talk much about growing up.” Her facial features seemed
almost to droop. “He kept it to himself.” I felt her eyes traveling down my simple navy-blue dress to my dark, strappy heels.
“You were married to my son how long?”
“Four years. We met in school. University of Southern Maine.
Graduate school. He was an architect. Did you know that?”
“We weren’t in touch.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry.” My fingers began to
knead the napkin in my lap. “He said he’d lost both his parents.”
“That’s his truth. Mine is that he never lost me, he chose to
cut me out of his life.” Her voice was soft, but those words stung as if she’d thrown her tea in my face. An awkward silence filled the room like the smoke from a cherry bomb. “So tell me, what was he
like? My son, when you met him?”
“Very good sense of humor. Shy. Kept to himself.” I was
tempted to add: Very smart in a calculating, manipulative way.
Narcissistic. Selfish. These latter traits had become more apparent to me since the reading of the wil .
Cora sipped her tea and placed it back onto the saucer before
speaking. “And how did you penetrate his armor?”
52
ELLEN J. GREEN
“I real y don’t know.” But I did. We shared an intense, quiet
sadness. A difficult past that was understood without words. I
never asked him about his childhood because I didn’t want him
asking about mine. Terrible plus terrible equals horrific. And our marriage couldn’t handle horrific. It could barely tolerate tempered silence.
Cora’s head tilted slightly. “Where was your family in all this?
Did you leave home at a young age? Cut your family off too?”
My napkin was twisted around my hand so tightly, my finger-
tips were blue. “No. I lived at home until college. My mother died when I was fourteen. Cancer. And my life was upside down after
that. My father and I don’t speak much.”
“So you were two orphans in a storm? Clinging together in
your little house in Maine? Waiting for the worst to pass?”
The snark of her words was mitigated by the look in her eyes.
She was devastated.
I said, “I can’t imagine how terrible this must have been for
you. Not knowing where he was all this time.”
“The last time I saw Nick was at his father’s funeral. It was like my world disappeared that day. Everything I’d known, gone.” She
started picking at the burned skin around her cuticles. “Please tell me about the accident. What happened?”
“I was driving. The light turned green. A truck rammed into
us.” I watched my fingers unwrap the napkin and rewrap it over
and over. Anything not to have to look up into this woman’s face.
“It’s all a blur. The truck came from nowhere. I had the light.” My eyes burned, and I real y didn’t want to cry. I coughed lightly and took a sip of lukewarm tea. “I wanted to write sooner, but I thought it was best to wait until I came to Philadelphia. So we could see each other face-to-face.”
I leaned in. “Mrs. Whitfield, you were very much on your son’s
mind before he died.”
This seemed to startle her. “He wasn’t killed in the accident?”
THE BOOK of JAMES
53
I shook my head. “No. He lived long enough to get to the hos-
pital, to surgery. And he was conscious in the emergency room.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that I needed to come to Philadelphia. They’d given him
medicine. His thoughts were jumbled. But he insisted that some
part of his life was here.”
“You needed to come to Philadelphia? Why?” Something
flashed in her eyes.
“He didn’t say, but I think it was to come to you. So he could
reconnect with you. Even if it was through me.”
Cora laughed. I took notice of the fact that it was misplaced,
but that her face was oddly bright when she smiled. It didn’t last long. “And where is my son’s body? What did you do with it?” Her
expression flattened.
“He’s buried in Portland. That’s
almost to droop. “He kept it to himself.” I felt her eyes traveling down my simple navy-blue dress to my dark, strappy heels.
“You were married to my son how long?”
“Four years. We met in school. University of Southern Maine.
Graduate school. He was an architect. Did you know that?”
“We weren’t in touch.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry.” My fingers began to
knead the napkin in my lap. “He said he’d lost both his parents.”
“That’s his truth. Mine is that he never lost me, he chose to
cut me out of his life.” Her voice was soft, but those words stung as if she’d thrown her tea in my face. An awkward silence filled the room like the smoke from a cherry bomb. “So tell me, what was he
like? My son, when you met him?”
“Very good sense of humor. Shy. Kept to himself.” I was
tempted to add: Very smart in a calculating, manipulative way.
Narcissistic. Selfish. These latter traits had become more apparent to me since the reading of the wil .
Cora sipped her tea and placed it back onto the saucer before
speaking. “And how did you penetrate his armor?”
52
ELLEN J. GREEN
“I real y don’t know.” But I did. We shared an intense, quiet
sadness. A difficult past that was understood without words. I
never asked him about his childhood because I didn’t want him
asking about mine. Terrible plus terrible equals horrific. And our marriage couldn’t handle horrific. It could barely tolerate tempered silence.
Cora’s head tilted slightly. “Where was your family in all this?
Did you leave home at a young age? Cut your family off too?”
My napkin was twisted around my hand so tightly, my finger-
tips were blue. “No. I lived at home until college. My mother died when I was fourteen. Cancer. And my life was upside down after
that. My father and I don’t speak much.”
“So you were two orphans in a storm? Clinging together in
your little house in Maine? Waiting for the worst to pass?”
The snark of her words was mitigated by the look in her eyes.
She was devastated.
I said, “I can’t imagine how terrible this must have been for
you. Not knowing where he was all this time.”
“The last time I saw Nick was at his father’s funeral. It was like my world disappeared that day. Everything I’d known, gone.” She
started picking at the burned skin around her cuticles. “Please tell me about the accident. What happened?”
“I was driving. The light turned green. A truck rammed into
us.” I watched my fingers unwrap the napkin and rewrap it over
and over. Anything not to have to look up into this woman’s face.
“It’s all a blur. The truck came from nowhere. I had the light.” My eyes burned, and I real y didn’t want to cry. I coughed lightly and took a sip of lukewarm tea. “I wanted to write sooner, but I thought it was best to wait until I came to Philadelphia. So we could see each other face-to-face.”
I leaned in. “Mrs. Whitfield, you were very much on your son’s
mind before he died.”
This seemed to startle her. “He wasn’t killed in the accident?”
THE BOOK of JAMES
53
I shook my head. “No. He lived long enough to get to the hos-
pital, to surgery. And he was conscious in the emergency room.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that I needed to come to Philadelphia. They’d given him
medicine. His thoughts were jumbled. But he insisted that some
part of his life was here.”
“You needed to come to Philadelphia? Why?” Something
flashed in her eyes.
“He didn’t say, but I think it was to come to you. So he could
reconnect with you. Even if it was through me.”
Cora laughed. I took notice of the fact that it was misplaced,
but that her face was oddly bright when she smiled. It didn’t last long. “And where is my son’s body? What did you do with it?” Her
expression flattened.
“He’s buried in Portland. That’s
Similar Books
