visit?’ She took his arm and held it tight, afraid he might fall, as they moved down the narrow, uneven trail to the car. The scent of burning leaves floated in the air. The soft November sun left a burnished glow on her cheek.
‘I talk to her now in ways I never talked to her when she was alive. That’s the trouble with words, I think—they always get in the way. They never quite come out the way you want.When I come here it is not so much a conversation as a meditation, a sense that she shares whatever thought I have. It’s a kind of catharsis, I suppose; but it’s more than that: it’s the way she always makes me better than I am. Death does that, doesn’t it? It puts things in the right perspective, gives you a sense of what is important and what is not.’
Under the darkened shelter of an oak tree, they sat together on a wooden bench. Summer nestled close, keeping hold of his arm. ‘You were lucky to have her. There aren’t many men who married the first girl they ever loved. I don’t talk to Adam when I visit his grave; I didn’t talk much to him when he was alive. I suppose I come here because I was married to him and it doesn’t seem right he should just be forgotten.We were never any good together. That wasn’t his fault, it was mine. Sometimes I try to remember what things were like, in the beginning, before things got bad. The truth, though, is that if he had lived—if he hadn’t gotten sick—we would have divorced and I doubt I ever would have thought, or tried to think, about how things had been at the beginning. But he died instead, and I feel this responsibility. The dead go on living, don’t they? They’re alive in us.’
Darnell pulled his jacket close around his throat.
‘You’re cold.We’d better go.’
She drove him home and, while he sat at the kitchen table reviewing some material for the next week in trial, she made dinner.
‘Did I tell you that yesterday morning I delivered Olivia Ceballos’ baby? A girl, seven pounds, eight ounces.’
Darnell looked up, a blank expression on his face.
‘The second generation,’ she said, reminding him of what she had told him before.
Darnell’s eyes lit up.‘Of course! You delivered Olivia—twenty years ago.’
‘Yes, and her mother came, and afterwards we had a photograph taken: three generations and me.’
‘Twenty years from now, you can have another picture with four.’
‘And I suppose you think you’ll still be trying cases,’ she remarked as she brought their plates to the table.
‘I wonder what kind of world it will be then.’ Darnell lifted a glass of red wine to the level of his eyes, studying it with a strange fascination.‘On the surface, no doubt, even more artificial than this.’
‘Artificial?’
‘You see it every day,’ he said, as he put down the glass.‘What we all believe; that with all the new advances, all the things that science will soon be able to do, we will live longer, better, more productive lives. Every week in the papers I read how the normal life span will become a hundred and fifty years, maybe more. As if that were any great achievement; as if by some small delay death could be defeated! That is what has everyone so fascinated with this case. It shows how artificial we have made—or tried to make—the world. Feel bad? Take a pill. Have a problem? Suffered a loss? See a counsellor who can teach you how to cope. It is the narcotic of the modern age, a way to try to forget that we’re as much a part of nature as everything else that is born and dies. But out there, in that lifeboat—without food, without water —what good was all our modern science to them? What difference would it have made whether life expectancy was measured in terms of centuries instead of years to people who did not know if they would live another day? That is what has everyone on the edge of their seats: this knowledge that all the things we take for granted have made us forget what it really means to be
‘I talk to her now in ways I never talked to her when she was alive. That’s the trouble with words, I think—they always get in the way. They never quite come out the way you want.When I come here it is not so much a conversation as a meditation, a sense that she shares whatever thought I have. It’s a kind of catharsis, I suppose; but it’s more than that: it’s the way she always makes me better than I am. Death does that, doesn’t it? It puts things in the right perspective, gives you a sense of what is important and what is not.’
Under the darkened shelter of an oak tree, they sat together on a wooden bench. Summer nestled close, keeping hold of his arm. ‘You were lucky to have her. There aren’t many men who married the first girl they ever loved. I don’t talk to Adam when I visit his grave; I didn’t talk much to him when he was alive. I suppose I come here because I was married to him and it doesn’t seem right he should just be forgotten.We were never any good together. That wasn’t his fault, it was mine. Sometimes I try to remember what things were like, in the beginning, before things got bad. The truth, though, is that if he had lived—if he hadn’t gotten sick—we would have divorced and I doubt I ever would have thought, or tried to think, about how things had been at the beginning. But he died instead, and I feel this responsibility. The dead go on living, don’t they? They’re alive in us.’
Darnell pulled his jacket close around his throat.
‘You’re cold.We’d better go.’
She drove him home and, while he sat at the kitchen table reviewing some material for the next week in trial, she made dinner.
‘Did I tell you that yesterday morning I delivered Olivia Ceballos’ baby? A girl, seven pounds, eight ounces.’
Darnell looked up, a blank expression on his face.
‘The second generation,’ she said, reminding him of what she had told him before.
Darnell’s eyes lit up.‘Of course! You delivered Olivia—twenty years ago.’
‘Yes, and her mother came, and afterwards we had a photograph taken: three generations and me.’
‘Twenty years from now, you can have another picture with four.’
‘And I suppose you think you’ll still be trying cases,’ she remarked as she brought their plates to the table.
‘I wonder what kind of world it will be then.’ Darnell lifted a glass of red wine to the level of his eyes, studying it with a strange fascination.‘On the surface, no doubt, even more artificial than this.’
‘Artificial?’
‘You see it every day,’ he said, as he put down the glass.‘What we all believe; that with all the new advances, all the things that science will soon be able to do, we will live longer, better, more productive lives. Every week in the papers I read how the normal life span will become a hundred and fifty years, maybe more. As if that were any great achievement; as if by some small delay death could be defeated! That is what has everyone so fascinated with this case. It shows how artificial we have made—or tried to make—the world. Feel bad? Take a pill. Have a problem? Suffered a loss? See a counsellor who can teach you how to cope. It is the narcotic of the modern age, a way to try to forget that we’re as much a part of nature as everything else that is born and dies. But out there, in that lifeboat—without food, without water —what good was all our modern science to them? What difference would it have made whether life expectancy was measured in terms of centuries instead of years to people who did not know if they would live another day? That is what has everyone on the edge of their seats: this knowledge that all the things we take for granted have made us forget what it really means to be
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