BECKY AND INGRID DIDN’T FALL in right away. After the Judds concert, Becky hurried away from Ingrid, grateful they didn’t have to hug or anything like that.
But on a November afternoon, Becky was in a staff meeting when one of the secretaries leaned in and whispered loudly in Karl’s general direction, “The fire department’s here!”
Instant flutter of excitement through the sleepy room. Anything was better than a staff meeting.
“Oh oh,” Karl said. “Who forgot to unplug the toaster?”
But it wasn’t the truck and the guys in their gear, only Chief Edwards, alone. And he only wanted Becky. “Let’s take a drive,” he said, putting a hand on her back. “Your dad’s over at County ER.”
In fact, he was dead. Had died even before the ambulance got out to their place, called by Mrs. Nowak when she arrived to find him fallen halfway between the TV and the bathroom.
That morning Becky had unwrapped his midmorning coffee cake and shown him that the plate for lunch was where it always rested in the fridge: middle shelf, covered in tinfoil. He’d seemed no better or worse than most days and nodded when she reminded him Mrs. Nowak would be stopping by in the afternoon.
During the short ride to the hospital in Chief Edwards’s personal car, Becky hoped and hoped she had remembered to hug or kiss her father goodbye this morning. She usually did, but sometimes when she was in a rush she didn’t. Had it been a rush morning?
She thanked the chief when he dropped her at the front door. No, he didn’t need to walk her in, she would be all right.
From the serious, calm face of the doctor who greeted her she knew he was gone. They brought her to his room, quiet and dark. His belly a rounded mound under the green sheet. His cheeks were sagging, brow with the same creases, eyes shut.
“Massive stroke,” the doctor said, just as she reached for his hand under the sheet. Not warm, not cool. Rough in exactly the way she knew it would be. Instantaneous. He didn’t suffer.
Becky leaned her hip on the bed, nudging Hank over a little so she could sit with him. She didn’t want to let go of his hand.
“Here, let me get you a chair.”
“Can I . . . Am I allowed to sit on the bed?”
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Yes, of course.” He helped her lift her father’s body, to make room.
By the time she got home that night it was almost 8 pm, and there was an unfamiliar car out front. When she approached, she saw Ingrid’s face, her brief burst of smile, and then a chastened look. Ingrid got out of the car first, her mother followed, and Becky awkwardly accepted hugs from both of them. She stood by the car, expecting they would leave, but Ingrid simply walked her to her own door and came in, as natural as anything.
Becky was too tired to object. “You don’t have to,” she said, however, when Ingrid went right into the kitchen to warm up the food they’d brought. And start on the dishes.
“I know,” Ingrid said. “Here, Mom.” She had found some cleaning supplies in a closet and now Mrs. Beanton was vacuuming the area of the hallway, near the bathroom where—Oh. Becky felt a little sick as she realized what Ingrid’s mother was working to clean, and why.
She ate the chicken and rice Ingrid handed her, and drank a full glass of water rather crossly when Ingrid wouldn’t let up about it. A few more cars arrived, and Mrs. Beanton brought in dishes for the fridge. When the phone rang, Ingrid answered, and took down messages, nodding and saying the right things. At some point Becky even went up to bed, following Mrs. Beanton to her own room, where the sheets had been changed. Becky fell asleep to the sound of Ingrid moving around the kitchen and when she woke in the morning she half-expected to find her there, even though the house was empty and still.
Over the next week, leading up to the funeral, Ingrid slid seamlessly into Becky’s life. They both belonged to First Presbyterian so Becky understood the machine that now cranked into action: helping her arrange a service, a burial, a reception. People had loved Hank and went out of their way to assist, even with things Becky hadn’t known she had to do.
The biggest surprise of it all was Ingrid. She came to the house and supervised food: portioning, labeling, freezing. Occasionally vetoing entirely: “Uh uh, that one goes straight into the trash. I’ve seen Mrs. Fremont sneeze into her open hands.” She nudged Becky to order food for the reception, she made her get a hair appointment, she kept a list of all the incoming cards and flowers. Becky got tired of being bossed around but Ingrid never picked up on hints like “Well, this has been a big help, so . . .”
Mostly Ingrid was just there. After dinner she’d show up with some kind of snack or a couple of light beers. Becky didn’t feel like talking much and she certainly didn’t want to cry or look through photos so mostly they watched TV. Stupid shows that Ingrid loved—Dynasty, of course, but also all the half-hour comedies about families with sassy-bratty kids and adults with wacky problems. Ingrid ridiculed every feature of these shows but seemed to enjoy them anyway. Becky got used to her being curled up on the other side of the couch, Keds off, beer in hand. Neither of them sat in what had been Hank’s armchair.
The day of the funeral was cold and slushy. A raw sadness stabbed at Becky, underneath everything she did or said. She shivered through the service, her feet icy and numb, and only a few people came to the cemetery to watch Hank’s dark coffin lower into the muddy grave. But the reception back at the church—coffee, deli platters, and many homemade desserts—was full of clients, coworkers of Becky’s (including Karl and his wife), and parents of her schoolmates.
Ingrid came to all of it: the service, the burial, the reception. She stayed in the background but she stayed. Hanging up coats, clearing away plates, reminding people to sign the guest book. Becky had no memory of procuring a guest book.
Toward the end of the day, that longest day, Ingrid passed by her with an armful of wadded tablecloths and Becky snapped. “You don’t have to stick around, you know. Didn’t your folks leave, like a while ago?” Ingrid still lived at home too. “Nobody asked you to do all this.” We’re not really friends. We don’t even know each other. And we don’t have to, just because we’re the only losers our age still left here. Becky managed not to say any of that out loud, but she knew it bled through her face and voice.
Ingrid only rolled her eyes and went off with the tablecloths. But later, when Becky peeked around for her, she was gone. By the time the last group of mourners left the church hall, the windows were dark. Becky needed four trips to carry the flower arrangements out to her car, the only one left in the parking lot. She didn’t even want them but she didn’t want to leave them for the janitor to deal with.
For a while she drove around. Looping back and forth along the river, crossing the bridges north and south. She slowed at the sight of Barner’s Restaurant, realizing how shaky and tired she was, not having eaten all day. But her lips were chapped and throat sore, and Becky didn’t think she could speak one more sentence out loud, let alone to someone who might have served her father his last plate of warm mashed potatoes drowned in butter, Hank’s standing weekly order.
She might even have cried, then, a little or a lot, driving back home through Pierson. She might have given in to all the sadness, the confusion about what would come next. Why did she feel so young? She was assistant comptroller, not some little kid, not some orphan. She was twenty-two years old!
The first thing Becky saw when she pulled around in front of the house was Ingrid’s VW bug. A blaze of gladness spread through her. She got out of her own car, stuffed full of lilies and gladiolas, and walked over to Ingrid, who was sitting in the passenger seat with the engine off and the overhead light on, flipping through Glamour magazine.
Ingrid rolled down her window. She gestured to the brown paper grocery bag on the seat next to her. “Ritz crackers and a thing of that port wine cheese. Also Keebler cookies, the ones with M&M’s. Because I didn’t know if you’d want salty or sweet. Or both, because that would be the right answer. And . . .” Ingrid rummaged on the car floor and pulled up a glass bottle. Johnnie Walker Black. “Voilà. My dad’s. He was saving it for a special occasion probably. So, you know.”
Becky had to use both hands to tug open the old car’s heavy freezing door. Ingrid broke into a foolishly huge smile. “I can just drop this stuff off,” she said, grabbing up the bag and bottle, scrambling to follow Becky to the house. “If you’re not, like, up for company.”
“I’m never up for company,” Becky said, holding the front door open for Ingrid. “You pick whatever shows we watch, I just don’t want to talk. I’m sick of talking.” She watched Ingrid kick off her shoes and start tearing the wrapping off the booze. “Also I’m in an incredibly grouchy mood,” she added.
“Tell me something I don’t know, Becky Farwell. Here’s your drink.”
As wasn’t uncommon in Pierson, or in other small Midwestern cities, Hank Farwell’s death triggered a wave of town love to carry his only child through the difficulties that came afterward. Becky had her pick of invitations for Christmas and New Year’s, which she celebrated as a guest in multiple homes for multiple dinners, with the Beantons’ as the main event. Hank’s death propelled her to officially and finally close Farwell Agriculture Inc., and it perhaps nudged along a surprise salary bump at Town Hall. Her solitary circumstances, that tragic aura, and her grit—no quality more admired in Pierson—all of it combined to plant her firmly in the town’s psyche.
Theoretically, she could have gone off to college then. No one would blame her. But she knew it was too late. Every week Karl ceded her some new responsibility. By now she was overseeing the entire team of in-house accountants and had been asked to sit in on senior management meetings about fiscal planning. She owned—and wore in regular rotation—four skirt suits and a dozen blouses.
She and Ingrid had become—Becky could admit it now—friends. She bought a VCR so they could watch all the tapes Ingrid rented on weekends. She started stocking Entenmann’s Danish rings and Diet Dr Pepper and Tato Skins. On the nights they weren’t together Ingrid often called Becky on the phone, just to talk. It took a long time for Becky to understand this and then to come to enjoy it. They argued over the merits of WMMR (clearer reception, insipid afternoon DJ) versus WOHA (less likely to tune in, deeper cuts of George Strait and Randy Travis). They shared gossip about classmates, picking apart old high school beefs and infatuations. They compared stories about creepos at work. Becky got used to Ingrid’s tendency to turn all topics toward the men she was interested in and a repetitive speculation about whether or not they would call her. Becky’s role, she learned after an awkward bungling, was to insist against all evidence that yes, of course, fill-in-the-name would call. When Ingrid’s yawns began to break into her every other comment, Becky would try to end the call but Ingrid never wanted to. She liked to talk when she was sleepy. Plus, there was always more to say.
Sometimes they went together to church, especially if there was a service project after coffee hour, like boxing up lunches for a shelter or tutoring kids in earth science or algebra. Both were hard workers and liked doing good for the town, especially if it came with lots of praise from others (Becky) or a buffet of baked goods (Ingrid). Pierson got used to the two of them together, and eventually Becky did too.
But the main reason she didn’t want to leave—or leave yet—had to do with the Activity. Because of the holidays coming fast after her father’s death Becky ended up out of the office for over a month. Each time she stopped by to check in, see if she could help out, Karl had turned her right back around and sent her away.
All right. If she couldn’t be at the office, couldn’t keep a steely eye on the receipts and the budget items, what she could do was learn. By now she’d grown past the local art circles, the estate shows, and the small-time county galleries. She’d thumbed through every back issue of Midwest Art in the library and now drove around to newsstands to seek out magazines everyone in town would have scorned as uppity: Vanity Fair, Vogue, Bazaar, and even some oversized European publications that cost nearly ten dollars each. Here, the coverage of art was blue-chip, New York–based. Becky picked up on names and trends. She spent long winter afternoons sinking deep into images of oil paintings and shiny tubular sculptures and—wherever she could find them—prices, auction sales, records, and results. She lay in bed—her own bed, in the same small room—and thought about art. Buying art and selling art.