Anne Korkeakivi - Shining Sea

“Oh, dear, no. Please don’t even think about it.”

“No, really. You take care of your folks. We will take care of Father.”

“I can’t find him Mom,” Mike Jr. says, coming through the door. In his Sunday suit and with his wrinkled brow, at thirteen, Mike Jr. already looks like a little man. “He’s not in the yard. He’s not in the car. I went all the way around the block plus down to the school and didn’t see him.”

“Oh, heavens! Did you lose one of your children, Mrs. Gannon?” Mrs. Dawson says.

From the book of Job: Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me.

“No. The…dog.”

“You have a dog, too?”

“No. I mean, yes,” she says, ignoring Mike Jr.’s startled expression. “I mean our neighbor’s dog. We look out for him.”

“Really? As if you don’t already have enough to think about!”

She places a hand firmly on Mrs. Dawson’s arm and steers her through the door. “Do not worry about the dog, Mrs. Dawson. Or about Father. We will get them both home safely.”

She closes the door.

“Mom?”

“Oh, don’t ask. Where in the dickens is your little brother?”

Although the baby of the family, Francis has always demanded the least attention from her, happy riding his bike around with Eugene or trailing after his father. Why does he have to cause trouble right now? “Go talk to Eugene. Maybe he’ll have some other ideas.”

More people stream in, and still more. Some are dressed in their Easter clothes, some have changed into something more somber. Michael’s kind elderly partner, Dr. Zimmerman, and his wife arrive, looking shell-shocked.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting, Barbara?” he says.

But she can’t sit. She knows she is supposed to preside on the sofa while people take turns perching beside her, pressing her hand, offering up remembrances. Once when I had a flat tire, Michael…Such a nice baritone voice; we’ll miss hearing it on Sundays…Michael was the smartest of us interns at the hospital, but he shared notes with everyone. They want to talk at her. They want her to help them with their shock, their own sadness, unloading their memories upon her. But who will be brave enough to acknowledge that while Michael’s gone, she’s still here, her heart ripped out?

In one corner, several men are discussing President Kennedy and the Soviets and Cuba. They stop when she draws near. By the dining room table, a group of mothers grows silent when she approaches. School, kids, politics, America. The weather. I’m still here, she wants to tell them. I have to keep going. Please help me to pretend life is normal.

If she sits down, she will fall apart. Her body will give out; her heart will give out. She will never ever get up again.

The room swirls around her, a blur of pale faces and somber colors, like sick flooding her home.

“Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences,” a smooth-skinned man in a neat blue suit says, intercepting her passage, extending a hand.

Who is this? There is something familiar about him, but he’s too well dressed to be the milkman or postman out of uniform.

“You and I haven’t been introduced,” he continues, “but I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with your husband after church — while you were otherwise engaged — on several occasions. Ronnie McCloskey.”

“I was running after the kids, probably.”

He smiles and extracts a business card from his inner pocket. “Look. If you need help, something you need a man for…” His face reddens, and he adds quickly, “Maybe to move something or fix something, please don’t hesitate to call me. I don’t have a family of my own. I have time. I will be glad to help.”

The card lies dumbly in her hand: RONALD M. MCCLOSKEY, PRESIDENT, MCCLOSKEY AIR CONDITIONERS.

“The boys will be as big as men soon,” she says, realizing even as she says it how rude she sounds. Mr. McCloskey is just trying to be nice. They’re all just trying to be nice.

“Yes, of course,” he says, shifting a little in his handsome suit.

She stuffs the card into the pocket of her dress and turns away. Los Angeles was the special home she and Michael carved out for themselves, just themselves, their own personal history. Here she is now, alone, miles away from family. But what family does she have anywhere who could help her? Her brother is dead. Her parents barely manage. Both were first-generation Americans; there are some cousins in northern California, but none she’s seen or even spoken with in years. And then there’s Jeanne, clear across the continent. Not long after she and Michael married, her in-laws both succumbed to the polio epidemic.

Someone ushers her toward the sofa. “The eulogies are going to begin now, Barbara.” She stops to stand beside Father O’Malley’s chair. Mike Jr. joins her; she leans against his shoulder. Luke takes his place on the other side of her.

“We shouldn’t call it a living room today,” Luke whispers. “We should call it a dying room.”

“Shh. Luke. ”

It’s just a dream. An awful dream. Tomorrow morning, dawn will creep in between the drapes, and Michael’s warm body will stir in the bed next to her. He will put his arms around her. They will make love before the children awaken. He will dress for work. She will hurry to get breakfast on the table.

The baby suddenly drives down hard. She balls her fist in her mouth to keep from gasping.

“There, there, dear,” someone says from behind her, patting her back.

“When we give tribute to Michael,” Father O’Malley says, “we also have to give tribute to the great faith that kept him going during even the darkest days of the war. Throughout, he ceaselessly strove to save the lives of his fellow soldiers. He never gave up. He never gave in. Michael Gannon was a true hero. And our Lord was his hero.”

“I need to sit down,” she says.

Space is hurriedly made for her on the sofa next to Patty Ann, Jeanne, and Molly. Luke crowds in beside her. Mike Jr. stands over them. Someone brings her a glass of water.

With her family resettled, Father O’Malley continues. When he is done, Dr. Zimmerman starts speaking. And then someone else. The words drum against her, but she won’t let them inside. The only way to keep going is to pretend it isn’t happening.

Finally, all the words stop.

People begin to take their leave. They come up to her, kiss her cheek, press her upper arm. Patty Ann gets up brusquely from the sofa and walks away.

“May heaven comfort you,” Dr. Zimmerman says, taking her hand, before she can go after Patty Ann, try to say something that could make this all less terrible.

“You can count on us,” Mrs. Zimmerman says.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”

Women she is friendly with from the neighborhood, from the school, from church will bring casseroles for a week or two. When the baby is born they will bring still more. There will be meetings with Dr. Zimmerman, and maybe someone at the VA, and with a lawyer. But in the end, there will just be her and Patty Ann and Mike Jr. and Luke and Francis and the baby.

Oh, God.

“Are you sure Francis didn’t say anything about where he was going?” she asks Molly. “Nothing at all?”

“What’s going on?” Jeanne says.

“Aunt Barbara can’t find Francis.”

“Since when?”

“Since a little after we went to Eugene’s.”

“But Barbara,” Jeanne says. “That was hours ago.”

She catches sight of the well-dressed man from earlier, the one who gave her a business card, one of the last to file out the door. “Mike Jr.,” she says. “See that man? Can you please ask him to take Father O’Malley back to the rectory? Where’s Patty Ann gone?”