The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [21]
A woman named Laura Beckwith, jogging along the nearby walking path, saw what was happening and rushed to help. Splashing into the water, she grabbed hold of Richard’s feet. One of his shoes came off, but his body didn’t budge. His legs went limp. Panicked, she screamed, thrashed her way up the bank, found the cell phone she had dropped, and called 911.
By the time Richard’s body was recovered, he had been under water about half an hour. Chance had been swept through the pipe and out the other side, suffering only minor injuries. The detailed story in the next day’s paper described the accident as “bizarre” and the Good Samaritan’s efforts as “valiant.” At the funeral, Iona thanked Laura Beckwith in a voice that sounded, even to Iona’s own ears, icily formal. Why didn’t the woman make the 911 call first, then rush into the water? Why didn’t Richard let go of the leash before it was too late? Why hadn’t they said goodbye that day?
A few months later, Laura appeared at Iona’s door with a chicken casserole in hand. Iona didn’t recognize her at first. She introduced herself again, and when Iona still stood in the entryway and stared, she added, “The person who . . . who saw your husband in the water.”
“Oh, yes.” Numbly, Iona took the offered casserole dish. She invited Laura Beckwith in. After carrying the unwanted food into the already-odorous kitchen, she returned to the living room and handed the other woman a glass of wine. Laura set it on a coaster and left it there. She asked how Iona was doing. Fine. How about Laura? Also fine. All lies.
After a while, Laura leaned forward with some urgency. “I should have called 911 first,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since it happened.”
“Yes.” Iona supposed she was expected to say “No, no, you did what you could.” When she didn’t blush or gush, Laura Beckwith sighed.
“It’s nice, for once, not to have to pretend to be a hero.”
“Heroine,” Iona said.
“Heroine, yes.”
They spoke for a few more minutes about unrelated issues, Iona aware that this was the oddest possible meeting but feeling that a window had opened briefly onto a morass of hypocrisy and pain.
When Laura Beckwith rose to go, Iona said, “I don’t eat casseroles. If you have a family and can use it, you might as well take it.”
“I don’t eat casseroles, either,” Laura said. “I didn’t know what else to do. It’s in one of those dishes you can throw away.”
“Thank you,” Iona said, and meant it, about providing a dish that could be thrown away. She did not mention the futility of trying to provide comfort food full of cream soup and noodles, when comfort was not an option.
Now, back inside her house, she goes into the office and closes the blinds against the detested willow oak tree festooned with ribbons. She won’t allow them to remind her, every time, of anything but Paisley. She won’t.
She closes her browser and turns off the computer, still ashamed of her midnight ride through all those medical websites and her cockamamy poisoning theory. What difference does it make? Cancer. Poison. High water. They all kill you, eventually. Maybe she’ll take a nap. Maybe not. All she knows for sure is this: she’s not going to make Paisley any damned casseroles.
Chapter 6
October 17
At three thirty on that same Friday afternoon, Ginger and Eddie Logan are in their car on their way to the Riverview Plaza Hotel in the city, where Ginger will attend the annual Pool and Spa Convention that begins tonight and lasts through Sunday morning.