The Dearly Departed (30 page)

Joey said quietly, “Doc, c'mon. Let's you and I go for a ride somewhere, find some nice soothing place where we can talk and review your options.”

“The cemetery,” he said.

“I was thinking maybe I could drive you to one of your sons' houses. Does either one have an extra bedroom?”

“Peter does.”

“And where does Peter live?”

“Too far. Providence. I have rounds tomorrow morning. And a full office schedule. At least a dozen camp physicals.”

“Mrs. Ouimet can cancel anything that needs canceling. I bet she'd love to jump back into that saddle.”

“Or Sunny could,” said the doctor weakly. “I offered her Margaret's old job. She could start tomorrow, even if I'm not there. All she'd have to do is come in early and call the patients—”

“No,” said Joey, more sharply than he'd intended. “You're going to stop making Sunny offers, and you're going to stay away from that house.”

“Joey!” said Dr. Ouimet. “I'm deeply hurt. I don't think I deserve that.”

“Deserve what?” asked Winnie, suddenly at their elbows with a coffeepot.

“We're having a private conversation here,” said Joey.

She cocked her head toward him. “The chief used to think I should mind my own business, but he's come around since I fingered his perp.” She stared at Dr. Ouimet for a long, diagnostic moment, then asked Joey, “He okay?”

“He's a little blue. Understandably. I'm going to drive him home.”

“Or maybe to a place where they have . . .” She mouthed,
antidepressants.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to share this with your public,” Joey said quietly.

Winnie leaned in and said, louder than necessary, “Doc? Anything else? More hot water?”

His lips trembled. “I hope not,” he said.

Winnie patted his shoulder. “I'll get your check, hon,” she said.

 

M
rs. Loach ironed Joey's shirt and was pleased to be enlisted. It was new, short-sleeved, of muted grays and blues, a print too splashy and a size too big, she thought, but handsome. Soft but breathable; that must be the rayon. Rayon amazed her these days. She did her best job, even with Joey butting in to snap, “Gotta go, Ma. That's good enough.”

She suspected, from his choice of shirts and the gift-soap smell about him, that he was meeting a woman. “I'm assuming you won't be eating at home tonight,” she said as nonchalantly as she could.

“I'll pick something up,” he said.

“Are you going out with a friend?”

“Kind of.”

“Someone new?”

“Yes and no.”

She sat the iron upright on its heel. “Do I keep guessing or do you tell me?”

“Oh. No big deal. Didn't I say? It's Sunny Batten.”

Mrs. Loach understood it was best to disguise the fact that she was tickled. “How is that poor girl getting along?” she asked.

“It's hard,” said Joey.

“Does she have family up here? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you see any out-of-state license plates at the cemetery?”

“A few.” He helped himself to the shirt before she had turned the dial to off.

Mrs. Loach mused, “Margaret could easily have parents who outlived her. If she was fifty-seven, they could be in their late seventies.”

“I've never heard any mention of grandparents.”

“From Sunny, you mean? In recent conversations?”

“Correct,” said Joey.

“I know you've been helping her out,” prompted Mrs. Loach.

“People usually need help after their mothers die in freak accidents.” He smiled. “I know
I
would.”

She tapped his shoulder, meaning: Turn around; inspection.

Joey said, “What? Something's wrong. Why are you looking at me funny?”

“Are you going like that?”

He plucked his shirt away from his chest. “How shocked can you be if you just ironed it?”

“I meant your dungarees. . . . Don't you think a nice pair of chinos would be more suitable for dinner?”

“No, I do
not,
” he said.

She followed him downstairs, through the kitchen, across to the screen door. “If anyone calls?” she prompted. “I'll tell them you'll be back . . . at what time?”

“No one will call. Everything's being forwarded to Claremont.”

“Joey?”

“What?”

“Her house. Is it safe? I mean, is there any chance there's still poison in the air?”

“No chance. Besides, we're going out.”

“Where?”

“Haven't decided yet.”

From the porch, she tried, “You wouldn't wear your vest, would you? No one would see it under that roomy shirt. And I'd feel so much better.”

He scratched his chest. “Itchy. Besides, once a week I'm supposed to air it out.”

“Oh, you,” she said.

Sunny's dress was silky, navy blue; it showed her arms, showcased her legs. Almost lost in her hair, silver earrings like little wind chimes dangled. “You look nice,” he said.

She looked down. “Same dress I wore to the wake. I think Mrs. Dickie Saint-Onge was horrified by it.”

“Why?”

“Sleeveless. Not black. Probably too short.”

“I disagree,” said Joey. “I go to funerals and wakes all the time, and I see people in the funeral party wearing purple sweatpants and Hooters T-shirts. You look very proper.”

Sunny murmured, “Then maybe I should change.”

He smiled neutrally, waited for clarification. Had he heard her correctly? Was she saying, Last thing I want on a date with you, Joe Loach, is to appear proper? Or was she alluding to his open collar, his dungarees? “Don't change,” he said. “You look great.”

“So do you,” said Sunny. “I knew sooner or later I'd catch you out of uniform.”

Best behavior, Joey scolded himself. Accidental double meaning. No jokes. “Would you believe that my mother wanted me to wear my bullet-proof vest?” he asked.

“Where did she think you were going?”

“Into harm's way.
Always
into harm's way.”

“Where
are
we going?” she asked.

“A new place. Well, new since you've been gone.”

“Named?”

“La Quiche. It's French. It's usually pretty quiet.”

Sunny gestured in spokes-model fashion to the china cupboard that had become her mother's unprepossessing bar. There were shiny chrome utensils on a dish towel next to a pair of martini glasses and a half-empty, clouded jar of olives that must have garnished the drinks of Margaret's gentlemen callers. “I've never made a martini, but there was a recipe booklet in the set. They were something of a rage at Harding faculty parties. Do we have time?”

“Sure,” he said. “No hurry.”

“No reservation, right?”

“None,” said Joey. “In fact, I never get behind the wheel until I metabolize the alcohol.”

“You're an exemplary citizen,” said Sunny.

“I have to be,” he said.

She gave the martini shaker a few gentle tilts, smiling self-consciously. She attached a strainer, filled two glasses, fished out four olives with a two-pronged fork.

“A toast,” she said.

He waited; watched her face sink into melancholy, then struggle back to a shaky, hospitable smile.

“C'mon,” he said. “We're going to have a nice evening. We're going to make an optimistic toast and try to forget the last couple of days, which I mean as no disrespect to your mother.” He raised his glass. “To a long life. And to things looking up.”

“To things looking up,” echoed Sunny.

They clinked their glasses. Sunny stared at him intently, appraisingly, until he asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then don't be rude. Drink up.”

“Your eyes are actually hazel,” she said. “I was under the impression they were brown.”

Joey grinned. “Are you leading up to a compliment?”

She took a sip and said, “Whoa. Strong.”

Joey said, “Perfect. You're a natural.”

Sunny turned the gin bottle to inspect its label. “My former boss, two jobs ago, used to tell the waiter, ‘Very, very, very dry. That's three verys.' He also specified the brand of gin, and once canceled the order because they didn't have Bombay Sapphire.”

“Was this something you observed over dinner with this ex-boss?” Joey asked.

“Twice: my welcome-aboard dinner and my farewell/no-hard-feelings dinner.”

“Nice guy?”

“Not bad. Very boring. All he could talk about was Harvard. He went there, and his wife, naturally, went to Radcliffe, and his kids, thank goodness, all got in. It came up six times in every conversation.”

“I never do that,” said Joey.

Sunny smiled and handed him a cocktail napkin. It was printed with a bowling ball and three white pins dancing in mid-air. “Shall we sit?” she asked.

There was only one choice, the black velvet love seat. Joey gestured:
You first.
When Sunny took one extreme end, he anchored the other.

“Mrs. Angelo sent a cheese tray,” she said, and popped back up.

“Later,” said Joey. “Sit.”

She did, a body's width closer. “I think Dot and Gus assumed I'd be having people back after the service. I told them I wasn't, but then I found this giant tray—three or four kinds of cheeses, crackers, red and green grapes—on the porch.”

“They feel terrible,” said Joey. “Everyone does. People even call me to see what they can do.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them to make a donation to the memorial scholarship. Or send a card. Or give you a little time, then call.”

Sunny looked toward the kitchen. “The answering machine still has my mother's message on it. I don't necessarily want to pick up, but her voice startles me no matter how many times I hear it.”

“We can fix that right now,” said Joey.

Sunny shook her head.

He stirred his drink with his skewered olives, and tried to think of a topic that didn't lead to Margaret. He glanced over and she smiled. Embarrassed, both looked away. Joey, after another silence, asked if she liked to fish.

“Fish?” asked Sunny.

“The water temperature's just right now. There's some great trout fishing up here.”

She touched one of her earrings, freeing its silver drops from a tangle of hair. “I like to
eat
trout,” she said. “If that's a prerequisite.”

Joey said, “Not necessarily. But that's good to know.”

“Blackened,” said Sunny. “Or amandine.”

“Or smoked,” said Joey. “But that requires a smoker.”

They sipped their drinks in silence until Joey asked, “Has Finn turned up again?”

“Fletcher? Not since he dropped me off last night.”

“How was that?”

“He's trying. I mean, in his own fashion, which is to say, studying the brother handbook. He treated. And he was intent on loaning me the Beetle tonight.”

“Why?”

“An unmarked car to go out to dinner in, maybe? He said we could drive over to the lake and get his Bug.”

“Would Fletcher be part of the deal?”

“No. Not invited.”

“Does
he
know that?”

Sunny said, “He's busy.”

“I'd just as soon take the Tahoe,” Joey said. “If that's okay with you. I mean, it's fifteen minutes to the lake, which would add a half hour on to dinner.”

Something in her face changed. He reached over and touched her wrist. “That wasn't what I meant. It came out sounding as if I wanted to rush home.”

“It's fine. Really. It was a stupid plan.” She stood up and walked to the bar. On shelves beneath it were a turntable and a stack of albums. Sunny said, “I thought I'd put something on, if you don't mind Broadway musicals in a time warp.”

Sunny sat on the floor and read, her head tilted sideways,
“Annie Get Your Gun. Brigadoon. West Side Story. South Pacific. Camelot. My Fair Lady—
original cast recording or movie soundtrack.
Oklahoma! The Sound of Music. Half a Sixpence. Bye Bye Birdie. Funny Girl. Funny Face. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.”

“You pick,” said Joey.

He couldn't tell what her choice was until she placed the needle on the record's surface and one inadequate speaker spit forth the overture to
My Fair Lady.

“They gave the movie role to Audrey Hepburn,” said Sunny. “Supposedly it broke Julie Andrews's heart.”

“Come sit,” said Joey.

They listened politely, Sunny once again at the far end of the love seat.

Between overture and first cut Joey said, “I'm lucky they let me use the cruiser for personal time at all. Some municipalities restrict their fleet purely to police work. And, of course, for commuting.”