Authors: Steven Gould
He looked blankly at us for a moment, then turned his attention to me. He took a step forward and said tentatively, "Davy...?"
I nodded. I didn't like looking at him particularly. The pain on his face made me want to run and hide. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't remember your name."
"We've never met. My name is Lionel Bispeck."
"Oh! You're Mom's, er, boyfriend." I felt like a fool calling a forty-five-year-old man a "boyfriend."
He turned suddenly and blew his nose. "Sorry. Oh, Christ, I'm out of tissues."
"Here," I said, groping inside my jacket. I pulled out a new, extra-large linen handkerchief. "I brought four." I needed them for the lingering symptoms of my bout of near-pneumonia, as well as for the tears.
Mr. Jones cleared his throat and said, "When you are ready to sit, these first two rows are for family." He pointed at the first two pews nearest the coffin. There were neat white placards on the end which said FOR THE IMMEDIATE FAMILY.
"I think I'm the only family there is, Mr. Jones."
He raised his eyebrows. "A Mr. Carl Rice phoned and asked for the time and place of the ceremony."
I swallowed. "Oh. I didn't expect my father to attend."
I'll kill him!
"In any case," I said, "my mother divorced him several years ago and he is
not
family."
Mr. Jones looked pained. "If he should make his identity known to me, I will try and seat him elsewhere, but it's not something we have control over."
"I understand, Mr. Jones. Does Leo Silverstein know that my father is coming?"
"I shouldn't think so. Not unless your father phones Mr. Silverstein directly."
"Do you expect Mr. Silverstein?"
"Definitely."
"When he comes, would you tell him about my father?"
"Certainly." He glided away, a white-topped shadow, oozing propriety.
I shuddered.
The pain on Lionel Bispeck's face was gone, replaced by anger.
"Ah... you know about my father."
He nodded, started to say something, then just shook his head angrily.
"Well, you better come sit with me."
He hesitated. "It's not right."
"No," I agreed. "He has no business here."
"No, I mean for me to sit up front."
I looked at the ceiling. "Did you love her?" I asked, exasperated.
"Yes."
"Then come sit down. Do you think she wouldn't have wanted those who loved her to sit together? Besides, if Dad shows up, I'll need all the support I can get."
"Oh. All right." He almost smiled then.
"What?"
He shrugged as he sat down. "You're a lot like her. She used to bully me into doing all sorts of reasonable things."
I set my mouth. "Bully? You don't know the meaning of the word. You haven't met Dad yet."
The almost smile died. "No... I'd like to beat his face in!"
I nodded. "Maybe you don't need to meet him after all. But he's an angel compared to terrorists."
"Oh, fuck!" Lionel was twisting the handkerchief between clenched fists. "I thought I was a pacifist. I was a conscientious objector during Vietnam, but I'd gladly pull the trigger if I could get those
bastards
in my hands." He pounded his knees, then let out a deep breath. "I don't see that much difference, though, between them and your father. Terrorism always targets the innocent."
I took a deep breath, then another, the room swimming. I wanted to kill them myself. The rage sickened me, made my stomach hurt and heart race.
"Easy," I said, more to myself than Lionel. "Calm down."
He blew his nose again. "Sorry."
"Quit apologizing, dammit! You didn't do anything wrong." I remembered Millie saying the same thing to me and I had to turn my head away, struggle with the tears. I took out another of the new linen handkerchiefs.
Leo Silverstein came in then. I introduced him to Lionel.
"Could I talk to you a minute, David?" He led the way over to an alcove with coat hooks at the back of the room.
"Is it about Dad?"
"Oh. No—I don't know what to do about your father. I'd like to get him arrested but the chief witness is..."
"Dead. She's dead. Okay, what is it?"
"Before you called yesterday, I tried to get hold of you at your New York number."
"How'd you get that number?"
"When you gave me that letter for your mother, I phoned her. She asked me to open it and read it to her."
"Oh. What about it?"
"A New York police operator answered your phone. They asked where you were. I told them about the funeral."
Great.
I shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Okay. Anything else?"
He stared at me. "Why do they want to talk to you?"
"That's not your concern." I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
"Wait a minute. It is my concern. I'm the executor of your mother's estate. You're a beneficiary."
Estate. Dead people have estates. Mom was dead. That's the thing about it—I was constantly forgetting that she was dead. My mind was trying to protect me, but it kept coming back.
Oh, Mom... why are you always leaving me?
The image from the TV played in my head again. I stared at Silverstein.
He dropped my arm like it was red hot and stepped back.
"Anything else?" I repeated.
"The press is outside, television and newspaper. Mr. Jones is keeping the cameramen out, but he can't keep the reporters from coming in and watching. If they try for any interviews in here, though, he'll have them escorted out by the police."
"The police are here?"
"Just the usual—two off-duty motorcycle cops to escort the procession. They're keeping an eye on the press, though."
"Oh. Thank you, Mr. Silverstein," I said. "You've been a great help. I'm sorry I keep snapping at you."
He shrugged uncomfortably.
More people were coming in. Walt Steiger, the taxi driver, clapped his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then went and sat in the back. Mrs. Johnson, the lady who lived in Granddad's house, came up, expressed sympathy, and introduced her husband before taking a pew in the back.
Leo Silverstein came back after a while. He had a man with him wearing a dark suit.
"David, this is Mr. Anderson, from the State Department."
I stood slowly and shook his hand. "I want to thank you, Mr. Anderson, for having her body shipped home."
"No thanks are needed. It's my job, but the deceased are usually tourists who've had a heart attack or a car accident. It don't like my job very much, when it involves violence."
I nodded slowly.
He continued. "This isn't the time, but if you have any questions, here's my card."
I thanked him again and he went away.
Lionel stirred on the seat beside me. "Christ, there's Sylvia and Roberta and... it's the whole office." He waved his arm.
A group of women who had just entered saw him and walked quietly up the side aisle. They hunched over in that strange protective posture that people take when they talk in church or to the bereaved. Lionel introduced them.
"This is Sylvia and Roberta and Jane and Patricia and Bonnie. They're the staff of the Fly-Away Travel Agency. Sylvia was your mother's boss. Patricia and Bonnie were on flight 932."
They ranged in age from almost elderly to Millie's age. Comfortably fat to thin.
I shook hands with all of them, soaking up their sympathy and grief like a sponge. "It was very good of you to come from so far."
Sylvia muttered something about travel agents and cheap airfare.
"Look," I said, "could you sit up here with us? They gave the family two whole pews and I'd just as soon not be all alone up here."
That was agreeable. They filled in the rest of the first pew and sat quietly, eyes straying about the room but always returning to and dwelling on the coffin.
Their presence comforted me, made me feel less alone, less small. The six years Mom spent away from me seemed less wasted. She'd made these people care for her, love her.
At ten minutes before the hour, ten minutes before the ceremony was to start, I saw sergeants Baker and Washburn enter the back of the room and stand there, scanning the crowd. They were dressed appropriately, in suits of dark brown with sober ties.
I looked back at the front, away from them. My face felt curiously still and, looking at Mom's coffin, I could feel some vast, violent emotion bubbling right below the surface.
At five minutes before the hour, Dad came in. Mr. Jones met him at the door and asked him to sign the register. Dad scribbled in the book. Mr. Jones led him up the center aisle and tried to steer him into an empty pew.
Dad said something and Mr. Jones shook his head, still pointing at the pew. Dad stepped around Mr. Jones and walked up the center aisle. Mr. Jones looked past him at me and spread his hands, helplessly.
I stood up and stepped out from my seat. Lionel started to get up and I shook my head at him, a tight smile on my face. Dad stopped dead when he saw me, his face paling. I beckoned to him and then walked to the double doors by the coffin, the ones that led out to the hearse. I opened the door and went through, Dad following slowly. As soon as I was outside, I turned left, away from the small cluster of reporters at the front of the building, away from the two attendants leaning against the hearse.
As soon as I turned the corner and was screened from anybody's sight, I acquired a jump site, then walked ten feet farther and turned around.
Dad came around the corner slowly, suspiciously. It was cool outside, slightly cloudy, but he was sweating copiously. He stopped about five feet away from me.
I stared at him, silent. My stomach was churning and I remembered things... bad things. He was wearing a Western suit, cowboy boots, and a string tie. The jacket parted and I could see his rodeo buckle.
"Damn your eyes! Say something!" His voice was loud and nervous. A breeze brought the smell of nervous sweat and alcohol to me.
I didn't move. Just stared at him, remembering again the night I stood over him with the heavy bottle.
"I thought I'd killed you," he said, finally. "I thought I'd killed you."
Ah.
I remembered wondering if my ability to teleport was just the product of blackouts, familiar with blackouts because Dad had them so often. I almost smiled.
He thinks I've been haunting him.
"What makes you think you didn't kill me?" I said, and jumped behind him. "Maybe you did kill me."
He flinched, turned around, and saw me there. His face was white, his eyes were wide. I jumped behind him again, grabbed him around the waist—
oh God, he's so light
—and jumped to the living room of his house in Stanville. He flailed about and I let go of him, shoving him forward as I did. He tripped over the ottoman and fell forward. Before he hit the floor I jumped back to Florida, behind the Calloway-Jones Funeral Parlor.
When I came around the corner to go back inside, Sergeant Baker leaned suddenly against the side of the building and fumbled for a cigarette. I wondered if Sergeant Washburn was working his way up the other side of the building.
I went through the doors and sat down by Lionel.
"What happened?" he asked in a whisper, a distressed look on his face.
"He went home," I said.
"Oh."
Sergeants Baker and Washburn came in again and took up their station in the back. They looked puzzled.
The service was awful. The Methodist preacher had never met Mother, had never talked to those who loved her, hadn't a clue about what sort of woman she was. He talked about senseless tragedy and God moving in mysterious ways and before it was over, I was ready to cause more senseless tragedies, starting with the pastor. He talked of Mom's deep, unshakable faith and I knew that was bullshit. Mom
had
found some measure of spirituality after going through Alanon, but she'd admitted to me that she wasn't at all sure what form or shape her "higher power" took.
The only thing that made it bearable was that I wasn't alone in my opinion. When he came over afterward to express his sympathy, I just shook my head.
Lionel was less kind, saying, while we were shuffling out to the cars, "Where did they get him?"
"Silverstein said he spoke at my grandfather's funeral. I guess Silverstein thought he'd do."
"He was wrong."
"Yeah."
There was a great deal of jostling among the press as we filed outside. Cameras clicked and flashed and whirred and reporters talked into microphones and hand-held minicassette recorders. None of them approached us, yet.
They made me ride in a limousine behind the hearse, alone except for a silent driver. I thought Mr. Adams had a much nicer limo, but I didn't say so.
What am I doing here? For Mom. You're here for Mom.
The burial was mercifully short, attended by Lionel and the woman of the Fly-Away Travel Agency, Leo Silverstein, and sergeants Baker and Washburn. The press was there also, at the edge of the cemetery, doing things with telephoto lenses and shotgun microphones. I was tempted to jump several times in front of them and give them something really exciting to report.
A reception was arranged for a local hotel. People were loading into cars when Washburn and Baker finally stepped forward.
"Ah, Sergeant Baker and Sergeant Washburn. How nice of you to come." My voice was bitter.
That stopped them in midstride, confused for a moment. They didn't know that I'd eavesdropped on them that time in the apartment. They pulled out their badges anyway, programmed to do things a certain way. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rice, or is it Mr. Reece?"
"You say tomato, I say rutabaga." I took out the driver's license and flipped it at Sergeant Washburn. "Here, it's even got my fingerprints on it. Maybe they'll match up with the pottery you guys dusted in my apartment. How's your
wife,
Sergeant Washburn? Raised any good bruises, lately?"
The spinning card bounced off of Washburn's chest and dropped to the grass. He stooped and picked it up, handling it by its edges. His face was getting red and Baker was looking sideways at him.
Silverstein stepped forward, a puzzled look on his face. I turned to him.