Cold Day in Hell by Richard Hawke Page A

that under different circumstances, if another of us had passed on, Robin would have been here this morning, participating. Robin’s affection, her sense of concern, her caring, they would all be here in the air, just as our thoughts and concerns for her are now passing among us. I’m struck by that thought. What I’m struck by is not so much Robin’s absence but her presence. It’s in this way that I feel Robin is still very much with us. We think of her, as we are all doing this morning, and she is alive to us. The affection and the concern that Robin showed for all of us while she was still among us—
that’s
what I still feel.
That
Robin hasn’t died. And I suppose I’m hoping that in some way, maybe in this way, through us, Robin can continue to live on.”
    He scanned the room again then sat back down and bowed his head. Seated next to him was a young Asian American woman with tears flowing freely down her cheeks. A minute later, a large, fleshy, red-haired woman got to her feet and cleared her throat. “Robin used to always ask me how Pepper was doing. Some of you know Pepper got hit by a taxi in August. You can still tell when I take him out for his walks. His hips aren’t right anymore. He walks funny. It was the best they could do at the hospital. I mean the animal hospital. Anyway, um, Robin, she always asked about him. It was real…It was nice of her.”
    She began to blush, and she sat back down. Only a few seconds passed before another person stood up and muttered a few sentences about God knowing more than we do. Others followed. Most of the messages were brief. A thought. An aphorism. A prayer. One middle-aged man stood up and started to tell a story about him and Robin rushing around the neighborhood getting donuts before one of the meetings. There didn’t seem any real point to the story, and midway through it, the man’s voice cracked and he sat back down.
    A long silence followed, and I found myself—as I’m sure others were doing—staring once more at the photograph taped onto the pew. I didn’t want it to happen, but as I sat looking at the picture, the crime-scene photographs I’d seen in Joe Gallo’s office—the cruel, garish, mindless damage—shimmered into focus in my head, interfering with the simple solemn face in front of me. Sometimes I hate my job.
    At the conclusion of the meeting, a coffee-and-pastries reception was held in a small gymnasium in the adjoining building. The red-haired woman who had spoken about her dog was standing behind one of the folding tables, feeding pastries onto several plastic trays. As I took one of the Styrofoam cups of coffee, she gave me a sugary smile.
    “Hello. I don’t know you. Are you new to meeting?”
    “I’m…Yes. This is my first time.”
    “First time at all or first time here?”
    “First time at all.”
    She asked, “Were you a friend of Robin’s? We expected some of her friends might show up this morning.”
    “I knew her, yes,” I said.
    She shook her head sadly. “Isn’t it awful? I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
    An elderly couple angled in for some pastries, and I moved over to give them room.
    “What about you?” I asked. “Did you know Robin well?”
    “Me? Not really. I mean, not outside of meeting or anything. There was one time Robin and I did end up at the same brunch afterward. But, you know. By coincidence.”
    I indicated the people milling about. “What about some of the other people? She must have had some close friends here?”
    The woman smiled again. “We’re all close Friends.”
    I got her meaning. “Right. Of course. I don’t mean strictly in the Quaker sense.”
    Other people were coming in for the sweets and coffee. I was still blocking access, so I slipped around behind the table. The red-haired woman handed me a box of pastries. “You just volunteered. I’m Martha, by the way.”
    “Fritz.”
    I laid out the pastries on one of the plastic trays just as a large lumpish man came