Some of Calvin’s friends from Columbia had flown in to Chicago from New York just to be here. She appreciated these young people. Appreciated the obvious affection they had for her son. Beneath her grief, Lacey felt a small ripple of pride that she had raised a decent young man.
She blinked as Sean recaptured the arm he had let go as people began vying for her attention. She wanted to tell him she was all right, but his expression was insistent. She was feeling foolish now. She didn’t know why she had broken down just then. She hadn’t cried that hard since the night the police called about Calvin.
When they reached the Lexus, he held the door for her, then for her mother and Estelle. He hovered near her window, barely peering in.
“It’s OK, Sean, I’m fine now. I just want to thank you so much for being here.”
He stood there hesitating, suddenly shy, a gust blowing a blond lock across his brow. “OK, then,” he said before walking away. She barely had time to notice that he stopped at a motorcycle before she started the car and pulled off. People would already be waiting to gather at her house. She finally prayed for the strength to get through the evening.
Chapter 2
“Where do you want this, sweetie?” Mrs. Hampton asked, standing in the kitchen doorway holding a steaming tureen of her special gumbo in both hands. Lacey smelled the trace of cinnamon and heavy peppers that joined a medley of other smells emanating from containers, plates, pots of donated food sitting on the kitchen counter and table.
Estelle got up from her chair and took the tureen from Mrs. Hampton, one of their mother’s oldest friends. “We got a little space right here.” She nudged aside the covered plate of knishes that Ellen had brought over before the funeral. Calvin used to love how Ellen flavored the beef with garlic. She pictured the sauce dribbling down his cheek as he sloppily bit into one. Lacey shook the image away.
She knew she was hiding here in the kitchen, that she should make the rounds of mourners in the living room, but right now she didn’t have the strength.
Mrs. Hampton beelined around the table, bent to gather Lacey’s shoulders in a hug, placed a dry kiss on her cheek. “You hang in there, all right? God’s going to see you through this.”
Lacey smiled, touched the hand on her shoulder. “I know He will.”
She knew no such thing. Didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few hours, let alone the next days, months. The intense emotions that had overwhelmed her at the funeral were ebbing back to a small trickle, but she was constantly aware of the pain.
Her mother was in the living room, playing hostess, giving Lacey a reprieve. But it was time to get on with the business of living. She stood up.
Mrs. Hampton and Estelle watched her carefully as she headed out of the kitchen. Both had witnessed her breakdown, and were treating her with more care than she could deal with. She stopped at the foyer, keeping to the shadows as she spied into the living room. Her feet refused to move and she didn’t feel impelled to make a grand entrance as the grieving mother. The crowd was thinner than it had been a half-hour ago. Mostly neighbors and friends sitting or standing in groups. Calvin’s friends had left to catch flights or clear out of hotels. She watched the guests eating their food, sipping their soda, some talking animatedly. There were even a few smiles. It seemed strange that life was indeed going on, while her son was only a few hours in his grave, cold and alone. Her sadness seemed an intrusion to this parody of a party.
A lone figure caught her eye. Her uncle Joe had parked himself in the big leather chair in front of the television. He had it turned to the news, and seemed engrossed with whatever report was being broadcast. Yet she knew the TV was only a distraction. His weathered expression mirrored her own pain. He seemed shrunken somehow, as though someone had lopped off several feet from his usually six-foot-three frame. Joe had been Calvin’s father figure since Darryl died nearly ten years before, leaving her a widow with an eleven-year-old child.
She spotted her mother standing near the window next to Ellen and Sol. Both women were nodding at something Sol was saying. His hands gesticulated as he stressed a point, a habit Lacey always found annoying. Feeling stronger, she stepped further into the room. Immediately, a hand touched her forearm, and she turned to see another neighbor, Raymond, standing alone at the fireplace. The mantel was lined with pictures of Calvin, Darryl, and her. She avoided looking at them directly.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked. “Was a little worried about you at the cemetery.”
“I’m really sorry about that, Ray. I didn’t mean to carry on so. It’s just everything caught up with me at that moment and I caved. I should’ve been stronger.”
Raymond shook his head. Tight gray curls peppered his otherwise black hair and moustache, yet his smooth, dark skin belied his fifty-plus years.
“There’s nothing to be apologizing about. You’re allowed to cry, to scream—hell, to fall out if you need to. Nobody’s judging you on that. I just want you to know that I’m next door anytime you need to talk. Don’t matter whether it’s day or night. Feel free to call me.” He took her hand, held it in his.
Lacey nodded with a stiff smile, withdrew her hand tentatively. Although she appreciated the sentiment, she half suspected that beneath his solace was a tacit offer for something more. Since Ray’s wife June died a couple of years ago, he had turned his attention on Lacey, which often manifested in a variety of gifts: fresh catfish from his fishing trips; turnips, collards and carrots from his garden; fat, pungent strawberries that he planted every spring. She accepted the gifts with wary appreciation, not wanting to hurt his feelings and yet not wanting to encourage him.
“I think I’ll go check on Mama. This whole thing has been really hard on her.”
Lacey walked over to her mother, now talking to a woman Lacey recognized as one of her mother’s friends. Contrary to what she had told Ray, her mother was holding up quite well. Despite an attack of arthritis that had laid her up recently, Mrs. Dolores Coleman stood her full height. At nearly six feet, she was not a shrinking violet. Although her hair was gray, it gleamed with a sleek metallic sheen that highlighted still-luminous skin. The height was courtesy of Ibo ancestors brought to the South Carolina islands. The cheekbones spoke of Cree and Apache patriarchs who had taken up with a couple of runaway slave women; the slightly slanted eyes came from a particularly industrious Chinese immigrant brought over to work on the continental railroad, who later married a great-great-grandmother and established a business of his own. These traits were from strong genes that never got muted no matter whose line they married into. Calvin’s eyes had been similar to his grandmother’s; her own were less so. Still, she had the height and bones.
Her mother smiled as she approached. “You feeling better?”
“Wish everyone would stop asking me that,” she said softly, knowing she sounded bitter, and totally unconcerned about her mother’s friend still within earshot.
“We’re going to worry whether you want us to or not. Don’t forget, I lost a grandbaby, Estelle a nephew, Joe a great-nephew. We’re hurting, too, and we can imagine, if only a little bit, what’s going on with you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so…” Lacey stopped.
“Angry?” her mother offered, taking her arm, guiding her to an unoccupied corner. Once there, her mother reached out a finger and touched her cheek. “That’s normal, Lacey. Still, maybe you should talk to somebody, someone other than family.”
“You mean a psychiatrist?”
“Or at least a grief counselor. And don’t pooh-pooh the idea before you’ve had a chance to think it through. This isn’t going to go away just by going through the motions. Lace, you need to speak with someone about the whole grief process, not only what you’re going through today, but how you’ll be feeling a month from now. And I suspect anger is only a small part of it. As much as I loved Calvin, he was your son. I’ve never lost a child,