one at the police department."
"If it would be all right I think she'll need a little time to make that decision. Some of the family members haven't even been informed yet."
"Yes, tomorrow would be better."
"I think nine would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Dewey."
When he'd hung up he wrote Walter Dewey's name and number on a pad beside the phone and told Lee, "You'll need to meet with him, of course, but tomorrow is time enough. He suggested nine o'clock and I said I thought that would be fine. Meanwhile you don't have to worry about making any other arrangements. He'll take care of everything."
"Greg is at the morgue already?"
"Yes. At Mercy Hospital. When the department responds to a fatality that's where they're taken. Mr. Dewey will handle everything."
It struck Lee again how glad she was to have Christopher Lallek here.
He, too, must still be in the throes of shock, but he was hiding it well, taking over some of the unpleasant tasks as a husband would if she still had one . . . or as a grown son would.
Whenever she was near crumbling, he stepped in and relieved her without being asked to. She recognized that having him here not only a masculine presence but also Greg's best friend--moving around her kitchen, lifting her burdens in whatever way possible, was much like having Greg himself here.
She left Sylvia and went to him. "Christopher," she said, putting her hands on the short sleeves of his wild Hawaiian shirt. "Thank you.
I'm sorry I broke down and left that to you."
"You've got a right to break down, Mrs. Reston. This is one of the worst days of your life."
"Of yours too," she said understandingly.
"Yes . . . it is. But . .." He looked at the notes on her refrigerator door. "I think he'd want me to help you any way I could, so if you don't mind, I'll stick around."
She hugged him hard and they listened to each other gulp down wads of grief. She rubbed the center of his back with both hands as if he were her own son, and for the briefest flash it felt like holding Greg again.
The telephone rang.
Sylvia answered while the other two watched and listened.
"Yes, Kim. Northwest flight three fifty-six . . . Seven fifty-nine.
I've got it." She wrote it down and listened for a while. "I'm sorry your vacation has been ruined, but it's so kind of you to come back home with her. She'll need your support, I'm sure." After another pause, she said, "Seven fifty-nine, yes. I'm not sure which one of us will be there to pick you up, but somebody will. Please tell her her mother is doing all right.
We're still here with her and she'll have someone with her every minute. Yes. Yes. All right, see you then."
When she'd hung up, Sylvia said, "Kim is coming home with Janice, so try not to worry about her, Lee."
That was only the first call of many. The afternoon wore on, bringing the reality of the staggering number of telephone calls necessitated by an unexpected death. Sylvia and Christopher took turns making them-to Sylvia's husband, Barry, who showed up at the house within fifteen minutes after receiving the news, to Lee's mother and father, who broke into noisy weeping and needed much calming before the conversation could be continued, to the next-door neighbor and dear friend Tina Sanders, who came immediately, too. To the flower shop. To the Whitmans' again and again and again with no response.
The house began filling with people. Neighbors arrived asking what they could do. Sylvia began organizing them with calling lists. While they were writing down names and telephone numbers the oddest impulse came over Lee. She turned, lifted her head and actually opened her mouth to ask the question Did anyone call Greg yet? Just like on any normal day. Startled, she caught herself before phrasing it, and the reality of his death struck her afresh. She stood in midst of a circle of women who were poring over her phone book, wondering how it could be possible she'd never call Greg again, never hear him laugh, never see him
"If it would be all right I think she'll need a little time to make that decision. Some of the family members haven't even been informed yet."
"Yes, tomorrow would be better."
"I think nine would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Dewey."
When he'd hung up he wrote Walter Dewey's name and number on a pad beside the phone and told Lee, "You'll need to meet with him, of course, but tomorrow is time enough. He suggested nine o'clock and I said I thought that would be fine. Meanwhile you don't have to worry about making any other arrangements. He'll take care of everything."
"Greg is at the morgue already?"
"Yes. At Mercy Hospital. When the department responds to a fatality that's where they're taken. Mr. Dewey will handle everything."
It struck Lee again how glad she was to have Christopher Lallek here.
He, too, must still be in the throes of shock, but he was hiding it well, taking over some of the unpleasant tasks as a husband would if she still had one . . . or as a grown son would.
Whenever she was near crumbling, he stepped in and relieved her without being asked to. She recognized that having him here not only a masculine presence but also Greg's best friend--moving around her kitchen, lifting her burdens in whatever way possible, was much like having Greg himself here.
She left Sylvia and went to him. "Christopher," she said, putting her hands on the short sleeves of his wild Hawaiian shirt. "Thank you.
I'm sorry I broke down and left that to you."
"You've got a right to break down, Mrs. Reston. This is one of the worst days of your life."
"Of yours too," she said understandingly.
"Yes . . . it is. But . .." He looked at the notes on her refrigerator door. "I think he'd want me to help you any way I could, so if you don't mind, I'll stick around."
She hugged him hard and they listened to each other gulp down wads of grief. She rubbed the center of his back with both hands as if he were her own son, and for the briefest flash it felt like holding Greg again.
The telephone rang.
Sylvia answered while the other two watched and listened.
"Yes, Kim. Northwest flight three fifty-six . . . Seven fifty-nine.
I've got it." She wrote it down and listened for a while. "I'm sorry your vacation has been ruined, but it's so kind of you to come back home with her. She'll need your support, I'm sure." After another pause, she said, "Seven fifty-nine, yes. I'm not sure which one of us will be there to pick you up, but somebody will. Please tell her her mother is doing all right.
We're still here with her and she'll have someone with her every minute. Yes. Yes. All right, see you then."
When she'd hung up, Sylvia said, "Kim is coming home with Janice, so try not to worry about her, Lee."
That was only the first call of many. The afternoon wore on, bringing the reality of the staggering number of telephone calls necessitated by an unexpected death. Sylvia and Christopher took turns making them-to Sylvia's husband, Barry, who showed up at the house within fifteen minutes after receiving the news, to Lee's mother and father, who broke into noisy weeping and needed much calming before the conversation could be continued, to the next-door neighbor and dear friend Tina Sanders, who came immediately, too. To the flower shop. To the Whitmans' again and again and again with no response.
The house began filling with people. Neighbors arrived asking what they could do. Sylvia began organizing them with calling lists. While they were writing down names and telephone numbers the oddest impulse came over Lee. She turned, lifted her head and actually opened her mouth to ask the question Did anyone call Greg yet? Just like on any normal day. Startled, she caught herself before phrasing it, and the reality of his death struck her afresh. She stood in midst of a circle of women who were poring over her phone book, wondering how it could be possible she'd never call Greg again, never hear him laugh, never see him
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