TUESDAY
August 8, 2006, 11:13 a.m.
Janie wakes up, sweating like a marathoner. Her cheek is stuck to her pillowcase. Her hair is soaking wet. It’s at least 450 degrees in the house.
And she’s starving.
STARVING.
She stumbles to the kitchen and stands at the refrigerator, eating whatever she can find. She presses the cold milk jug against her face to cool it before taking a long swig from it. And then she takes an ice cube and runs it all over her neck and arms. “God almighty,” she mutters, grabbing a container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs. “I need air!”
Fifteen minutes later, she’s in the shower, water temp set to cold. It’s almost too cold, but Janie knows the minute she steps out of there, she’ll start sweating again, so she keeps the setting on freezing.
When she turns off the water and steps out of the shower, she hears her mother’s voice, talking on the phone. Janie freezes and listens for a minute, and then she whips a towel around herself, clutching it at her chest, and opens the bathroom door, her hair dripping all over the floor.
Dorothea, in her nightgown, hangs up the phone. Turns to look at Janie, her face haggard and old-looking. Pale, like the moon. “He’s dead,” she says simply. Shrugs. “It’s about time.” Shuffles back to her bedroom, but not before Janie sees Dorothea’s lip tremble.
Janie stands in the hallway, dripping, feeling numb. “He’s dead,” she echoes. It’s as if the sound of her voice makes it real. Janie leans back against the hallway wall and slides down until she’s sitting on the floor. She tips her head back until it bumps the wall. “My dad is dead.”
Still numb.
It’s over.
After a few minutes, Janie stands up and marches into her mother’s bedroom, not bothering to knock. Dorothea sits weeping on her bed.
“So. What do we need to do?” Janie asks. “I mean, like, funeral stuff.”
“I don’t know,” Dorothea says. “I told them I don’t want nothing to do with it. They can just handle it.”
“What?” Janie feels like yelling. She moves to call the hospital herself, but then she stops. Turns back to her mother. Says in a way-too-calm voice, “Call them back and tell them that Henry is Jewish. He needs to go to a Jewish funeral home.” Janie glances at Dorothea’s sparse closet. “Do you even have a single decent dress, Mother? Do you?”
“What do I need a dress for?”
“For the funeral,” Janie says firmly.
“I’m not going to that,” Dorothea says.
“Oh, yes, you are.” Janie’s pissed. “You are definitely going to my father’s funeral. He loved you, all these years. You might not understand why he left, but I do, and he still loves you!” Janie chokes on her mistake. “He loved you,” she says. “Now go call the hospital before they do something else with him. And then call the funeral home—the hospital should be able to recommend one.”
Dorothea looks confused, alarmed. “I don’t know their numbers.”
Janie eyes her coldly. “What are you, f*cking eight years old? Look them up.” She storms out of the room and slams the door. “God!” she mutters, frustrated, as she stomps down the hallway and enters her room. Still wearing a towel, Janie fishes some clothes from her dresser, tosses them on the bed, and then rakes a wide-toothed comb through her tangled, wet hair.
She hears her mother’s door open. A few minutes later, Janie can hear Dorothea stammering on the phone. Janie flops back on the bed, sweating again in the heat.
Damn it.
“Henry,” Janie says.
She cries for all the things that could have been.
12:40 p.m.
Janie pulls her suitcase from the closet.
Climbs up into the attic to look for boxes.
She’ll have to move her stuff over slowly since she has to take the bus and walk.
Wonders briefly if the keys to Henry’s station wagon are hanging somewhere obvious in his little house. And then nixes that plan. That could really look like stealing if she got pulled over. No sense getting killed right before restarting her whole life, either.
She fills her backpack with clothing and grabs the suitcase.
Heads out the door.
1:29 p.m.
Janie sets her things down in the middle of the shack and sits at Henry’s desk to write a list of things to do:
• Get through funeral first
• Find rental lease and landlord address for rent payments
• Figure out if utilities are included or if I pay
• Clean house
• Study online store history to find out what sells
• Water garden!! And freeze veggies
• Switch to cable Internet if not too expensive
• Tell Captain the plan
• Tell Cabe
She stops writing and stares at the last two words.
Throws the pen at the wall. Slams her fists on the desk. Shoves the chair back so hard it flips over. Stands in the middle of the room and screams at the ceiling. “My life f*cking sucks the meanest one of all! How could you force me to choose? How can you do this to me? Do you hear me? Anybody?”
She falls to her knees, covers her head with her arms, and bends forward into a ball.
Sobs rip through the house, but no one is there to hear her.
There is no comfort here.
3:57 p.m.
Janie stares out the bus window, cheek against the glass, watching Fieldridge go by.
As she walks from the bus stop to her mother’s house, she calls him.
“Hey,” he says.
And suddenly, Janie can’t speak. A garbled sound comes from her throat instead.
“Janie, you okay?” Cabel’s voice turns immediately concerned. “Where are you? Do you need help?”
Janie breathes, tries to steady her shaky voice. “I’m okay. I’m home. I’m . . . my . . . Henry died.”
It’s quiet on the line for a moment. “I’ll be right over,” he says. “Okay?”
Janie nods into the phone. “Yes, please.”
And then Janie calls Carrie. Gets her voice mail. “Hey, Carrie, I just thought I should let you know that Henry died. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you later.”
4:43 p.m.
Cabel raps on the door. He’s carrying a potted plant and a bakery box from the grocery store.
“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t have time to make you, like, a casserole or whatever. But I stopped by the store and brought you this. I’m so sorry, Janers.”
Janie smiles and her eyes fill up. She takes the box and the plant, sets the plant near the window. “It’s really pretty,” she says. “Thank you.” She opens the box. “Oh, wow—doughnuts.” She laughs and goes to him. Hugs him close. “You rock, Cabe.”
Cabel shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I figured doughnuts are good comfort food. But I’m going to fix you ladies some dinner, too, so you don’t have to mess with it.”
Janie shakes her head, puzzled. “What for?”
“That’s what you do when somebody dies. You bring them casseroles and KFC and shit. Charlie got all kinds of food when Dad died in the clink, and nobody even liked my dad. I was in the hospital but Charlie snuck me some . . . God, I’m rambling.” Cabel shuffles his feet. “I’m just going to shut up now.”
Janie hugs him tightly again. “This is really weird.”
“Yeah,” he says. He strokes her hair. Kisses her forehead. “I’m really sorry about Henry.”
“Thanks. I mean, we all knew he was going to die. He’s really just a stranger,” Janie says. Lies.
“Still,” Cabel says. “Anyway, he’s your dad. That’s gotta feel bad, no matter what.”
She shrugs. “I can’t . . .” she says. Doesn’t want to go there. She’s got other immediate things to think about now.
Like how to get her drunk, nightgown-wearing mother to a funeral.
5:59 p.m.
Instead of heating up the house even more by cooking, Cabel picks up dinner. Apparently, the scent of fried chicken and biscuits penetrates the Portal to Sorrow, as Dorothea appears and silently helps herself to the food before retreating once again.
The director from the funeral home calls. Janie first writes things down frantically, then discusses arrangement options with him. She’s relieved to hear that Jews have their funerals as soon as possible. That suits her just fine. And with no relatives to contact, they set the service for the next morning at eleven.
After she hangs up, Janie whips through clothes hampers and gets some dirty laundry together for the Laundromat. She shoves the basket at Cabel, and then she remembers that she promised Cathy a note. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Cabe, along with a roll of masking tape. “Can you drive out to Henry’s and stick this on his front door?”
“No problem,” he says. He heads out the door while Janie irons a dress and then wipes the dust off of a pair of ancient, rarely worn flats.
“It’s not fair,” she mumbles. “It’s totally not.”
8:10 p.m.
Cabe shows up at the front door with the laundry—fresh, clean, and almost, sort-of folded. “Note’s on the door, laundry is finished.”
Janie grins and takes the basket. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”
Cabel grins. “Laundry’s not my strongest area of expertise, but I get by. Can I keep the panties?” He grins and backs out of the house.
“Uh . . . you’ll have to ask my mother.” Janie laughs.
Cabe cringes. “Oof. F*ck and ugh. Hey, I’ll let you get stuff done . . . and give you your space. Call me if you need me. I’ll pick you guys up tomorrow for the funeral, if you want.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Yes, that would be great.”
Janie watches him go.