A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [156]
Gordon thought of Jerry Cox. He had killed only what was already dead. His suicide had been the ultimate pretense, an empty contrition, the coward’s last opportunity to inflict more pain on good people.
“Would you pass the sauce, please,” said John Stanley from Gordon’s right. John Stanley was a reedy, droopy-faced man whose crisp British accent Gordon found unnerving. Its authority announced itself like the running tap tap tap of a guard’s baton along the bars, demanding attention, respect, obedience. Gordon couldn’t see any sauce.
“Gravy. Right there.” With John Stanley’s sharp nod, Gordon seized the boat too quickly by its handle, splashing gravy into a candled bowl. “May I have its dish, please?” Stanley held the gravy boat over his own plate to catch the dribbles. “It’s right there.”
“Oh, yes, here. I’m sorry.” Gordon handed him the dish.
Like a slow-turning beacon, Dennis’s dull gaze caught him.
“You are just the most fabulous cook!” Becca Brock called across to Lisa, who had gotten up to fill her father’s wineglass, though he had already said he didn’t want any. She leaned close and squeezed his shoulder.
“So, Gordon, I hear you’re painting the house,” he said with the cue.
“Yes, sir. Well, touching it up.”
“Well, you ever need any help now you be sure and call”—he peered over his glasses—“your brother here.”
“I don’t know, Dennis is pretty busy.”
“He could use the exercise.”
“He gets plenty of that, sir,” Gordon said, and everyone laughed—with some relief now that Gordon had spoken and seemed normal enough.
“I did some work with the Samaritans,” Rena Stanley was telling Marty Brock.
“Suicide should be a person’s right,” Becca Brock declared. “I mean, we control everything else in our lives, why not that?”
“For God’s sake,” Dennis said under his breath.
What’s wrong with him? Gordon thought, looking between his brother and sister-in-law. In the watery candlelight her olive skin glowed. Doesn’t he know what he has here? Two beautiful, healthy children downstairs watching videos with the Stanley children. Friends, a brother who loves him. Or was that it? Did Dennis really think he had no feelings? That he didn’t care about him? That he never had? Gordon’s chest felt heavy, watching him.
Dennis gave another sigh, sprawled back in his chair, bored with the too familiar repartee, irritated and making no effort to hide it.
Mitzi launched the roll basket and meat platter around the table again. “So tell us, Gordon,” she said. “What kind of a boss is Tom?”
“Very good.” He looked to make sure there’d be enough for everyone, then took a few slices. “He’s a very good boss.”
The teenage girl returned to say the children wanted to watch another video. Lisa said they could. Becca Brock and Rena Stanley were still on the subject of suicide. Luke (Gordon hadn’t caught his last name) was telling them that his brother was a fireman. Last week he had rescued a woman threatening to jump from the roof of her apartment building. Her husband had just left her with three small children to support and—
“Luke,” Father Hensile interrupted, “tell us about your sister. She’s a caseworker, isn’t she?”
“Yes, for an adoption agency,” Luke said. “Most of the babies she places are from China.”
“My friend’s trying to do that,” Gordon blurted, surprising himself as well as everyone else.
“. . . which is my whole point, a personal, moral issue,” came tatters of Becca Brock’s voice into the hush. “If I want to die, I should be able to do it when I want and how I want.”
“As well you should, Becca,” Dennis sighed to uneasy laughter.
Lisa smiled and leaned toward Gordon. “Trying to do what?”
“Adopt a baby. Well, a little girl. She’s Chinese. May Loo’s her name.” The regurgitation of words piled on the table in front of him.
“Who? Your friend?” Lisa asked.
“No, that’s the little girl’s name. She’s pretty. Delores showed me her picture,” he said miserably.
“Delores? She’s adopting a baby? Oh, that’s so wonderful!” Lisa cried, eyes bright in the flickering