Jill Churchill: Silence of the Hams

Somebody behind her gave a push and Jane found herself, against her will, in the room where somebody was dead. It was a storage room, as bright and clean as the rest of the deli. Cardboard cartons were neatly stacked on shelving that ran clear around the room except for the doorway where she stood and another doorway on the outside wall. A large chrome rack was lying on the floor. It had held hams, which had rolled all over the floor. Lying in the midst of the hams was a facedown figure. But nobody needed to see the face to know who it was. The showy, snowy white hair could only belong to Robert Stonecipher.

3

Everybody in the hallway seemed to want in the room.

Jane wanted out.

Pushing her way gently but firmly, she struggled into the hall and through the kitchen and sales area. She found Shelley waiting outside.

“What on earth's happening?" Shelley said. They could hear the wail of sirens, and the people still in the deli were standing around in worried knots.

Shaken, Jane explained. "There was a big metal rack in the middle of the storage room that apparently fell over on Robert Stonecipher. It's a madhouse in there."

“Was he hurt?"

“I think he's dead, but I didn't get close enough to find out. Sarah Baker was crying and saying he was dead. I don't know—"

“Storeroom?"

“Between the kitchen and the bathroom. I heard the crash."

“Poor Conrad and Sarah," Shelley said. "Stonecipher was an obnoxious bastard, but I wouldn't wish that on him. Still, if he had to get himself killed or injured, why did it have to be here? And today, to wreck their grand opening? As if he hadn't already given them enough trouble on purpose.”

An ambulance pulled up in front of the deli. Shelley and Jane stepped onto the lawn so they wouldn't be in the way of the emergency staff who leaped out and ran into the building carrying complicated equipment.

“Let's get out of here," Jane said. "We can't be any help and I hate to stand around being a gawker.”

They walked home, and Jane spent a depressing hour paying bills and tidying her small basement office. And trying very hard not to think about that sprawled figure lying half under the rack. What could have made it fall over? It looked as if it had been freestanding in the middle of the room, but surely something that large and heavy-looking doesn't spontaneously topple over simply because somebody walks by it. Suppose it had been Mike in the room when it went over! Her heart went cold. No, she couldn't bear to think about it.

Instead, she looked longingly at the pile ofpaper sitting next to her computer. For nearly a year now she'd been working on what she called her "story." She was afraid to call it a book for fear that such a weighty word would get in the way of her ever finishing it. And, too, if it was a book, she'd have to think about what to do with it if and when she ever finished. Instead, she puttered with the story, enjoying the adventure of spending a few hours every week with a character she'd made up and enjoyed having adventures with. It had begun when she'd taken a "Writing Your Life Story" class with her mother the previous summer. Jane hadn't wanted to write her own story — she only took the class to do something with her mother during her visit — so she invented Priscilla and started telling her story instead.

Now Priscilla, a woman of the eighteenth century who'd lived a long and exciting life, had become a friend, and Jane found herself wishing she could turn on the computer and spend the rest of the day with her. Instead, real life called.

Jane ran a comb through her hair, spent a few frantic moments searching for her car keys, then drove to the grade school to face the horror of the last day of school. The kids would explode from the doors in a few minutes in that state of high-pitched hysteria that made her nerves fray. In two days they'd be moping around asking what there was to do, but today they'd be wound as tight as tops at the prospect of the whole glorious summer vacation stretching before them.

Jane had forgotten to bring a book to read, so while she waited, she thought about the accident at the deli. As callous as Shelley's comments might have sounded to an outsider, Jane agreed with them. Robert Stonecipher had meant nothing to her. He was a bully — and a pious bully at that, the worst sort. But if he had really died when the rack of hams fell on him, it would forever blot what should have been a fine, glorious day for the Bakers and Sarah's sister, Grace. They seemed to be nice, hardworking people, and it was a pity that their grand opening should be marred by something so terrible.

There was a muffled sound of a buzzer, then the parking lot of the grade school was suddenly full of children — screaming, jumping, overwrought children. Many of them, including her son and Shelley's, carrying paper bags full of school papers and supplies that would clutter their rooms for months and finally be discarded only when school started again in the fall. Three months, Jane thought dismally.

Summer vacation meant ear infections from swimming; fights about curfews; slumber parties in the middle of the week; ravening hordes of children eating, as a mid-afternoonsnack, the one absolutely essential ingredient of the dinner she had planned and not even telling her. Summer was wet swimming suits left on beds and wasp stings.

On the other hand, summer also meant real tomatoes at roadside stands instead of the mealy imitations in the grocery store. No math papers to help with. Sleeping with the windows wide open and waking up to the sound of birds instead of the alarm clock. No hideous heating bills or snow shoveling or money spent dry cleaning sweaters. Yes, summer had its compensations.

She scooped the boys up, took them home to change clothes and have a snack, then drove them and Shelley to the first soccer practice of the season with the new coach. Their former coach had moved away and the new volunteer was a very good-looking man who introduced himself to the kids and parents as Tony Belton. Normally Shelley and Jane dropped the boys off for practice and fetched them later, but with a new coach, it was de rigueur to sit through at least one practice.

Tony Belton was thirty-ish and had soccer-player legs that looked extremely good in shorts. There was a romantic, European look about him. He had dark curly hair, black eyelashes, and startlingly light blue eyes. He was also very personable, and talked a bit about how much soccer had meant to him as a kid and the values of learning teamwork. It was the same sort of rah-rah stuff coaches always spouted, but coming from him, it seemed fresh and sincere.

“Isn't it wonderful of him to have had this session today?" a woman sitting next to Jane and Shelley said as Tony Belton and the boys took to the field.

“Wonderful," Jane said, perplexed. "But why today especially?"

“Well, his partner died just a few hours ago. I imagine he's devastated."

“His partner?" Shelley asked.

“Robert Stonecipher. You know, that lawyer who's always starting trouble."

“He really did die?" Jane asked.

The woman nodded. "Killed by a rack of hams that fell over on him at the deli opening. It sounds so silly."

“I know. We were there when it happened," Jane said. "So Tony Belton is his law partner?”

She and Shelley exchanged a quick glance that said Tony Belton was either a very good actor, or he wasn't exactly devastated by his partner's death.

Soccer practice was mercifully short because the grade school graduation was that night. When they arrived home, Mike had his new truck in the driveway showing it off to Jane's daughter Katie and her friend Jenny. “Way cool, Mom!" Katie cooed.

Jane knew exactly what this meant: that Katie considered Mike's graduation present a precedent to be met in two years when she graduated. This was something Jane had considered — but apparently not seriously enough.