Lance was nowhere to be found as I bolted out of the shower and called his name. I dressed with deliberation and no makeup, slipped on a pair of boots, and hastened down the stairs, continuing to impart my voice in the hope of a response. Darting to the front window, I checked the driveway and noted that the patrol car was gone. My heart fell further away from me as I trembled at the thought of Lance leaving on Christmas morning, our future before us, but now tattered once again by the grim nature of my work. I wanted to stand by the Christmas tree and weep, hopeful in the idea that I could still redeem the day from death or see our heat rise again as I stirred at the cold embers in the fireplace.
I was about to scurry for the hearse—still parked in the driveway where I had left it—when I heard the faint gurgling of the coffee maker in the kitchen. Lance gave me that much before leaving—a cup of brew—and, as I poured the aroma into a travel mug, I gathered myself in the thought that our relationship was not completely broken, but might still be revived, or even picked up where we had left it, when Lance and I both returned to our senses.
I checked the time, noted the fractions ticking away, and clipped out of the house as I gathered my overcoat about me. Fortunately, the hearse started right off, and as there was no frost on the windshield, I was able to feel the first stirrings of heat from the vents before I reached the end of the street.
Driving toward the address, I realized that I didn’t need a GPS to find my way around the city. My mind was a map of jumbled roads and alleys, landmarks and landings that I had memorized over the course of years and recollections. I was grateful to have an intricate knowledge of the streets, not all of them pleasant or inviting—and I knew that my destination was going to land me in good stead, a workaday neighborhood that was quite similar to my own.
My hands steadied at the wheel, I considered calling Rose Edgewater, my new secretary, but thought better of it. There would be time to bring her into the mix, but not on Christmas morning, not when I had promised her the day. And then, knowing her as I did, I realized that she would jump to assist me if she suspected any need. I smiled at the thought, grateful for her arrival, thankful that we had found each other and already become friends.
Rose was right about one thing. There was a cold snap coming on—and I didn’t have to check the weather forecast to know that the mercury had fallen overnight by several notches. My cheeks ached, and I could feel the cold running along the margins of my bones as I switched the heater on high and anticipated a new flush of warm air.
Still, I did love the stillness of the morning, the way that Christmas, and the anticipation of it, lay hard and frozen on the horizon, the children, by now, already deep into their presents, their eyes wide with joy even as their parents faded into the warm interiors of recliners and the scent of cinnamon rolls. The absence of traffic on the streets hinted at the tranquility of the day and the afternoon naps that were yet to come. Every man, woman, and child, it seemed, were content in their respective homes, each one forsaking the old animosities in exchange for the promise of family and faith.
As I drove on, only a few lonely souls stirred at their mailboxes, some in bathrobes, as they looked toward the curb to avail themselves to some secret appreciation of winter, as if frostbite was the first order of business they hoped to experience in the New Year. Even the blackbirds were huddled together—long rows of them, Hitchcock-style, amassed along the dips of the electrical wires.
I checked the time again and rolled up to the address a full eleven minutes after I had left the house. Not a record, exactly, but impressive for a cold call during a holiday.
The EMT van was backed up in the driveway of the Carrington’s house and I could tell from the small enclaves of eyes staring at me from the other homes in the neighborhood that curiosity had gotten the best of everyone, especially the children. All eyes were upon me as I skirted up the street and then backed into the driveway beside the EMT van.
As I walked up the front sidewalk, the concrete meticulously cleared with shovel and salt, a lady across the street waved at me from her front porch—a fearful greeting of sorts that I had come to recognize, just as celebrities quickly learn the false manifestations of friendliness in backwater, U.S.A. Her wave, a kind of talisman, was meant to ward off the impending doom that had invaded her quiet little neighborhood.
I mounted the front steps quickly and rang the bell. When one of the EMTs answered the door and introduced himself as Smith, I smiled, wondering how Smith and Jones could have ended up on the same emergency run.
“Come on in,” he said—inviting me into a home that was not his. An unusually tall and shy man, Smith ran counter to Jones, who was stout and confident, and it was the latter who greeted me in the kitchen and gave me the lay of the land.
“Mrs. Carrington was in bed when we arrived,” Jones said. “But her husband called in, said she was experiencing vertigo and vomiting and couldn’t be moved. By the time we arrived, she was already gone.”
“Did her husband tell you anything else?”
“He’s been morose,” Smith interjected.
“Hasn’t said much,” Jones added.
I pulled a notepad out of my coat pocket and started taking notes.
“We’ve just been sitting tight until you could get here,” Jones said.
I stepped out of the kitchen and studied the living room for a few seconds. The place was quiet, except for the distant sound of retching from another room. “Where is Mr. Carrington now?” I asked.
Jones leaned over the kitchen sink and began washing his hands. “He’s in the bathroom, I think. Throwing up.”