I could not remember a time in my entire adult life that my father had spoken to me that way. He had always had my back. His disapproval made my confidence wither a little. I hated it that he couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to bring himself to see things my way. In fact, I had a very strong suspicion that he believed there really was something sexual going on between Eve and me. He should have heard how I turned Eve down. I could have had her panties off in no time. I just really wasn’t interested in doing it. The timing was all wrong. Now, if Eliza wanted to play the wronged woman to the hilt, we’d see. If Eliza wants to do something crazy like file for divorce, I might give Eve a whirl. But it wasn’t likely that Eliza would be so rash. She had always been reasonable, except on a few topics I don’t like to think about.
Go to Corfu? For what? I didn’t have the time for drama. No, I knew Eliza. It was better to let her live her dream. She’d be home in a few days, and if we still had issues to settle we would settle them like civilized adults, the same way we always did. I’d show her where she went wrong and she’d agree and we’d be okay again. That’s how a marriage is supposed to work. I’d forgive her for taking off and then we’d have a nice dinner. And then we’d have an epic night in the sack. Yeah, I was especially looking forward to that part.
Well, I’m sorry to report that that’s not exactly how it worked out. Two weeks went by and I still hadn’t heard a word from her. I know, I know. I could have e-mailed her, but I was plenty pissed. I could stonewall too. What was she thinking? This was lunacy! Did she think she could just walk out on me and our family and resume living in another country? And then something terrible happened. Clarabeth tripped over the hem of her nightgown or bathrobe—it was unclear—and she fell down the long flight of steps in her entrance hall and broke her neck. She was carrying a tray of breakfast dishes because she liked to have her breakfast in bed. Dad called me right away.
“There’s been a terrible accident!” he said. “Clarabeth fell down the stairs!”
“Call 911, Dad! I’ll be there as fast as I can! Stay calm! Is she conscious?”
“No. I think she might be . . . God, I can’t bring myself to say it.”
“Don’t touch her, Dad. If it’s a neck injury, you might do her more harm. I’m in my car. Just hang on for a few minutes.”
I raced there from Summerville, and for once traffic was with me. I got there in time to see a fire truck, an ambulance, and two patrol cars, with the lights spinning and doors left open. I moved through the crowd just as Clarabeth was being taken away with a sheet over her head. My poor father was sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands, weeping. I sat down next to him, put my arm around his shoulder, and gave him a good squeeze.
“It’s gonna be okay, Dad.”
“I know, I know, but I blame myself. I told her I’d bring the dishes down and she insisted on doing it herself. I was in the bathroom shaving and I heard this horrible crashing sound and a thud and then silence. The most awful silence I have ever heard. Oh, God, I feel so terrible about this. I wouldn’t have hurt a hair on her head, much less be the cause of her death! Oh, my God! What have I done?”
“Nothing, Dad.”
“She had to wear those crazy slippers with all that marabou! I told her they were dangerous.”
I could not and did not want to envision Clarabeth in chiffon and marabou. It hurt my brain. And where the hell was Eliza when I needed her? What would she have done if she was here?
“She loved being glamorous. You know that. And Dad, her accident was not your fault; it was her time. That’s all. Come on now. Let’s call Cookie and tell her what’s happened. She’ll want to know right away.”
So, he made the call to Cookie, who called Eve, who called Daphne, who called Carl. I called my boys, and then there was the matter of notifying Eliza. I wrote her an e-mail.
Eliza, Clarabeth has passed away. Dad is bereft. Funeral is Friday. Please come home.
Twenty-four hours later she was walking through the door. When she didn’t find me at the house, she’d called Dad. Not me. Dad. Dad, Cookie, and I were at Dad’s house for dinner.
“Your car is parked in your garage,” Dad said to her, and he said something more I didn’t hear and then hung up. “She’s coming over.”
“Fine,” I said. “It will be good to see her, I hope.”
“Listen to your old man. Put a smile on your face and be nice to her. I don’t care how much you try to convince yourself that she’s in the wrong, she’s not. You are. And if you don’t want to lose her forever, stop acting like this.”
“Let’s see how she acts too.”
“Yeah, boy. Is that clear conscience keeping you warm at night?”
I didn’t answer him.
“Your clear conscience is going to bite you in the ass,” he said.
I didn’t answer that either.
We were in his den. I was watching the Golf Channel. Dad was reading the paper and considering a nap in the recliner. He was miserable, trying not to cry. What good would tears do?
“So, Dad? What exactly are the plans for a funeral?” I said.
“Not going to be one,” he said. “I’ll tell you all during supper.”
“Okay,” I said.
Dad was clearly very unhappy and there was no reason to press him for details then.
Cookie was in the kitchen, also miserable. She was putting supper together and weeping for her lost friend. And I was avoiding her as much as possible. I had enough trouble on my hands thanks to her.
I decided to take a middle road with Eliza and pretend that everything between us was, as my boys used to say when they were little, hunky-dory. Max and Luke were coming in late that night, both of them driving. I didn’t know if they had clean sheets on their beds and I didn’t think they would care if they had them anyway. Eliza had always seen to that kind of thing.
Eve and Carl were bringing Daphne down Thursday. Whatever the plans were to lay Clarabeth to rest, we would all go along with them. Anyway, we had more than enough food to get us all through the weekend, and on top of everything else, Cookie made a trip to Harris Teeter for soft drinks and other groceries. Nobody was going hungry. Clarabeth was barely cold, and as expected, Cookie was at the helm. The thought of Cookie making serious moves on my father sent a chill up my spine. I could possibly have that horror show of a woman in my life at every turn instead of once a year at Wild Dunes, which I imagined was canceled anyway until further notice.
Dad was struggling to hide his emotions but doing okay, all things considered. He was still weepy now and then. When something would get to him, some memory of something or when he noticed an object she treasured, he would break down. That’s why I was there—to offer sympathy and to give him a shoulder. I think the abrupt circumstances of her death made everything harder to handle. It had to have been traumatic for him to hear her falling and then to see her lying there motionless at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t imagine the pumping adrenaline rush and the surge of panic he must have felt. He was lucky he hadn’t given himself a massive stroke.