did in the spring semester of my sophomore year, his death was supremely ill-timed. I cursed the fair
weather of the day we buried him, and a throng of people who came from miles around to pay their
respects astonished me.
As was the custom in our town, we walked from the mortuary to the church along the length of
Main Street. A bright new hearse crawled ahead of us, and a cortege of more than a hundred people
trailed behind. My mother and sisters and I led the grim parade.
"Who are all these people?" I whispered to my mother.
She looked straight ahead and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Your father had many friends. From
the army, from his job, people he helped along the way. You only knew part of the story. There's more
to a salmon than the fin."
In the shade of new leaves, we put him in the ground and covered him with dirt. Robins and
thrushes sang in the bushes. Behind her black veil, my mother did not weep, but stood in the sunshine,
stoic as a soldier. Seeing her there, I could not help but hate him for doing this to her, to the girls, to our
friends and family, and to me. We did not speak of him as I drove my mother and sisters back to the
house to receive condolences.
Women from church welcomed us in hushed tones. The house felt more cool and quiet than it did in
the dead of night. On the dining room table lay tokens of community spirit—the noodle casseroles, pigs
in blankets, cold fried chicken, egg salad, potato salad, Jell-O salad with shaved carrots, and a
half-dozen pies. On the sideboard, new mixers and bottles of soda stood next to gin and scotch and rum
and a tub of ice. Flowers from the funeral home perfumed the air, and the percolator bubbled madly. My
mother chatted with her neigh-bors, asking about each dish and making gracious compliments to the
particu-lar cooks. Mary sat at one end of the sofa, picking at the lint on her skirt, and Elizabeth perched
on the opposite end, watching the front door for visitors. An hour after we arrived, the first guests
showed up—men who had worked with my father, stiff and formal in their good suits. One by one, they
pressed enve-lopes filled with money into my mother's palm and gave her awkward hugs. My mother's
friend Charlie flew in from Philadelphia, but he had missed the interment. He looked askance at me when
I took his hat, as if I were a stranger. A couple of old soldiers dropped by, specters from a past that no
one else knew. They huddled in the corner, lamenting good ole Billy.
I soon tired of them all, for the reception reminded me of those post-recital gatherings, only more
somber and pointless. Out on the porch, I took off my black jacket, loosened my necktie, and nursed a
rum and Coke. The greened trees rustled in the intermittent breeze, and the sunshine gently warmed the
meandering afternoon. From the house, the guests produced a murmur that rose and fell consistent as the
ocean, and every so often, a quick peal of laughter rose to remind us that no one is irreplaceable. I lit a
Camel and stared at the new grass.
She appeared at my side, redolent of jasmine, her scent betraying her stealth. A quick sideways
glance and an even briefer smile, then we both re-sumed our inspection of the lawn and the dark woods
beyond. Her black dress was trimmed at the collar and cutis in white, for she followed the smart fashion,
twice removed from the haute couture of Mrs. Kennedy. But Tess Wodehouse managed to copy the
style without looking foolish. Perhaps it was her quiet poise as we stood at the rail. Any other girl my age
would have felt the neces-sity to speak, but she left it to me to decide the moment for conversation.
"It was nice of you to come. I haven't seen you since when? Grade school?"
"I'm so sorry, Henry."
I flicked my cigarette into the yard and took a sip from my drink.
"I heard you once at a recital downtown," she said, "four or five years ago. There was a big to-do
afterward with a ranting lady in a red coat. Re-member how gently your father treated her? As if she
weren't crazy at all, but a person whose memory had come undone. I think my daddy would have told
her to buzz off, and my mother probably'd have punched her on the nose. I admired your father that
night."
While I remembered the woman in red, I had not remembered Tess from that night, had not seen
or thought of her in ages. In my mind, she was still a little tomboy. I set down my glass and invited her,
with a sweeping ges-ture, to a nearby chair. With a demure and becoming grace, she took the seat next
to me, our knees nearly touching, and I stared at her as if in a trance. She was the girl who had wet her
pants in second grade, the girl who had beaten me at the fifty-yard dash in sixth grade. When I went off
to the public high school in town, she took the bus to the Catholic girls' school in the other direction.