The Collective(53)

We had a funeral here of our own, for Emily’s goldfish JubJub. It was close to fifteen years ago. But when I kneel beside the rock and brush the light layer of snow away with my glove, the grave marker is still there—a J formed from seashells we picked up from Shelter Island, stuck into the earth by Emily, Matt, and me.

So much has changed since then, so many things caving in and crumbling and falling apart. Yet the universe has chosen to leave a goldfish’s grave unmarred. I run my fingers over the dull shells, remembering the little wooden box Matt had made for JubJub’s body, the prayer Emily wrote on construction paper to bury along with him:

PLEASE BLESS THIS FISH.

I was the gravedigger—a job that I took seriously. When planting bulbs, you want to dig a hole that’s twice as deep as the bulb is tall, but I figured a fish in a wooden box should be buried much deeper than that, to keep it safe from stray cats and forest creatures. I took my garden spade up here early and started digging, so that by the time Emily and Matt arrived, I’d made a hole that was wide enough for a shoebox and four times too deep for an amaryllis. After we buried the late JubJub and paid our respects, we pressed the shells into the moist earth—a sweet, sad family activity. Now God knows where we put him, Emily had said.

Last year, after Joan died, I bought a shotgun from the Walmart at the Hudson Valley Mall—the same place where I bought the hat, notebook, pen, and gloves for my first assignment for the collective, and probably the reason why the store makes me nervous. I bought ammo at a hunting store, loaded the gun, and took it here to Unicorn River one morning at dawn, the goal being to join JubJub.

I sat on this big smooth rock with the safety unlocked and the barrel aimed up, into my mouth, the pink sunrise all around me, begging myself to pull the trigger. But I was unable to do it. I told myself I couldn’t leave this earth as long as Harris Blanchard was still on it; that if I did, it would mean he and his family had won.

I wound up wrapping the gun in a garbage bag and burying it next to JubJub so that I’d never be tempted to do it again. Joan would want me to live, I told myself. She would want me to win.

And now I have won. I’m alive on an earth that no longer sustains my daughter’s murderer. I stand up and stretch and head back down the trail, thinking, Sometimes the monster outlives her creators.

I am going to Harris Blanchard’s funeral tomorrow. I need to see him buried.





Fifteen


I dress carefully for the funeral—black suit, white blouse, low heels. Long black overcoat and shades. It’s the first time I’ve worn a skirt in I-don’t-know-how-long, and the suit, which harkens back to my glass tower, fashion magazine days in NYC, hangs on me. Whereas it used to hug my curves back when I had them, it now gives me a severe Secret Service agent look, which I guess isn’t that bad a thing.

I debated getting dressed up for the Blanchard funeral. It felt like a strange, disingenuous thing to be doing—putting on a mourner’s costume, essentially. But when I reach Brayburn College’s main gates, I’m glad I did it. The guard turns away the car in front of me—something I’ve never seen done here before. When I drive up and open my window, though, he nods at me like we’re friends. The guard is a big, bored-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard, dark circles under his eyes, and a uniform—black pants, white shirt, black tie, black jacket—that makes us look as though we work for the same company. He seems to appreciate that on some level. “Funeral?” His voice is deep, nasal, and devoid of inflection—he sounds even more bored than he looks.

“Yes.”

He asks to see my invitation, and I hand it to him through the open window. “Make a left and then go past the quad,” he says, after giving it a quick once-over. “You’ll see an open field and then a parking lot on your right. Park there. The cemetery is across from the lot, on Cornell Road. Can’t miss it. The gate’s open.”

I ease my foot off the brake, then press it back down. “Out of curiosity,” I ask, “why did you turn away that other car?”

He rolls his tired eyes. “Reporters.”

“Ah.”

“That reminds me. The family is requesting you leave your phone in your car. No pictures. Not saying you were planning on taking ’em. But . . .”

“I get it.”

“Sure you do. You got a brain.” He waves me through.

With winter break winding down, the campus is busier than the last time I was here. Clusters of students hurry through the quad as I drive by, some of them hauling suitcases into their dorms, some assisted by parents. That steady, joyful march forward, those suitcases stuffed full of shorts and T-shirts, a warm spring to look toward and the knowledge that, no matter how cold it is now, there will be outdoor keg parties, music blasting from open windows, and classes held on dewy lawns. Even as they shiver in their heavy coats, these kids—these blessed, protected kids—can smile knowing that there will be a spring of 2020, and that, for them, it will be a glorious one.

I’m sure Harris Blanchard felt the same way.

As I stop at a crosswalk and let a group of them pass, I think back to just two weeks ago, how one of these kids had made me so angry—just by existing—that I almost ran him down. Maybe the collective is a form of therapy after all, because I don’t feel that way anymore. The reality is, everything changes, and anything can end on a dime. And no matter how young and healthy and privileged you are, you’re made of breakable parts just like the rest of us, and so there isn’t a single thing you can depend on. Not even spring.