Whisper Me This(72)

“Rubberneckers,” Tony says, coming back into the kitchen. “If they drive by an accident, they’ll stop in the middle of the road and cause another accident, just to get a glimpse of the tragedy. I’d blame reality TV if it wasn’t for history. Roman Colosseum and all that.” While he’s talking he grabs a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with water, and holds it out to me.

My hands are shaking again. This is getting to be a habit. I really need to get checked for all the shaking diseases. Maybe I have an aneurism, like my mom’s. Would it cause these symptoms? Maybe I should call Dr. Margoni.

“Maisey,” Tony says.

I blink. He’s still holding out the glass of water.

“I thought they were from the funeral. Those people.”

“Doubt it,” he says. “Should have called the cops and had them arrested for trespassing. Drink up. Edna Carlton is asking where you got to. I’m the reconnaissance man.”

“Thank you.” I try to drink, but after two swallows my stomach squirms in disapproval. I set the glass on the counter. “I’ve never been rescued so much in my life.”

“You’ve never been in a mess like this before. I doubt you’ll make it a habit.”

“I’m a little worried, frankly,” I tell him.

He laughs. “You don’t strike me as the damsel-in-distress sort of gal. Shall we?”

I take the arm he offers, then hesitate. “I should check on Dad . . .”

“He’s actually still next door. I was just trying to instill a sense of shame in the lookie-loos.”

Making sure I actually have the key, this time I lock the house door behind us. “How did they know? Those people? About what happened, about my mom?”

Tony sighs. “God. I was hoping you wouldn’t ever know. There was an article in the newspaper. A little lurid in the speculation department, asking questions about your dad’s mental health and talking about the way he kept your mom here.”

“It was downright creepy,” Mia says, coming up the sidewalk to join us. “I know better, having met your dad, and the article still gave me the chills. Whoever that reporter is should have somebody check their freezer for bodies.”

“Mia!” Tony exclaims. “Not. Helpful.”

But it is helpful. Mia’s account takes the sting out of the encounter, helps me put it in perspective. I initiate a hug and she returns it with enthusiasm. “Mom has plans to barge into the newspaper office first thing Monday morning and give somebody a piece of her mind. You can bet your booty it won’t be the calm and rational piece.”

“Mia!” Tony warns again, but by now I’m actually laughing.

“Maybe I’ll go with her,” I say. “Maybe I’ll get Greg to sue them for defamation of character or something.”

“That Edna woman keeps talking about your absence. And some guy just showed up asking about you.”

I sigh. It’s pleasant outside, peaceful with just the three of us. The sun is warming the chill in my bones. But funerals are social events, as much as anything, and the role of grieving daughter belongs to me.

So I take Mia’s hand, and the two of us brave the fortress side by side, Tony behind us as bodyguard. Once again I find myself in Mrs. Carlton’s plastic-covered living room, only this time the game has morphed into something I don’t even recognize.

Dad sits on the couch beside Mrs. Medina. Mrs. Carlton, ramrod straight, her mouth set all prim and prosy, her nose tilted up at an angle that signals disapproval of the highest order, presides from the armchair. And on the love seat, my daughter perches on the edge of her father’s lap, chattering a mile a minute and punctuating every other word with hand gestures.

Greg.

Here.

Impossible.

I stop so short Tony runs into me from behind and grabs my shoulders to steady both of us. Mia looks from me to Greg and back again. Her mouth opens and shuts.

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t . . .” Her face flushes, and she spins around and bolts out of the room.

Greg dislodges Elle and gets to his feet. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.” His words are directed at me, but his eyes are not. He’s got Tony locked and loaded in his sights.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to gasp. “I just talked to you last night.” All the things I said to him on the phone crash over me, a cascade of falling bricks that makes me want to hide behind Tony.

“You sounded so lost,” he says, crossing the small space to pull me into his arms. “Such an incredibly difficult time for you. I thought I should be here. Sorry I couldn’t make it in time for the funeral.”

Greg doesn’t look like a strong man. He’s thin, medium height, and starting to bald. Bifocals and a precisely buttoned-up shirt and perfect tie complete his professional business look. Next to Tony he looks like the stereotypical math whiz. But his arms around me are bands of steel, nothing soft about them at all or about the way he holds me.

For one thing, he hasn’t hugged me since before Elle was born. My last memory of his hands on me is of violence and shock and pain. I want to thrash against him, pull away, ask, What the hell are you doing?

Only there are people watching. Elle is watching. It is my mother’s funeral, and I’ve been hugged today by people I don’t even know. It’s what people do when somebody dies. They hug you. They offer comfort. I’m being paranoid again.