*
The cars kept streaming in after the service began, even though it had started a little late. They scrambled to set out extra chairs to fit people in, but there weren’t enough for everyone. People leaned along the far rail of the deck. They squeezed in the doorway of the living room. They spilled out onto the lawn. And still the cars came, their headlights cutting across the dimming sky. They parked far down the driveway and on Quail Run, their tires tilted in the drainage ditch. In the waning sunlight, they walked toward the orchard, toward the twinkle lights that beckoned from the deck, toward the trees that sighed in the breeze.
Father Tom said, “We come here today to remember Jess Winters. We come to say good-bye to one of our own. We come to comfort her family in this time of sorrow. Let us pray.”
Maud bowed her head but didn’t close her eyes. She wasn’t Catholic, or even religious, but Father Tom had assured her there wouldn’t be a mass. Just a gathering, he’d said. A few words.
She watched the cars and the people with their eyes closed. All those old familiar faces. Literally old now, some of them. There were her parents, sitting next to her, her mother more shrunken, her father hollow in the cheek. On her other side was her ex-husband Stuart—alone, his wife and now-college-age daughter in California—his jowly chin shaved clean though she’d never seen him without a beard before. There were Esther and Beto Navarro and Luz Navarro, there were Angie Juarez and Rose Prentiss and their girl Hazel, there were Iris and Paul and little Sean, Rachel and Hugh. There was Laura Drennan, the young professor. There was Gil Alvarez, who caught her eye and nodded with a small smile. There was the woman on Bottlebrush with the metal sculpture in her yard, the butcher at Bashas’, the woman who ran the snack shack at the ball field. People she hadn’t seen in years, people she’d forgotten, people she knew by heart.
Maud looked at her hands folded in her lap. This was for them, too. Jess Winters was her daughter, but she was theirs, too. She was bigger than herself by then, more than a girl who Maud had once cradled in her arms. Jess Winters was their story, as much a part of Sycamore as the land itself, as the land that had swallowed her whole. Jess Winters was their worst fear come true (look what can happen, in an instant). Jess Winters was their ghost. Jess Winters was their metaphor: loss, secrets, guilt, failure, embedded in one shining, curly-haired girl.
But she was Maud’s daughter, and hers alone to bury.
And she would. But not here.
After the service, Maud stood at the railing next to Stuart and shook people’s hands. Good night. Thank you for coming. I appreciate it. Retiring, yes, I can hardly believe it myself. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do. You’re right, a vacation would be nice. Thank you. It was good to see you, too. Good night. She was on autopilot now. The hard part was almost done. The hardest part was next. Of course, it would never really be over. Not exactly, in the way that sometimes she dreamed she could hear out of her left ear, that she still had all her senses. When she woke, she had to start all over again. You cannot hear, old girl.
You cannot see her anymore.
But the service was over, and she was home, with four stacks of Tupperware trays and a freezer packed with casserole dishes, and a mailbox and desk full of sympathy cards. Her mailbox overflowed these days. So many letters and cards and padded envelopes, her box stuffed because some days she forgot to check. She had no reason to check anymore.
The doorbell rang, and she thought about not answering, but then she saw the police cruiser out front. Gil Alvarez.
She opened the door. “Gil. Is everything okay? Come in.”
“No, that’s all right. I don’t want to bother you.”
“Did you need something?”
“Nope, no. Don’t want to keep you. Just wanted to stop by and check on you.” He gave a wry smile. “Old habits, I suppose.”
“Thanks.” She shook her head. “Thank you for all you did. For trying to find her. I’m not sure I’ve ever really thanked you.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Maud. You know I am.” He raked his hair with his fingers, the way he always did.
She flapped her hand at the living room. “Do you want to come in? Really.”
“Not tonight. But maybe another time.”
“Sure. That’d be nice.”
“If you need anything.” He held his hand out.
She shook his hand. As she did, he reached out with his other hand and covered hers. A warm, reassuring pressure. He let go, nodded, and then walked down her driveway. She stood in the doorway, staring at the street after he’d driven off.
She picked up the phone and called Esther. “Can you come over?” Her voice came out low and shaky.
“Oh, Maud. I’m on my way.”
Maud hung up and sat down hard on the sofa. She retired to the sofa, she thought with a laugh. Retirement. She had two months left at the post office, and it was true, she really didn’t know what she was going to do now. She needed a plan. This—eating too much, staring out the window—could not be her plan. She owned this house outright and had a good pension. Her parents wanted her to move home. Come home, they said, hugging her. Stay with us awhile till you get on your feet. But that was not home. This was home now, whether she’d planned it or not.
And she hadn’t planned it. She’d been flying high on anger at Stuart and grief and a sudden gaping freedom that seemed to have cut out a vital organ—her brain, maybe, because she sure hadn’t been thinking straight. She’d accepted the transfer to the Sycamore post office, packed up her house, packed up her only daughter, and fled. To the safe haven of a small town in northern Arizona. A safe place, she’d thought, for now. She’d thought, This is temporary. I’ll figure it out. This is just for now.
The endless now.
Here she was, facing her future, whether she wanted to or not.