Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

After she was gone, I turned on the answering machine, packed my overnight bag, and left. I had plenty of time to catch my flight.

With all of this going on, I still never once thought about Melissa. I know, I know. I should have been out on the streets driving around, trying to find her before she ruined her life, but I was so fucked up at this point, I had lost sight of my priorities. So I was off to LAX, my mind reeling with the possibilities that lay ahead.

A funeral probably isn't the best place to strike up a new relationship with the widow, but I wanted Paige Ellis more than I'd ever wanted anything else in my life.

I wasn't thinking straight. On that Friday night in April, I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

IT WAS HARD FOR PAIGE TO CONCENTRATE AT THE FUneral. Her mind was filled with gruesome images of Chandler's dead body, produced by the open casket viewing that she'd had the previous day. Her friends told her that she should look at Chandler in death-that it would help her say goodbye and accept the fact that he was gone. She had long ago learned that most sentences containing the word "should" were downers, but she'd ignored her own counsel. Now her last memory of him was the ghastly, chalky-looking face that rested on a silk pillow in the coffin. That memory of him, for the moment, had replaced all others.

It didn't look like Chandler, either. The embalmers, working from photos, had made him too thin and stern. Chandler had always been lit from the inside. A kinetic spirit who seemed to glow. Sometimes, when she'd had an open period at school, she would sneak by his classroom and peek through his door. He was so focused when he taught that he often didn't even see her. Watching him work with his L. D. students was like watching a magician perform.

When he first took over the class, he'd been told by the principal that 90 percent of the kids were already lost causes-delinquents who never came to class, or anger-management cases that he was supposed to just sit on and keep out of trouble. But Chandler beat those odds by turning their anger into excitement. He found ways to inspire them, and most became interested students. The ones who played hooky would find him on their front porches with a deal. Come to school for a week; if you don't like it, I'll pay you fifty dollars. He held contests to challenge the kids who refused to read. The prizes were field trips to baseball games. Unorthodox, but he almost never had to pay up. He challenged these kids, but more importantly, he gave them his respect.

The lump of clay lying in the casket in the mortuary's slumber room just wasn't Chan. Paige had to concentrate hard to erase that waxy memory from her mind. She wanted to remember Chandler alive, holding her hand and looking into her eyes. She wanted to remember their lovemaking, their laughter.

She liked to remember the times they ran together on the river path. Chandler was quick, but she was the distance runner and usually left him around mile six. "Where you been, buddy?" she'd grin when he finally chugged in.

"You cheated," he would joke as he bent over, gasping for breath. "You stayed in shape."

She remembered the sand squeaking between their toes as they walked the beach at sunset. They talked about everything: current affairs, art, religion, sex. They argued with each other-mostly politics. He was the Democrat, the limousine liberal, a dove: "We shouldn't try and solve the world's problems with force!" he would say. She was the army brat-a fiscal conservative, the hawk: "We should stay the course and kick some Al Qaeda ass!" They argued, they challenged each other, they laughed, they made love, they discussed thoughts so personal that both of them knew they could never be shared with anyone else.

The day after he died, she began an oil portrait of him, but had stopped, because even with all her talent and all her focused love, she couldn't capture him. He was so much more than the sum of his parts.

The funeral was mercifully over in an hour. The people who spoke seemed loving and sad, but to be perfectly honest, she'd only heard parts of what they'd said. Chandler's parents, Peter and Sophia Ellis, had flown in from Los Angeles immediately after they heard. Chandler's father was a tall, handsome man with wavy hair and a strong jaw. Physically, he always reminded her a little of Billy Graham. At the gravesite, he talked about Chandler as a boy, playing in the backyard of their house. He told of a time when his son had found a bird with a broken wing and how he'd nursed it back to health. It never flew again, but he'd kept it as a pet and even taught it to eat from his hand. Chan's first disabled student.

Peter Ellis broke down at the end of his remarks. His wife, Sophia, had taken so many sedatives that she seemed disconnected and far away.

Clarence Rutledge spoke last. Paige could have kissed him, because not once did he mention football. Instead, he talked about Chandler's devotion to L. D. children-how, at Georgetown, he donated hours, working in a clinic in Washington, D. C., after classes.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Dirt was laid on the casket by the minister and it was finally over.

She remembered walking with Chandler's parents to the limo and the ride from the gravesite back to the church where the reception was being held. Even though she was always surrounded by lots of people, she had never felt so alone. Paige's father had been an army colonel, and after he retired, her parents began a life of travel and recreation. But they died in a boating accident in Florida when she was nineteen. She was their only child. Except for an aunt who was now very ill in a convalescent hospital, and one cousin, in the army, she had no family.

As they exited the limo and started inside the rectory for the reception, she felt a hand on her arm.

"Paige?"

She turned around and was surprised to see it was Chick Best.

She reached out to take his hand, but he grabbed her and hugged her instead. He seemed almost desperate. He was holding her tightly, squeezing her until she had to finally struggle to pull away. "You came. You came all the way from California," she said, finally disengaging.

"I told you I'd be here."

She started looking around. "Where's Evie?"

"Couldn't make it. Just me."

"Thank you so much for coming," she murmured.

Then other people were pulling at her, offering condolences. Chick stood there awkwardly, as if he had something more he wanted to say, but then she was swept away by the crowd heading into the reception.

They were served sparkling wine and hors d'oeuvres. People stood in little groups, talking about Chandler and Paige in low voices. She overheard snatches of their conversations: "He was so young… They were so right for each other… So much in love… "

Sometime toward the end, she felt a hand on her arm and turned again, to find Chick Best standing there. He was now holding a glass of wine, looking slightly out of place in a long, three-quarter-length black coat, which she knew was the rage in Europe, but-in her opinion-looked ridiculous on him. He was too short for the style; it made him look like a Quaker.

"I'm… Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked softly.

"No, no… I'm fine. Well, not fine, exactly. Pretty shitty, actually. But there's really nothing, Chick. I think this is something I have to get through alone."

"Look, this may not be the best time. I know how stressful everything is, but I assume you're inundated with financial issues right now and I can… "

"Paige… " a soft male voice said, interrupting Chick in mid-sentence.

When she heard that deep, soft voice, she knew it was Clarence Rutledge. She turned away from Chick and faced him. Clarence had tears in his eyes.