She’d been ill for some time. A mud-malaise of the spirit.
She’d returned to the archive—now grandly and bravely retitled Life/Death/Life of Augustus Voorhees, MD.
Or maybe less formally—Life/Death/Life of Gus Voorhees.
Life/Death/Life of My Father Gus Voorhees.
Life/Death/Life of My Dad Gus Voorhees.
She’d considered (not seriously: desperately) marrying a young biology post-doc at the U-M medical school from Ceylon whose mother was an American epidemiologist and whose father was a Ceylonese pharmaceutical executive—their feeling for each other had been intense, but short-lived.
She’d considered dropping out of college. Or, deferring college.
She’d considered transferring to Bennington. (Was this even possible? Bennington College was a private college, reputedly very expensive. The University of Michigan was a state university, with tuition and costs kept reasonably low for residents of the state.)
She’d considered—well, it was not serious enough, it was not minutely imagined enough, to merit the word “consider”—killing herself, from time to time.
(Except: her father would have been devastated if he knew. Worse than devastated, disapproving. What’s my little worrywart done to herself? Sweetie, no! And so, suicide was out of the question.)
She’d returned again to the archive . . . She’d amassed so much material, she could not give up; yet, so much material amassed, she could not bring herself to assess it, even to catalogue it. At the same time she knew that more was needed for a fuller portrait of Gus Voorhees. Much more.
Out of nowhere, then: the invitation to visit Madelena Kein.
Please understand: I will not be “interviewed.” I will speak to you—you will not question me.
There are some things I wish to tell you (that were not secrets from Gus, he knew of them). These are spare, sparse truths—but crucial.
Your visit with me will be more than just this subject, I hope!
It had been seven years—more than seven years—since Naomi had seen Madelena, at her father’s funeral. At the time she’d had only a confused glimpse of the woman, stylish black clothes, silver hair obscured by a black hat with a curving brim, skin very white, stern and dry-eyed amid the gathering of mourners of whom many were vocal and emotional.
Naomi recalled the surprise, disapproval—that, soon after the funeral, Madelena had left Ann Arbor. She’d made no arrangements to stay overnight. She’d declined invitations to stay with Jenna or with Gus’s friends. She’d been coolly courteous with her ex-husband Clement—of course she’d declined his and Adele’s invitation to stay with them for a few days in Birmingham, an hour’s drive from Ann Arbor.
She’d spent some time with Jenna. Not in public but in private.
What had they talked about? Naomi wondered.
Jenna would have been very reticent. Confronted with stronger personalities like Madelena, more willful and dominant individuals like her husband, Jenna often lapsed into silence.
Naomi couldn’t recall Madelena speaking with her, Darren, or Melissa at the funeral or at the reception afterward. Probably she’d avoided the children of the deceased stunned and stricken like young zombies.
For what is there to say to children whose father has been murdered? Even if they are your grandchildren? Other adults had tried, clumsily. But not Madelena Kein.
But Naomi’s grandmother had not ceased to be aware of Naomi altogether.
At Kennedy Airport Naomi had been greeted at the baggage claim by a uniformed limousine driver bearing a white cardboard sign—NAOMI VOORHEES. Madelena had insisted upon hiring a car for her, as she’d insisted upon paying for Naomi’s airline tickets.
Naomi was touched. She was made to feel privileged, cherished. She had never seen her name so conspicuously displayed.
In Ann Arbor she was highly conscious of her name. It seemed to her a beautiful name, and a significant name—Voorhees, at least. But there was relief to assume that, in New York City, the name would mean nothing.
It was winter break at the university. She’d told no one where she was going. She had not told her Voorhees grandparents in Birmingham knowing that they would disapprove, or feel hurt, subtly insulted—thinking that after they’d been so generous with Naomi, as with their other grandchildren, had done so much for her, her allegiance should be to them, and not with the selfish “career” woman who’d scorned the role of grandparent.
Her Matheson grandparents, in Evanston, Illinois, were not much in her life any longer. She wondered how often they saw Jenna, or rather how often Jenna chose to see them.
Of course she had not told Jenna. Since the disastrous telephone call of the previous March the two had not spoken.