Until Amy died, I had acknowledged them as extended family, but did not make an effort to know them as individuals. Now I feel the need to do that, and to know Risa’s two sisters, Jayme and Allison, as well, and their husbands, Michael and Ray, and Risa’s parents, Chuck and Ilene, who always went out of their way for Amy. On the weekend, the children ride bikes and play in the pool, for which I got an inflatable crocodile with an arresting leer. Bubbies drives his red Cozy Coupe, and “cooks” hotdogs on his toy stove. We sing “Happy Birthday” to Carl.
Our bedroom doubles as a gallery for family photographs—Carl and Wendy on their wedding day, Amy and Harris on theirs. There is a picture of me and Andrew at the piano; of all five grandchildren in various coerced poses; one of John in gown and mortarboard at his college graduation; two of Amy and Ginny, their heads close together, looking like sisters. In one picture, Jessie and I are on the beach in Quogue. In another, Amy and I are on a beach in Cape Cod. She is Jessie’s age, has a towel around her shoulders, and looks cold from the water. A picture of Amy in a blue baseball cap holding Bubbies. A picture of Amy holding Sammy on her hip, she smiling, he looking curious. A full-faced, charismatic picture of Bubbies, a few months old; and of Amy at the age of two, either putting on or removing Ginny’s sunglasses. The photos are distributed on the walls, on Ginny’s desk, on the mantelpiece, the bed tables, the dresser.
Once in a while, Ginny is brought down by the sight of them, or of any artifact connected to a memory. I am more often felled by mundane problems or momentary concerns, such as choosing a shirt to wear or remembering to take a pill—since nothing will ever be normal again. On the beige carpet at the foot of the dresser there is a small rust-colored stain. It had happened on the afternoon of December 8, shortly after Ginny and I received Carl’s call about Amy. We were packing hurriedly to leave for Bethesda, and in trying to screw the cap on a bottle of baby aspirin, I spilled the pills. I picked them up weeks later, and they left a stain.
We have always liked Quogue for the tone it sets and preserves—private people going about quiet lives. Several friends from the village made the trip to Amy’s funeral, including Susie and Denny Lewis. Their son Denny was killed in Argentina, between college and medical school. He was riding in a car driven by a reckless, speeding driver. There were letters from dozens more, many of whom had never met Amy and who barely knew us. Charlie and Anne Mott called often. Their son-in-law, Marc Reisner, died of appendiceal cancer in 2000. Anne and Charlie have helped their daughter, Lawrie, with their two granddaughters. Andrew Botsford wrote a moving obituary of Amy in the Southampton Press , where he is associate editor. Christine Clifton and her staff at the Quogue Library sent a plant. Aurora Jones of Flowers by Rori knew Amy from the time she provided roses for her wedding. She greeted us in tears on our return, as did Lulie Morrisey, another friend who embraced us in the post office. Amy used to fast-walk to the Quogue Country Market for her morning coffee, pushing first Jessie, then Sammy, then Bubbies in the stroller ahead of her. She chatted with the owners, Bob and Gary, and with the people behind the counter—Sue, Gerard, Lisa, and the woman we referred to as our “other Ginny.” They were steeped in grief. Ginny, who has worked at the market many years, wrote a tender note, and little Sue came out from behind the counter to hug us, her head bowed, without saying a word.
It was Amy who brought us to Quogue in the first place. We had spent parts of two summers renting in East Hampton and in Bridgehampton, where the relentless social life was getting to us. Amy, a college sophomore, was working as a short-order cook in a tennis club in Quogue, serving burgers and sandwiches. She knew that Ginny
Our bedroom doubles as a gallery for family photographs—Carl and Wendy on their wedding day, Amy and Harris on theirs. There is a picture of me and Andrew at the piano; of all five grandchildren in various coerced poses; one of John in gown and mortarboard at his college graduation; two of Amy and Ginny, their heads close together, looking like sisters. In one picture, Jessie and I are on the beach in Quogue. In another, Amy and I are on a beach in Cape Cod. She is Jessie’s age, has a towel around her shoulders, and looks cold from the water. A picture of Amy in a blue baseball cap holding Bubbies. A picture of Amy holding Sammy on her hip, she smiling, he looking curious. A full-faced, charismatic picture of Bubbies, a few months old; and of Amy at the age of two, either putting on or removing Ginny’s sunglasses. The photos are distributed on the walls, on Ginny’s desk, on the mantelpiece, the bed tables, the dresser.
Once in a while, Ginny is brought down by the sight of them, or of any artifact connected to a memory. I am more often felled by mundane problems or momentary concerns, such as choosing a shirt to wear or remembering to take a pill—since nothing will ever be normal again. On the beige carpet at the foot of the dresser there is a small rust-colored stain. It had happened on the afternoon of December 8, shortly after Ginny and I received Carl’s call about Amy. We were packing hurriedly to leave for Bethesda, and in trying to screw the cap on a bottle of baby aspirin, I spilled the pills. I picked them up weeks later, and they left a stain.
We have always liked Quogue for the tone it sets and preserves—private people going about quiet lives. Several friends from the village made the trip to Amy’s funeral, including Susie and Denny Lewis. Their son Denny was killed in Argentina, between college and medical school. He was riding in a car driven by a reckless, speeding driver. There were letters from dozens more, many of whom had never met Amy and who barely knew us. Charlie and Anne Mott called often. Their son-in-law, Marc Reisner, died of appendiceal cancer in 2000. Anne and Charlie have helped their daughter, Lawrie, with their two granddaughters. Andrew Botsford wrote a moving obituary of Amy in the Southampton Press , where he is associate editor. Christine Clifton and her staff at the Quogue Library sent a plant. Aurora Jones of Flowers by Rori knew Amy from the time she provided roses for her wedding. She greeted us in tears on our return, as did Lulie Morrisey, another friend who embraced us in the post office. Amy used to fast-walk to the Quogue Country Market for her morning coffee, pushing first Jessie, then Sammy, then Bubbies in the stroller ahead of her. She chatted with the owners, Bob and Gary, and with the people behind the counter—Sue, Gerard, Lisa, and the woman we referred to as our “other Ginny.” They were steeped in grief. Ginny, who has worked at the market many years, wrote a tender note, and little Sue came out from behind the counter to hug us, her head bowed, without saying a word.
It was Amy who brought us to Quogue in the first place. We had spent parts of two summers renting in East Hampton and in Bridgehampton, where the relentless social life was getting to us. Amy, a college sophomore, was working as a short-order cook in a tennis club in Quogue, serving burgers and sandwiches. She knew that Ginny
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