All the Beautiful Lies(12)

“What does Alice say?”

“I think she thinks it was a medical condition. She thought it would be good to find out. For me, that is, in case it’s something that’s genetic.”

“Oh, right,” Paul said, then added, “So what are you going to do? I mean, you going to stay here?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll stay for the summer. I can’t just up and leave Alice, and she’s already asked me to help out in the store. Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Don’t figure it out today.” Paul unzipped the backpack he’d brought up from his car. “You want a drink?”

They drank gin and tonics (Paul had brought the ingredients, plus glassware, and even a ziplock bag of half-melted ice) while Harry dressed in his only dark suit, a Ludlow from J.Crew that was a little short in the sleeves. Then together they went downstairs and found Alice, who was in the kitchen, meticulously arranging the flowers she’d cut. Harry thought of the ragged bouquet on the footpath and wondered again who had left it there. He’d forgotten to ask Alice if it was her.

Paul had probably met Alice three times at most, but he hugged her as though she was related, holding on until she let out a small, sniffly sob. “Paul, are you staying? I didn’t make up the guest room.”

“I’m not. Just for the service, then I’m going back to Mather. I’m missing the graduation but I’m not missing the graduation party. Unless, Harry . . .” Paul turned toward Harry, a questioning look on his face.

“No, no, no. Please go back. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come and visit this summer,” Paul said, as Alice wiped tears from her face with an index finger. Her blond hair was swept back in a French braid that went down her back. She wore a dark grey dress, low cut in the front, but with a black shawl over her shoulders. Her face was chalky white, more startling because of the bright crimson lipstick she’d put on. Harry tried to remember if he’d ever seen her with lipstick, and decided that the last time had probably been when she had married his father, at a low-key ceremony at a hotel in Ogunquit. It seemed a long time ago, but it was less than four years.

The service was held at the First Parish Unitarian Universalist, a white wooden church with a high steeple that was on the Old Post Road. Harry, Alice, and Paul arrived early, and Harry and Alice spoke to the minister, a grey-haired woman over six feet tall, who went over what she planned on saying. Harry knew most of it already. It was going to be a short service; two hymns, a eulogy, a reading by Carl Ridley, Bill’s cousin from Sanford. Alice had already met with the minister to go over some of the details of Bill’s life, and the minister briefly recounted them now. Harry was glad that there was significant mention of his mother, and how devoted Bill had been to her. It was his only concern, worried that Alice had only seen Bill’s life as beginning when she had come into it. But the words the minister planned on saying comprised all of Bill’s life, including both his marriages, his son, his lifelong affair with books, even his infamous cooking. As Harry, Alice, and the minister talked, a few early-arriving guests filtered slowly into the church. Harry wondered how many there’d be, and how many he would know. The interior of the church was cool, but Harry’s palms were sweating, and he could feel a trickle of sweat along his rib cage. He’d only ever been to two funerals in his life. His mother’s, and now his father’s. He’d never known his grandparents on his father’s side, since they’d both died before Harry was born. His maternal grandparents were both alive, but they hadn’t left their retirement community in Florida in many years.

“And how about you, Harry?” The minister was speaking to him, and he wasn’t sure what she was asking.

“I’m sorry,” he said, aware he was blinking his eyes rapidly.

“Did you want the opportunity to say a few words?”

“Oh . . . Oh, no. Alice already asked me. Thank you, though.”

“Why don’t you two take a seat, up here in front.”

It was a relief to sit, to hear the murmur of people behind him, and know that he didn’t have to acknowledge them, at least not yet. He felt guilty that he wasn’t saying anything at his father’s funeral, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t trust himself to speak in public, worried that he’d be overtaken by either anger or grief, or a combination of both. He even still worried about his lisp, long eradicated except in his mind, where he often heard the echoes of how he used to speak. There’d be a receiving line after the service, and he’d have to speak then, of course, but just to people one-on-one. Still, the thought of it made his skin feel prickly, and his breathing shallow.

Before the service began, his aunt Anne and her three silent, muscle-bound sons, all in high school now, sat in the pew directly behind Harry. He leaned back to kiss her, and she said: “I still don’t believe it, Harry,” genuine grief in her voice.

“I know,” he said, “I don’t, either.”

“I meant to call you, Harry, but I didn’t have your phone number. I spoke with Alice and she said you’d be coming home soon, but I want you to visit us as soon as you feel able to leave her alone.”

Harry said he would.

She was telling him again how she was still in shock when the service began. Harry turned back as the minister adjusted the microphone at the pulpit. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, but the service was relatively painless. The minister, except for the opening and closing prayers, kept the religion to a minimum, aware that Bill Ackerson was a twice-a-year churchgoer at most (Christmas Eve services and maybe Easter Sunday). For the eulogy she simply recounted his life story, his childhood in Maine, the Peace Corps service in the Pacific Islands, his years as a book scout and then a bookseller in Manhattan, meeting his first wife and having a son, his wife’s brave battle with cancer, then his return to Maine and his second marriage. She talked about his love of the coast of Maine. “Alice spoke to me about Bill’s need to see the ocean every day. How it grounded him. He found his true and spiritual home here in Kennewick, and for that we should all be grateful.”