Gerald is outside, packing Mother’s car, when an unfamiliar car turns in the driveway. He’s borrowing the car to head down to DC for the week with Linda, to meet up with some friends from Berkeley, to attend the March on Washington on Wednesday. To march in the March. He hardly slept last night. He tossed and turned just the way he always did the night before Thanksgiving.
He pulls his head out of the trunk to look at the car as it comes closer. Rose’s brother, the clergyman. The priest. Chris gets out of the car and walks toward Gerald, extending his hand. No, Gerald thinks, no. Please, God, no. He wills himself to stand where he is, not to move a foot, not to run in the opposite direction. He meets Chris’s eyes as he shakes his hand, Chris’s other hand coming on top to cradle Gerald’s. Yes, Chris says, nodding, understanding. A car accident. All of them, Gerald says, his stomach suddenly empty. No, Chris says, quickly, shaking his head, clasping his hand more tightly. No, Rose and the children were at home. Thank God, Gerald says, and is ashamed by his relief. Thank the Lord. He looks at the ground, then up at Chris. Quickly, do you think? Chris nods. I do, he says, I don’t think he suffered for long. Where? Gerald asks. Quincy Shore, Chris says. By the ocean, Gerald thinks. By the place they all love best.
I appreciate you coming out here, he says, staring down at the driveway, then out at the garden. How’s Rose? he asks. She’s okay, Chris replies. You know Rose. She’s made of tough stuff. And, as we both know, this is the easy part. It’s the weeks and months and years down the road. Gerald nods. He knows this to be true. And the children? As you would expect, Chris says. It’ll take time. Gerald can’t think about them, can’t allow himself to see Kathleen’s mouth or Jack’s dark eyes. Chris looks up at the sky. What a beautiful day, he says. I can never decide. Is it better or worse when the world looks like this? Does it mitigate the loss when the world is so insistent on being beautiful?
Gerald stays outside until Chris’s car disappears. How is he going to go into the house and tell Mother? He stands, facing the parked car, for as long as he can bear to. There’s so much to do. He must tell Mother; he must tell Linda; he must reschedule his plans; they need to figure out the arrangements. He needs to call friends and family. He turns around, finally, to face the house, and Mother is in the kitchen window. He waves at her, and by the way that she waves back, he knows that she already knows.
Later, they make phone calls, pushing the phone back and forth across the kitchen table as they take turns sharing the news. Gerald makes Mother a cup of tea, and as he sets it down next to her elbow, she looks up at him, her eyes bloodshot and tired. We need to tell Bea, she says. And we need to do it soon, given that it’s almost the end of her day. He nods. But please, Gerald, can you call? I don’t think I can tell one more person. So, an hour later, when she falls asleep on the couch, he closes the swinging door to the kitchen and finds Bea’s name in her address book. Mother has always used pencil for address book entries, and he can see that she’s erased and replaced Bea’s addresses and numbers again and again.
He received a letter from her, just the week before, after he wrote to tell her about the March. She was excited for him to go and asked him to write to tell her all about it. He dials the number, and after a few rings, her voice, that familiar voice, is on the line. Hello, she says, and Gerald is surprised to feel his pulse in his throat. Hi, Bea, he says, the words uncomfortable in his mouth, it’s G.