describe someone you love.
He shook his head. “No ma’am. Nobody’s come today. Nobody at all,” and he looked at me curiously.
I walked slowly back to my car. The fog was thickening. As I drove out of the cemetery, I turned east on the narrow blacktop and I knew I was heading out of town, toward the lake.
It is a half-hour drive usually. Now, with the fog filling low ground like murky pools of silver, it took almost an hour. I turned in between the stone entrance pillars, my face grim, my hands sweaty on the wheel. I never came back without a feeling of depression and fear. I had rarely returned since that summer I was fourteen. The rest of the family continued to come but I went to camp and, later, to summer school. The fog helped. It danced and twirled ahead of me, making everything strange and different.
It could have been any country road, anywhere.
I didn’t stop at the entrance to the wooden, two-story house, long since closed for the winter. I drove past, turned to the left and the road plunged down. The fog was so thick I switched on fog lights but I drove more from memory than sight. Then my heart gave a sickening lurch. Off to the right, shrouded in fog, sat Amanda’s car.
“Amanda.”
I shouted but the fog muffled my voice. The thin high sound fell away and there was only the slap of the waves pushing against the pilings of the pier and the uneasy rustle of the foggy woods.
“Amanda!”
No answer.
Hesitantly, I approached her car. The windows were rolled up. Of course, they were. Amanda wouldn’t want the fog to drench the seat covers. She took good care of her car as she cared for everything around her. Tiny droplets of fog had condensed against the shiny brown paint. I peered inside. It was empty except for the old Bible on the front seat. The keys hung from the ignition.
“Oh, Amanda.” I said it to myself, cried her name to myself. Filled with dread, I turned and began to walk toward the steps that led down to the pier. I was so afraid of what I would find—or not find.
Would the pier be empty? Was Amanda in that cold, cold water?
I knew the water was cold. And deep. It had taken the divers three days to find Sheila.
The fog pressed against me. I walked in a pulsing gray cocoon, able to see only a foot or two before me. I stepped out onto the pier and my shoes slapped hollowly. City shoes. Loud and out of place here.
As fogs often do, this one thinned for a moment and I could see, at the end of the pier, the rickety wooden bench with its tall slatted back. A small figure huddled there.
For an instant, hope surged. I began to run, calling out, “Amanda, Amanda.”
The figure never moved. I stopped running, forced myself to walk. When I stood, looking down on her, I knew she would never move again, never smile at me with eyes full of love, never reach out work-worn hands to touch mine.
She wore her Sunday hat, a winter felt with a little wreath of blue velvet around the crown, and her best navy blue silk dress with a piping of white at the throat.
The silver of the shotgun, lying at her feet, shone with an obscene sparkle. The force of the explosion had blown it away from her hand. The front of her dress was torn and matted with blood.
I don’t know how long I stood, staring down at the husk of the woman I had loved best.
Amanda, why?
I didn’t cry. I felt too old and emptied to cry. I was facing something I could not understand, a horror that made no sense.
What could have driven Amanda to this bleak and lonely pier to end a good life, to end that life bloodily and brutally?
I stood there for a long time. It began to rain, a soft quiet rain. I couldn’t bear to see the rain touch Amanda’s face, splashing onto her dress to drain darkly down onto the wooden planking.
My scarf was sodden, my hair plastered against my head. I finally walked stiffly back to the house. The key was in the back door. Amanda, of course, had entered the house to get the shotgun from the gun rack
He shook his head. “No ma’am. Nobody’s come today. Nobody at all,” and he looked at me curiously.
I walked slowly back to my car. The fog was thickening. As I drove out of the cemetery, I turned east on the narrow blacktop and I knew I was heading out of town, toward the lake.
It is a half-hour drive usually. Now, with the fog filling low ground like murky pools of silver, it took almost an hour. I turned in between the stone entrance pillars, my face grim, my hands sweaty on the wheel. I never came back without a feeling of depression and fear. I had rarely returned since that summer I was fourteen. The rest of the family continued to come but I went to camp and, later, to summer school. The fog helped. It danced and twirled ahead of me, making everything strange and different.
It could have been any country road, anywhere.
I didn’t stop at the entrance to the wooden, two-story house, long since closed for the winter. I drove past, turned to the left and the road plunged down. The fog was so thick I switched on fog lights but I drove more from memory than sight. Then my heart gave a sickening lurch. Off to the right, shrouded in fog, sat Amanda’s car.
“Amanda.”
I shouted but the fog muffled my voice. The thin high sound fell away and there was only the slap of the waves pushing against the pilings of the pier and the uneasy rustle of the foggy woods.
“Amanda!”
No answer.
Hesitantly, I approached her car. The windows were rolled up. Of course, they were. Amanda wouldn’t want the fog to drench the seat covers. She took good care of her car as she cared for everything around her. Tiny droplets of fog had condensed against the shiny brown paint. I peered inside. It was empty except for the old Bible on the front seat. The keys hung from the ignition.
“Oh, Amanda.” I said it to myself, cried her name to myself. Filled with dread, I turned and began to walk toward the steps that led down to the pier. I was so afraid of what I would find—or not find.
Would the pier be empty? Was Amanda in that cold, cold water?
I knew the water was cold. And deep. It had taken the divers three days to find Sheila.
The fog pressed against me. I walked in a pulsing gray cocoon, able to see only a foot or two before me. I stepped out onto the pier and my shoes slapped hollowly. City shoes. Loud and out of place here.
As fogs often do, this one thinned for a moment and I could see, at the end of the pier, the rickety wooden bench with its tall slatted back. A small figure huddled there.
For an instant, hope surged. I began to run, calling out, “Amanda, Amanda.”
The figure never moved. I stopped running, forced myself to walk. When I stood, looking down on her, I knew she would never move again, never smile at me with eyes full of love, never reach out work-worn hands to touch mine.
She wore her Sunday hat, a winter felt with a little wreath of blue velvet around the crown, and her best navy blue silk dress with a piping of white at the throat.
The silver of the shotgun, lying at her feet, shone with an obscene sparkle. The force of the explosion had blown it away from her hand. The front of her dress was torn and matted with blood.
I don’t know how long I stood, staring down at the husk of the woman I had loved best.
Amanda, why?
I didn’t cry. I felt too old and emptied to cry. I was facing something I could not understand, a horror that made no sense.
What could have driven Amanda to this bleak and lonely pier to end a good life, to end that life bloodily and brutally?
I stood there for a long time. It began to rain, a soft quiet rain. I couldn’t bear to see the rain touch Amanda’s face, splashing onto her dress to drain darkly down onto the wooden planking.
My scarf was sodden, my hair plastered against my head. I finally walked stiffly back to the house. The key was in the back door. Amanda, of course, had entered the house to get the shotgun from the gun rack
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