chapter Ten
Gently, I lower his head to the floor while everyone else remains frozen in their seats. Jayne begins to cry while Mama falls to her knees next to us.
“Call an ambulance!” No one moves. “Do it, dammit! Aaron, get over here!”
He’s ATF, so he should know CPR or First Aid or whatever the hell needs to happen next. Uncle Robert’s eyes are closed and a trail of spit trickles from the corner of his mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve then lean down to check if he’s breathing. I can’t tell over my own panting. Aaron kneels next to me, adjusts Uncle Robert’s head, and puts his ear to his mouth, his eyes trained on the stillness of the old man’s chest. Aaron’s lips form a grim line while his fingers probe for a pulse.
He must not find one because he folds one hand over the other and begins pumping on Uncle Robert’s chest. Every so often, Aaron stops to force air into his lungs. I wait a goddamn eternity before he gently places Uncle Robert’s hand back on his chest and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. The next few minutes pass by in a blur. There’s noise and confusion, Mama’s cries and the children’s sniffling. Christie and Tiffany shepherd their kids into the front room while I hold my uncle’s head in my lap, watching the color drain from his cheeks and his muscles go slack.
I refuse to give up. “Call a goddamned ambulance! Aaron, keep doing CPR. Or tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”
“Isaac,” he says in that tone of voice usually reserved for children. “He’s gone.”
“No. It’s just another stroke. He’ll recover.” Aaron places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes before standing. I tear my gaze away from Uncle Robert’s face to look up into the ones of my remaining family. They reflect the horror that’s creeping along the hairs on my arms and neck, but unlike me, they seem resigned.
Both hands are in my hair while I try to memorize every last detail about this man who might as well be my father. As usual, his gray hair is neatly parted and combed with a single lock falling over his wrinkled forehead. Round glasses perch on his nose, but his lips are different. So many wise words have come from them over the years, words of encouragement, advice, even well-deserved reprimands, but now they’re blue.
His chest doesn’t rise and fall under his widower-stale button-down shirt and signature sweater vest. As usual they don’t match, but that’s part of his charm. With a kind heart and warm wit like his, nothing else matters. Seeing his slender piano fingers neatly resting on his chest is the last straw. I grab his hand and press it to my lips. The wedding band he refused to remove is still warm, though his skin is not. Something inside me breaks loose.
I reach over to push his hair off his forehead when memories flood my head. I welcome them because they deaden the searing pain that threatens to take over if I acknowledge what’s happening—what’s already happened. Strong arms try to lift me up, but I shake them off. I am not leaving him alone. Another hand tries to move me but I turn and nearly punch Aaron, but it’s not Aaron. It’s some guy I’ve never seen before in a uniform. Next to him is a lady in the same uniform. Paramedics. When did they get here? It’s about damn time.
“He’s going to need his cane,” I tell him. “Where’s his cane?”
I let them near Uncle Robert, but I refuse to let go of this hand. Even when they lift him onto the gurney and place a sheet over his body and face, I don’t let go.
“Sir, we need to put him in the truck now.” I hear the words, but they don’t compute. Silently, I follow them out the door and across the driveway to the waiting ambulance. They lift him into the back and, despite their protests, I hoist myself in after. The lady gives me a sad smile when she shuts us in and takes her seat up front with the driver.
The ride to the hospital is silent—no sirens, no flashing lights, no screeching tires while dodging traffic. Just the quiet hum of the tires and faint crackles from the radio up front. I’d thought about committing Heather to the fifth floor at Mobile Infirmary. Didn’t think I’d be headed there so soon for a completely different reason. I pull back the sheet from Uncle Robert’s face and lay my palm against his cheek.
You can’t go. I have so much to tell you and I need your help. Can’t do this without you.
At four forty-six on a sunny May afternoon, Uncle Robert Cline is pronounced dead.
***
Too many hours later, I’m covered in Mama’s tears as I pull into my driveway. Heather’s car is in my space. Briefly, I consider just ramming it out of the way. Inside, the house is dark and I stumble over something large in the foyer. Once my eyes adjust, I see it’s a suitcase. Quiet crying filters down the staircase, making the hairs on my arm stand up. Sounds like someone else is hurting, too.
She’s curled up in the fetal position on my bed, clutching the sheet to her mouth. I slide in behind her and pull her close. She fits perfectly. I don’t ask questions, I’m just too drained. Eventually she stops crying and her warmth seeps into me until I drift off.
We wake to my alarm. It’s Monday. Shit.
I place a phone call without waking her. “Herman? Yeah, I won’t be in today. Need the whole week off. I know, sorry, but there’s been a death in the family. Need to take care of business. Yeah, thanks. Bye.”
I hang up and pinch my eyes shut.
“Isaac?” I open them and find Heather’s swollen lavender ones gazing back. “Who?” The concern on her face tears open a hole. My brain still refuses to believe it and my mouth won’t form the words. Surely yesterday was just a bad dream.
“Your mama?” I shake my head. “Oh, no. Mr. Cline?” Instead of answering, I bury my face in her hair. She turns in my arms and holds me close, her soft hands a balm on my back. “Do you want to talk about it?” Again, I shake my head. “So sorry, Isaac. I know how close you were. I don’t have to be at work today, so I’ll stay here with you as long as you need me.”
I pull her in until we’re as close as two separate bodies can be. People talk about experiencing loss as painful, numbing, and sometimes even cathartic. What’s happening at this moment isn’t so much a feeling as an experience. It’s as if I’m being suspended in time while the whole world keeps moving around me. I’m strung from the ceiling, floating in another dimension’s air, charged with both panic and nothingness. The only thing keeping me on this plane is Heather’s warmth and her uncanny ability to predict exactly what I need.
But I’m not the only one hurting. “Things didn’t go well at home?”
Heather sniffs. “You could say that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.” We stay like that until our stomachs rumble.
Face to face, each on our own pillows, she says, “Let me fix you breakfast.”
“I’ll help,” I tell her.
“Okay.”
Neither of us moves, not willing to break the connection that’s forming as we stare into each other’s bloodshot eyes. I search her face before leaning in to kiss away the worry etched there. She kisses back, but it’s not the frantic, animal tongue-lashing I’ve grown accustomed to. This is soft, slow, and even a little timid. My hand finds her smooth cheek and I deepen the kiss. She responds by pressing herself into me, but again, she’s not aggressive. It’s almost like she needs me—needs me as much as I’ve needed her these past few weeks. Don’t see it ending anytime soon.
Never been very good with words, so I try to show her through actions. Instead of tugging her hair, I gently run my fingers through it, savoring the way the light plays on the golden strands. Instead of roughly grabbing her hips and leaving red marks, my hands skim up and down her curves gently enough to make her shiver.
“Don’t cry,” I whisper, but a tear makes its way down her cheek just the same. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, okay?”
She nods then kisses me again.
We make love.
And it’s beautiful.
Afterward, she says, “They’re divorcing. Daddy moved out.”
“I’m sorry. I need to go to the funeral home today, but we’ll get your stuff and get you safe. The room next to mine is in decent shape, but there’s no bed, so…” I squeeze her tighter and that elicits a smile, so I kiss the top of her head. She snuggles closer.
“Isaac, this divorce…it’s going to get ugly. There are things no one knows. I appreciate your letting me move in, but I want to be honest with you so you know what you’re getting yourself into. Why are you laughing?”
“Because, sweet pea, I could say the same thing to you, except you already know all my dirty laundry.” Instead of agreeing, she’s quiet. “That bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Worse than your mama groping your seventeen-year-old boyfriend?”
“Not to downplay what you went through, but it’s like comparing apples and oranges. My mama’s people…they weren’t—aren’t—good folks.”
“Let me guess, she was abused as a little girl and that’s why she went after me.”
“No, nothing like that, at least not that I know of. Listen, I’ll tell you everything soon, but it’s going to take a while and you’ve got enough to deal with today. I packed enough stuff for a few days. If you don’t mind me sleeping in your bed–”
“Sure don’t.”
“Then I’ll get the rest of my stuff later. We’ll need to set some rules.”
“Rules?”
“You know, like who pays for what. Household chores. That kind of thing.”
“Does your mind ever stop racing?”
“Never.”
“You do enough thinking for the both of us.”
“And I’m thinking we better get up. I’m starving and we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
“We?”
“I’m going with you to the funeral home. There’s no way you’re facing this alone.”
“That’s–that’s really sweet of you, but you think it’s a good idea?”
“Look, I always liked your mama and I loved Mr. Cline. Wasn’t crazy about your sisters, but we can all be adults, right? Would they have a problem with me? Because I don’t have a problem with them.”
I shake my head in amazement. “No, don’t see how they could have a problem with you. Your mama, yes. You? No. Come here.” I squeeze her again, and marvel at how much tenacity can reside in such a small package. “You wash my back, I’ll wash yours?”
“You’re on, big guy.”
An hour later we’re on our way to Dotson Funeral Home in midtown. Mama is already there and sporting a red face. The color deepens when she spots Heather, but she quickly puts in place a mask of Southern manners. It slips a bit when Heather takes both her hands and does one of those fake girl kisses on the cheek.
“Ms. Laroche, I am so sorry to hear of your brother’s passing. He was a dear man. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
Mama either has something in her eye or she’s not sure how to take Heather’s kindness. “Thank you, dear. Isaac, there are some things they need to discuss with us concerning Robert’s wishes.”
“Of course, Mama. Heather–”
A short man in his sixties saunters over with his hand extended and a sour expression pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Digger Dotson,” he says. “Please, follow me.”
Mama and I fall into step behind him while Heather executes an awkward wave and settles into one of the overstuffed chairs in the foyer.
Mr. Dotson’s office reminds me of a picture I once saw of Mark Twain’s billiard room—dark, lots of leather and books, with a blue haze that obviously comes from the impressive selection of cigars displayed on his desk next to an antique humidor featuring a Confederate flag. This is a place and a man forgotten by political correctness.
He motions to the two chairs in front of his desk while taking a seat behind it. Manicured fingers drum on a manila folder with Uncle Robert’s name handwritten on the tab.
“First,” he says, “I am very sorry for your loss. If you have any questions or need some time, please just speak up. Now, I’d like to start by going over the basics. Ms. Laroche, you are and have always been Robert’s power of attorney. However, Isaac, you are listed as secondary if your mama isn’t able to carry out the duties.”
This is news to me. Mr. Dotson continues. “Robert preplanned his funeral, so all the arrangements have been made and paid for, except for a few minor details. His casket has been chosen, he’s selected readings and music for the funeral, and of course he will share the dual headstone he selected when Angela passed away.”
Mama sniffs while he opens the manila folder and flips through a few papers. “The only real decisions you need to make,” he says, “are what he’ll wear, what kind of flowers you want, and who will speak at the funeral. Robert left a sizable allowance for incidentals in his discretionary fund.”
I squeeze Mama’s hand, but she continues to stare out the window. I’m not sure she’s heard a word that’s been said. “We’ll get one of his suits to you as soon as possible,” I tell him. “As for flowers, I think a few simple arrangements will be fine. Something white, maybe magnolias. The rest of the money we’ll donate to the Mobile Music Teachers Association. I’d also like that in the obituary, that people should donate in his name in lieu of flowers.”
Mr. Dotson grunts in approval and scribbles a note. “That okay with you, Ms. Laroche?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. Wonderful idea, Isaac.”
“Now, y’all know who you want as pallbearers? You’ll need six, if possible.”
I begin mentally checking off names: me, my two brothers-in-law… The rest of our family consists of either old men or little boys, neither of whom are capable of lifting a casket. I could call my friend Conrad in Boston and see if he’d be willing to come down, and then there’s…Dave. It would mean the world to me if he could be there, but it’s not an option.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.
“Very good. You’ll need a couple of people to read at the funeral, and someone to give the eulogy.”
Mama’s face lights up. “Oh, Isaac, you should do it. You were closest to him.”
She’s got to be joking. “You do realize I’m a terrible speaker? Also, I got kicked out of that church.”
“You did not, and I know you don’t like to speak but it would mean so much to me and I know Robert would love it, too.”
Oh, hell, I can’t refuse her when she plays the guilt card. “Fine.”
“Alrighty then, any other questions?” Mr. Dotson shuffles the papers back into the folder.
“When do you need the suit?”
“Tomorrow morning would be fine. That will give us plenty of time before the visitation Wednesday and the funeral Thursday.”
“Sounds good.” I take Mama’s arm and guide her out of the office.
“Oh,” she says, turning to me. “Do you still have your spare key? I can’t bear to go over there right now. Will you pick out his suit? The gray one, I think.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do it right now.”
“That reminds me. Robert’s lawyer called and said he needed to meet with you.”
“Can it wait?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine, I’ll stop by there, too.” Instead of answering, she deflates and buries her face in my shoulder. I know what she’s thinking. It’s the same thing I’ve been mulling over since yesterday, that it was either a great coincidence or Uncle Robert held on until he saw our family brought together again. If it was the latter, I’m even more grateful to him.
Mama places her hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead. “Love you, son.”
“Love you, too, Mama.”
Heather gets little more than a small wave as Mama shuffles out the door with her hankie pressed to her nose.
“Sorry, she doesn’t mean to be rude.”
“No worries, I understand,” Heather says. “You doing okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Lots to do, though.”
She takes my arm. “Where to next?”
“Lawyer’s, then to Uncle Robert’s to pick out a suit.”
“Until you send me away, I’m coming with.” A shy, reassuring smile curves her lips upward. I suddenly have the urge to kiss her, right here in public. So I do.
“What was that for?” she asks.
“For being you and for being here. Thanks.”
“That’s what friends do, Isaac.”
Friends. I mull over that word during the silent drive over to the lawyer’s office downtown. It’s located in a posh all-glass building near the bay. I give my name to the receptionist and wait while she buzzes Mr. Duncan. Thirty seconds later, a gentleman in his fifties claps me on the shoulder and shakes my hand. He reeks of cigarette smoke, but his firm grip and kind expression make up for it. The fact that he’s packing heat is also not lost on me.
Peering over the top of his glasses, he says, “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances. My sympathy to you and your family during this difficult time. Robert was a friend as well as a client.” He extends an arm and I enter his office. When I glance back, I catch him eyeing Heather’s ass while he follows us in. I grit my teeth. “I know you’ve got a lot going on over the next few days so I’ll make this as quick as possible. I’m assuming you don’t mind discussing private legal matters in front of…?”
“Miss Swann, and no. Please continue.”
“Okay, then. There will be a formal reading of the will at a later date, but I wanted you to know that Robert was very clear. After all his debts are paid—of which there are few other than taxes—everything he owns goes to you. This includes his house, its contents, his car, and most of his financial investments.”
You always hear about people’s jaws dropping open. Figured it was an exaggeration until this moment. “I–I had no idea” is my lame response.
“There is one caveat, however,” he says, setting down his glasses.
“Okay.”
“Should you decide to sell the house, all profits must be used as a down payment on another house for you. The contents, however, you are welcome to do with as you choose. Sell them, keep them, auction them, whatever.”
I shake my head. “Even the piano?”
“There’s no specific mention of a piano in the will.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it. There will be a pile of paperwork for you to sign, but it can wait until after the funeral. I wanted to tell you beforehand so you’d have time to think about what you want to do, and talk things over with your family. These are touchy times and often bring out the best and worst in people, depending.”
Great. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Sure thing. Here’s my card if you have any questions. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ve known Robert the better part of two decades and he’ll be missed by the entire community.”
When we leave, I hover behind Heather so the dirty old man can’t ogle her assets again.
“Want me to drive?” she asks.
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re pale and you haven’t stopped shaking since he said the word caveat.”
“No, I’m good. Let’s get this over with.”
“Give me the damn keys, Isaac. Don’t make me bust out the crazy again.”
Despite my morbid mission, a smile works loose. “Kinda liked the crazy…”
“That’s not what you need right now,” she says, and plants one hand on her hip while holding out the other for my keys.
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
Two blocks from Uncle Robert’s house, she shifts in the driver’s seat. “So, you liked the crazy?”
“Once I figured out you’re not actually crazy.”
“Hmm.” She guides the car into Uncle Robert’s driveway, tires crunching on the crushed oyster shells that have always lined the path. The house is modest and comfortable, a one-story, two-bedroom Creole cottage in midtown, but it contains more memories than any structure has a right to. I swallow down a lump at the thought of crossing the threshold without the old man to greet me on the other side.
Heather squeezes my hand. “You want me to stay here or…?”
“Come with me?”
“Okay.”