Family Blessings (12 page)

"Hello, Christopher." They shook hands very formally, Christopher maintaining a military bearing. Their eyes said an empathetic hello, but between them passed a silent message of support that went deeper than the casual sympathies of most mourners who'd weep today and forget next week. The handclasp lengthened while Lee recognized a strength within him to which she responded in an unprecedented way. It was more than bereaved mother to bereaved friend: It was woman to man.

He released her hand and said, "Hello, Janice . . . Joey." Though he'd greeted all three, he directed his following remark straight at Lee.

"When Greg died our chaplain came in and talked to us. He said something that I forgot to tell you about. He said the last time he talked to Greg, Greg told him how much he loved being a cop, and how sorry he felt for guys who hate their jobs so much they detest going to work every day. He told Vernon Wender, I love my job because I like helping people." I thought you'd want to know that today. He was very proud of being a cop."

"Thank you, Christopher."

He cleared his throat and glanced at the assembled men nearby.

"Let me introduce you to the other officers who are acting as pallbearers." When he'd done so, and she'd shaken all their hands and accepted their condolences, Christopher spoke to her in the same formal manner as earlier.

"Your son was very well liked on the force, Mrs. Reston."

"I'm . . . well, I'm overwhelmed . . . so many of you here today."

"They came from all over the state."

"But so many."

"That's how it is when a peace officer dies."

"But I thought that was only if he died in the line of duty."

"No, ma'am."

A void fell. In the midst of it their eyes met and recognized that his formal attitude felt peculiar after the past three days of close contact.

"Are you going to make it okay today?" he asked, more like his familiar self.

Lee forced a rigid smile and nod.

"Janice? Anything I can do, just say so. Joey . . . I enjoyed our ride yesterday. Anytime you need to do that again, you call me.

Maybe next time we can do it in a squad car while I'm on duty . .

. with me driving, of course."

He smiled at Joey, who managed a limp smile in return. Then Christopher went away to greet other family members, with the decorum of a man in uniform.

For Lee, the funeral service passed not as a series of hazy impressions, as she'd expected, but as very distinct ones observed by a clearheaded woman who'd done her deepest mourning and was now mourning more for those around her.

Christopher maintained his stiff demeanor while bearing the coffin along with five of his fellow officers, his eyes straight ahead, his visor level with the floor, his shoulders erect. She watched him and thought of her own son in uniform, proud to wear it, liked by those he served with. In those thoughts she found very little sadness.

The white flowers she had arranged covered two-thirds of the coffin, everyone cried harder to learn Lee herself had arranged them.

Grampa Lloyd gave a eulogy with a smile on his face, and made everyone laugh aloud with recollections of Greg as a boy.

Janice and Joey held her hands all through it.

Reverend Ahldecker had a summer cold and sneezed several times in the middle of his prayers.

Sally Umland played the organ as flawlessly as an organ can be played, but Rena Tomland was away on summer vacation, so the soloist--a stranger--was rather mediocre.

. Lee's mother--bless her misguided heart--had bought a new black .

suit for the occasion and was looking with judgmental if tearful eyes at all the summer colors on the women around her.

. , There was no denying that the presence of so many law-enforcement : officers added a measure of pride that filled Lee and strengthened her throughout the service. Afterward, the procession of cars stretched for , a mile and a half, every vehicle gleaming, directed through town by on-duty police officers who halted traffic at intersections, then removed their hats and placed them over their hearts as the cortege passed.

At the cemetery the law-enforcement officers circled Greg's grave and created a corridor to it through which Chris and the other pallbearers carried the casket. Graveside prayers were intoned, a bugler played taps, then six officers drew and discharged their pistols in a final goodbye salute.

Dust to dust: It was done.

The cars drove away, one by one. The family lingered, friends touched them, murmuring, dabbing at eyes. An old aunt plucked a gardenia from the casket spray as a keepsake. People held hands, walking slowly to their cars, appreciating life, the blue sky and beautiful earth, perhaps each other more than they had in recent days.

Lee put her arms around her children. She walked between them toward the car, sensing perhaps inappropriately the feeling of her highheeled shoes sinking into the grass. It was a sensation peculiar to funerals: What other occasion put a woman in high heels on grass? She wondered how she could dwell on such a ridiculously unimportant thing at the saddest moment of her life.

Moments of strife were like that though, they brought with them their own little escapes. While she thought of her high heels her eyes were dry.

There followed two hours in the church hall amid the smell of percolating coffee, a macaroni-tomato hot dish and Jello laced with bananas.

_.

Again Lee was overcome by the number of those who had come to pay last respects today.

High school friends of Greg's, policemen and their wives, customers from her store, former business acquaintances of Bill's, people from whom she bought floral supplies, members of the Faith Lutheran congregation whom she scarcely knew, grade school and high school friends of Janice's and Joey's, some along with their parents. Greg's high school track coach was there, as well as his ninth-grade English teacher, who brought along a poem Greg had written when he'd been her student. Even some people who said he'd been their paper boy when he was twelve years old.

"I can't believe it," she said over and over again, accepting their sympathies, their handclasps and their genuine caring. "I can't believe it. All these people."

"He touched a lot of lives," her mother said.

And he would go on touching them for years to come. There was his old girlfriend, Jane Retting, who'd never stopped calling him.

And Nolan Steeg, who approached Lee timidly and asked if he could have some little memento of Greg, any small thing that had belonged to him.

And Janice, who would continue to drive his car. Joey, who wanted his tape and CD collection. His grandparents, who kept Greg's picture on their living room wall.

And Christopher Lallek, who would return to the apartment the two men had shared.

When the church hall emptied, he was one of the last remaining, collapsing metal folding chairs and carrying a few dirty coffee cups to the pass-through window for the hot, tired cooks.

Lee was standing near the door with a cluster of family members who were discussing details of dividing the work that remained: recording the offerings, addressing thank-you cards, distributing flowers to retirement homes. Peg Hillier handed a book and a small white box to Lee and said, "This is the memorial book and the rest of the memorial folders. What do you want to do with the sympathy cards that haven't been opened? Do you want us to take them or do you want to?"

She glanced at Chris, standing apart, waiting, still dressed in his crisp navy blue uniform with the black-crossed badge. She wanted to rush to him and say, "Take me for a ride in your new truck so I don't have to face one more detail or hear one more sad voice or make one more decision! Just take me out of here!"

Instead, she answered her mother, thanked her relatives, expressed her appreciation to the church circle ladies who were finishing the kitchen cleanup and left the building with a bunch of unopened sympathy cards, plus the gift cards from perhaps twenty floral arrangements.

As she emerged into the late afternoon sun, she breathed a sigh of relief. Joey and Janice were sitting on the grass in the shade with a bunch of their and Greg's friends--Kim, Nolan, Sandy, Jane, Denny Whitman. She looked around for Christopher but he was nowhere in sight. His Explorer was gone, too. An unexpected siege of disappointment swamped her. She had no right to feel let down, what would he want to hang around this gloomy group for? He'd done more than his share and had been on hand practically every minute since Friday afternoon.

"Did Christopher leave?" she called to the young people.

Janice answered, "Yes. He said to tell you he was sorry he didn't get to say goodbye, but you were busy."

"Oh."

"He said he'll call you soon."

Lee turned away to hide her disappointment. She'd been thinking about going home and putting a couple of lounge chairs on the deck and maybe even opening up a couple of beers and sitting beside him without saying one damned word. She had no idea why, but out of all who'd offered, his was the only company she wished for tonight. Not her own kids', not her parents', neighbors', friends'. When they were around she was forced to talk, give hugs, put out food, pick up empty glasses, watch them get falsely cheery and morose by turns, rub shoulders, listen to them. All she wanted was simple quiet and someone to share it with.

But those were her children over there, and she couldn't say to them, Leave me alone for a Zvhile.

"Are you ready to go home now?" she called.

"Sure, but is it all right if these guys come too for a while?"

Lee withheld a sigh. They needed their own support system, too, and these young people were thoughtful to provide it.

"Fine," she answered.

They picked themselves up from the grass, brushing wrinkles from their clothes, and she realized it would be some time before routine would return to normal and her life would be her own.

Chapter 5.

As Christopher drove home through the hazy golden evening, the tail end of rush hour seemed mistimed: He'd lost sight of the fact that it was Monday and people were going about their regular pursuits, stopping for a loaf of bread, filling their gas tanks, waiting in left-turn lanes.

The last four days had effectively removed him from routine, making it seem as if the rest of the world was out of step with the slowed-down pace of his life and the lives of the people about whom he cared.

Passersby seemed callous, though he knew full well they had no way of knowing that Greg Reston was dead and he was a man in mourning.

The thought of facing the empty apartment took five miles an hour off his speed. He pictured the Reston kids, surrounded by their friends, visiting on the green grass. He'd considered going over and joining them, but he was too old. He didn't fit in there. The one he'd really wanted to stay with was Lee, but he was too young and didn't fit in there either. Besides, he'd nearly worn out his welcome. He wasn't, after all, one of her family.

With nowhere else to go, he drove home.

Inside, the apartment was quiet and stuffy. He opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out onto the deck, which overlooked the picnic area of Cutter's Grove Park with mere glimpses of the Mississippi River visible beyond a thick stand of verdant woods.

The sun was still high, lighting the green treetops and the roof of the park shelter. A couple of mothers were giving a birthday party for a bunch of small kids. Crepepaper streamers were stretched from the poles supporting the shelter roof. Smoke drifted from the barbecue grills. A bunch of preschoolers were blowing bubbles the size of basketballs and their voices carried up to him. "Look at that one!

Look at that one!"

His mother had never given him a birthday party that he could remember.

He went back inside, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, opening the refrigerator and overlooking Greg's orange juice in favor of a Sprite. He popped the top, took a swig from the can and noticed that the red message light was lit on his answering machine.

He pushed the button, listened to it rewind and swigged again as a twelve-year-old voice came on.

"Hey, man, what the hell happened to you! You said we was gonna do something this weekend. You said you'd call and we'd maybe go swimming or something. Shit, man, you're just like all the rest of'em, never mean what you say. Well, don't bother calling me no more. I got better things to do than sit around waiting for some Iyin' no-good pig to call and dish me shit." Click!

Judd.

Hell, he'd forgotten about Judd. Chris's hand, holding the Sprite can, dropped tiredly to his side as he stared at the machine.

Judd Quincy, age twelve, male, black, shoplifter, runaway, truant, vandal of school property, bicycle thief, neglected son of two known druggies, a reflection of Christopher Lallek at that age.

The poor little bastard. No question he was one. His mother and "dad" were white. Judd was pale brown. Maybe that was why the old man kicked the shit out of him now and then, and out of the mother, too.

He picked up the receiver and dialed.

"Yeah, say it," the kid answered.

"Judd?"

A pause, then, "Shit, man, whaddyou want?"

"Got your message."

"Yeah, so what."

"So, give me a break, huh?"

"Give you a break! Man, you lied! I sit around this dump all weekend long thinking I'm going out to the lake. Nobody calls. I look like a jerk, man! My friend Noise he says maybe I'm makin' you up! He don't believe no cop would give a fuck about a dipwad like me."

"You back to using that word again?"

"Why the fuck not?"

Chris stared at the floor, rubbing his forehead, picking his way carefully. "Something happen, Judd?"

"Something always happening here. This the most happening' place you ever seen."

"Something worse than most days?"

"Why don't you just stick it, man! Go on out to the lake with your honky friends!"

"What'd they do, Judd?"

"Didn't do nothin', I told you!"

"So you're okay, then?"

"What do you care?"