Authors: William Wharton
I hear Robert coming down the stairs. I stop him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Robert, I have something to tell you.”
Robert is usually quite diffident. But he catches something in my voice, my face. Still, he's carrying through what is for him the normal sequence.
“I left enough water for you to shower and there's still a dry towel.”
“Robert, I have some bad news, something terrible has happened.”
He stands there, hanging his hands loosely at his sides. I wish I didn't have to say it, ruin his calm. We could allow him one more night's peaceful sleep. But it has to be done.
“Robert, I know this is hard to believe, but Kate, Bert, Mia, and Dayiel were killed in a massive automobile crash in Oregon. Mom just talked to Mrs. Woodman. That's how we found out.”
His face blanches. He stands there, blank, for a few seconds. He peers into the living-room.
“How's Mom taking it?”
“It's hard but she's OK.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not now. Do you want some of the pizza? It's right there on the table.”
“No, I couldn't eat. Is it all right if I take a walk down by the ocean? I don't think I can handle this. I'm even afraid to go in and talk with Mom.”
“Sure, I understand, and so will she. Be back before ten o'clock because I don't know when we'll be leaving for Oregon and the funeral. In fact, I don't know when the funeral will be, but we'll probably be leaving tomorrow.”
“OK. I'll be right back.”
I can tell he's on the edge of breaking down. I don't think I've heard him cry since he was under ten. Walking along the beach or boardwalk in the dark, crying, is more his style. He goes out the back door. I go into the living-room again. The running costume I'm wearing is looking more and more ridiculous.
It's just then I remember that Sunday we're supposed to be part of a big family reunion outside Philadelphia at my Aunt Alice's. I'll need to call them right away. I also want to call my sister in California.
I slip off my Bill Roger's warm-up jacket. It's beginning to dry on me. I also slip off my soaking wet running shirt. I'm doing these things automatically. I keep looking up at Rosemary. She's staring out the window, tears running down her face. I need to shower and put on some dry clothes but I don't want to leave her alone. I don't want to be alone myself.
“Will, you go on up and take a shower. I'm fine. When you come down, we can make arrangements for a flight and a limousine to pick us up for Newark. But, first, I want to sit here a few minutes to pull myself together, pull our lives together if that's possible. You go up and shower.”
She smiles. I smile. We're being silly. We should hold onto each other and cry our hearts out. Neither one of us expresses emotions easily. We've been lucky enough that it hasn't been necessary very often.
I let the shower run over me for ten minutes. Here I can cry. I wonder if Rosemary can cry downstairs. I dress in a pair of light slacks and a T-shirt, not exactly a mourning costume, but mourning costumes aren't our thing either. I go down the steps slowly, preparing myself. Rosemary has moved from the chair by the window to the chair at her desk. She has the
Yellow Pages
in her lap and is talking on the phone. She hangs up.
“Well, we have a flight out of Newark for Portland, leaving at ten-oh-five tomorrow morning. There was nothing this evening. We stop over in Chicago, arrive in Portland at about noon. I'll call Claire Woodman now and tell her what time we come in. I think she told me the funeral is supposed to be Tuesday, but I'm not sure. I wasn't paying much attenâ” This is where she breaks down. I go over and hold her head against my chest. She puts her arms around my waist.
“Imagineâall those beautiful young people and we're going to their funeral. It isn't fair. They never had a chance at life.”
I hold her more tightly and try to hold tightly onto myself. I wonder how she got herself together enough to call the airlines. She constantly amazes me. I know this is all a horror and a shock for me, but for her it must be impossible. Her life has been the kids. I have my painting and writing, other kinds of children in a way. But she's just lost her much loved first-born Kathleen, along with Bert and those two beautiful babies.
She gently pushes me away.
“Let me get this over with, then I can collapse.”
She calls Claire Woodman and tells her what time we hope to arrive. Bert's brother, Steve, will pick us up at the airport and drive us down. Rosemary hangs up.
“I don't know how the both of us got through that. Claire was constantly stopping to cry. Bert was her first baby, too. I didn't think of that.”
She pulls out her address book and dials again. This time it's the limousine service, and she arranges for pick-up at seven o'clock in the morning. She hangs up.
“I can't do any more. Would you call and tell Aunt Alice we can't come tomorrow? Then call Jean. She'd want to know.”
“Don't you think we ought to call the kids first?”
“I figure it's about three o'clock in the morning. We don't want to wake them, do we?”
“I think they'd never forgive us if we didn't tell them right away.”
She stares out that window again.
“You're probably right. I guess we should call Camille. Please tell them not to come for the funeral. There's nothing they can do and they don't have much money.”
I know the number by heart. It rings about ten times, then I hear Camille, sleepy-voiced, our only daughter now. I almost can't speak because the sobs are building up.
“Camille, this is Dad.”
I stop there, take two deep breaths with my hand over the phone.
“What's the matter?”
“Something terrible has happened, Camille.”
“What is it? Could you speak louder?”
I might as well get right into it. I don't have any choice. I'm sobbing as I say it.
“Kate, Bert, Dayiel, and Mia were killed in a horrendous automobile crash in Oregon.”
“What! Who told you that? How did you find out?”
I can't go on. Rosemary takes the phone. She's crying but not sobbing.
“I called to find out about Kate's gynecologist appointment, how it went. I got Wills, but Claire took the phone from him and she told me. It's hard to believe but it must be true. We can't believe it, it's so impossible.”
I take the phone from Rosemary. Camille is crying, practically screaming. She's trying to tell Sam, her husband, what's happened. I say her name, try to get her attention.
“Camille!”
There's a long silence, then she says between sobs, “I'm here.”
“Don't bother coming to the funeral. It's too far and Mom and I are sure we can handle it.”
“Whatever you say.”
That's not like Camille. She's generally against what anybody has to say. It's her way.
“Listen, Camille. Would you tell Matt? We have no way to reach him. Maybe it's best to wait till morning.”
“It's morning now.”
“You know what I mean, real morning.”
“No, Matt would never forgive us. He'll want to know right away. Sam's already dressed and getting the car out so we can drive over. We'll want to be together, anyway.”
She sounds more herself. Rosemary takes the phone from me.
“We really mean it, Camille. Don't come. We'll handle it and there's nothing you can do.”
“I hear you, Mom, I hear you. We'll work it out. When are they having the funeral?”
Rosemary takes the phone from her ear, tears rolling down her face. She hands the phone to me.
“She wants to know when the funeral's going to be. I just know she'll come and probably Matt, too. But it's such a long way and all for nothing, a terrible waste of money they can't afford. Talk to her, she doesn't seem to understand.”
Camille's crying uncontrollably now. She's the most emotional of the family. I wait.
“Listen, Camille. The funeral's Tuesday, but please don't come. Think about it. You know Kate wouldn't like it. Funerals don't help. More important is for you and Sam to go over to Matt's to help him and Juliette. You're the ones we're worried about; you're all we have left.”
There's a long silence. Not quite silence. She must be muffling the phone because I can hear her sobbing.
“Dad, we'll decide what we have to do. We're grown up now. I'll talk to Matt and we'll decide together. We probably can't get all the way from here to there in that short a time anyway. The main thing is you and Mom take care of yourselves. Could you have some of your friends come over to help?”
“We want to be alone, Camille. We've made arrangements for getting there and will arrive in Portland at noon tomorrow. Steve, Bert's brother, is picking us up.”
Talking about the practical aspects of this impossibility seems to help me. I'm not crying.
“Dad, I'm going to hang up. Sam's out in the car. We'll call and let you know what we're going to do. My God, this is just awful. I can't even think of those two little girls dead. I don't think I can live with this.”
Then the line goes dead. She's hung up. I put the phone back in the cradle the wrong way, then turn it around. I look at Rosemary. She's sitting at the bottom of the steps to the bedroom with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She's crying so hard she can hardly breathe.
“Camille's going to go tell Matt and Juliette. I'm not sure I convinced her not to come.”
Rosemary doesn't respond. I stand there, confused, feeling that I'm going to faint. I've never fainted in my life, but I think I now know what the feeling must be like.
“I'm going to call Aunt Alice first. They have to know. Is there anything special you want me to say?”
She's slow responding.
“Just tell them what happened and we're sorry we can't come. After all this reunion they were holding was for us. You know as well as I do what to say. I just can't do it right now.”
She's still sobbing, wiping her eyes, her nose, the corners of her mouth with a Kleenex.
I look in her address book to find the number. My hands are shaking so much I misdial twice. I look at my watch. It's almost ten o'clock. They're probably asleep, but there won't be time to call in the morning. Aunt Alice answers.
“Oh, hello, Willy. How are you?”
“Did I wake you up, Aunt Alice?”
“No, we were just watching a ball game.”
“I think it might be a good idea for you to sit down, Aunt Alice.”
“Why, do you think I'm so old I can't stand up late at night?”
“No, just sit down.”
I take a deep breath. As each person learns it, it all becomes more real, a part of everyday life, one of the ordinary things that happens.
“Aunt Alice, we can't come Sunday. I'm sorry.”
She doesn't respond. She's waiting. I try to put my thoughts, my emotions together.
“A horrible thing has happened.”
I pause, still no response. It's her way. I never realized it until just that moment.
“There's been an awful accident out in Oregon. Kate, Bert, and the two babies were killed. We've just found out. We're flying out tomorrow for the funeral.”
I'm glad to get it all out.
“That's terrible, Willy. Oh, my. Are you sure?”
“We're pretty sure, Aunt Alice. I'm sorry. You all have the reunion just as if we were there. We don't want to disappoint anybody. All right?”
“All right, Willy. Thanks for calling.”
That one's out of the way, at least. One more, and then it's finished. I dial my sister's number in California. It'll be just about dinner time there. Leo answers on the third ring.
“Leo, this is Will. Could I talk to Jean, please?”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
I catch a feeling of hurt in his voice. We usually pass the time of day before he turns the phone over.
“Hi, big brother. What's up?”
“I think you ought to sit down, Jean. I have bad news. Tell Leo to come on the extension.”
“You've got me scared stiff, you big jerk.”
She holds the phone down from her mouth, shouts. “Leo, would you pick up the extension?
“OK, I'm sitting down. What's the big news? I hope nothing's happened. Are you all right?”
“Jean, we just had a call from Bert's mother in Oregon. Bert, Kate, Dayiel, and Mia were killed yesterday in an automobile crash. We don't know any of the details yet.”
“Oh, my God! Are you sure? I don't believe it.”
“Neither do we, but it's true. We leave tomorrow, early, for the funeral on Tuesday. We've told the other kids and begged them not to come. There's nothing anybody can do. It's done. So don't you or Leo get any crazy ideas about coming up. There are going to be more than enough people out there, all upset, probably with not enough places to sleep. I don't think Bert's family has such a big house to put people up, and I'm sure there are no hotels in Falls City where they live. There are only 600 people. I guess that's 596 now.”
“Honest, are you putting me on? If you are, I'll kill you!”
“I wish it weren't true as hard as I can wish, Jean. They're gone.”
The sobs break out again. I'm crying hard.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. How could a thing like this happen? Did you hear that, Leo?”
Leo comes on.
“Oh, my God! I saw it on TV yesterday! There were about thirty cars in a big crash on the I-5. Smoke blew over from burning fields or something. There was a huge fire with fire trucks, helicopters, everything. They still didn't know how many were killed. It must have happened about four or five o'clock yesterday. How is it they didn't get the news to you sooner?”
“Maybe it wasn't the same crash, Leo.”