Bury Your Dead

She’d tried to like him, for Dominique’s sake, but it was a losing battle.

 

“I remember, my first word was ‘poo,’ ” she said to The Wife, who was looking at Marc, perplexed.

 

“Poo?” asked Myrna, jumping into the awkward silence. “Should I ask?”

 

Clara laughed. “I was trying to say ‘puppy.’ Came out as ‘poo.’ Then it became my nickname, everyone called me that for years. My father still does, sometimes. Did your father have a nickname for you, growing up?” Clara asked Marc, trying to break some of the tension.

 

“He was never around. Then he took off and that was that. So, no.”

 

The tension in the room rose.

 

“And now, it seems he’s found another family.” Marc stared at The Wife.

 

So that was it, thought Clara. Jealousy.

 

The Wife stared at Marc and Clara could see a flush spreading up her neck. Marc smiled, turned on his heels, and left.

 

“I’m sorry—” Dominique started to say to The Wife.

 

“It’s all right, he has a point actually. Old worships your father-in-law. I think he sees him as a sort of surrogate grandfather for Charles.”

 

“His own father doesn’t visit?”

 

“No. He died when Old was a teenager.”

 

“Must have been a fairly young man when he died,” said Myrna. “An accident?”

 

“He walked out onto the river one spring. The ice wasn’t as solid as he thought.”

 

She left it at that and it was far enough. Everyone in the room knew what must have happened. The cracking underfoot, the web of lines, the man looking down. Stopping. Standing still.

 

How far away the shore must seem when you’re on thin ice.

 

“Did they ever find him?” Myrna asked.

 

The Wife shook her head. “I think that’s the worst. Old’s mother’s still waiting for him.”

 

“Oh, God,” moaned Clara.

 

“Does Old?” Myrna asked.

 

“Think he’s still alive? No, thank God, but he doesn’t think it was an accident.”

 

Neither did Clara. It sounded deliberate to her. Everyone knew that walking on ice in spring was courting death.

 

And sure enough, the ice had broken under the father, as he knew it would, but his son had also lost his footing that day. And Vincent Gilbert had righted him. The Asshole Saint had stepped in and was helping Charlie, and helping Old. But at what cost?

 

Was that what she’d heard a few minutes ago in Marc Gilbert’s voice? Not sarcasm, but a small crack?

 

“What about you Clara?” Dominique asked, pouring more tea. “Are your parents still alive?”

 

“My father is. My mother died a few years ago.”

 

“Do you miss her?”

 

There was a question, thought Clara. Do I miss her?

 

“At times. She had Alzheimer’s at the end.” Seeing their faces she hurried to reassure them. “No, no. Strangely enough the last few years were some of our best.”

 

“When she was demented?” asked Dominique. “I begin to see why they called you Poo.”

 

Clara laughed. “It was actually a bit of a miracle. She forgot everything, her address, her sisters. She forgot Dad, she even forgot us. But she also forgot to be angry. It was wonderful,” Clara smiled. “Such a relief. She couldn’t remember her long list of grievances. She actually became a delightful person.”

 

She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. It was a trade-off Clara was happy to accept.

 

The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they’d read.

 

They mothered each other. And by lunch they were ready to meet the winter’s day. As Clara walked home, scone crumbs in her hair, the taste of chamomile on her lips, she thought of Old’s father, frozen in time. And the look on Marc Gilbert’s face as the crack had appeared.