water glass as he groped for it, soaking the white tablecloth and the mauve wrappings of the little party favors Iris had arranged at every place.
“What happened?” Ruthie said again, and then, as her father broke down, “Daddy?”
Ruthie had never seen her father cry. At his parents’ funerals there had been a dampness in the corners of his eyes, but wild, hoarse weepingwas impossible, a dark miracle, no less wondrous and terrible than if her father had suddenly burst into flames.
“Stop it,” Ruthie whispered. “Stop it!” She clutched at his sleeve, shaking his limp arm. “Please, stop.”
Daniel gulped and then pulled Ruthie onto his lap. He buried his face in the nape of her soft neck and held her tightly.
Across the room Iris stood, her blood rushing hollow in her ears. She had seen Daniel and Ruthie crying, knew that they were hanging on to each other as if the seas were rising around them. But the only person in the narrow focus of her horror was the sheriff’s deputy, illuminated as though trapped in a blazing spotlight. He held his hat over his heart, the chin strap caught on the shiny metal of his badge. The noises of the crowd faded to silence, and somehow Iris heard the deputy’s words from across the distance of the hall as though he were whispering them into her ear.
II
Someone had switched on the two racks of fluorescent tubes slung from the Grange Hall’s rafters, and the gaily decorated tables and flower arrangements looked tawdry in the harsh light, like crumpled and torn Christmas wrappings after the gifts had all been opened. The fairy lights twined through the wires shone wanly, like headlights in the daytime. The candles had guttered and gone out, the place settings stood stacked and pushed aside, and a skyline of dirty tumblers and wineglasses was crowded at the far end of the empty buffet table. All joy and expectation had been drained from the room, and in their absence what had seemed whimsical and elegant was now gaudiness, pretense. For a while the guests stayed, clumped into small groups. Whether up from New York for the weekend or summer people who’d known Becca since she was a sag-diapered baby digging in the rocky sand on Red Hook beach, the Copakens’ friends stood together, gripping one another’s hands and shoulders in a sudden camaraderie of disaster.
On the other side of the room stood the locals, the families of Jane and Frank and the few people not related to her whom Jane had invited. Unlike the from-aways, they were largely silent, each standing at a slight remove from the others, as though encapsulated in an invisible bubble of shock.
Everyone drank. Whether they were lobstermen or investment bankers, they placed their orders and drained their glasses in one or two gulps. The bartender was kept busy, although his work was simpler now. No one was ordering G&Ts or sea breezes. It was all scotch or bourbon, neat.
Then, as if by some inaudible signal, all together, the locals started to gather their things and head for the door. The summer people andout-of-town guests hesitated only a moment before following, a few stopping on their way out to lay a useless hand on Daniel’s shoulder or offer Iris a hug she could not bear to accept.
The Copakens and the Tetherlys sat at separate tables, each family in its own stunned huddle. Someone, perhaps it was the caterer, had stripped these tables of place settings and flowers and set down pitchers of water and a few glasses, though a bottle of rye, Jane thought, might have been more welcome. Frank was not among them. He needed a smoke, he had said, and to Jane’s relief, after fifteen minutes he was still not back. His slatternly girlfriend had gone after him. Now Jane didn’t need to worry about what her son-of-a-bitch ex-husband might do or say. Infuriating, how even ten years after their divorce, he managed to embarrass her, as if his disgraceful behavior were still a reflection on her. She had been young and
“What happened?” Ruthie said again, and then, as her father broke down, “Daddy?”
Ruthie had never seen her father cry. At his parents’ funerals there had been a dampness in the corners of his eyes, but wild, hoarse weepingwas impossible, a dark miracle, no less wondrous and terrible than if her father had suddenly burst into flames.
“Stop it,” Ruthie whispered. “Stop it!” She clutched at his sleeve, shaking his limp arm. “Please, stop.”
Daniel gulped and then pulled Ruthie onto his lap. He buried his face in the nape of her soft neck and held her tightly.
Across the room Iris stood, her blood rushing hollow in her ears. She had seen Daniel and Ruthie crying, knew that they were hanging on to each other as if the seas were rising around them. But the only person in the narrow focus of her horror was the sheriff’s deputy, illuminated as though trapped in a blazing spotlight. He held his hat over his heart, the chin strap caught on the shiny metal of his badge. The noises of the crowd faded to silence, and somehow Iris heard the deputy’s words from across the distance of the hall as though he were whispering them into her ear.
II
Someone had switched on the two racks of fluorescent tubes slung from the Grange Hall’s rafters, and the gaily decorated tables and flower arrangements looked tawdry in the harsh light, like crumpled and torn Christmas wrappings after the gifts had all been opened. The fairy lights twined through the wires shone wanly, like headlights in the daytime. The candles had guttered and gone out, the place settings stood stacked and pushed aside, and a skyline of dirty tumblers and wineglasses was crowded at the far end of the empty buffet table. All joy and expectation had been drained from the room, and in their absence what had seemed whimsical and elegant was now gaudiness, pretense. For a while the guests stayed, clumped into small groups. Whether up from New York for the weekend or summer people who’d known Becca since she was a sag-diapered baby digging in the rocky sand on Red Hook beach, the Copakens’ friends stood together, gripping one another’s hands and shoulders in a sudden camaraderie of disaster.
On the other side of the room stood the locals, the families of Jane and Frank and the few people not related to her whom Jane had invited. Unlike the from-aways, they were largely silent, each standing at a slight remove from the others, as though encapsulated in an invisible bubble of shock.
Everyone drank. Whether they were lobstermen or investment bankers, they placed their orders and drained their glasses in one or two gulps. The bartender was kept busy, although his work was simpler now. No one was ordering G&Ts or sea breezes. It was all scotch or bourbon, neat.
Then, as if by some inaudible signal, all together, the locals started to gather their things and head for the door. The summer people andout-of-town guests hesitated only a moment before following, a few stopping on their way out to lay a useless hand on Daniel’s shoulder or offer Iris a hug she could not bear to accept.
The Copakens and the Tetherlys sat at separate tables, each family in its own stunned huddle. Someone, perhaps it was the caterer, had stripped these tables of place settings and flowers and set down pitchers of water and a few glasses, though a bottle of rye, Jane thought, might have been more welcome. Frank was not among them. He needed a smoke, he had said, and to Jane’s relief, after fifteen minutes he was still not back. His slatternly girlfriend had gone after him. Now Jane didn’t need to worry about what her son-of-a-bitch ex-husband might do or say. Infuriating, how even ten years after their divorce, he managed to embarrass her, as if his disgraceful behavior were still a reflection on her. She had been young and
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