Cast a Pale Shadow(48)
"We are going to the church." No one questioned her. Augusta hurried off to find the pair of black kid gloves and soft, black leather clutch bag she intended to loan her. When she returned, she hugged her warmly and told her to remember how much she was loved. "I will," Trissa answered. Cole and the doctor fell in behind her as they filed out the back door into the mellow April sunshine.
The church was heady with the fragrance of old incense and the funeral flowers that banked the altar, lilies, freesia, and gladioli. Trissa led the trio to a rear corner pew on the Blessed Virgin's side. She knelt for a moment then slid back on the smooth wooden bench.
When she looked up, she met the eyes of Detective Chancellor who occupied the identical pew as theirs but on St. Joseph's side. She acknowledged his unreadable gaze with a sedate nod then nestled back between the carved side of the pew and Cole's warm shoulder where she felt very safe and sheltered.
Clusters of mourners entered the church, parishioners she remembered, old friends of her mother, and strangers she knew she'd never seen before. From the choir, the organ sounded sonorously as the organist tested her chords. Two men in black suits walked briskly up the aisles bearing more floral arrangements to place at Mary and Joseph's altars and at the foot of the main altar.
Outside, Trissa heard the muffled slamming of car doors and the low murmur of voices. Her backbone tensed as she braced herself for her ordeal. Beside her, Cole gently coaxed her clenched fingers open and took her hand in his. When Father Donner and four servers emerged to begin their slow walk from the sacristy to greet the mourners and the casket, she knew she would not have been able to stand were it not for his firm support.
Trissa concentrated on the beads of holy water that speckled the bronze casket as it rolled past her. She could not think that that metal box contained her father, loved, hated, and now lost to her forever. She tried to block from her mind the cold sneer on his face when he had threatened her and Nicholas, the last time she saw him alive. She tried to erase the swath his scar made across it then, and to remember instead how he had smiled at her and held her hand walking proudly with his daughter down this same aisle.
So long ago now and never again. She tried to forget how she had wished him dead. So many times. The last time. She tried not to think why, after all her years and years of futile prayers, hopeless dreams, and wasted wishes, this last, horrible and desperate one had come true.
She shuddered and the tears she had told Dr. Fitapaldi she would never shed for her father, trailed down her cheeks. Calmly, like an anchor in a storm, Cole let go of her hand and put his arm around her trembling shoulders.
Her mother never acknowledged her. Though Trissa watched, unblinking, fearful of missing any tiny gesture of forgiveness, she passed her by without a glance, supported by her Aunt Ellen and followed by Trissa's cousins and second cousins. They were funeral relatives, drawn by the magnetic power of grief, to shake their heads and moan their sorrow, then disappear without a trace until the next family tragedy. She could not tell whether they did not see her, did not recognize her, or deliberately snubbed her as they passed, wringing their handkerchiefs in their hands.
*****
"Are you sure you want to go to the cemetery?" Fitapaldi stood by his car after the Requiem Mass. The hearse and limousines were lining up for the procession that would wind past Trissa's house before making its way to the graveside.
"Yes. I have to go. If my mother needs me, I have to be there."
"Trissa, why torture yourself? That women seems a stone to me," said Cole.
"I have to go."
Fitapaldi took his place behind the wheel. Cole shook his head, disappointed with the doctor's quick surrender. Cole had done his best to protect Trissa from the rude remarks of some biddies gossiping in the vestibule. Runaway daughter, conniving little bitch, and prime suspect were words Cole hoped she hadn't overheard. To distract her, he'd whispered support in her ear, tilting her bonnet off kilter, as they walked out to the church steps. He took a moment now to straighten it for her before giving her his hand as she stepped into the car.
"Doctor, this can't be good for her. Tell her we should go home."
"She must decide for herself. If she does not, she may feel guilt about it later."
Cole scowled at him and fell into silence, but his thumb ceaselessly stroked the back of her hand as he held it. Trissa did not speak or look up again until they passed through the gates of the cemetery.
"Over there are the babies," she said pointing to a vale of small, identical headstones in the webbed sunshine of the trees. "I don't know why they put them all together, all alone, away from their families. I used to think it was the saddest place in the cemetery. But they're in heaven, my mother always told me, and they never knew how bad earth could be. I guess she was right."
They parked the car around a curve from the main procession and had to cross an area where several new graves had already been dug and gaped open. Fitapaldi walked behind Trissa and Cole. Cole stumbled as they passed the first of these. It was only a slight misstep, and because they walked arm in arm, it barely broke their stride.
At the second, though, the wobbliness of his legs was more pronounced. Fitapaldi must have noticed. He quickened his pace to catch up with them and provide support on Trissa's other side. Cole's skin went all clammy and beads of sweat formed on his brow. When he saw that the doctor had a firm grip on Trissa, he released his own arm and stepped away from her.
"Cole, what's wrong?" Trissa asked.
"I'm sorry. Go on without me. I'm sorry, I can't."
"Are you sick? Should we take you--"
"No. No. I'll wait for you in the car." Cole fled backpedaling unsteadily down the hill.
"What's the matter with him, Doctor?" he heard Trissa ask.
"I don't know." Fitapaldi urged her to turn toward the people gathering at the graveside. Detective Chancellor was there, arms folded, watching them. Fitapaldi led her past him, and they stood in the outer ring of mourners waiting for the service to start.
*****
The hole. The hole. And he was at the bottom of it, the damp and crumbly earth forming four walls around him. At his feet, she lay, wrapped in a quilt, and tied with rope, like a bundle ready for the laundry.
Who was she? Who was she? His fingers fumbled at the knots, trying to untie them but tangling and tightening them instead. Who was it? He had to know. He didn't want to know. He gnawed at the rope with his teeth and it disintegrated to dust, coating his tongue, choking down his throat.
Who was she? Who was she? With trembling hands he folded back the corner of the quilt reveal the face of --
"My God! My God, what's happening to me?" Cole shuddered and stumbled into the back seat of Fitapaldi's car, sprawling on his face as the vision wracked him again. He buried his eyes in the armrest, pushing it hard against his lids, trying to crowd out the hallucination with the whirling and spangled lights the pressure brought.
But it did not work. Once again the hole gaped before him. Then he was inside it with her, wanting to stay, wanting to pull the dirt in around them forever. Once again he muddled with the rope and folded back the quilt. Once again he saw her cold, white face.
"Trissa! No, oh my God, I can't do this. I can't go on like this anymore." His brain was scorched with the vividness of the visions. Trissa's face glowed white and still as the moon. "Stop. Stop. Stop." He punctuated each command with the smack of his head against the seat cushion.
"It can't be Trissa. I won't let it be. I won't." It seemed he gulped for breath through the rope dust that clogged his mouth, then as quickly as they started, the visions stopped, and he was left with only his throbbing head and his pounding heart.
He gripped the armrest and pulled himself up. Far away, up the hill, the mourners moved away from the graveside in clumps of twos and threes. He found Nicholas Brewer's cigarettes in his pocket and lit one, cranking the window open to let the smoke chimney through it. His hand still shook when he raked it through his hair.
He saw Trissa and Fitapaldi stop to talk briefly to someone. Chancellor? Then they made their way down the hill toward them. The limousine slowed as it passed them, then stopped. The door opened and Trissa stepped in, leaving Fitapaldi on the curb.
"No!" Cole flung open the door and heaved himself out. "Don't go. Don't go," he whispered as he tried to will his feet to take him past the minefield of graves between them. "Don't leave me!"
But the limousine did not move. Fitapaldi saw him and waved and Cole began to run. The limousine door opened again, and Trissa stepped out. His wind left him in a deflating rush and Cole went to his knees in the dirt. When she saw him, Trissa broke away from Fitapaldi's supporting arm and ran down the hill toward him, her hat sailing back off her head. He had just managed to reach his feet when she flew into his arms.
"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"