“Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing.”
Neni feigned a smile. Doing nothing was not an option, but it wouldn’t be respectful to contradict Natasha. Besides, it was best she stopped talking about their papier situation lest she say something Jende wouldn’t want revealed. “The guy who used to talk to me about right and wrong,” she said, attempting to change the topic, “he has a little brother who hated doing nothing.”
“We don’t like doing nothing in this country.”
Neni and Natasha laughed together.
“I used to work for the boys’ family and I was always doing something with the younger one, but I liked it—he was very funny. One time I took him to a playdate with his friend and his friend’s mother offered him some food and he said, no thanks, he was not going to eat anything because he preferred to eat my food when we got home. He thought I was the best cook.”
“I bet he’s right,” Natasha said, to which Neni smiled.
That night, while Liomi was counting and tickling Timba’s toes, Neni sent Mighty an email. Within seconds a response came back:
Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address <[email protected]> This user doesn’t have a yahoo.com account ([email protected]) Below this line is a copy of the message.
* * *
Hi Mighty,
How are you? How is school?
I hope you are being a good boy and obeying your father and your mother. I heard your mother is not feeling very well. Remember what I told you that mothers are the most special things in the world so be nice to your mother.
Take care, Neni
Forty-five
CINDY ELIZA EDWARDS DIED ON A COLD AFTERNOON IN MARCH 2009, alone in her marital bed, five weeks after Neni Jonga walked out of her apartment. Her husband was in London, on a business trip, as she lay dying. Her firstborn son was in India, walking the Path to Enlightenment. Her younger son was at the Dalton School, being groomed to become a man like his father. Her father, whose identity neither she nor her mother ever knew, had been dead for two decades. Her mother, who she believed loved her too little, had been gone for four years. Her half-sister, completely out of her life since the death of their mother, was still in Falls Church, Virginia, living a life of material comfort better than the one they had lived together as children but far less comfortable than the one Cindy had been living in New York City. Her friends were all over Manhattan, shopping at Saks and Barneys, lunching and drinking fine wine, planning dinner parties and galas, attending meetings for charities, looking forward to their next vacation to an exotic locale.
“But I don’t understand!” Neni said over and over as Winston recounted to her and Jende everything he knew based on the story Frank had told him that evening, a day after the passing.
Asphyxiation due to vomit, Frank had said, according to the medical examiner. High levels of opiate and alcohol had been found in her body, leading the examiner to believe she had swallowed multiple Vicodin pills, drunk at least two bottles of wine, fallen asleep, and accidentally drowned in her own vomit.
Anna had discovered her lying flat on the bed, her arms flung wide and hanging stiff off the bed, her eyes and mouth open, dried vomit crusted on her chin, neck, and the neckline of her silk nightgown. With Clark out of town, Anna had immediately called Frank, screaming and crying. Frank couldn’t get out of an important meeting at work, so he had asked his wife, Mimi, to hurry to the Edwards apartment. Mimi had gone there and found their friend dead.
“Oh, Papa God!” Neni cried.
“But how could she die that kind of useless death?” Jende asked.
“Why didn’t she go to the doctor? She had all that money and she died in her own bed! Why didn’t one of her friends try to force her? Why didn’t anyone see that there was something wrong with her? What kind of country is this?”
According to Frank, Winston said, Cindy had closed the blinds on the world. Even Mimi, who was one of her good friends, had not seen her in months. Mimi had to show up at the Edwards apartment unannounced after weeks of her calls and emails not being returned, and after having almost a dozen three-way phone conversations with Cheri and June, who were restless and increasingly apprehensive because they couldn’t understand why Cindy wouldn’t tell them what was going on. The women had agreed that Cindy needed an intervention, and Mimi, three days before Cindy’s death, had walked into Cindy’s bedroom with Anna’s encouragement. There, she had seen her friend ashen and limp, near broken, in a white silk nightgown, sitting on her bed and staring at nothing in particular. Cindy had told her she was living in a darkness she couldn’t get out of, and Mimi had begged her to please go see a psychiatrist because she appeared to be dealing with a severe case of depression. Cindy had refused, saying she wasn’t depressed, but Mimi had pleaded for her to at least do it for the sake of her children. Think about Mighty, Mimi had said. Think about how it must feel for him to see his mother like this. Cindy had cried and, for her sons’ sake, agreed to go to a treatment center outside Boston, because with the end of her marriage seeming inevitable, her son in India not returning her calls and emails, her whole life beginning to seem more and more meaningless, she needed to do something now if she ever hoped to taste happiness again. She made Mimi promise not to tell anyone what they’d discussed, not even Frank, not even Cheri or June. She was going to apologize to everyone for ignoring their calls and emails and tell them everything as soon as she felt better.
Neni’s hand remained on her chest throughout the story, her mouth agape. When Winston was done recounting it, she wiped the tears that had been running down her cheeks with the hem of her skirt.
“Should I call Mr. Edwards tonight?” Jende asked.
“No,” Winston said. “Maybe in a few weeks or months. Too much is happening for them right now. Frank only told me all this because I saw him when he stopped by the office on his way to pick Clark up from the airport. He’ll let me know when the date for the memorial service is, and I’ll let you know.”
Jende shook his head sadly. “But how is Mr. Edwards going to manage?”
“Frank said the man was crying so hard over the phone,” Winston said. “It sounds like no matter what happened between them, he truly loved his wife.”
Forty-six
MIGHTY EDWARDS WORE A GRAY SUIT AND PLAYED A BEAUTIFULLY IMPERFECT Claude Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” at the memorial service, which took place a week later. In the front pew, Clark sat with his sunglasses on. The mourners, all two hundred or so of them, sat glum under the hundred-foot-high roof of the Church of St. Paul the Apostle on the corner of Sixtieth Street and Columbus Avenue. Around them were depictions of the Savior and the Holy Mother, above them two rows of pendant lighting, and to their right, on a little table, a prayer book where all who were burdened, all who were weary, all who were brokenhearted, could leave prayer requests and pleas for blessings.
The priest thanked God for loving Cindy Edwards and calling her to spend eternity with Him. What a great rejoicing must be happening in heaven, he said. After the congregation had sung “Nearer, My God, to Thee” and a soloist had sung “Peace, Perfect Peace,” Frank and Mimi’s daughter, Nora Dawson, in a black body-fitting long-sleeved mini dress, her blond hair blow-dried straight like that of her deceased godmother on some of the best days of her life, walked to the altar and read from John, chapter fourteen, verses one to three: Jesus’ promise to his disciples.