Shelter (70 page)

    "It's okay," said Roberta. "Go on. I want to hear it."

    He nodded, looking down at his hands. "Okay. Well, like I said, it belonged to Mitzi's grandmother Della when she was a little girl—it would have to be a child's ring because of the size, I guess—but Della got it from someone else, from an old, old woman who was very sick, dying, probably, confined to bed, anyway. Della and her parents were traveling in England, visiting relatives, and they went to some cousin's house and the cousin had just had a new baby, and everyone was fussing over this baby and ignoring the old lady who lived there too, who was lying in a back room all by herself And Della felt sad, because she thought the old lady must be lonely; she didn't think it was fair for the baby to be getting all the attention. So Della went and sat next to the old lady and talked to her for a while to keep her company. She was very frail, but she was covered in jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, rings on every finger. 'All my pretty things,' she called them, and she let Della admire them, and when Della was called back into the other room for tea, the old lady took off this ring and gave it to her. And later, when Della's parents said that she couldn't possibly accept such a valuable gift, the old lady told them, 'She listened to me; do you know how valuable a gift that is?' And so Della got to keep the ring, and she gave it to her daughter, to Mitzi's mother, who gave it to Mitzi. And now Mitzi wants you to have it."

    "Why?" Roberta said. She squinted up at Hugh. "Mitzi listened to me a lot more than I listened to her. And I'm not her daughter. Shouldn't it stay in the family? Shouldn't Doe have it?"

    Hugh sighed. "I think Mitzi thought it had been in the family too long already. Because to her, the point of that story was always that the old woman gave Della the ring even though Della wasn't related to her, even though they'd only known each other for half an hour. She gave Della the ring because Della was a good person. You're a good person too, Berta. You listen to people who need you: your brainwipe clients, the kids at work."

    "But that's my job."

    "It's your job because you chose that work," Hugh said gently, and then, "Anyway, Mitzi wanted you to have it, and Doe agrees. If Mitzi were here she'd probably explain ten more layers of symbolism, but you'll have to work it out for yourself That's as much as I know."

    "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful," Roberta said, feeling miserable. It was her job because Preston had chosen her. He hadn't chosen her because she was worthy; he'd chosen her because she was there, and because Meredith wasn't. "I'm sorry. I just—"

    "Don't be sorry. You don't sound ungrateful; you sound sad and confused, and that's fine. I am too, I guess. Mitzi can't give us answers anymore; we have to find our own. Berta, I have to go now. I'm awfully tired."

    He looked gray and sounded exhausted. "Of course," Roberta said. "Of course. I—Hugh, thank you. Do you want some coffee? Can I get you anything?"

    "No, dear." He reached out and clumsily patted her hand. "I need to get home, that's all. I'll see you Saturday. I'd be happy if you wore that."

    "Of course," Roberta said. "Of course I will. I'll never take it off. Hugh, thank you."

    She cried after he left, her losses hemming her in. She cried because she had nothing that had belonged to her own mother, and because all of her listening to Nicholas had done him no good, and because she couldn't give a piece of jewelry to Fred, whose willingness to listen had helped both her and Nicholas as much, it seemed to her, as anyone could have helped them at all. She cried over losing Doe, who had been willing to listen to her pains, but not to her joys; she even cried over losing Zephyr, who might have become a friend without this latest, horrid publicity stunt. She cried for Zephyr, who, after all, only wanted the newscasters to listen to her. She cried for Nicholas, whose mother didn't want anyone to listen to him, and she cried for Meredith, so twisted by the world's attention to every sound she made. She cried for Preston, whose daughter wouldn't talk to him.

    Finally she stopped crying. What was lost was lost, and she'd gained things too: flowers, a ring, stories. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. She'd survive the week and she'd go to the funeral, and it would be horrible, but then it would be over. Things would get better. She'd find new things and people to keep; she'd stop being emptied out and start being filled up again. Surely that was how it would work; it had to be.

    She looked down at Mitzi's ring. The old woman hadn't expected anyone to listen to her ever again, maybe, and then Della had come along. Not all surprises were bad. Sometimes the universe shared its bounty. Maybe that was why Mitzi had wanted Roberta to have the ring, to remind her of that.

    "I sound like a Templehead," she said aloud, ruefully, and got up to get ready for bed.

    * * *

    Hugh had rented a restaurant in the Marina District for the memorial service. One wall, all glass, looked out on the water. Mitzi would have liked it. Everyone who spoke said so, and many spoke. The eulogies went on for hours, it seemed, the microphone passing from hand to hand. Roberta knew a handful of the speakers—Doe and Hugh, of course, and other relatives—and had heard of others. Tracy's ex-husbands were there with their new spouses and children; Doe's ex-lover from college was there. They all spoke. Roberta didn't, at least not into the microphone. It had been very strange, putting on a black dress and good shoes to come here. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had to wear anything remotely formal. She felt as if she'd fallen through a wormhole into some other country where she didn't quite know the language, and she was afraid that if she went up to the microphone, she'd be exposed as a foreigner and deported. And what could she say, anyway? Mitzi was just like a mother to me. So she stood, silently, off to the side, nursing a glass of white wine, listening to other people talk about Mitzi's kindness, her generosity, how she'd loved whitewater rafting and herpetology and needlepoint. Somehow a person emerged from all those fragments, and it was almost as if, for a few moments, Mitzi herself were back in the room with them.

    After the eulogies, to Roberta's amazement, people came up and hugged her, said, "Roberta, it's good to see you again," said, "Roberta, we know Mitzi loved you and you must miss her." There was one awkward moment with Doe and Iuna; Iuna said, "Hi," and Doe said, "Thanks for coming," and Roberta said, "You're welcome," and escaped. But everyone else seemed genuinely happy to see her, and she discovered that she'd missed all these people: Tracy and the other siblings, cousins, aunts she'd met only at holidays. The feeling of being an illegal alien faded. Even in the strange clothing, she felt as if she belonged here; she felt at home. Several of the older relatives recognized Della's ring, and beamed, and said they were glad that it had gone to Roberta, and Roberta, unaccountably touched, wondered if Mitzi could have had any way of foreseeing this: that the ring would help Roberta feel accepted even when Mitzi was no longer alive. As the afternoon wore on she discovered, to her amazement, that she was happy. She could have stayed here for days, drinking in all these people, their affection for Mitzi and each other and her.

    A few people connected her to the KinderkAIr flap and asked her questions about Nicholas, but she resolutely refused to answer. None of the questioners was someone she knew well; all were on the far fringes of the extended tribe. She thought to herself that they must not have known Mitzi well, either, or they wouldn't be pursuing ScoopNet gossip at her memorial service.

    "So I bet you have your hands full with that little freak," boomed a jovial third cousin by marriage. He wore a shiny suit and a diamond signet ring; some of the grease from his hair had descended onto his forehead. He was ostentatiously rigged: the sockets had diamonds too. Roberta wondered if the hair grease ever gummed up the works and interfered with the recording. You're being unkind, she told herself severely. What would Fred say, Roberta? But the cousin, oblivious, let out a barking laugh and said, "Is it true he still wears diapers? That's what they're saying. Rich mommy doesn't want him toilet trained, likes wiping his little—"

    "Excuse me?" Roberta, stay polite. This guy must feel even more out of place here than you do. ''I'm sorry, I only met you twenty minutes ago, and this is a funeral and that's not—"

    "Oh, yes, oh, yes, very professional of you, I'm sure, can't talk or MacroCorp'll sue, eh? They must be paying you handsomely to keep you quiet, eh?"

    "Sir—"

    "Now, now, my name's Charles, I told you that, no need to stand on ceremony."

    Roberta realized, to her revulsion, that the man was leering at her. He must really be out of the family loop—well, and no wonder—or else he was one of those dreadful people who believed that he'd be able to straighten her out. Or who wanted to watch and join in, the stuff of bad porn movies, not that there had been anything to watch for months. Maybe he wasn't a relative at all. Maybe he was a ScoopNet mole who'd crashed the funeral. Roberta took a step back, repressing a shudder, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to discuss my work. I just saw someone I need to talk to; will you excuse me?" She dived into the crowd and worked her way to a far corner, where she indeed found someone to talk to, a great-aunt of Tracy's first husband, who rattled on happily about her watercolor classes while Roberta, fingering Della's ring, pretended to be enthralled. Eventually Roberta saw Charles leave, his coat over his arm, and moved cautiously out into the rest of the room.

    The service was going to end; she was going to have to go home, going to have to be by herself again. She couldn't stand the idea of being alone. What was she going to do? She could talk to Mr. Clean, or go talk to Zephyr, or call Fred, or turn on her dusty computer and call up Preston, the magic genie. But she didn't want any of that. She didn't want to go home; that was the problem. She found herself, instead, fantasizing about going to school, as she had the night Doe left, the night she lost Mitzi for the first time. She'd drink. warm milk and tell Fred the story of Della's ring—it was a very Fred story, after all—and then she'd go home and sleep, and tomorrow she'd start trying to make more human friends. She could join a gym, maybe, or do volunteer work with older people, or just go sit in the park and strike up conversations. She'd figure something out. Fred would help.

    In the meantime, she was determined to stay here as long as she could, to be one of the last to leave. Hugh had mentioned that a few people would be going back to the house after everyone else had left; she wanted to be there, wanted to be invited back, even though she knew she probably wouldn't be, because of Doe and Iuna.

    She felt like a vampire, some vile, scavenging thing. But still she refused to leave, prolonging her stay by talking to people she ordinarily would have ignored or avoided. She nursed another glass of white wine, and then another, realizing she'd lost count, until her legs became just slightly rubbery and everything in the room seemed to blur at the edges. As the service wound down, the questions about Nicholas started up again.

    One woman, an obscure relation from Kansas—was the story really getting airtime that far away?—was especially persistent. "Oh, come on, you can tell me; I'm not going to tell anybody. What's the kid really like?"

    "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you." And I wouldn't if I could, because I barely know you and you're obnoxious. "Sorry, really." I'm not sorry, Roberta told herself wearily. I'm just sorry I slurred that s. I'm a mess. "Really, I don't think it's anyone's business."

    "Hmmmph! Celebrities give up their privacy for all that money. I don't feel sorry for any of them."

    "Meredith was born into money," Roberta said, pronouncing the words very carefully, "and Nicholas was adopted into money. Neither of them chose it. And I don't think this is the time or place—"

    "I was just asking." Now the woman sounded aggrieved.

    "She's right not to answer," came a crisp voice behind them, and Roberta turned, blinking, to find someone from Doe's office standing there. It was Iuna's aunt, the hotshot one who'd been taking on pro bono civil rights cases for baggies. Hallie, Hillory, what was her name? It bothered Roberta that she couldn't remember.

    "Holly O'Riley," the woman said, extending her hand. "Roberta, I'm glad to meet you."

    "Nice to meet you too," Roberta said, and then thought with wineinduced paranoia that she should have said something more expansive, more gracious. This woman got almost as much airtime as Meredith did. Roberta wondered if Holly knew that her niece had replaced Roberta in Doe's bed. Yes, of course she did; Roberta was sure the office gossip had made hay of that development. "Nice of you to come to Mitzi's funeral." Then she felt like a fool: of course Doe's coworkers would be there. They had more right to be there, strictly speaking, than Roberta did. They saw Doe every day. Ashamed, Roberta looked down at the floor and caught sight of Mitzi's ring glittering on her hand. There. That was all right. She belonged here too. She had the magic token.

    "Actually, I just got here," Holly said quietly, and Roberta squinted up at her, surprised. "I sent flowers, of course, but I hadn't planned to come to the service: I hate funerals. I, uh, I'm here to fetch you, actually."

    "What?"

    Holly glanced around the room; Roberta followed her lead. They were alone in a corner. The obnoxious woman from Kansas had vanished, and the remaining stragglers were sitting at a table across the room. Holly sighed. "I don't know why I'm being secretive; it's on every newscast in the city. Preston sent me here to get you. Roberta, Nicholas is in trouble."

    Roberta shook her head, riding a surge of nausea. "What? In trouble? How? Why? How did Preston know I was here? Why did he send you? What—"

    "He sent me," Holly said, very gently, "because you're probably going to need a good lawyer. And because you have to get to KinderkAIr as quickly as possible, and you don't have a car, and I do."