The Dearly Departed (17 page)

“I did,” he sniffed. “I do.”

“Several people said to me, ‘Dr. Ouimet is taking this harder than anyone.' ”

“Which I hope didn't offend you. I never meant to challenge your position as most heartbroken or most visibly affected.”

“You didn't,” Sunny said. “And if it looked that way, maybe I deserved it. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I thought we were close even if I was an absentee daughter—”

“You worked in another state. She understood that. She had your pictures all over her desk, and when patients asked about you, her face would light up. It was a lovely thing to see. I'd egg her on a bit. People would ask in passing, ‘What's new with Sunny?' and she'd give a short answer, because she was not someone who chatted with the patients, and I'd say, ‘
And
. . . tell them the rest,' and then she might tell them about some new trophy or a new job at a new school.”

“I didn't mean there was a falling-out or anything, but I didn't call enough and I came home even less. And now . . .” She bit her lip to keep from crying again, but didn't succeed. She rummaged in the pocket of her shorts for a tissue.

“I'd give you my handkerchief, but it's soaked,” he said.

Sunny stood and said she'd find some tissues. Would he like anything? A glass of water? A can of V-8?

“I could use a shot of cognac.”

“Cognac,” she repeated.

“The Courvoisier Millennium. It's in the cupboard below the china closet.”

“I'll see if you're right,” said Sunny. She went into the kitchen and found not only good and better cognac, but single-malt scotch, dry vermouth, gin, vodka, and a boxed set of martini accessories. She poured an inch of cognac into two juice glasses and returned to the porch, where Dr. Ouimet was squeaking the glider back and forth, his lower lip protruding. He thanked her for his glass, took a sip, and began his oration. “We always feel guilt when a loved one dies—the time wasted, the calls we didn't make, and the visits we cut short. But that's because we don't know in advance. When your mother's in her mid-fifties, you don't think, I'd better call daily and visit weekly, because I won't have her around much longer.”

“It never once occurred to me that my mother
could
die,” said Sunny. “Isn't that idiotic? I'm sure I would have started worrying when she was seventy-five or eighty, but not this early. Not while my back was turned.”

“But that's the nature of an accident—the unexpectedness of it, and the shock.”

“What about the shock of her secret life? I shared a bedroom with her for eighteen years, and I always knew where she was every second. Now I'm discovering that she told me nothing.”

His voice wobbled when he asked, “Secret life? In what respect?”

“Taking up with Miles Finn. Getting engaged. I had to hear from her cleaning lady that they'd set a date.”

Dr. Ouimet blinked hard. “I knew she was busy outside of work and that her nights were taken. As for her announcing an engagement or showing me a ring . . .” He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Had she asked you for any vacation time for a honeymoon?”

His chin quivered. “No,” he whispered. “She never told me. I had to learn it from the newspaper.”

“Maybe—I don't know—she thought you wouldn't approve.”

“I didn't know the man! No one in King George did. I mean, I saw him running through town in his skimpy outfits, but I never had a conversation with him. He certainly never came to the office, socially or professionally.”

“Dr. Ouimet,” Sunny began. “I don't think you should take it personally. I'm her daughter and her only child and she didn't tell me. I think for whatever reason, she wanted it to be very private. She hated being the center of attention.”

He said gravely, “I think we both know that your mother had a taste for the spotlight, Sunny.”

“Only recently. Only since the Players brought her out of her shell.”

He took a sip and coughed. “It's very hard for me to accept her death. Harder than you know. And I'm sorry if that sounds presumptuous.”

“It doesn't.”

“I closed my office for two days. It wasn't an empty gesture. Do you understand what I'm saying? I composed the ad myself. I quoted Robert Browning. I referred to Margaret as a beloved employee. But she was so much more than that. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?”

Sunny took a gulp from her glass.

“—And why a secret engagement and a diamond ring would shock me to the core?”

Sunny fixed her stare straight ahead, over the porch railing and down the driveway. “I think I'm starting to.”

“I have no one to confide in,” he whispered.

She knew he expected her to say, “You have me. Anytime you want to talk about my mother, I'm here.” What she said instead, briskly, was, “I appreciate your condolence call. I know my mother was very fond of you. She often said that you were the best boss she ever had.”

“Did she? Were those her actual words—‘best boss'?”

“I'm pretty sure they were,” said Sunny.

“Well then . . . I should be flattered. Familiarity did not breed contempt in our case, and I should be grateful for that.”

The doctor nodded, once, twice, as if affirming something he didn't say aloud.

“I think I should probably unpack my stuff,” said Sunny.

He forced a weak smile. “You're staying, then?”

“I can't just abandon her things. I have to go through every drawer, every closet, every cupboard.”

“There's a box outside First Church,” he said. “Although I couldn't bear it if a patient appeared one day wearing an article of Margaret's clothing.”

“I know,” said Sunny. “I'll probably take them with me and donate them to a more far-flung charity.”

“Take them with you where?”

“To my new job,” she said. “Which I'll know about as soon as I print out my résumé and make some follow-up phone calls.”

Dr. Ouimet stood up and handed Sunny his empty glass. “If you
are
staying and if you need work, my door is open.”

“Which door?” asked Sunny.

“My office! Your mother's desk.”

“You're offering me my mother's job?”

“A fallback,” he said. “That's all I was thinking. Not this minute. But perhaps when the dust settles. Temp work. That's how your mother started with me.”

“That's awfully nice of you. I'll certainly . . . think about it.”

“I know you're overqualified and that you have talents and career goals. But so did your mother. And dreams. She was a very intelligent woman, and she applied her people skills to my office and . . . really, in a few short years”—he groped in a trouser pocket for his handkerchief and passed it across his eyes—“she turned my life around. She found an outlet in her acting, and I tried to be flexible about her schedule. Because two thirds of Margaret”—he swallowed a sob—“was better than a hundred percent of someone else.”

Sunny felt it was only good manners to hug him one last time. He nodded formally in response, walked down the steps, then stopped. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out an envelope. “I almost forgot. This was why I came to see you this afternoon, even if it appeared that I came about more personal matters. This is for you—your mother's last paycheck.”

Sunny took the envelope. Where her mother's name had been typed on a computer label, he'd crossed it out and written,
Sunny Batten.

“It's made out to you,” he said, “so there wouldn't be any difficulty cashing it or tying things up in probate. You don't have to open it now.”

She did, then looked up. “This can't be right.”

“It is.”

“I've seen my mother's paycheck, and it never came out to an even number, and certainly not to an amount like this.”

“Because this includes comp time, overtime, and vacation time. Plus her next Christmas bonus, which is completely at my discretion, so you have no basis for disputing it.”

“But ten thousand dollars?”

“Every penny of it wages and benefits.”

“I didn't expect this,” Sunny said.

“She earned it. Sooner or later you would have called me up and asked if there were any payroll checks due your mother, and I would have been embarrassed that I hadn't attended to my bookkeeping.” He started toward his car, then returned to the steps again. “One favor, Sunny: I didn't feel there was any need to discuss this matter with Mrs. Ouimet, so if you should run into her on Ladies' Day this Tuesday—”

“I won't,” said Sunny.

“Or anytime.”

“I understand,” said Sunny.

“Not just the money. The conversation, too—my personal reflections on your mother.”

“Maybe she knows,” said Sunny. “Wives pick up on things. And you haven't been the most stoical soldier in town.”

His face crumpled again.

“Don't cry. I didn't mean it as a criticism.”

“She doesn't know. When I told her I was making a house call, she didn't even look up.”

“Because she's so used to it?”

“Because she doesn't approve. She thinks I should have banker's hours. And because there was a time when she came along. Of course she stayed in the car, but it still gave her a sense of connection to my patients. Sometimes, if it was nothing contagious, she'd come in afterwards for tea or coffee.”

Sunny hoped that the phone would ring or the skies would open. “I'd love to talk longer,” she said, “but I have to get back to work.”

“Of course. As do I.”

“Thanks again,” said Sunny. “And if it's appropriate, please send my thanks to Mrs. Ouimet.”

He shook his head primly, eyes shut. “It's not,” he said.

 

Nobody Slips Anything by Winnie

 

 

W
ith his seat belt buckled and his hands glued to the steering wheel like a model for a driver's ed diagram, Billy crawled toward the King's Nite at twenty miles per hour. After today, he wasn't going to do another criminal thing in his life—big, small, premeditated, or fucking retarded.
Ever.
God had spoken: If He'd put a bullet-proof vest on a cop in this bumblefuck town, it was a sure sign that He didn't want Billy to go to the electric chair. He'd return this shitbox to the gas station, where the stupid owner had left it running, lie low, and get his license the minute he turned sixteen and a half.

Maybe he'd head back now. On the other hand, one more night wouldn't make a difference to God, who would surely understand that he was tired and didn't want to miss his chance to sleep in a motel. He'd seen the commercials: In every one, the maids treated you like royalty and the swimming pools were shaped like Nutter Butters.

He depressed his left blinker, turned carefully into the motel parking lot, and backed into the space farthest from the street. He had hoped for something fancier, maybe two stories, with carports. This was like the places he'd seen up and down Route 6, a string of cabins with lame names and no pool. Just like Fletcher had drawn on the directions, there was a diner across the street.
BREAKFAST ALL DAY
, it said out front. He liked that. He had two twenties he'd found in the dead guy's kitchen drawers: definitely bacon or sausages with his eggs.

Maybe he'd eat first and then watch a movie, if the motel had Pay-Per-View. He didn't unlock the door to unit 2 but peered through the rear window, hands cupped around his face. Not bad. A double bed all made up and a clock radio next to it. No TV visible from his angle. It could still be somewhere, attached to a wall. That's what he would do if he owned a motel: Buy the cheap stuff and bolt it down.

At the diner, he took a stool at the counter and ordered a large root beer. The food listed on the blackboard was lunch stuff—meatloaf, pork pot pie, fried haddock, hot turkey sandwich. “Are you still serving breakfast?” he asked the waitress, then added courteously,
“Winnie,”
with a nod to her name tag.

She checked her watch. “Do you know what you want?”

“Steak and eggs with pancakes. Do you have that?”

“Believe it or not, we do,” said Winnie.

He stretched toward the closest napkin dispenser and came back with a menu. “Lemme check one thing first.”

“Five ninety-nine. We're not talking filet mignon here,” said Winnie. “It's cube steak.”

“No problem. Home fries come with that?”

“You want home fries?”

“Is it extra?”

Winnie said, “I think we can do home fries. How do you want your eggs?”

“Fried. On both sides.”

“What kind of toast?”

“The regular.”

“White?”