customer to a seat with steady arms and gentle voices. Men and women dressed in suits. Smiling. Reassuring. Death was their job.
The organ continued groaning wistfully about summertime as the pews filled.
Everyone had agreed on Gershwin. It was the easiest decision of the day.
Â
When Frank was eight, his father had taken him and Susanna to the tide pools just north of Malibu Beach. He drove with Susanna next to him in the front seat, Frank sitting beside her. As they got closer to the coast, Frank stuck his head out of the window like a puppy and let the stinging-cool air redden his cheeks. He tasted the salt in the wind. The last act of Gershwinâs Porgy and Bess started playing on the radio as they pulled off the highway. Their father wanted them to listen carefully, so they were quiet for the rest of the drive, even Susanna.
Stepping on the slick, uneven rocks, they looked into the clear water of the tide pools. Susanna held Frankâs hand as the waves rushed in. The white foam disappeared, and they watched the sea anemones, crabs, and purple starfish until the breaking white waters covered them again.
Father waited in the car until the opera ended.
Â
The doctors had diagnosed Susannaâs tumor as malignant almost five years ago. They removed her left breast, and for a while she lost most of her hair. The hair would grow back.
Unlike Samson, her boyfriend at the time, Frank didnât blame God. Samson took his nameâs biblical origins seriously and never cut his hair above shoulder length. But that didnât matter. According to Susanna, he once tried lifting weights in the gym where they met, but his grasshopper-thin arms could hardly raise the bar above his chest. When Susanna died, he felt that God had betrayed him, that he hadnât given Samson enough strength to protect her.
No one was that strong.
Samson sat next to Frank during the service. His hands rested heavily in his lap. Like Frank, he was weeping.
Â
Now Frank places both hands on the steering wheel. Avoiding the stare of Saint Peter, whose white marble body stands in thecourtyard, watching all those who enter, Frank looks one last time at the architecture, then notices a homeless man sitting in a dark corner of the entryway. He pulls something around his shoulders, a blanket or sleeping bag, Frank assumes, for warmth.
Empty churches are cold, lonely places, he thinks, and once again the night air rushes into the car and against his face.
12
Dangerous Crossing
MONDAY
S he wakes abruptly, wondering if she has slept at all.
âAlmost seven hours,â Dr. Clay tells her. He seems pleased, but his manner has changed. He looks like someone burdened by a secret he canât tell. She wonders if heâll say something about Phebe. Will he lose sleep because of what happened? Perhaps there are nights when no one should sleep, she thinks. When one should think about loss in order not to forget it. Samantha feels guilty for sleeping soundly after Phebeâs death.
She says good-bye quickly and leaves the building.
Â
Samanthaâs cubicle in the Oakland Legal Clinic is not impressive. She hasnât decorated it with pictures of family and friends. She hasnât cut out cartoons from newspapers and taped them to the corners of her computer screen. As a staff attorney, she thinks she should have a private officeâto interview clients, to concentrate on her casework. So she protests in silence by notgetting too comfortable. It doesnât change anything, but it makes her feel better.
She is behind from taking Friday off but feels somewhat better after sleeping through the night without visions. Seventeen pending case files are stacked ominously in piles across the desk. She should start by reviewing and summarizing medical records for three clients in need of disability benefits. She also has several estate documents to prepare. But every time she opens a file, she sees Phebe.
The phone
The organ continued groaning wistfully about summertime as the pews filled.
Everyone had agreed on Gershwin. It was the easiest decision of the day.
Â
When Frank was eight, his father had taken him and Susanna to the tide pools just north of Malibu Beach. He drove with Susanna next to him in the front seat, Frank sitting beside her. As they got closer to the coast, Frank stuck his head out of the window like a puppy and let the stinging-cool air redden his cheeks. He tasted the salt in the wind. The last act of Gershwinâs Porgy and Bess started playing on the radio as they pulled off the highway. Their father wanted them to listen carefully, so they were quiet for the rest of the drive, even Susanna.
Stepping on the slick, uneven rocks, they looked into the clear water of the tide pools. Susanna held Frankâs hand as the waves rushed in. The white foam disappeared, and they watched the sea anemones, crabs, and purple starfish until the breaking white waters covered them again.
Father waited in the car until the opera ended.
Â
The doctors had diagnosed Susannaâs tumor as malignant almost five years ago. They removed her left breast, and for a while she lost most of her hair. The hair would grow back.
Unlike Samson, her boyfriend at the time, Frank didnât blame God. Samson took his nameâs biblical origins seriously and never cut his hair above shoulder length. But that didnât matter. According to Susanna, he once tried lifting weights in the gym where they met, but his grasshopper-thin arms could hardly raise the bar above his chest. When Susanna died, he felt that God had betrayed him, that he hadnât given Samson enough strength to protect her.
No one was that strong.
Samson sat next to Frank during the service. His hands rested heavily in his lap. Like Frank, he was weeping.
Â
Now Frank places both hands on the steering wheel. Avoiding the stare of Saint Peter, whose white marble body stands in thecourtyard, watching all those who enter, Frank looks one last time at the architecture, then notices a homeless man sitting in a dark corner of the entryway. He pulls something around his shoulders, a blanket or sleeping bag, Frank assumes, for warmth.
Empty churches are cold, lonely places, he thinks, and once again the night air rushes into the car and against his face.
12
Dangerous Crossing
MONDAY
S he wakes abruptly, wondering if she has slept at all.
âAlmost seven hours,â Dr. Clay tells her. He seems pleased, but his manner has changed. He looks like someone burdened by a secret he canât tell. She wonders if heâll say something about Phebe. Will he lose sleep because of what happened? Perhaps there are nights when no one should sleep, she thinks. When one should think about loss in order not to forget it. Samantha feels guilty for sleeping soundly after Phebeâs death.
She says good-bye quickly and leaves the building.
Â
Samanthaâs cubicle in the Oakland Legal Clinic is not impressive. She hasnât decorated it with pictures of family and friends. She hasnât cut out cartoons from newspapers and taped them to the corners of her computer screen. As a staff attorney, she thinks she should have a private officeâto interview clients, to concentrate on her casework. So she protests in silence by notgetting too comfortable. It doesnât change anything, but it makes her feel better.
She is behind from taking Friday off but feels somewhat better after sleeping through the night without visions. Seventeen pending case files are stacked ominously in piles across the desk. She should start by reviewing and summarizing medical records for three clients in need of disability benefits. She also has several estate documents to prepare. But every time she opens a file, she sees Phebe.
The phone
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