Authors: Amanda Flower
I bit the inside of my lip, afraid to tell Mark of my parents’ no-bail policy and, until I had the bail money in my hand, I didn’t want to tell him about my plan to get him out of jail. Luckily, Mark changed the subject himself. He dropped his voice. “The police showed me the scarf they found in my apartment. I’ve never seen it before.” He lowered his voice further, and I leaned my ear to the bars. “It’s like the you-know-what.”
Mains cleared his throat, and I jerked back. Subtlety is not a tradition of high regard in my family, and Mark was particularly bad at it. He gave me an exaggerated nod and look.
“Time’s up,” Mains said.
“Right, I’ll bring it up with Lew. Well, if there’s anything else you need, tell Lew, and we’ll try to get it to you,” I told my brother.
“A teaspoon and a file would be nice.”
Phillip gripped the bars of his cell. “There’s a few things that you can get me, honey.”
I spun around and faced the drunk for the first time. “Like what?”
“India,” Mains said, as he stepped between us. “Let’s—”
“Mr. Rosengard?” I squeaked.
The drunk blinked. “How—”
“You were my third-grade teacher at Eleanor Elementary.”
Phillip blanched.
Once upstairs, Mains insisted on walking me to my car. “Go back inside,” I said. “This isn’t exactly the ’hood.”
“Not a chance. If anything happens to you between here and your car, your parents will have my head on a platter.”
My car rusted under a lamppost, quietly forlorn. I unlocked the door. “See? Perfectly safe.”
“I’m sorry about Phillip’s behavior in there,” Mains said.
“It’s not your fault, but I’m in serious need of a shower. My entire perspective of third grade has changed.”
Mains laughed that awful laugh again, but it didn’t seem as awful as before. Like a Byzantine bas relief, half of his face hid in the shadows, the other half was overexposed in the garish yellow light. I wished I had paper and charcoal pencils to capture it.
I was reluctant to leave and oddly torn. Mains wasn’t playing for my team; he was on the other side.
“I remember you, you know,” he said when I was about to say goodnight.
“What?”
“From the time Carmen and I dated in high school. You must have been twelve or thirteen then. And I came over to your house to see Carmen. You were sitting in the front yard, plopped right in the middle of the lawn, scratching away in a sketchbook. You wore a peace T-shirt and your glasses were about to fall off your nose. I had to repeat your name five times before I finally got your attention. And when you did look up, you said, ‘Carmen’s not here,’ and went right back to sketching.” He paused. “Do you remember that?”
“No,” I answered.
But I did remember.
The next morning, I was back at the library. “I could never be a librarian; it’s too much like work,” Nasia complained.
I wondered if Lasha would be sad to hear that her daughter would not be following in her footsteps. Probably not.
Andy, a lanky student worker at the library, raised one eyebrow at her. “What would you like to be?”
The fourteen-year-old thought for a minute. “A professional snorkeler.”
“A professional snorkeler,” Andy teased. “There’s no such job.”
“Yes, there is.” Nasia countered with heat. “Like when people snorkel, they need someone to show them how. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Where are you going to snorkel? Lake Erie? The Cuyahoga River? You know the river caught on fire once.”
“Obviously,” Nasia said, with a look that indicated she was talking to the mentally deficient. “I’d have to move to Tahiti.”
Erin interrupted their banter. “Why am I the only one working?” She held a pile of reference books that began at her belt buckle and ended at the tip of her eyebrows. I followed Erin with an equally large stack.
Andy, who had an irrepressible crush on Erin, quickly took the stack from her and placed it on the carpet. Nasia and the two student workers were helping me shift the reference collection. Books can become overcrowded on the shelves with new purchases, and shifting is a method to make more room on tight shelves. Unfortunately, it causes almost every book in the collection to move, creating quite a job, which is why I put it off until the last minute. After one full bookshelf, Nasia had demoted herself from active participant to head cheerleader.
I hoped the physical activity of shifting five hundred heavy reference books would keep my mind off the fast-approaching afternoon and Olivia’s funeral. It wasn’t working.
Our progress was slow, and a third of the way in, the recruits were already waving their white flags.
Nasia picked up a microbiology tome that weighed more than she did. “Who cares about this stuff?”
“Maybe a microbiology major,” Andy said.
“Hey,” Erin said. “Don’t get those out of order. I organized that entire stack.”
“Chill,” Nasia replied.
“Okay, guys.” I relented. “Let’s take a break.”
Andy slumped onto the floor, limbs flung out. “Thank God.”
When I reached my post at the reference desk, Nasia had fled the scene and Erin and Andy had planted themselves behind the checkout desk. Andy tried to strike up a conversation with Erin, leaning his elbows and back against the counter. She grunted in reply. I laughed to myself and didn’t notice Bobby and Bree enter the library until they stood directly in front of me. I suppose they were wearing what could be classified as funeral chic: dark colors, sedate, well cut, and understated.
Clever as ever, I said, “Oh, hi.” I really needed to sharpen my greetings; my speech continually regresses to that of a fifteen-year-old—and not an especially bright one.
“Hello, India,” Bree spoke mournfully.
Bobby nodded; we hadn’t spoken since I had accosted Bree in the parking lot on Monday afternoon.
“India, I’m so sorry. I promised to tell you when Olivia’s funeral service would be. When I didn’t see you at the visitation hours yesterday, I remembered I hadn’t told you,” Bree said.
“No need to apologize, Bree.” I said.
Bree licked her glossed lips. “I’m so sorry about the position you’re in. We all know that you’re not responsible for your brother’s actions.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Unable to speak, I forced a snarl into a sad smile.
“We’ll look for you at the funeral,” Bree promised.
“India, can I have a word?” Bobby asked.
“Why not?” I said, but my tone was sharp.
Bobby grimaced. “Bree, I’ll meet you in the car.”
If Bobby’s dismissal surprised her, she didn’t show it.
“Shoot,” I said after she disappeared.
“Not here.” Bobby motioned to the stacks.
I sat at the reference desk longer than necessary to make my point and then followed him. Bobby led me to the farthest corner of the library’s main floor by the microfilm machines. To see an undergraduate this deep into the recesses of the library would be like seeing snow fall in Miami.
I brushed dust off the end of the microfilm reader, leaned against it, and crossed my arms. “You couldn’t speak to me at the reference desk because . . .”
“Please, India, don’t be a brat,” Bobby said.
“A brat? You heard what she said. She thinks Mark did it.”
“Bree doesn’t know Mark, okay? She’s making a decision that she can understand from the information she has, and from what the Blockens have told her.”
“Have you told her otherwise?”
Bobby played with the collar of his hundred-percent-cotton dress shirt. I had my answer.
“We don’t really talk about it,” he conceded.
“What do you talk about?”
“Other things. Give her a break. Her mother’s ill.”
“What’s wrong with her mother?” My tone was more civil.
“Multiple sclerosis.”
“Oh,” I said, subdued.
“Yeah. Her mom’s only fifty-eight. She’s in a nursing home somewhere in Virginia, and not a very good one either. Bree’s having a tough time, being away from her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, mollified.
Bobby patted me on the shoulder, accepting the weak apology. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Is Bree still staying at the Cookery Inn?” I asked as we trekked back through the labyrinth of shelving to the reference desk.
“For now.” He gave me a sidelong glance.
“Oh,” I replied, wondering what
for now
meant. I promised myself to study the thesaurus during my late shift. I recovered. “You know, she’s a perfect heroine for one of your stories.”
Bobby laughed. “I think so, too.”
“I’m not copyediting that one,” I said.
“We’ll see you at the funeral?” Bobby asked.
I nodded, although the thought of going to the funeral and seeing Mrs. Blocken again made my stomach clench. I slid into my seat behind the desk.
He winked and walked over to Bree who was sitting on one of the couches by the new bookshelf. She looked very prim with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. She was a much better bridesmaid candidate than I ever would be. Not that either of us were bridesmaids anymore.
I waited until the last possible minute to leave for the funeral. If I timed things correctly, I would be able to slip into the sanctuary before the service, but avoid greeting anyone.
On the square, I parked in the Presbyterian lot and hurried across the square to the opposing side.
The Lutheran church’s whitewashed siding and narrow steeple juxtaposed against the Presbyterian’s red brick and leaded stained glass. Minivans, SUVs, and family cars crowded the parking lots around the square. Even more vehicles blocked the tiny Lutheran lot. The hearse and caravan were primed and ready to drive to the gravesite.
The church’s open doors allowed the summer breeze to tease the mourners in the unair-conditioned building. Ushers in sedate Sunday suits flanked the sanctuary’s tight entry.
“Running late, Miss?” one whispered. He led me to my seat, thankfully in the back.
I smiled weakly at him. I found myself seated next to a Martin professor I recognized, but couldn’t name. She nodded at me and glanced at her watch.
A pipe organ droned from overhead in the balcony. No matter how well the non-denominationals have marketed a praise band, you would never find a drum set or a synthesizer in these Lutherans’ midst, only a stately pipe organ, and when they felt frisky, an upright piano.
The ceiling peaked at eighty feet high; wooden buttresses supported its weight. The room held approximately twenty rows of pews split down the middle by a three-usher-wide aisle. The Blocken family and Kirk sat in the first two rows left of the aisle along with some members of the Blockens’ extended family who looked vaguely familiar. O.M.’s blue hair glowed in the muted sunlight that shone through the narrow windows. My seat, one row up from the last on the right.
The coffin, which dominated the center of the aisle, stood closed with a blanket of yellow lilies and pink roses draped across its length. I exhaled an unwittingly held breath at the sealed casket. I’d been given the gift of remembering Olivia in life alone.
The professor gave me a look of reproach. Perhaps she taught etiquette to the plethora of home ec majors on campus.
Bobby and Bree sat in the row behind the Blockens, shoulders touching. Bobby glanced over his right shoulder every few seconds, scanning the crowd. I slunk low in my seat.
The minister rose from his seat behind the pulpit. Rev. William Myer had been the senior pastor at St. Jude Lutheran Church since before I was born. For the last year he had been on the verge of retirement but had yet to make any formal announcement. He would be sorely missed by his congregation when he did decide to trade in his prayer book for a garden trowel. Many of the Lutherans feared their synod would send a fresh-faced seminarian to their majestic grounds to promote church growth and attract young people. Rev. Myer hadn’t bothered with either of those pursuits in decades.
My mother and Rev. Myer traded wedding or funeral gigs when one or the other was out of town, which usually consisted of my mother on an idealistic crusade or Myer fishing in Canada.
The funeral bulletin contained a short biography of Olivia and a copy of her obituary, which I hadn’t read. I didn’t read it then either. The service would be short with a brief sermon from Rev. Myer and a few hymns. No eulogies or Bible readings from family or friends. The simplicity of Olivia’s funeral stood in stark contrast to the extravagance of her wedding.
Rev. Myer motioned for the assembly to rise. The organist caressed the chords of
In the Garden
.
When the final note of the hymn ceased, Rev. Myer spoke in his somber baritone. “We are not here to mourn, but to celebrate the vibrant life of Olivia Blocken. When the young are taken from us, the pain is that much greater. But we have hope in the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The more I strained to listen, the less I heard. Only snippets of phrases broke through my barrier: “loving,” “excellent student,” “community involvement,” “Olivia.” I bit the inside of my lip, shoulders tense with barely managed emotion. For the last few days, my brain had known Olivia died, but my heart hadn’t accepted that fact. I was an expert at diversion, and I distracted my heart with work, my parents, the Blockens, and Mark. But now, my heart slammed into a sharp learning curve.
A kernel of fear crept into my mind like the haunting note of a hymn. If I had never befriended Olivia, if I had never allowed Mark to run around with us, maybe Olivia would never have been on Martin’s campus that day. She’d still be alive with a different bridesmaid number three, one that’s more attentive, one that’s more caring, one like Bree. I shivered.
The ushers
cum
pall bearers marched up the aisle two-by-two. Rev. Myer turned his back to the assembly and placed his hand on the sealed casket in silent prayer, smothering a lily. The Blocken family, including Kirk and Bree, rose and shuffled out of the sanctuary to the melancholy chorus of the pipe organ. Rev. Myer followed them in his black robe. The procession ended with the coffin and pallbearers.