The Dearly Departed (24 page)

“Collecting thoughts and scribbling notes sounds like you're writing something.”

“I might. Everyone else is. People eat up memoirs. I think we have a story to tell—”

“Not ‘we.' Your father died. You came to the funeral. You found a reluctant half-sister. She didn't want to argue, so she went out for pizza with you. End of story.”

“Nope. Wrong. I like my version better: Two people died before their time so that their children could form an alliance.
We're
the happy ending: you and me. Orphans for about forty-eight hours, and then we find each other. If I were the slightest bit religiously inclined, I might think they're up there pulling strings and enjoying the dance onstage.”

Sunny picked up the check and stared at it, still frowning.

“Hand that over, kid. I invited you. And I hope I've convinced you to accompany me to the showdown at the King George Motel, where you can make friends with Emily Ann and stand up for your little brother.”

“And what exactly would I say in your defense? ‘He fondled your breast, but he's still a fine person'? Or, ‘He fondled your breast, but it was an accident'? Or, ‘He fondled your breast, but don't worry—he does it to everyone'?”

“First, ‘fondle' is way off base. Second, she practically signed off on it ahead of time. What I'm hoping to hear is ‘No hard feelings. It won't go beyond this room. I'll fudge it with Daddy. Now I'm getting the hell out of here. Let's keep in touch.' ”

“Forget it,” said Sunny. “Especially if she harbors feelings of an erotic nature for you.”

“And you think that's why she's back—I mean, you think she's asking me over for
sex
?”

“She came back,” Sunny said with a shrug. “She called from the motel.”

“See. You're just what I needed: a confidante and a reader of women's minds.”

“Keep me out of this. All I want is to go home—”

“And crawl into bed? Because that would be depression talking. C'mon. It's only ten minutes to eight. I'll have you home by nine. And tomorrow I'll do you a favor—you name it. You can come over to the lake for a swim or we'll play a round of golf. The cart's on me. And I'll have you home in time for your dinner date with your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”
said Sunny. “Don't be ridiculous.”

With his eyes fixed sternly on hers, Fletcher said, “Men have let you down. That's my sense. I'd like it if you gave this one a whirl. Seriously. It takes one to know one. No. That's backwards. It takes someone unreliable like me to be a good judge of character, like the thief who gets out of jail and becomes a burglary consultant to police departments.”

“I'm surprised. I didn't think you liked him.”

“I don't
dis
like him. I mean, I think he's a yokel, but not in any objectionable way. Maybe just categorically or occupationally: New Hampshire, a cop, a big fish in a one-horse pond. None of which I see as a barrier.”

“To what?”

“Your dating him!”

Sunny said, “Since when does dinner automatically mean a date? Especially two days after my mother's funeral. He's being accommodating—he knows I don't have food in the house.”

Fletcher patted her hand, plucked the check from it, and said in a near incantation, “You're right, Sunny. I forgot. Life has stopped.Life is dangerous. Dinner couldn't possibly mean a date. Men are invisible; men in uniform exist only to direct traffic outside cemeteries. . . . Mourning becomes Sunny.”

“No it does
not.
I resent that.”

“Look: Mom is gone. Dad is gone. It's you and me. If you help me out with Emily Ann, I'll return the favor.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And don't say ‘No favors,' because you haven't begun to know or appreciate the full range of my talents.”

Sunny felt twin surges of exasperation and annoyance, then wondered if this was how a sister reacted to brotherly offenses: not anger, not hatred, not storming away from the table.

But no, she thought. That took years. That kind of indulgence was only possible when there was a shared childhood; when an older sister knew her baby brother in overalls and little striped jerseys that snapped at the neck. This was the wine talking, and the occasional angle of Fletcher's face in restaurant light that reminded her of herself.

“I'll lend you my car,” he offered suddenly.

“For what?”

“Your date! You won't have to be seen riding shotgun in his cruiser again.”

She picked up the take-out box. “Thanks anyway, but we'll do just fine.”

“He could leave the Tahoe at my place. He might even leave his keys.”

“I wouldn't count on driving it,” said Sunny. “But maybe Chief Loach would let you sit behind the wheel.”

“I'm not a child,” he scoffed.

“He might have a regular car,” said Sunny. “I don't know what he drives when he's off duty.”

Fletcher shook his head. “It's about you. It's about symbolism: that I'm here for you; that for once in your life, someone puts you in the driver's seat.”

Sunny took a dollar from her wallet and added it to his tip. “How annoying you are,” she said.

R
egina spotted Dr. Ouimet power-walking toward her house, elbows pumping, hips swiveling, a marked improvement over his funeral slouch. Since he'd started exercising, he'd never once interrupted his aerobic pace to chat or averted his eyes from some mathematically determined distant point ahead of him. The baby was asleep in the stroller, which Regina was bumping up her front stairs backward, one wide wooden step at a time.

“Let me,” Dr. Ouimet called out, breaking stride and hustling to the stairs.

“Maybe if you grab the front we can just get the whole thing onto the porch.”

Together they lifted the stroller. Robert stirred but didn't wake. “I remember a time when mothers could leave their babies in their carriages outside stores without a care,” the doctor said. “Just a little mosquito netting to protect them, but no one needed to stand guard; not like today, with car thieves and murderers on the lam.”

“I think he's okay on the porch,” she murmured. “I can get dinner started and hear when he wakes up.”

The doctor hesitated, looked troubled.

“Okay, bad idea,” said Regina. “Let's hoist him inside.”

“What a picture,” the doctor clucked. “Such angels when they're asleep. Makes me wish I'd gone back for another residency, in family practice.”

Regina said politely, “I take him to Dr. Kazaras in Claremont, but it certainly would be nice to have someone right around the corner.”

“Good man.” Then: “Is Randy home perchance?”

“He's playing golf.”

“Do you expect him soon?”

Not Dr. Ouimet, she thought. Not my heartbroken internist, new to small talk and nylon running shorts. “Any second,” she said.

“May I wait?”

“Because . . . ?”

“I was hoping to have a professional word with him. Something akin to an emergency. I mean, I know it's Saturday, and I respect the fact that this is his home. But I guess it's my own old-fashioned notion of the work ethic. If I make house calls, doesn't everyone?”

Regina hesitated. “I was just going to park Robert in the living room while I start dinner.”

With each step she took toward the kitchen, Dr. Ouimet kept pace. It was not her habit to ask potential clients of Randy's what their legal problems were, but here was Dr. Ouimet in her house, legs white and hairless, clucking over her firstborn. “May I tell him what it concerns?” She asked.

The doctor shuffled his feet, frowned at his shoes. “It's of a personal nature,” he said.

“You know that Randy does mostly criminal law?”

“My understanding is that he's a general practitioner.”

“That's true—”

“And of course it may be awkward for someone to represent his own doctor, in which case he may want to refer me to one of his partners.”

“They're all your patients,” Regina reminded him. “But he refers people to a lot of different firms, depending on their particular problem.”

He looked around the kitchen and expressed admiration for her child-safe cabinet closures. When she didn't answer, he tried, “I can sit out front if you'd prefer. On the steps, if I'm in your way.”

“Don't be silly,” said Regina. She took an open bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and poured them each a glass. She waited a few seconds, trying to find the words for her toast. “To Margaret,” she said. “May she be playing opposite Sir Laurence Olivier now.”

Dr. Ouimet forced one sip, then moaned, “This has been the most agonizing few days. But I'm not going to fall apart again. Apparently I've been making quite a spectacle of myself.”

“According to whom?”

His face lost its shaky, apologetic look and grew hard. “My dear
wife.
I'm a man married to a woman who ridicules me for my feelings.” He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down heavily. “And now I've lost all sense of propriety and discretion. Here I am, crying on the shoulder of a patient!”

Regina brought a brown bag of corn to the table and sat down across from Dr. Ouimet. “Maybe doctor-patient confidentiality works both ways,” she said. “Just in case you felt like talking.”

He meticulously shucked one ear of corn, then two more. Finally, he asked, “Have I ever been inside your house before?”

“Not since we've been here. Maybe when the Patnaudes owned it.”

“That's it. I remember a party, a large one. A buffet dinner. Several Christmases ago. They had waiters circulating with canapés on trays, which must have been a first for King George—in a private home, that is. I think it gave Christine ideas.”

“We haven't done much,” said Regina. “We painted the kitchen and wallpapered the baby's room, but that's about it. I was pregnant when we moved in, so I had no interest in doing anything.”

“And why should you? It's lovely.”

The noise of a car approaching made him look to Regina for confirmation.

“That's him,” she said.

“Do you want to warn him? I mean, it might give him a fright if he thinks I'm here on a house call.”

“Not when he sees you shucking corn at his kitchen table in your running clothes.”

Dr. Ouimet was on his feet, right hand outstretched, when Randy came through the back door.

“Dr. Ouimet needs to speak with you,” Regina said.

Randy gestured toward the living room.

“Try not to wake the baby,” said Regina. “I'll start the burgers.”

“Do you know what a compassionate wife you have?” asked the doctor.

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Ouimet fluttered his paper napkin out to the side as if it were heirloom damask, then said halfheartedly, “Nothing like a juicy burger once in a while.”

“With a glass of red wine, right?” said Randy.

“You've read the literature,” the doctor said.

“Speaking of which,” said Regina, “will Mrs. Ouimet think you dropped dead on your walk if you don't show up for dinner?”

“I don't think she expected me back.”

“At a specific time, you mean?”

Dr. Ouimet looked to Randy, who said, “Hon? Maybe the doctor just wants to relax with a glass of wine and doesn't want to hurry home.”

“Fine,” said Regina. “I just meant please feel free to use our phone.”

Dr. Ouimet turned toward the baby with a professional smile. “You eat like a big boy,” he boomed. “I can't say that I've ever seen a two-year-old eat a hamburger with the works.”

“Hubbuggah,” said the baby.

“He can digest the onions?” Dr. Ouimet asked Regina.

“Apparently.”

“Is he toilet-trained?”

“No interest whatsoever.”

“It's early,” said Randy.

“He's obviously doing beautifully,” said the doctor. “And if you don't mind changing diapers, why rush him?”

“His father minds,” said Randy. He grinned at the baby, who was licking his ear of corn.

“Is it delicious?” asked Regina.

Robert raised his eyes, but didn't take his lips off the grizzled cob.

“I'd just as soon not see undigested kernels in your diaper,” said his father.

“Dipe,” said the baby, and patted his waist.

Regina noticed that Dr. Ouimet had taken one bite of his hamburger and put it down. “Can we put that back on the grill?” she asked.

“I hate to trouble you . . .”

“No trouble. It'll give it another minute or two,” said Randy.

“I've recently become a convert to the well-done school of chopped beef,” he apologized.

Randy said, “Not a problem. Be right back.”