Alice’s best friend, Chrissie Herrick, had skipped the service in order to set up food and drinks at Grey Lady for a small memorial gathering. There’d been talk back and forth on whether it should be at her house or a restaurant, but Chrissie had talked Alice into the house option, saying she would take care of every detail.
When Harry, Paul, and Alice got home, some guests had already arrived and were milling silently around the spread of cold cuts and salads on the dining room table. Chrissie had purchased a guest book for people to sign and had put together a slideshow of pictures of Bill on a laptop. “At least there’s beer,” Paul said, and pulled two bottles of Shipyard from a cooler filled with ice. Harry told himself that he should talk to his cousins, most of whom he hadn’t seen for two years. But before he could approach them, John Richards cornered him and asked if Alice had broached the subject of him helping out at the store this summer.
“She did,” Harry said.
“Oh, good. And you can, I hope?” John was a local widower, and a retiree, who had asked to volunteer at Bill’s store. Bill had taken him on just for a few hours a day, but John had made himself indispensable, both as an employee and as a late-in-life friend.
“I can help for the summer. You want to keep the store open, then?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know I can’t just shut it down right away. We’ve got special orders to fill, and cataloguing. Even if we decide to close it, it’s still a lot of work.”
“No, I know. What about the store in New York?”
Harry had actually been surprised that Ron Krakowski, who had bought out his father’s share in the original Ackerson’s Rare Books in Manhattan, had not come to the service. Ron had been Bill’s closest friend for many years, a true savant with an encyclopedic knowledge of the rare-book trade. Harry did remember hearing from his father once that Ron had become one of those city dwellers terrified to step off the asphalt island of Manhattan. That was probably the reason he hadn’t made it to Maine.
“What about the store in New York?” John asked, confusion in his voice.
“I thought maybe they’d buy up your stock, if you decided to close shop.”
“Oh, right. I hadn’t thought of that, but they probably would. When can you come in?”
Harry told John that he’d come and help out in the store on Tuesday. The thought of going in the following day was just too much to stomach. John looked visibly relieved that help was on the way.
His beer gone, Harry checked in briefly with Aunt Anne’s kids; all three were milling around the food, demolishing a bowl of Ruffles and some French onion dip. It was clear that he remembered them better than they remembered him, or maybe they were all at that stage of teenage boy in which conversation and facial expressions disappear. Aunt Anne came over and helped out, repeating to Harry several times that he could come visit whenever he wanted to and for however long. While talking with his aunt, he kept an eye on Alice, who was sitting on one of the T-back chairs, a plate of untouched pasta salad on her lap. Carl Ridley stood next to her, a hand on the back of her chair, while a familiar woman—was she a librarian?—bent at the waist to offer Alice her condolences.
“You should get back to Mather,” Harry told Paul, who had just extricated himself from what looked like a stilted one-on-one with Billy Herrick, Chrissie’s husband and one of those men who had married a talkative woman so that he, himself, could retire from the act of small talk.
“You sure?” Paul said.
“Yes, please. I wish I could come with you.”
“You could, you know.”
Harry made a face. “Not really. I mean, Alice . . . and even if she didn’t mind, I don’t think I could stand hanging around with a bunch of drunks celebrating graduation.”
“You wouldn’t have to go to any parties. We could just hang out one last night in my dorm room. Kim would obviously love to see you.”
Harry briefly considered it. Telling Alice that he needed to tie up a couple of loose ends at college, making sure that Chrissie would spend the night so she wouldn’t be alone, and then leaving with Paul, back to college for one more night before the rest of his life began. The thought was tempting, but also exhausting. More concerned people, more condolences. What Harry really wanted to do was to go up to his room, shut the door, strip off his too-tight suit, and crawl under the covers. And there was also a part of him that wanted to stay close to Alice, to not leave her alone in the house. He told Paul he thought he needed to stay, then waited while Paul said good-bye to Alice.
He walked Paul to his car. They hugged good-bye. “You’re not alone, buddy,” Paul said, and Harry was briefly spooked to hear the words, realizing that had been his primary emotion since hearing of his father’s death. He’d felt alone, the world emptied of his family.
“Yeah, well,” Harry said, and began to back away.
“Something wrong beside the obvious?” Paul asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been not quite yourself this whole year.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Now is not the time, obviously. I’m just worried about you, and so is Kim.”
“You Kim’s spokesperson now?”
“Sure, why not?” Paul said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “I’m off. You need anything, like for me to come back, or someone to talk with, just text, okay? And hang in there.”
The Prius’s wheels spun on the crushed shells, then the car was speeding out onto York Street. Harry watched as Paul drove out of sight, a trail of cigarette smoke coming from his lowered window. The air temperature had cooled, and the sky above was dark with crosshatched clouds. Paul’s obvious pity annoyed Harry, and he took several deep breaths. Harry considered going back into the party, saying his good-byes, then retreating to his room, but once he’d walked back through the front door he found himself going immediately to the stairs. He’d talked to everyone he needed to talk to, and no one would blame him for wanting to be alone.
In his room he thought again about the dark-haired woman at the funeral service, wondering who she was. It was easier to think of the mystery of her and not the greater mystery of his father’s death. Maybe Alice knew who she was. Alice, as far as he knew, had always lived in Kennewick, and she knew a lot of people. He’d ask her tomorrow. It would give them something to talk about.
Chapter 6
Then
A week before Alice graduated high school, Edith announced that she wanted to throw a graduation party. Alice initially refused—telling her mother that the last thing she wanted was any kind of party—but finally agreed to a nice dinner at home.
“Invite your friend Gina,” Edith said. “She’s never been here, has she?”
Alice wanted to say, For good reason, but instead told her mother she would check and see if Gina was free, but she doubted it.
The date was set for the Friday night before the Saturday morning graduation. Even though Gina knew all about Alice’s mom—how all she did was drink and take pills, and it was always a small miracle if she made it through dinner without passing out—Alice still wasn’t sure she wanted Gina to actually witness it. Besides, that wasn’t her real life. Alice’s real life was the dinners for two at the French restaurant with Jake—more frequent now—and the nights they spent together watching television, her mother barely even conscious.