he said. “What for?”
“She served on the hospital board, and you’re the chairman.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Just say something about what a good and capable worker she was, and how she dedicated great amounts of time to the hospital and its needs. She will be sorely missed by all of us.”
I walked back to my desk, jotting Don’s comments as I walked. Pretty trite for a professional journalist.
Next I called Grassley, Jordan and McGilpin. The secretary who answered was obviously trying not to cry into the phone. She kept sniffing and hiccuping. When she realized who I was, she began talking about Trudy.
“She was the best boss in the world, she was. So pleasant. Always please and thank you. And attractive. Real class, you know? I could never figure out why she wasn’t married.” Obviously being married was important to the secretary. “But I think she had a new boyfriend. She was smiling a lot more.” And the girl began to cry in earnest.
The line went empty, and I thought I had been disconnected. Almost immediately, though, a male voice boomed over the phone, speaking too enthusiastically as a cover for his emotions.
“Trudy was wonderful,” he said. “A fine lawyer, interested in her clients and very knowledgeable in law. She was a strong woman, but not at the expense of her femininity. She more than held her own in a courtroom. We shall miss her very much.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And to whom am I speaking?”
“This is Edmund Grassley.” His voice broke on the last syllable of his name, and he cleared his throat. “We’re going to miss her very much,” he whispered, and hung up.
My eyes misted at the man’s genuine emotion, and I couldn’t help glancing at too-cool Don, sitting at his desk in reorganized splendor.
Nick Dominic and Forbes Raleigh, the commissioners, and Annie Parmalee, the director of the YWCA, said much the same thing as Don and Mr. Grassley, surprise, surprise. They were all greatly saddened by Trudy’s death and would miss her. Amhearst was diminished by her passing. How hard it was to put deep emotion into quotes.
Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I called Stanton McGilpin.
“I’m sorry. He’s not here right now,” said a woman. “May I take a message?”
“I’m Merrileigh Kramer from The News. I’m calling in reference to the death of Mr. McGilpin’s sister. We will be devoting much of tomorrow’s paper to Trudy, and we thought he might like to make a statement, sort of a eulogy.”
There was a small silence. Then, “I’ll tell him you called.”
I started to say thank you, but the line was dead. I doubted I’d ever hear from Stanton McGilpin, and I couldn’t blame him.
Still, contacting a family member in one context made me think about doing the same thing in another. I grabbed the phone book, looked up a number and dialed before my nerve failed.
“Mrs. Marten, my name is Merrileigh Kramer. I was wondering if I might speak to you about your son’s death.”
A weary voice asked, “Are you from the police?”
“No. I work at The News.”
“They’re going to keep putting him in the paper whether I talk to you or not, aren’t they?”
“A crime like this will certainly be covered.” I kept my voice neutral. I couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Marten was happy or distressed that Patrick was to get so much posthumous media attention.
Her sigh echoed down the phone line. “Come over if you want. I’d like to be certain that Patrick is presented as the fine kid he was. But don’t come until tomorrow. I can’t talk to anyone else today. I’m too busy crying.”
FIVE
Labor Day Sunday had been my first Sunday in Amhearst. It had been a hot, sunny, end-of-summer day, and I attended Faith Community Church. While I waited in the hot sanctuary for the service to begin, I read a notice in the bulletin that a bell choir was being formed.
“If you are interested, a free ring clinic will be held Friday night at seven-thirty to provide a chance to try ringing and to provide information about the bell choir,” the notice read.
Friday night came, and I ate alone at McDonald’s: a cheeseburger, small fries, large Diet Coke and package of cookies. Very healthful. Then I went home to the first night of my first full weekend in my new apartment and held a one-sided conversation with Whiskers.
“So how was your day, baby? Did you get enough rest? I must apologize for not saving you any of my French fries. Before I realized what was happening, I’d eaten them all. Every last bite. Forgive me?”
He rolled over on the bed and offered his tummy for a rub, a sure sign that he wasn’t upset. Not that Whiskers was ever impolite, even when I disappointed him. He was the very soul of civility, listening whenever I talked, just like he understood. I chose to believe that he was interested in my thoughts, rather than accept the more obvious conclusion that he was hoping I’d offer him more food if he listened long enough.
That September night I was still full of doubts about my move and not at all certain that striking out on my own had been such a good idea after all. For years, Friday nights meant Jack and a night out and laughter and—on more than one occasion—tears. But always something.
Now there was nothing. I sighed as I puttered around, straightening up where there was no mess. My little apartment had a living room across the front, a dining room and a small kitchen, a bedroom and a unique bathroom. The bathroom had doors that opened into both the bedroom behind it and the living room in front of it. Neither door had a lock. I hadn’t quite figured out how you avoided being ambushed from one side or the other when there was company, but more than likely that wasn’t a problem I’d have to deal with for quite some time.
“Oh, Whiskers!” I despaired as I flopped into a chair. “I’m so lonely!” He climbed up and settled in my lap, purring contentedly.
Of course you’re contented, I thought as I stroked him. It was me or the pound, and anyone’d pick me. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t Jack? Why wouldn’t Jack?
I stood abruptly, dumping Whiskers. That waylaid self-pity and failure. I was now strong. Independent. My own woman.
Dear God, I prayed, don’t let me fail because of loneliness and boredom and self-pity. I want to press on!
And I suddenly understood that pressing on had a price. Staying in Pittsburgh would have cost me dearly, too, but at least I knew that price—life passing me by, emotional stunting, Jack as God.
One night two years before, my father had come to my room. He stood in the doorway looking concerned.
“Merry, you know Jack better than we do, so tell me how things stand between you two. You’ve been dating pretty much exclusively since your junior year at Penn State. Are you two serious? Or is he, as I fear and as I’ve said before, using up your young years with no thought of commitment?”
I laughed. “Dad, you needn’t worry. Jack loves me, and I certainly love him. Things are moving well.”
Dad looked unconvinced, but he said, “You know we only want you to be happy, honey.”
“I know, Dad. I am.”
But I lied, and Dad probably knew it. The trouble was that I didn’t. I lived so stoically for so long with Jack’s unwillingness to commit that I no longer recognized my own pain.
“I love you, Merry,” Jack would say, “but I’m not ready to get married yet. Let’s pray about it, and we’ll decide in six months, okay? Let’s just enjoy today.”
And his melting smile and beguiling manner and earnest eyes would win my assent.
I