride home with his parents, which would keep him out of bed with Lindsay, which was where he should stay, and he was grace-less to even think about that, but she looked wonderful, familiarly wonderful, and he could not help but notice the pure white strip of her bra through the open sleeve of her dress. He wondered how much of what he felt for Lindsay was born of her constancy, the reflection of her devotion to him. He would figure that out, once
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