I see that my art journal is also the map of my day and week. Drawing, doodling in today's case, is a form of meditation. I have pushed myself a bit today to draw more than write. Abigail’s minister delivered fifteen minutes of sorrow tinged with some confused warnings against wasting one’s life that raised more than my eyebrows. A slight murmur rolled among the dozens of heads inclining left and right, as if those of us in the middle and back rows were asking, “Did she commit suicide?” Now, that’s an idea that never occurred to me. How on earth could she have thrown herself against the precise edge of her dining room table? Susan was not visible from where I sat, but Kevin’s profile was in view and it looked quite frozen, as if in shock. Once, he opened his mouth as if to object, but shut it again and slumped back in his seat.
“Does he think she killed herself?” I hissed in Michael’s ear.
He shook his head. “Lifestyle,” he mouthed.
Ah, yes. If there’s one word that epitomizes the generational divide peaking in the mid-1970s, it was lifestyle. Meaningless and therefore useful for all. Abigail’s family minister had appropriated it and charged it with a code that was to mean excess.
She was divorced; she was in debt; she was flying about; and she had been drinking and, in that state, had killed herself. Got it.
“They still keep insisting she was drunk, but she couldn’t have been.”
“That’s what I hear but that’s not what her family believes.”
After the minister came a hymn led by Susan’s husband. People were asked to speak if they wanted to but after five painful minutes of silence, the Patterson’s man stepped forward and invited us all, on Kevin’s behalf, to a reception at the house on 5th Street.
It was here that I realized Kevin and Michael were more than friends. Judith’s husband took over the kitchen as if he owned it, marshaling a trio of Peasant waiters in crisp blue Oxford shirts and black slacks. A traditional spread of ham and sausage biscuits, salads and desserts had been set out in the dining room on an antique table covered in lace. The waiters swam among guests with trays of bite-sized quiches and champagne. I drank one glass and left. There was nothing more to learn and nothing more I could do. The realization made me feel like a fool. Judith, I reflected, had been right about me. Perhaps I could have helped Abigail had I been in the office, but I had not been there and that was not my fault. Now I was just being nosy and intrusive, occupying space belonging to someone who really did care about her. I should go back to Arborgate and do my job while I still had it.
I left without saying goodbye to Kevin but Susan was smoking a cigarette too close to my car to ignore her.
“I’ll call you later this week,” she said. “I still need your help.”
“Really? Judith said you wanted to handle it yourself.”
She blew smoke down the front of her navy wool coat and shook her head. “Not at all. I can’t stand the idea of going through everything. If you could do the kitchen and bathrooms in particular, I’d appreciate it. I’ll pay you.”
All the way up Peachtree Street, I wondered why Judith had told me otherwise.
Was there something beyond Abigail’s involvement with Ken she didn’t want me knowing? What was it and what could I do about it, anyway?
Suddenly, I was sadder than I’d ever been and, with it, a sense of defeat crept through me. In this mood, I turned left on Biscayne and descended to the complex.
Her hands had been folded across her heart, a crystal rosary artistically intertwined between her fingers. Someone had given her nails a pearl-pink manicure. Touching her cold skin briefly (was it warmer than when I’d last touched it last Thursday?) and turned away, heading for an alcove from which I could gather my wits and watch.
I don’t know why I felt so self-conscious except that, at 23, I still retained many adolescent ideas. The notion that I was under constant scrutiny was one of them.
Nor was I completely wrong. Abigail’s Belle Vue neighbor, Rick, had walked in and was staring at me, his eyes glassy with tears held in check. I nodded and turned away, walking down a short hall thinking to find a ladies room. Instead I ran smack into Michael Fish, Judith’s husband.
“Michael,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
It took him a minute to recognize me. Even then, he did not place me at Arborgate, but, rather, as Kevin’s dinner companion.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Nora Cahill,” I said. “We met the other night at the Peasant and-”
“Of course, Kevin’s new friend.” He offered his hand and I took it in a brief handshake.
“Yes,” I said, warmed by the designation. “But I also work for your wife.”
“Judith?”
I laughed nervously, biting back an impulse to ask how many wives he had.
“Yes, at Arborgate.”
“Oh. Oh! You’re the one who found her.” His body turned slightly toward the coffin. We both glanced into the viewing room, catching Kevin’s eye. He smiled slightly and gave a gesture. If he’d had a glass in his hand, it might have been a toast. As it was, he simply waved slightly and smiled as if glad to see us together. His lips moved, mouthing words I could not understand.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Michael.
“Take care?” he said. “I’m not sure. Well, let’s get a seat. They should be starting by now.”
“There’s a lot more people here than I would have thought,” I whispered as we brushed past a covey of uniformed Delta flight attendants. I wonder if they’re like cops and send representatives when one of their own go down.”
“She didn’t die in a plane crash,” he said. “But you may be right.”
“There’s a guy from her last apartment,” I said, pointing to Rick. “I think he had feelings for her.”
“Is he the one she was seeing at Arborgate?”
“No. We think that was the new owner.”
“Ken Eberhard?” He whistled thoughtfully. “That’s interesting.”
“Why? Because he’s married?”
“Well, that doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s been seeing a lot of Judith. You know we’re separated, I guess.”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s amicable. But I don’t like Ken much.”
“Jealous?”
“Proprietorial, probably. I’m a dog in the manger. Seriously, I’m the only one who worries about Judith. Everyone thinks she’s so together.”
“You’re right. I sure do.”
“Of course, compared to you, she is.”
“Hey!”
“I mean, she’s older and a mother. She’s very in charge but she’s hasn’t always been. That’s all I’m saying. In another ten years, you’ll be just like her.”
“But what is that? Competent on the outside and a marshmallow inside?”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just that I know her vulnerabilities. I’m afraid Ken might know them,too. I’m not so sure I trust him with her. He strikes me as a predatory kind of guy.”
“He certainly seems to go after what he wants.”
“Exactly.”
“But I think he just wants Judith to work with him. She’s smart and ambitious.”
“She is that. But what about Abigail? From what Kevin tells me, she was a bit of a loose cannon.”
“What does that mean?”
“That she didn’t really know what she wanted but would get all fired up anyway. She was impulsive, he said.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“Not at all. Kevin talks about her, that’s all.”
“Are you guys good friends?” I asked, but before he could answer, strains of organ music hushed us all and the service began.
