Bea was on the stairs, her arms full of groceries, when she heard the telephone ring. She ran up to her door, fumbling with the key in the lock.
“Sweetheart,” a voice said. It was Mrs. G. How strange it was to hear her voice after all this time. She dropped the bags on the floor, and a few lemons rolled under the couch. This was her final week of summer holiday, before the fall term started up, and all the nursery school teachers were getting together Tuesday night for dinner. She was planning on making a lemon pudding cake.
“Yes,” she said, trying to catch her breath, trying not to sound too winded. “Hello. Is everything all right?”
“It’s Ethan,” Mrs. G said, and Bea sat down. “It’s Mr. G. I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack.”
“Is he in hospital, then,” Bea asked, not understanding, not willing to hear past her words, forcing her to spell it out.
“No, dear,” she said, the transatlantic pauses coming in between the words, stretching out the truth. “He’s passed on.”
Bea couldn’t help herself then, and she placed a hand over her mouth to force any sounds to stay within. She shook her head, unable to speak. First Dad and then Mr. G.
“Dear,” Mrs. G said, and how Bea wished she could wrap her arms around that wide waist. “Are you all right, dear? Are you still on the line?”
“Yes,” Bea said, and she dug her fingernails into her palms. “I’m so sorry to hear.”
“Yes,” she replied. “We’re all so very sad.”
Bea nodded but was unable to respond.
“Both the boys are away,” Mrs. G said. “But they’ll be home soon. One sister is here. The others are on their way.”
“That’s good,” Bea said. “Good to have everyone home.”
“Indeed.” There was a pause and then she could hear Mrs. G clearing her throat. “I best be off, dear. Just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. G.”
“Write soon, won’t you? I want to hear what you’re up to.”
“I will,” Bea said. “And, you too, okay? Thanks again.”
The phone clicked off, and Bea could see her, all those thousands of miles away, across the sea, sitting on the hard-backed chair in the front hall, next to the telephone stand. It’s early in the day there, the sun flooding in through the windows. So strange to see her still and not moving. She’s wearing the faded blue apron, and she slowly reattaches the earring she took off to make the call. Crossing Bea’s name off a list, she looks at the rest of the names and sighs, then reaches down to pat King, who’s lying by her side. She thinks about taking him out for a walk, now that the sun is up, now that the day has begun.
But of course that couldn’t be, as King died a few years ago. They buried him in the back woods, and they were all there to say goodbye. Gerald had written to let her know. Now Mr. G was gone, and neither of the boys were at home. It’s funny, she imagined that of course the boys would be there. She hates to think of Mrs. G having to make all these calls, telling everyone the news.
Whenever Bea thought of the family, she saw them in the house. Mrs. G bustling about, making bread or writing up a list. Gerald working on something—studying the paper, his war bonds collection, setting up a new scrap drive—at the kitchen table. Mr. G in his study, reading, grading tests, playing chess. Bea could see the house as clearly now as when she lived there. The enormity of it. The light. The blue and white china in the corner cabinets. The pile of boots by the back door. The hallways that never end.
She always had a harder time placing William. Sometimes she sees him in a blur, running through the kitchen on the way to the back door. Sitting impatiently at the dinner table, looking at his watch, waiting for his mother to take her last bite of dessert. Or she hears him coming up the stairs, his heavy footfall. Memorizing irregular verbs by repeating them out loud. Slamming a drawer shut. Catching a baseball in his mitt, over and over.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sank into the couch, thumbing through the mail. Bills, a postcard from Mummy in Spain, a flyer advertising a sale at a clothes store downtown. Having a wonderful time, love, the postcard read at the start, and it didn’t seem right that she should be having a nice vacation when Mr. G had just died. Bea added the postcard and the bills to the pile of mail already on the coffee table, to read later. When Mum was away, she always let everything go: dishes in the sink, an unmade bed, makeup littering the pedestal sink. It was her own pathetic way of asserting her independence. Her freedom. She called and canceled her plans for dinner on Tuesday, without giving a reason, simply saying she was beat from a long weekend. How could she explain the death of Mr. G to someone who wasn’t there? How could she explain that she felt more attached to him than to her own father? She wished she lived in the States so she could go to the funeral. Eventually she fell asleep, a photo of Mr. G clutched in her hand.