Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [123]
The afternoon wore on. Alice tried to focus on a window at the back of the room, a thin slice of blue sky. Her head swam with dark thoughts that she wanted to scream out loud. They were here, burying her sweet young sister, and it was Alice’s fault. For most people in the world, today was a day like any other. Out there, women were buying groceries and teaching children how to ride bicycles and getting dressed for a movie. But Alice would never have another pure day like that; she didn’t deserve to. Her life was as finished as Mary’s.
Then she saw them come through the door: Daniel Kelleher, the scarecrow she had met at the Cocoanut Grove, and his brother.
Alice moved out of her place at the front of the room, feeling her family’s eyes on her. She walked through the winding line of mourners, past a long table of cold sandwiches and cake. She met him at the back wall, reached for his hand, and whispered, “Come outside for a smoke?”
He squeezed her hand tight. Though his palm was clammy, he didn’t let go.
Out on the sidewalk, the bright sun hit her eyes, and she had to squint. He wasn’t a handsome man, not by a long shot, but he was here. She was surprised to feel something like elation at the sight of him, something like gratitude.
“It was good of you to come,” she said, as he lit her cigarette.
“Of course,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
She shrugged.
“I’m so sorry for your l—”
“Please don’t say it,” she said.
He nodded. “Then I’ll just say thank you.”
“For what?” she asked.
“By finding me one hundred percent resistible, you saved my life.”
She smiled weakly.
“Your sister knew you loved her,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because sisters always do. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“What makes you think that I—,” she began, but she started to cry and couldn’t complete the thought.
“Put that bad conversation you had before we left out of your head,” he said. “It never happened.”
“It wasn’t just that,” she said.
She wanted to tell him the rest, but she could not manage. She needed someone now, and if she told him, there was no way he would stay.
“It should have been me,” she said through her tears.
“No,” Daniel said.
“I killed her.”
“Now, listen,” Daniel said, more stern and strong than she would have thought him capable. “It was a terrible accident. People all over this city are wondering right now what they could or should have done. But it’s not your fault.”
She sniffed. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get back inside,” he said.
She wondered if she could possibly love this person, who seemed excessively kind, but not much of a man in her opinion, nothing like she’d ever imagined for herself. At best, he could give her the common sort of life she had come to fear. Though it seemed only marginally better than living with her folks, that was still something. She remembered her aunt’s words: You will care for your parents. It’s time for you to grow up.
Perhaps this was what God had been trying to tell her all along. She hadn’t listened when her mother told her to stop putting on airs. She had seen her sister’s love affair as having to do with her own happiness—selfish even then—and now God had taken her sister away. Finally, she had been punished.
Daniel wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself sink in.
They were married six months later. Daniel was allowed a week’s leave after the wedding. They moved into their first tiny house in Canton, where their honeymoon consisted of unpacking boxes and listening to Tommy Dorsey records for six days straight before he had to reboard the ship.
Daniel wanted to talk constantly and he wanted to make love nearly every night, when Alice just wished not to be touched. He asked her what felt good to her, which she happened to know from talking with Rita was a rarity, and a first-class thing. But Alice couldn’t imagine saying the words, even if she knew what they were. It