Orient (42 page)

“Mom, Dad didn’t have cancer. He died in an accident. That could have happened at any time.”

“Your father waited. I know he did. He waited to die until after you were gone.” Gail watched the woman in the purple pantsuit enter Magdalena’s house. “I was going to wait until after the funeral to bring this up, but money is getting so tight. And as I said, there’s never a right time.”

“And?”

“
And
,” she trumpeted. “I need you and Gavril to
at least
pay the monthly property tax if you’re going to stay here for another year.”

“Of course,” Beth replied, setting her mug in the sink. “I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner. But what if we decide to stay for more than a year?”

“Is that likely?” It was as if Gail had guessed her daughter’s trouble in reassimilating into village life. And she was right: her closest friend in Orient was a teenage orphan who might leave any day. Gail steadied herself in her heels. “For a while I thought it was likely. I thought you were going to give me a grandchild here, and that’s why I was willing to pay the taxes. But I’ve been holding on to too many dreams of my own.” Gail’s lipstick grin was rather noble in its defeat. It broke Beth’s heart.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mom.”

“I’m going to have to sell sometime. Not right now. I won’t get what it’s worth with all the madness going on. You’d have to be a fool to sell a house in Orient at this point, even though I’ve gotten
calls. Sarakit said she’d help me when it comes time. I might have to take her up on that, one day, soon. . . .” Gail rolled her eyes, impatient with her own evasion. “Speaking of, honey, I might need to ask you and Gavril for a little help in terms of money. Just a loan, after how generous I’ve been. A few thousand to start.”

Beth took her mother’s hand, which was chilly in her fingers. She wasn’t aware of how warm her own fingers were until they made contact with Gail’s skin.

“Mom, are you in trouble?” Beth was also sick of evasion. “Are you taking pills? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Gail smiled nervously, broad enough that Beth could see the veins in her gums. The rest of her face didn’t move a muscle. “I’m being serious. Are you addicted? Do you need some help?”

“Never,” she swore. “Never ever. Honestly, I’ve never had the addict’s discipline. I don’t know where you’d get an idea like that.” They should Botox murder defendants on trial, Beth thought. Nothing in Gail’s face gave her agony away. She was as convincing as statuary.

Beth opened the hall closet and dumped the baby announcements in the hidden plastic bag. As she climbed the stairs, she ripped open the envelope from her doctor, praying it said, “We regret to inform you that we were mistaken. Our ultrasound equipment was malfunctioning on the day we examined you. You aren’t pregnant. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Instead it was copying her on the bill that was sent to her insurance and reminding her to schedule her next checkup. Her mother was right. There was no time left for indecision. She changed from burgundy to gray.

By eleven o’clock
that morning, the better half of Orient had gathered in the pews of United Church of Christ. So many residents had taken the morning off to mourn: those who had known the Muldoons for a lifetime, and those who had first met them as recently as their last end-of-summer picnic. The mourners included Bryan’s employees, hunting partners, and fellow OHB members; Pam’s friends and
covolunteers on various North Fork projects (Save the Osprey, Heart & Hale Elderly Meal Drive, the Maritime Museum Fun-Raisers, the Orient Historical Society Docents); Tommy’s entire senior class of Sycamore High, a somber, slouching teenage army bereft of the psychic comfort of their cell phones; and several small, unspeaking children in First Communion clothes who had playdated Theo.

Beth also counted Orient’s most dependable residents: Holly Drake with her veil of freckles, Karen Norgen, George Morgensen, Arthur Cleaver. Even Roe diCorcia in the last pew, his camel hair jacket rigor mortis from years hanging in a dry-cleaning bag. Ted and Sarakit Herrig sat in the second pew behind Lisa and her grandparents. Adam Pruitt, in sunglasses, mouthed the words to the opening hymn, and Beth watched as Luz tiptoed down the side aisle to claim a seat by the electric candles. Beth couldn’t fathom Luz’s motivation for attending—maybe it was research for her portrait series. Mills and Paul sat on the opposite side. Beth waved at Mills, who had clearly borrowed a coat and tie from Paul. The coat sleeves gaped wide at his wrists, and the bulky shoulders gave him an awkward, overstated demeanor, like a new funeral home assistant unsure how much grief to add to the commemoration.

“Lisa fed the birds this morning,” her mother whispered. “Heartbreaking.”

Four caskets were spaced before the altar, flat mahogany boxes with sprays of yellow lilies dangling over the lids. The coffins were all the same size, with no indication of which Muldoon lay hidden in the velvet-lined beds. The display was too much for Lisa, who spent most of the service with her hands cupped over her mouth, red nose flared above her knuckles. How easily the dead were dispensed with, in mahogany boxes nailed shut and slipped in vaults to prevent the earth from penetrating bone. It was not the dead who watched over the living, as Reverend Ann Whitlen said at the pulpit, but the living who watched over the dead.

As Reverend Whitlen read the Twenty-third Psalm, Beth thought of the note Tommy had written: “Orient’s real threat is its trust.” She
glanced around at the funeral’s teary, warm-blooded faces. Every single person looked as if something sweet had broken in them, a bit of the trust that had held them together in this small suburban hamlet cut off from civilization, reassuring them that neighbors would always look out for neighbors, that no one would want any of them dead. Such trust was no longer a given in Orient.

Ted stepped from his pew, briefly pressing his hand on Lisa’s shoulder, and walked to the pulpit with his head bowed. He sighed into the microphone. “I ask us all to take a moment to stop thinking of causes, or of who could have done such a brutal act to the kindest, most generous family Orient has ever known. I ask us to think, instead, about the four neighbors we have lost. Their love should not be stolen from us by the atrocity of their deaths.”

As Ted recounted a few honeycombed Muldoon memories, even the driest eyes brimmed with sorrow. “As we all know, Bryan was a savior to Orient. He was the head of the historical board, which meant the world to him. I was honored to serve with him on OHB for twenty years. And I know”—Ted choked, as if being slowly consumed by gas fumes—“he would want us to continue the fight against development. The initiative is named for Magdalena Kiefer, but we will fight in Bryan’s name to ensure a green future in Orient. At Lisa’s request, Sarakit and I are manning a table outside of the church for anyone who wants to receive more information on the Nondevelopment Initiative and honor Bryan and his family by carrying on his battle to protect Orient, to which our dear friend committed his life. I cannot think of a better tribute. We can still realize his dream.” Ted left the podium with his head high, certain the audience was on his side. There was nothing left to do but sing “Amazing Grace.”

The crowd outside the church spilled onto the lawn, where Sarakit and Ted took their place behind a table borrowed from Karen Norgen, clipboards and brochures arranged before them. Most of the mourners moved around anxiously in the cold, lost in their individual cabins of thought. Amid them, Lisa’s stillness had
an unpiloted effect. She was hugged by friends and strangers, was told of virtues or an unselfish favor performed, was offered food or a seat at Thanksgiving dinner. She looked into each of their faces as if staring into a cavern from which human sounds echoed but never cohered into sense. The four caskets were wheeled past her like luggage organized for transport by a divine concierge.

Leaving her mother with Ina Jenkins, Beth searched the church grounds for Mills. Someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned to find Luz in a white shirt and a silk tuxedo jacket with black gloves buttoned at her wrists.

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

“You should see my hands.” Luz smiled, holding up a hand and flexing leather fingers. “They’re electric blue from painting. I thought it might be more respectful to wear these than to come to a funeral like I’d just fisted an alien.” Luz’s upper lip snarled and she quickly fit a cigarette into its crevice. “My skin color already freaks these people out. I bet half of those farmers”—she pointed her lighter toward Helen Floyd before flicking it—“think I was the Muldoons’ cook.
Mastah’s dead. What iz’a gonna do now?
” Luz grunted. “Persecution does wonders for personal integrity. Still, the looks I get.”

“Did you know them?”

Luz bit the smoke and let it slide from the side of her mouth.

“Yes. I knew them. Not well. But Bryan was a nice guy. He came by to welcome Nathan and me when we moved in. Said he was glad to see one of the bigger houses in Orient going to a young couple. I think he expected toddlers to materialize around our legs. He told us about all of Orient’s hidden treasures, the history of the buildings and lighthouses. Then he got all conservancy on us. But I liked him. I even showed him the paintings I was doing of his neighbors. He promised he’d take me hunting one weekend. He raved about the quality of the deer. He didn’t seem to realize our bedroom has a prime view of Plum—I’d rather not eat bush meat somebody gunned down and seasoned with Ebola.”

“You know they use bows out here more than guns.”

“I might need a gun,” Luz said. Beth imagined Pam Muldoon catching a black woman with a gun running around Orient and the weeks of racial insinuation that would have followed—with phrases like “that rich woman” or “that artist” standing in for “that black woman.” Did those local gossips know that Luz supported her entire family in Trenton with her work? Of course not. Beth had learned that only by reading Jeff Trader’s journal. Karen Norgen passed nearby, eyeing Beth strangely, wrapping herself protectively in a hand-crocheted scarf.

“I mean it. I’m frightened,” Luz whispered. “Two nights ago I heard someone walking around our property. I heard footsteps and rustling in the grasses by the water. When I got up to look, I swear I saw a shadow near the dock. I almost had a heart attack. I went around making sure all the doors were locked.” She laughed uneasily. A contrail of breath and cigarette smoke drifted from her lips. “The doors were just fine. The problem is, we don’t have walls. We’re about the least protected house out here. Maybe we should go back to the city for a while. Or maybe we should just sell and find a new house somewhere deeper in the woods. Nathan thinks the danger is good for his work. And he has a point—everyone loves a dead artist. It’s the living ones that people can’t tolerate.” It occurred to Beth that the obscenely rich and the obscenely poor had one thing in common: neither really lived anywhere for long. One by choice, the other by necessity, they came and went as if the entire world were padding for their beds.

Luz wrapped her arms around Beth’s shoulders. Many were hugging on the church’s lawn just as they were. Holly was leaning on the church railing, her head turned toward the grotto so no one could see her face.

“How are you doing?” Luz asked. “Are you holding up okay? You know, if you ever want to talk to me, about anything, I’m here.” Beth gently slipped from Luz’s embrace. Luz exhaled. “Will you and Gavril at least come for dinner tomorrow night? There’s no reason
we
can’t get together and remember that our own lives have nothing to do with these local deaths.”

Ted waved a clipboard at Roe diCorcia. The tall farmer took it, pressed an ungulate fist on its page, and dropped the board on the table with a clack.

“You people are still at it? Even after Bryan’s death?” The farmer shook his head. His chin-length hair fell forward, curled from its time spent gathered in a ponytail.

“Now, Roe,” Ted said.

“It ain’t going to happen. Your little eco-friendly fairy tale ain’t going to happen. This was farming land long before it was cute-house land.” Roe cocked a finger at Ted’s wind- and tear-streaked face. His voice was the relentless sound of car wheels stuck in a snowbank. “And I tell you what. That water-main proposal wasn’t beaten. It was temp-o-rarily shelved. And I’m making it my mission to get it back on the table at the Water Authority. You can write that down on your clipboard. We need improvements, not pretty views. Did you ever think that if Bryan hadn’t blocked the water main, we would’ve had hydrants that might’ve saved his wife and kids? Did you ever think about that, Ted? Someone should.” Roe crossed himself, and with the last horizontal slash of his wrist, flicked his fingers to renounce the Herrigs.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Sarakit shouted at the retreating farmer. “We are trying to save
your
land. You don’t realize what they’re going to build right next to your corn, Roe. One day you’ll see and you’ll apologize.”

Roe stopped five feet from the table. “Lady, you and your Pearl Farms outfit are the ones selling the land to the folks who are going to build on it. Why don’t you ask them if they want a water main?”

Sarakit spent a second blinking her eyes before responding, as if Roe’s insult were a gnat caught in her sclera. “I will get every one of my customers on board with this initiative. We live here too. All of us do. We just care about each other more.”

Sarakit rubbed her husband’s back, consoling herself by
dispensing consolation. Had they been teetering on divorce, as Jeff Trader’s journal suggested? If so, perhaps it was sharing their OHB duties that had brought the spark back to their marriage. With Magdalena and Bryan dead, their love must be a raging fireplace. The other board members hadn’t bothered to help man the table, but it hardly mattered: it was obvious to Beth, after five minutes lingering near the stand, that most year-rounders had grown wary of the conservancy mission. Olivia Aug quickly scanned a brochure, then returned it to the stack. “Oh, I don’t know. Without Bryan, it just seems like the energy is gone. Maybe in a month or two when all this passes. Then maybe I’ll be able to think it over.” Karen Norgen marched up to the table—as if it were her prize cedar heirloom, not the conservancy, that was being snubbed—and signed her name. Sarakit stacked the literature that no one took.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
. Psalm Twenty-three.