Marcia Talley - A Quiet Death

‘It’s, it’s…’ I drew a shuddering breath. ‘When I read in the paper about Tashawn Jackson’s funeral, I wanted to go, I really did, even though I probably would have been the only white face in the church. I felt I owed it to him, Paul. But what would I say when his mother asked, “And who are you?” Do I say, “Your boy took my seat on that train. Now I’m alive and he’s dead?”’

‘Shhh, shhh,’ my husband crooned, gently rocking.

‘I could be dead, Paul, dead! I didn’t live through the surgery and chemo just so I could die before my time on a stupid train! And then I thought, how selfish you are, Hannah. Tashawn had his whole life in front of him, and you’re old. Old!’ I looked up into Paul’s face, touched his cheek, rough against my hand. ‘It should have been me,’ I whimpered. ‘But, oh Paul, I’m so glad it wasn’t me!’

‘I thank God it wasn’t you, too,’ my husband said, stroking my hair.

I slept long and hard that night, awakening an hour after the coffee pot had started its automatic cycle.

Paul had already left for work, but while I slept, he’d thoughtfully picked up all the clothes I’d strewn about the room and hung them back in my closet.

In the end, for my visit with Lilith, I settled on a pair of slim black slacks and a lightweight blue sweater, paired with a matching set of aquamarine earrings. I took some time with my make-up. Why? I couldn’t say. Perhaps I didn’t want to feel frumpy next to a woman who, at least when young, had been a great beauty. Concealer to minimize the dark bags under my eyes. Eyebrows, eyeliner, lipstick and blush. A touch of twilight blue on the lids. If Paul had come into the bathroom that minute, he’d have thought I was cheating on him.

Lilith’s Garfinkel’s bag looked like it had been dragged through a hedge backwards, so before I left the house, I tucked it into a canvas tote.

I retraced the route to Woolford, parked behind Lilith’s Toyota at the end of her drive, and was hauling the tote out of the back seat when Lilith appeared out of the woods, almost like an apparition. She was dressed in pipe-stem blue jeans and a tailored white shirt, unbuttoned, her shirt tails floating gently over a pale-pink scoop-necked tee. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Hannah.’

Although Lilith was thirty years older than the pictures I carried, I would have known her anywhere. We all should age so gracefully. Her dark hair was laced with threads of silver, but the graying had progressed so evenly that one could easily mistake it for highlighting. Skilful highlighting, too. A dye job you’d pay extra for. She had the same slight frame, and as she approached, she moved with elegant grace. I imagined her as a young girl, practicing that walk while balancing a dictionary on her head.

I held out my hand. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Lilith.’

Lilith’s azure eyes strayed to the tote in my hand, then back to my face without betraying a single ill-mannered sign of curiosity. ‘Before we get down to business,’ she said, ‘I’d like to show you my studio.’

After visiting Lilith’s house, I was holding my breath, mentally bracing for the studio experience. I followed her down a straight, narrow path to a wooden A-frame structure a hundred yards or so from the creek. Imagine my surprise when she opened a door and led me into a spacious room that pulsed with light and color. White-white walls and pale oak floors seemed to go on forever. A chaise lounge was tucked into a corner by a wall of windows that framed the water view, a colorful crocheted afghan neatly draped over its arm. Next to the chaise, a camera was mounted on a tripod, its lens pointing outside, ready for the next shot.

On an easel in the center of the room stood Lilith’s work in progress, a painting of a toy sailboat floating on water amid a sea of fall leaves. Clipped to the easel was a photograph of the same scene. ‘You’re still into photorealism, I see.’

With her eyes on the painting, she smiled. ‘It’s light that’s always interested me, Hannah – how it’s reflected, refracted, diffused and distorted by the water.’

Although the work was incomplete, I felt I could reach into the painting, swirl my hand through the leaves and come out wet. ‘What’s it called?’

She grinned. ‘Sailboat Twenty-three.’

Finished canvases – still lifes and landscapes – were propped up against the wall to my right, and to my left was a tiny kitchenette with a hotplate, where a teakettle was just starting to scream.

‘I’m making tea,’ she told me. ‘Lady Grey. Would you like some?’

‘Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.’

When the tea was ready, she carried the tray outside to a table on a round concrete patio. From the patio, a leaf-strewn lawn sloped gently down to the creek where, at the end of a short dock, a motorboat was tied. Closer to shore, a kayak bobbed.

‘Milk and sugar?’

I shook my head. ‘Do you get out on the water often?’ I asked as Lilith stirred milk and sugar into her tea.

‘Every day I can. I find paddling a kayak very relaxing. Nature’s chorus sings all around you in a kayak. A motorboat drowns it out. I keep the motorboat in case of emergency, of course.’

‘I know what you mean about motors,’ I agreed. ‘My husband and I sail, but only on other people’s boats.’ We sipped in silence for a while, listening to the susurrus of the wind in the trees.

‘You mentioned you had something that belongs to me,’ Lilith said at last.

I pulled the Garfinkel’s bag out of my canvas tote and set it on the table between us.

Lilith’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. She laid a hand lightly on the bag. ‘Where on earth did you get this?’

‘I’m afraid it comes with some bad news.’ I told Lilith about the Metro crash, about the gravely injured man I’d comforted. ‘He told me his name was Skip.’

Lilith exhaled slowly, then looked away, swiping sudden tears away with the back of her hand. ‘That’s what they called him in school, because he was always cutting class.’

‘Your son?’

Still staring out over the water, Lilith nodded. ‘His given name is Nicholas. Nicholas Ryan Aupry.’

Aupry. Where had I heard that name before? Was Nicholas actually Aupry’s son?

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I wish I could tell you what happened to your son, but when I asked the hospital for information I didn’t know his name, so naturally they refused to tell me anything.’

While I waited for Lilith to comment, my mind raced, paging through the names of the seven train crash victims. None had been named Nicholas Aupry. I was positive of that.

Lilith set her cup down carefully, centering it on the saucer. She smiled knowingly. As if reading my mind, she said, ‘He’s not dead, I’m sure of that.’

My heart did a somersault. ‘So, you’ve been in touch?’

‘No. But, if Nick had died of his injuries, somebody would have contacted me. I’m his only next of kin.’

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ I said, fully intending to, ‘but why did Skip – excuse me, Nick – have your letters with him?’

‘I didn’t even know they were missing. I haven’t seen them since Nicholas…’ Her voice trailed off.

Small wonder, I thought to myself. If the box of letters had been in Lilith’s cottage… well, you could park a construction dumpster in the driveway and spend a week hauling stuff out of Lilith’s cottage and no one would notice a bit of improvement.

Yet her studio was impeccable. Clearly, this place was her refuge.

‘So Nick stole your letters?’ I asked.

She nodded, her face twisted with anguish. ‘Apparently.’

‘Why?’

‘I imagine he’s trying to track down his father.’