I catch a glimpse of Tony with his mother. She stands with her head leaning against his shoulder, his arm around her waist. Mia catches my eye and smiles, a ray of light that I cling to while counting the minutes of yet another little sermon, a song, a prayer.
Greg’s mom is there, in a wheelchair. She nods at me, but doesn’t smile. She never did think I was good enough for her beloved son, and when I had the gall to turn down his proposal, her disapproval shifted into outright enmity. I let my eyes move away from her sanctimonious face, scanning the crowd for signs of Marley, but she’s as absent as my mother, vanished just as suddenly and with as little explanation.
No warning. No good-bye. Just—poof!—gone.
The funeral potluck is held, not at the church, but at Edna Carlton’s house. The good news about this is that it’s right next door to home. The bad news, besides having to deal with Mrs. Carlton, is also that it’s right next door to home. People wander in and out of both houses, as if Edna’s is a buffet and ours is a museum, some sort of open-admission tribute to my mother’s life.
When a breathing space presents itself between hugs and well-meant condolences, I escape to Mom’s kitchen to scavenge for ibuprofen. Two women and a man, all balancing paper plates, are standing there, examining the floor by the island.
“Do you think this is where she fell?” one of the women asks in almost a whisper, eyes wide with fascination.
The man, middle-aged, short, with a monk’s tonsure balding pattern, unloads his potato-salad-laden fork into his mouth and then uses the fork as a pointer. “Of course it is. You can still see bloodstains.”
Both women bend their heads, peering down at the floor. “Are you sure? There’s a rust color running through the tile.”
“Surely the daughter has scrubbed it by now.”
I have so many choices in this moment. Leave it be, Maisey, I tell myself. Walk away. As usual, I ignore my own advice.
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” I say, matching their tone. “But you know what they say about the daughter. The woman might like blood on the floor, for all we know.”
All three of them stare, first at me, then back at the floor. The man’s right cheek bulges with unchewed food, giving him a distorted, gnome-like expression.
None of them are wearing church-goer funeral clothes. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt that proclaims he’s a Budweiser man—his belly offering proof. The women are in tank tops and capris; one of them wears flip-flops.
“You think?” the flip-flop woman whispers.
The second woman sets her plate on the island, bends over, and runs a finger across the tile. “It’s clean.” She sounds disappointed, but then perks up. “Let’s go look at the bedroom. I hear he kept her in the bed for a week.”
The man laughs, as if this is a big joke. The flip-flop woman elbows him in the ribs. “Save it, Bernie. Let’s go.”
None of them recognize me. I could tell them to clear out of the house, that this is not a museum, but I’ve lost my ability for speech. I melt backward against the counter, watching them go.
They don’t get far. Tony stands in the hall, blocking it. He doesn’t step aside.
“Are you folks looking for something?” he asks politely enough, but his voice holds an edge.
“Just looking around,” the man says.
“This isn’t a museum,” Tony says, his voice still deceptively pleasant. “People live here. In fact, I believe Mr. Addington might be having a little nap.”
“We won’t wake him.”
“Of course you won’t. Let me walk you to the door.”
“Oh, do you live here?” Flip-flop woman puts her hand on his arm. “Could you just answer some questions? We are dying of curiosity.”
“I’m afraid there’s no cure for that disease,” he says, still politely, then takes her arm and propels her toward the entry.
I hear the sound of the door closing and locking. Tony’s footsteps. I still can’t move.
“Rubberneckers,” Tony says, coming back into the kitchen. “If they drive by an accident, they’ll stop in the middle of the road and cause another accident, just to get a glimpse of the tragedy. I’d blame reality TV if it wasn’t for history. Roman Colosseum and all that.” While he’s talking he grabs a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with water, and holds it out to me.
My hands are shaking again. This is getting to be a habit. I really need to get checked for all the shaking diseases. Maybe I have an aneurism, like my mom’s. Would it cause these symptoms? Maybe I should call Dr. Margoni.
“Maisey,” Tony says.
I blink. He’s still holding out the glass of water.
“I thought they were from the funeral. Those people.”
“Doubt it,” he says. “Should have called the cops and had them arrested for trespassing. Drink up. Edna Carlton is asking where you got to. I’m the reconnaissance man.”
“Thank you.” I try to drink, but after two swallows my stomach squirms in disapproval. I set the glass on the counter. “I’ve never been rescued so much in my life.”
“You’ve never been in a mess like this before. I doubt you’ll make it a habit.”
“I’m a little worried, frankly,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You don’t strike me as the damsel-in-distress sort of gal. Shall we?”
I take the arm he offers, then hesitate. “I should check on Dad . . .”
“He’s actually still next door. I was just trying to instill a sense of shame in the lookie-loos.”
Making sure I actually have the key, this time I lock the house door behind us. “How did they know? Those people? About what happened, about my mom?”
Tony sighs. “God. I was hoping you wouldn’t ever know. There was an article in the newspaper. A little lurid in the speculation department, asking questions about your dad’s mental health and talking about the way he kept your mom here.”
“It was downright creepy,” Mia says, coming up the sidewalk to join us. “I know better, having met your dad, and the article still gave me the chills. Whoever that reporter is should have somebody check their freezer for bodies.”
“Mia!” Tony exclaims. “Not. Helpful.”
But it is helpful. Mia’s account takes the sting out of the encounter, helps me put it in perspective. I initiate a hug and she returns it with enthusiasm. “Mom has plans to barge into the newspaper office first thing Monday morning and give somebody a piece of her mind. You can bet your booty it won’t be the calm and rational piece.”
“Mia!” Tony warns again, but by now I’m actually laughing.
“Maybe I’ll go with her,” I say. “Maybe I’ll get Greg to sue them for defamation of character or something.”
“That Edna woman keeps talking about your absence. And some guy just showed up asking about you.”
I sigh. It’s pleasant outside, peaceful with just the three of us. The sun is warming the chill in my bones. But funerals are social events, as much as anything, and the role of grieving daughter belongs to me.
So I take Mia’s hand, and the two of us brave the fortress side by side, Tony behind us as bodyguard. Once again I find myself in Mrs. Carlton’s plastic-covered living room, only this time the game has morphed into something I don’t even recognize.
Dad sits on the couch beside Mrs. Medina. Mrs. Carlton, ramrod straight, her mouth set all prim and prosy, her nose tilted up at an angle that signals disapproval of the highest order, presides from the armchair. And on the love seat, my daughter perches on the edge of her father’s lap, chattering a mile a minute and punctuating every other word with hand gestures.
Greg.
Here.
Impossible.
I stop so short Tony runs into me from behind and grabs my shoulders to steady both of us. Mia looks from me to Greg and back again. Her mouth opens and shuts.
“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t . . .” Her face flushes, and she spins around and bolts out of the room.
Greg dislodges Elle and gets to his feet. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.” His words are directed at me, but his eyes are not. He’s got Tony locked and loaded in his sights.