about your sister. Georgia was a cool person.” Gordon felt moved to pat her head, but she was too old for that. He squeezed her hand instead.
As they turned into the hedges that bordered the door, a man motioned to Gordon, shamefaced. There was something about the man he recognized. A friend of his dad’s? No, a student’s dad. Was the kid’s name . . . Jules? But the man was apologizing, already, “I know I shouldn’t even talk to you at a time like this, and I shouldn’t even talk to you about this anyhow, it is probably inappropriate. I . . . it’s that I met with your sister and her husband . . .”
“I have to go inside right now,” Gordon said tenderly, aware of Lindsay gently tugging his arm. He could see his mother, just inside the foyer, her arms around his aunt Daphne.
“I’m a lawyer,” the man told him, “and this is my card. And I need to talk with Mr. Nye’s parents, about the will. The notes I have made.
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Nothing was finalized. We were going to have an appointment to do that on Friday. With the parents. I was helping Ray prepare . . . his . . .
their . . . and I have no idea how this is all going to turn out, but I’m assuming your family will be able to reach some kind of concordance . . .
but I wanted to talk with you, too, just as a . . . courtesy, a private courtesy, because you were a good teacher to my son . . .”
“Jules,” said Gordon.
“Julius,” the man repeated, “my son. He goes to Platteville now. He plays basketball. He’s never going to be a Rhodes scholar, you know?
But he’s going to major in science. Maybe teach, coach?”
“I have my sister’s will,” Gordon explained. “Ray and Georgia went over all of it with me.”
“They revoked that will,” said the man, “weeks ago.” Gordon turned to Lindsay. He said, “Don’t tell my mom.” Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 68
C H A P T E R five
Dale Larsen leaned against the back wall of the church, a position in which he could watch without feeling that his uniform would seem an intrusion. It was a duty he normally liked, the funerals. Heading up the line of mourners’ cars, the silver cruiser freshly polished, its blue light silently and authoritatively rotating on slow beam, on what amounted to a last journey, past the hospital and the school, past the park, the pool, the creek, the Wild Rose and Soderberg’s Electronics Repair and Noon Buffet, past places that had contained the impressions of a life; it was a way of showing respect.
It was not an easy duty, not a day off by any means. Dale held grief in high esteem.
Even at his age, he had less real fear of wrassling a drunk to the pavement than of encountering grief, grief so wild it seemed even the longest string of seasons would never ease it. There was the time when the Redmonds’ toddlers were killed by that pitiable drunk Collins. The Redmonds had been on their way to the Smart Mart to buy microwave popcorn, and Collins—woozling from two beds and three bars—had been on his way from bad to worse. Or the awful funeral of David Abel, who’d just gotten a full-ride scholarship to Madison when he’d rolled his Jeep five times on the way home from a beer bash at Two Chimneys.
Debbie Abel’s only child. And three other boys, all good boys.
His daughter, Stephanie, had been at that party. She could easily 68
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69
have been in the car. Stephanie, during the time in her life when she wouldn’t have recognized a set of car keys sober. Stephanie, or Georgia, though Georgia never took the most dangerous chances.
Larsen let his eyes rest briefly on the pallbearers, Kip Sweeney and Pat Chaptman and the youngest of all those Upchurch sons, a rascal, Tim or Tom. The tall boy with the mane of white-blond hair, who had a Southern accent, was Ray’s pal, from Florida. And there was a cousin, Craig. . . . the
As they turned into the hedges that bordered the door, a man motioned to Gordon, shamefaced. There was something about the man he recognized. A friend of his dad’s? No, a student’s dad. Was the kid’s name . . . Jules? But the man was apologizing, already, “I know I shouldn’t even talk to you at a time like this, and I shouldn’t even talk to you about this anyhow, it is probably inappropriate. I . . . it’s that I met with your sister and her husband . . .”
“I have to go inside right now,” Gordon said tenderly, aware of Lindsay gently tugging his arm. He could see his mother, just inside the foyer, her arms around his aunt Daphne.
“I’m a lawyer,” the man told him, “and this is my card. And I need to talk with Mr. Nye’s parents, about the will. The notes I have made.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 67
A Theory of Relativity
67
Nothing was finalized. We were going to have an appointment to do that on Friday. With the parents. I was helping Ray prepare . . . his . . .
their . . . and I have no idea how this is all going to turn out, but I’m assuming your family will be able to reach some kind of concordance . . .
but I wanted to talk with you, too, just as a . . . courtesy, a private courtesy, because you were a good teacher to my son . . .”
“Jules,” said Gordon.
“Julius,” the man repeated, “my son. He goes to Platteville now. He plays basketball. He’s never going to be a Rhodes scholar, you know?
But he’s going to major in science. Maybe teach, coach?”
“I have my sister’s will,” Gordon explained. “Ray and Georgia went over all of it with me.”
“They revoked that will,” said the man, “weeks ago.” Gordon turned to Lindsay. He said, “Don’t tell my mom.” Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 68
C H A P T E R five
Dale Larsen leaned against the back wall of the church, a position in which he could watch without feeling that his uniform would seem an intrusion. It was a duty he normally liked, the funerals. Heading up the line of mourners’ cars, the silver cruiser freshly polished, its blue light silently and authoritatively rotating on slow beam, on what amounted to a last journey, past the hospital and the school, past the park, the pool, the creek, the Wild Rose and Soderberg’s Electronics Repair and Noon Buffet, past places that had contained the impressions of a life; it was a way of showing respect.
It was not an easy duty, not a day off by any means. Dale held grief in high esteem.
Even at his age, he had less real fear of wrassling a drunk to the pavement than of encountering grief, grief so wild it seemed even the longest string of seasons would never ease it. There was the time when the Redmonds’ toddlers were killed by that pitiable drunk Collins. The Redmonds had been on their way to the Smart Mart to buy microwave popcorn, and Collins—woozling from two beds and three bars—had been on his way from bad to worse. Or the awful funeral of David Abel, who’d just gotten a full-ride scholarship to Madison when he’d rolled his Jeep five times on the way home from a beer bash at Two Chimneys.
Debbie Abel’s only child. And three other boys, all good boys.
His daughter, Stephanie, had been at that party. She could easily 68
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69
have been in the car. Stephanie, during the time in her life when she wouldn’t have recognized a set of car keys sober. Stephanie, or Georgia, though Georgia never took the most dangerous chances.
Larsen let his eyes rest briefly on the pallbearers, Kip Sweeney and Pat Chaptman and the youngest of all those Upchurch sons, a rascal, Tim or Tom. The tall boy with the mane of white-blond hair, who had a Southern accent, was Ray’s pal, from Florida. And there was a cousin, Craig. . . . the
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