who no longer lived here.
'I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . .'
Farr sat with Anne's parents, two dignified and stoic New Englanders. Anne's mother held her granddaughter's hand. Taylor looked blank, as though she, like her mother, had gone elsewhere. The chaplain's litany continued.
'I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God . . .'
Mark closed his eyes.
At last Farr spoke for himself and Taylor. The woman he described was articulate and graceful, her voice the music of their household, her love the touchstone of their lives. He spoke of Anne's countless acts of kindness, performed with a tact and lightness that called no attention to itself and asked for nothing in return. It struck Mark as true to his sense of her: though her sensitivity was plain to see, there were few light anecdotes to share. He, with so few good memories of family, wondered what Taylor would remember.
Still she stared ahead, as though she were alone.
AFTER THE SERVICE Mark spoke to Farr, who embraced him, then to Anne's father and mother, to whom, clearly, he was just another stranger in a pageant that filled them with unspoken horror, two parents who had outlived their only child. But when Mark paused in front of Taylor, her stoic mask dissolved. Silent tears ran down her face.
Instinctively, Mark held her. When at last he drew back, Taylor's eyes locked his with something akin to desperation. 'I missed you,' she whispered.
'I'm sorry.' He clasped both of her hands in his. 'You still have your dad, Taylor. You can lean on him now. That's what he wants you to do.'
For a moment, she looked as though she had not heard him. Then she squeezed his hands, keeping him there an extra moment before her grandmother introduced her to a woman she did not know. As Mark moved on, Taylor turned back to look at him.
That afternoon, as on every Sunday, Mark went to see Steve Tillman.
9
W
HEN Y ALE L AW ACCEPTED HIM, M ARK WAS LESS ELATED than relieved. He was moving on'life beyond Caldwell was tangible now. His graduation a month later was not so much a culmination as a way station. Though Farr congratulated him warmly, the ceremony reminded Mark that, unlike his classmates, he had no family to inflate the moment; nor, given their own pain, could he have asked Steve's parents to come. Tactfully alluding to Angela Hall, Clark Durbin said nothing about the person Mark missed most keenly, his closest friend.
He spent his final summer in Wayne working construction, losing himself in the doing of tasks, the oddly pleasant ache of joints and muscles. On the Sunday before he left for Yale, Mark paid Steve a final visit.
Steve gazed at him through the Plexiglas. 'So you're off to law school,' he said.
Mark felt a stab of guilt. 'Yeah.'
'You're on your way, pal.' Steve's lips compressed. 'My lawyer thinks
I'm
going to the pen.'
'Did he say that''
Doubt and anger surfaced in Steve's eyes. 'Not exactly. But he asked me to think about involuntary manslaughter'letting the jury consider that along with a murder charge. If I was too drunk to know what I was doing, Griff says, maybe I can get off with ten years.'
Mark wondered if Steve was asking for advice. He had none to give. Something about Griffin Nordlinger bothered Mark'an air of distraction, a sense of always running behind, combined with Mark's knowledge that the lawyer's bills were likely to cost Steve's parents the only home they had ever owned. But in the last few weeks Mark had heard vague rumors of another witness who bolstered the prosecution's case. Mark was bedeviled by the thought that this person might help corroborate Joe Betts's story, making Steve's failure to answer Mark's phone calls seem more damning. Cautiously, Mark asked, 'What did you tell him''
Steve's mouth set in a stubborn line. 'Going for involuntary
'I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . .'
Farr sat with Anne's parents, two dignified and stoic New Englanders. Anne's mother held her granddaughter's hand. Taylor looked blank, as though she, like her mother, had gone elsewhere. The chaplain's litany continued.
'I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God . . .'
Mark closed his eyes.
At last Farr spoke for himself and Taylor. The woman he described was articulate and graceful, her voice the music of their household, her love the touchstone of their lives. He spoke of Anne's countless acts of kindness, performed with a tact and lightness that called no attention to itself and asked for nothing in return. It struck Mark as true to his sense of her: though her sensitivity was plain to see, there were few light anecdotes to share. He, with so few good memories of family, wondered what Taylor would remember.
Still she stared ahead, as though she were alone.
AFTER THE SERVICE Mark spoke to Farr, who embraced him, then to Anne's father and mother, to whom, clearly, he was just another stranger in a pageant that filled them with unspoken horror, two parents who had outlived their only child. But when Mark paused in front of Taylor, her stoic mask dissolved. Silent tears ran down her face.
Instinctively, Mark held her. When at last he drew back, Taylor's eyes locked his with something akin to desperation. 'I missed you,' she whispered.
'I'm sorry.' He clasped both of her hands in his. 'You still have your dad, Taylor. You can lean on him now. That's what he wants you to do.'
For a moment, she looked as though she had not heard him. Then she squeezed his hands, keeping him there an extra moment before her grandmother introduced her to a woman she did not know. As Mark moved on, Taylor turned back to look at him.
That afternoon, as on every Sunday, Mark went to see Steve Tillman.
9
W
HEN Y ALE L AW ACCEPTED HIM, M ARK WAS LESS ELATED than relieved. He was moving on'life beyond Caldwell was tangible now. His graduation a month later was not so much a culmination as a way station. Though Farr congratulated him warmly, the ceremony reminded Mark that, unlike his classmates, he had no family to inflate the moment; nor, given their own pain, could he have asked Steve's parents to come. Tactfully alluding to Angela Hall, Clark Durbin said nothing about the person Mark missed most keenly, his closest friend.
He spent his final summer in Wayne working construction, losing himself in the doing of tasks, the oddly pleasant ache of joints and muscles. On the Sunday before he left for Yale, Mark paid Steve a final visit.
Steve gazed at him through the Plexiglas. 'So you're off to law school,' he said.
Mark felt a stab of guilt. 'Yeah.'
'You're on your way, pal.' Steve's lips compressed. 'My lawyer thinks
I'm
going to the pen.'
'Did he say that''
Doubt and anger surfaced in Steve's eyes. 'Not exactly. But he asked me to think about involuntary manslaughter'letting the jury consider that along with a murder charge. If I was too drunk to know what I was doing, Griff says, maybe I can get off with ten years.'
Mark wondered if Steve was asking for advice. He had none to give. Something about Griffin Nordlinger bothered Mark'an air of distraction, a sense of always running behind, combined with Mark's knowledge that the lawyer's bills were likely to cost Steve's parents the only home they had ever owned. But in the last few weeks Mark had heard vague rumors of another witness who bolstered the prosecution's case. Mark was bedeviled by the thought that this person might help corroborate Joe Betts's story, making Steve's failure to answer Mark's phone calls seem more damning. Cautiously, Mark asked, 'What did you tell him''
Steve's mouth set in a stubborn line. 'Going for involuntary
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