"Have a nice day," Hadley said, smiling.
I walked out and slammed the door behind me.
# # #
Despite ten days of decay, the mortician turned my mother's skin a glowing rose it had never held when she was alive, so on Tuesday evening, I held a wake for her at the Haverty Son's Funeral Home in downtown Winston. By seven-thirty, the formal, red-carpeted visiting room was packed with friends and family, most of whom I hadn't seen in more than ten years. They'd come from all over the country, for my mother and for me. Their sadness and love was more comforting than I'd expected, and through their tears, I allowed myself to grieve.
After two hours of standing in the receiving line with my mother's brother and two sisters, my mouth ached from smiling. With no visible end to the steady stream of mourners, I slipped away, into the crowd. As I searched for a chair or sofa to rest my legs, someone grabbed my arm from behind, and I spun around.
"Andy, I'm so sorry," Cynthia said, her eyes glistening. We embraced, and she squeezed me tightly, as if she could take my pain into herself and save me the tears.
"You didn't have to come down here," I said as we pulled away. "Thank you."
She took my arm, and we pushed through the crowd towards an empty sofa, collapsing onto the cushions. "When did you find out?" she asked, brushing graying hair out of her eyes.
"Yesterday morning. A police officer woke me up."
"Oh God. Do the police have any suspects or leads?"
I looked into Cynthia's eyes with a jaded scowl. "I think those fuckers suspect me."
"No."
"These two detectives were giving me shit yesterday. Since there was no forced entry or torture or rape."
"So that automatically means you did it?"
"That's what they seem to think. I don't know. They may've just been feeling me out."
Cynthia leaned back against the sofa and straightened her black suit, brushing particles of lent and strands of hair off her pants. "I tried to get a hold of you last week," she said. "I wanted to ask if you'd started anything. You go out of town?" I caught an edge of distrusting curiosity in her voice.
"I was in Barbuda. Didn't know I'd be coming back to this."
She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. "You'll get through it," she said. "You need anything, just call." She hugged me again and rose to her feet.
"Taking off?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'm beat."
"You're welcome to stay at my place," I said. "It's just an hour from here."
"I appreciate that," she said, "but I'm staying at the Radison a few blocks away. I got an early flight out of Greensboro tomorrow morning. Gotta get back to New York."
I glanced past Cynthia and saw Beth Lancing making her way through the crowd towards me. She held the hand of her four-year-old son, John David. I couldn't face her.
"Take care, Andy," Cynthia said, taking my hands into hers. "Call me sometime this week, will you? Just to let me know how you're doing."
Beth now stood several feet away, waiting for me to finish. I stood and embraced Cynthia once more. Kissing her on the cheek, I said, "Thanks for coming. I'll call you soon."
As Cynthia walked away, blending into the pool of dark suits and dresses, I sat back down on the sofa. Before anyone else could get to me, Beth stepped forward with her son, and hesitantly, I looked up into her eyes. A stunning woman, tonight she wore a brown dress that dropped to her small ankles. Curly, blond hair bounced above her shoulders. As I looked into her face, I saw misery. The makeup couldn't hide the deep bags beneath her eyes. They were bloodshot, too, as if she hadn't slept in days. Weakly, I smiled at her and winked at John David, dressed like a man in his little, black suit. I stood and hugged Walter's wife, and she broke apart in my arms, her tears streaking the wool of my suit.
"Sit down, Beth," I said after a moment, and we both sat on the sofa as John David knelt on the floor and began crawling around on the dark red carpet.
"I'm sorry about your mother," she said, wiping tears from her eyes with a tissue.
"Thank you for coming," I said, but I knew why she'd really come. When I returned from Vermont, there were ten messages on my answering machine from her, wanting to know if I'd heard from Walter. "Anything from the police?" I asked, my voice soft and conciliatory. I touched her hand which rested on her knee.
"No, nothing." She shook her head. "They won't do anything, Andy. He'll have been gone a week tomorrow morning." Tears filled her eyes again. "The detectives think he left me. They won't come out and say it, but they keep asking if we had a good marriage. If he had ever cheated on me. But it makes me wonder after awhile, you know?"
John David jumped onto the sofa and snuggled up between me and Beth. His mother ran her fingers through his short, blond hair and he leaned back into her. "He asks about him constantly," she whispered, motioning to her son, and I felt tears coming from the iceberg of guilt that floated behind my eyes. "Jenna's a lot worse, though. She knows things aren't right."
"How are you?" I asked though I didn't want to know.
"If I didn't have to be strong for my kids, I might be dead. It's the nights that are especially hard." She looked down at her son, needing him in a way his innocent psyche could never comprehend. Kissing the top of his head, she smiled at him when he glanced up at her. "I know you're busy," she said, looking back at me. Then standing, she lifted John David into her arms, and he laid his head down on her delicate shoulder. "Can I call you tomorrow?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You do the same."
"Thank you, Andy. And I'm very sorry about your mother." She kissed my cheek and tried to smile, but it failed miserably. Then she turned and walked slowly away, towards the doors which would lead out of the funeral home, to an empty house.
# # #
When the visitors had gone, leaving only myself, family members, and the pale-faced funeral director, I walked towards the open casket. It had been crowded since I'd been here, so I had waited, wanting to see my mother for the last time, alone, in a quiet room, without the disturbances of a thousand acquaintances. The mortician had warned me that the bruise around her neck would be difficult to hide, and he was right. As I set my hands on the metallic shell of her casket and peered down at her vapid face, it was the first thing I saw.
To someone who didn't know what to look for, the bruise might never draw a glance. But I'd seen her in the cold morgue, and the blackish-purple ring around her neck had been strikingly obvious then. It had looked as if someone had scribbled with black and purple magic markers on her soft, white neck. But now, in this reverent visitation room, only a light periwinkle shown through the makeup on her throat, like dull violets poking through snow.
I cried, touching her face. Though stiff and unnatural, it was hers. Her hands had been folded on top of each other, and they rested on her chest as if she merely slept. When I leaned down to whisper in her ear, I felt a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes staring through my back. My heart froze, and a cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Quickly, I spun around, darting my head towards the two sets of double doors on either end of the long, rectangular room. Jim, Hannah, and Wendy stood in a small circle, chatting by the entrance, and there was no one at the other end. I took a slow, measured breath, and turned back towards my mother, waiting for the icy feeling in my heart to retreat, though it never did.
# # #
White lights sparkled on the opposite shores, and a biting wind swept across the cold water. I stood shivering atop the grassy bank, watching the white Cadillac glide into the murky water. As it filled and lowered into the depths of Lake Norman, the air inside rushed out, breaking into tiny bubbles like a boiling cauldron on the surface. Then it was gone, the black, glassy surface smooth and calm again, except for where the wind stirred it.