never mind. If
anyone was to blame, Greenie knew it was her father. Behind the wheel,
Professor Duquette had been affably devil-may-care, casual with speed.
Everyone made mistakes, thought Greenie, but why did his have to be
fatal?
There would be an inquest, the policeman was quick to tell her, but
that was a formality. Would she be coming over? She could hear through
his well-mannered tone that he hoped she would not. Some bereaved
children would have been impatient to catch the next plane, to see the
exact spot where their parents' lives had ended, to ask futile questions,
perhaps to see the bodies if time allowed; but Greenie found the
prospect of such futile scenarios deeply depressing—especially as they
would have to take place in a corner of the world renowned for its
beauty. She chose, with guilty relief, to make the "arrangements" long-distance.
She took a bus to Massachusetts and, along with the funeral
director from her parents' town, went into Boston to claim the caskets
and see that they were taken safely home—if the graveyard a mile from
their house could be called "home."
Throughout the transactions and the filling out of forms, Greenie felt
as if she were drugged, separated from her grief by a gauzy scrim, a
tissue of incredulity. One of her Boston cousins had insisted on driving
her and helping her accomplish the formalities. Greenie, in turn, had
insisted that Alan stay in New York with George, at least until the day
before the funeral.
After the caskets were unloaded at the funeral home and she had
filled out yet more forms, Greenie asked the cousin to leave her—
alone—at her parents' house. She had her own set of keys, and she knew
where they kept the keys to their cars. It was a hot, sunny evening in
early June, and when she let herself in, the rooms were unbearably close,
the air thick as wool. She went about unlocking and opening windows,
turning on the ceiling fans her mother had had installed the year
before (no air-conditioning; what a wanton luxury!). She tried to glide
blindly from room to room, focusing on none of the familiar things
around her.
And then she went—as she had always done when she arrived home,
ever since their move to this house when she was five—to the kitchen.
Her mother's kitchen was a minor utopia, camellia white from ceiling to
floor, smooth and clean and free of clutter. There was nothing on the
counter by the window but the quavering cutwork of shadows cast by
the leaves of the maple tree out back.
Without thinking, Greenie went to the refrigerator—for ice, she told
herself, though she had not yet bothered to take a glass from the cupboard.
It was a large refrigerator, its double doors neatly quilted with
notices and lists, each held down with a magnet bearing a silly motto or
advertising local commerce. IF I WERE ORGANIZED, I'D BE DANGEROUS held down the schedule of seasonal events at the Museum of Fine
Arts. Her mother had circled an upcoming lecture on the portraits of
John Singer Sargent. A handwritten list of twelve friends (a planned dinner
party? people to thank?) lay pinned beneath a flat red cow emblazoned
in white ANGELO'S FINE CUTS — EUROPEAN VIANDS — GAME IN SEASON .
And the schedule for her father's academic year, the year
just ended, was clamped down by a magnetized business card from the
family dentist. (The man who filled all of Greenie's cavities had seemed
so ancient when she was small; how could he not have retired by now?)
Greenie found herself mesmerized—and briefly, falsely reassured—by
the bric-a-brac of her parents' lives as of the moment they had left this
house and, knowing her mother, as of the moment they were to have
returned. It felt as if the entire house were poised for that moment, still
unaware of the terrible news.
Reflexively, Greenie opened the right-hand door and found that, efficient
as ever, her mother had nearly emptied this part of her refrigerator.
There were a dozen well-preserved condiments in jars, but
anyone was to blame, Greenie knew it was her father. Behind the wheel,
Professor Duquette had been affably devil-may-care, casual with speed.
Everyone made mistakes, thought Greenie, but why did his have to be
fatal?
There would be an inquest, the policeman was quick to tell her, but
that was a formality. Would she be coming over? She could hear through
his well-mannered tone that he hoped she would not. Some bereaved
children would have been impatient to catch the next plane, to see the
exact spot where their parents' lives had ended, to ask futile questions,
perhaps to see the bodies if time allowed; but Greenie found the
prospect of such futile scenarios deeply depressing—especially as they
would have to take place in a corner of the world renowned for its
beauty. She chose, with guilty relief, to make the "arrangements" long-distance.
She took a bus to Massachusetts and, along with the funeral
director from her parents' town, went into Boston to claim the caskets
and see that they were taken safely home—if the graveyard a mile from
their house could be called "home."
Throughout the transactions and the filling out of forms, Greenie felt
as if she were drugged, separated from her grief by a gauzy scrim, a
tissue of incredulity. One of her Boston cousins had insisted on driving
her and helping her accomplish the formalities. Greenie, in turn, had
insisted that Alan stay in New York with George, at least until the day
before the funeral.
After the caskets were unloaded at the funeral home and she had
filled out yet more forms, Greenie asked the cousin to leave her—
alone—at her parents' house. She had her own set of keys, and she knew
where they kept the keys to their cars. It was a hot, sunny evening in
early June, and when she let herself in, the rooms were unbearably close,
the air thick as wool. She went about unlocking and opening windows,
turning on the ceiling fans her mother had had installed the year
before (no air-conditioning; what a wanton luxury!). She tried to glide
blindly from room to room, focusing on none of the familiar things
around her.
And then she went—as she had always done when she arrived home,
ever since their move to this house when she was five—to the kitchen.
Her mother's kitchen was a minor utopia, camellia white from ceiling to
floor, smooth and clean and free of clutter. There was nothing on the
counter by the window but the quavering cutwork of shadows cast by
the leaves of the maple tree out back.
Without thinking, Greenie went to the refrigerator—for ice, she told
herself, though she had not yet bothered to take a glass from the cupboard.
It was a large refrigerator, its double doors neatly quilted with
notices and lists, each held down with a magnet bearing a silly motto or
advertising local commerce. IF I WERE ORGANIZED, I'D BE DANGEROUS held down the schedule of seasonal events at the Museum of Fine
Arts. Her mother had circled an upcoming lecture on the portraits of
John Singer Sargent. A handwritten list of twelve friends (a planned dinner
party? people to thank?) lay pinned beneath a flat red cow emblazoned
in white ANGELO'S FINE CUTS — EUROPEAN VIANDS — GAME IN SEASON .
And the schedule for her father's academic year, the year
just ended, was clamped down by a magnetized business card from the
family dentist. (The man who filled all of Greenie's cavities had seemed
so ancient when she was small; how could he not have retired by now?)
Greenie found herself mesmerized—and briefly, falsely reassured—by
the bric-a-brac of her parents' lives as of the moment they had left this
house and, knowing her mother, as of the moment they were to have
returned. It felt as if the entire house were poised for that moment, still
unaware of the terrible news.
Reflexively, Greenie opened the right-hand door and found that, efficient
as ever, her mother had nearly emptied this part of her refrigerator.
There were a dozen well-preserved condiments in jars, but
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