Monday, July 11
Mother, Pam, and I spent the morning helping Dad pick out a new gray suit for Rob's wedding. He'd ruined his last gray suit a few weeks ago, shinnying up a pine tree to look at a buzzard's nest. We planned to hide this one until the day of the wedding. Then I spent the afternoon ferrying back another enormous pile of inspected wedding presents from the sheriff's office and inventorying them.
Steven and Eileen were a little surprised when I showed up at Professor Donleavy's house at five sharp, bearing a bag of sandwiches and a large stack of their notecards.
"I thought we were going to take you out to dinner," Steven said.
"Our treat," Eileen added.
"I thought of something that will be an even bigger treat for me," I said. "You're going to write thank-you notes for your presents."
They turned a little pale, but once they realized I had already gotten a list of donors and gifts all organized for them--or perhaps once they realized there was no escaping--they gave in and cheerfully sat around writing notes.
I stood over them, doling out the index cards on which I'd written the name and address of each donor and what they'd given, then taking back the finished notes, proofing them, addressing them, and sealing them.
It was slow work, much like forcing restless children to do homework.
"What's an ee-perg-nay?" Steven would ask.
"A what?"
"Every-people-every-rather-go-not-every," Steven said.
"Oh, epergne," I said, correcting his pronunciation. "Eileen's aunt Louise sent it."
"Yes, I see, but what is it?"
"What do you care?" I said. "Just thank her for it."
"How can I thank her if I don't know what it is?"
"It's that giant silver compartmented bowl on a pedestal."
"Oh, that thing," he said, frowning. "What on earth will we ever do with it?"
"You serve fruit or desserts in it."
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
"Then stuff it in the attic, unless you want to trip over it the rest of your lives," I said. "Just tell her you'll think of her whenever you use it."
"Well, that's honest," he said.
"Do you think there's a market for these if I did them in clay?" Eileen said, holding up a set of silver placecard holders.
"An exceedingly small one," I said. "Who cares? Just write."
"Another silver tray?" Steven said. "How many does this make."
"You have twelve in all," I said. "Don't worry, you can return them."
We finished up around midnight, and I turned down their offer to see me home. They looked as if they'd rather be alone, anyway. I was cutting through their yard to the street when I saw a familiar figure.
Jake. Carrying a box that looked suspiciously like the one I'd found in Mrs. Grover's room. The box that he probably did not suspect now contained Mother's great-aunt Sophy rather than his late wife.
How odd. Jake was taking the path to the beach. I lurked in the bushes until he'd passed. Then I put down the box of thank-you notes and quietly followed him. It wasn't hard; I had been using that path since I was a small child and knew every stone. I could follow it very silently. Jake was trying to sneak, but having a hard time. Every few steps he'd trip over a root or stone and swear quietly.
He finally made his way down to the beach, although I could tell he was going to have some bruises in the morning. I did some more lurking in the shrubbery a little way up the path. He went out to the end of the Donleavys' dock. He peered up and down the shore. Then, evidently thinking no one was watching, he opened the box and flung the ashes out. Without any particular ceremony, as far as I could see. I felt a pang of guilt.
Great-Aunt Sophy deserved better.
Jake then ripped the cardboard box into a dozen or so pieces and flung those into the river. He watched for a few minutes--waiting for the pieces to sink, no doubt--then turned and headed back for shore.
I scampered back up the path. By the time Jake arrived at the street, I was back to skulking in the roadside bushes. I watched as he nonchalantly strolled down the street that led to his house.
I couldn't wait to tell Dad about this, although I knew it would have to wait till morning. Dad went to bed early, and it was already twelve-thirty. Closer to one by the time I found where I'd left the thank-you notes.
As I was approaching Samantha's house, I noticed a car waiting at the end of their driveway. Skulking was getting to be habit-forming; I slipped into the bushes and watched. After a few minutes, I saw a figure slipping out of the car. Samantha. She shut the door, being careful not to slam it, and tiptoed down the driveway. The car started up and drove off. Perhaps the driver simply forgot, but I noticed that the headlights stayed off until it was well out of sight.