Ina May Huett was an elderly black woman with a hunched back and white hair and hands that smelled of cocoa butter. She lived in a squat little duplex with peeling paint and weeds that had overrun the flower beds, giving it the same run-down appearance as every other duplex on this particular block.
Inside, Autumn Manning sat straight-backed on a sagging tartan armchair while Ina May fixed tea in the kitchen. The small living room had worn carpet and flower-patterned wallpaper and a curio cabinet that displayed a diverse assortment of cat decor. The air smelled musty, like the windows hadn’t been opened in years, and on a chipped end table stood a framed photograph of her husband who had died. Autumn recognized him from his obituary picture. Lazarus Huett, bouncing a drooling baby on his knee. Wearing a mesh green John Deere hat. The sight of which—for one split, unreasonable second—made Autumn want to flee.
A bird popped out of the cuckoo clock on the wall.
She jumped as its mechanical head pivoted about. Seth should have been here by now with his camera equipment, filling up the space with small talk. Seth was the king of small talk. He could talk to a person for hours without really talking about anything at all. It was an impressive skill. One Autumn didn’t have.
Especially not with her thoughts so distracted.
When she sat in Jeannie True’s office, talking about doing this, she hadn’t thought through the actuality of it. Sitting inside a home that belonged to one of the victims, feeling his presence like a ghost behind her. She said it would bring her closure, when at the moment, it was just making her dizzy.
Ina May pushed through the swinging door holding a silver tray, complete with a porcelain teapot, three teacups sitting atop saucers, and a matching creamer and sugar bowl. The saucers rattled as the old woman took slow, deliberate steps toward the coffee table. Autumn came out of her seat and took the tray, then set it carefully on the glass-topped table.
“Do you take cream and sugar?”
“Neither, thanks,” Autumn said.
The old woman eased onto a matching tartan sofa—equally saggy—and got to work spreading apart the three saucers and pouring the steaming tea into each of the cups, every movement creaking with age and time.
Autumn sat back down in her chair, her underarms clammy. She scratched her shoulder. Then her cheek. Then her neck. Not only was the living room musty, it smelled like cats. Autumn was allergic to cats—something Claire had held against her ever since Leanne married Dad and had to give her Persian fur ball to the neighbors. Was it the cat allergy making her breathing more difficult?
“I think this tribute is a lovely idea,” Ina May said.
“Thank you. I’m sorry that my…the camera guy isn’t here yet.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s nice having company.”
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Autumn looked over her shoulder, her heart beating too fast for the occasion.
“Will we be able to watch it?” Ina May asked.
“Sorry?”
“When it’s done. I assume you’ll be showing the video somewhere.”
“Oh.” Autumn wiped her hands on the armrests. “I’m planning to upload it to YouTube.”
“You-What?”
“YouTube. It’s an online video site.”
Ina May’s already-wrinkled brow furrowed with a troubled V.
“It’ll also be on the memorial website.”
“Don’t you think it’d be nice if we could all watch it together? We could have a reception, with coffee and tea and cake.”
“That would be nice.”
The old woman nodded matter-of-factly, then handed Autumn a cup and saucer.
Autumn took it, disoriented. She wasn’t planning on organizing a reception. That wasn’t currently on the horizon. Her attention returned to the framed photograph. The old man’s twinkling eyes. And that hat. Why did a shiver race up her spine at the sight of it?
“Laz loved himself some babies.”
“Is that your grandchild?”
“Heavens, no. The Lord didn’t give us any children of our own.” Ina dropped a lump of sugar into her cup using a pair of small metal tongs. “That there is Cora Brown’s granddaughter. Cora and I used to sing in the church choir together.”
“Oh.”
Ina May stirred her tea while ribbons of steam curled into the air. “My husband sure loved his tea. After he retired, we shared a cup every single morning. It was one of my favorite parts of the day.”
Autumn pressed the saucer against her knees. “You were married for sixty-five years.”
The old woman’s eyes brightened. “He started courting me two months after my fifteenth birthday. Three days after the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Seems foolish to be falling in love in the middle of so much ugly. But that’s love for ya. It rarely comes at the right time.”
Autumn nodded, like she understood.
“My daddy was a serious man. He sat Lazarus down that first date and said, ‘Young man, what are your intentions with my daughter?’ And Laz looked my father straight in the eye and said, ‘I plan on marrying her, sir.’ Hoo boy, we were babies. Of course, we didn’t think we were babies.” Her face split with another grin. And then she plucked a tissue from a nearby box and dabbed her eyes. “You never realize how young you are until you get old.”
Autumn shifted uncomfortably.
“If Laz were here, he’d wag his finger at me and say, ‘Ina Girl, I’m livin’ it up with my King. Quit that blubbering and be happy for me, will ya?’ ” She crumpled the tissue and pressed her hands together in her lap. “Even after all this time, I still feel like I’m missing half my thoughts.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ina May waved the tissue at her, like Autumn didn’t need to apologize. But she did. She needed to apologize because she was sitting there in that saggy armchair when Lazarus Huett was dead in the ground.
“Dying is just part of living, honey,” Ina said.
“The way he died shouldn’t be.”
She conceded Autumn’s point with a nod, then took a sip of tea. “For now we see in a mirror dimly.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a verse. From First Corinthians. Life is hard, and almost always confusing. But one day we’ll see clearly. One day it’ll all make sense.”
Autumn wanted to believe Ina May’s words. She so desperately wanted to believe them. But what if they weren’t true? What if Ina May’s words were nothing more than the hope of an old, lonely woman trying to make sense out of all the pain? What if in the end the pieces just didn’t fit?
Ina May set her teacup on the table. “Do you remember him?”
The question came like an unexpected slap to her face.
“Did you see him that day, on the train?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t remember anything from that day.”
It wasn’t fair.
Not only had Autumn survived, she couldn’t even give the people left behind a final moment. She couldn’t offer any consoling words like “He was laughing with someone.” Or “He was smiling at the snow.” Autumn wouldn’t know, because Autumn couldn’t remember.
Maybe it was for the best.
In reality, it was unlikely that anybody was laughing. In reality, most people were probably grumbling about a March blizzard or staring mindlessly down at their phones, because who had time to converse with a fellow human being when there was a newsfeed to scroll through?
It’s how Autumn rode the train—when she used to ride it.
“I didn’t figure you would.” Ina May shooed her hand in the air again. “Enough about me. Tell me, what do you do?”
“Nothing.”
The answer popped out in all its incriminating truth.
Autumn Manning—miracle survivor—did absolutely nothing.
Her attention slid again to the picture of Lazarus and the hat, a deep and abiding shame rising in her cheeks.