The Submission - Amy Waldman [44]
“My mind closed toward Muslims the day they killed my brother,” Sean said.
“I understand,” said Claire. “We’ve all struggled with that. But if you let them change you, they’ve won.”
“The restrooms—do you know where … ?” Claire asked the first person she saw when she got backstage, a woman with short, severe gray hair who seemed to be awaiting her. Her mood was slightly giddy, thanks to the applause when she left the stage. She had made them love the idea of a garden memorial as much as she did.
“I hope you’re not trying to fool us,” the woman said. A chill ran through Claire.
She mustered a neutral look and said, “Of course not. I want you to know about the memorial. I assume you lost—”
“My son,” the woman said. “My firstborn.”
“I’m so sorry,” Claire said, as if she hadn’t lost her own husband.
“I don’t want your sympathy”—Claire blanched—“I want your vigilance. We don’t want a Muslim’s memorial, but I think you know that.”
“If he won fairly, we can’t take it away,” Claire said, then instantly regretted it. She had just confirmed Khan’s selection when Paul had told her not to. There was something about the woman—a moral astringency—that begged both confession and challenge.
“So he did win.”
“The Garden won,” Claire said. “That’s what matters. What the memorial will be. That’s what matters.”
A muscle memory of a smile moved the woman’s lips. “Sometimes I wish Patrick had died in a regular fire. No firefighter dies a private death, not if he dies on the job. But to have all these politics mixed in—I don’t like it, all … the noise. Grief should be quiet. A memorial should have the silence of the convent. Maybe it’s different losing a husband—”
“I loved my husband,” Claire said, with deliberate hauteur.
“I didn’t say otherwise.” That mirthless, mechanical smile again.
Before Claire could respond, Sean came backstage. The meeting had ended.
“Ma,” he said, to the woman with Claire.
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Gallagher said. Her eyes didn’t leave Claire, who hadn’t thought, in her moment of candor, that she might be speaking to Sean’s mother. This magnified, considerably, the import of her mistake. She hadn’t lied onstage, exactly, but Mrs. Gallagher would likely hold her to account, just as she must hold Sean. Pleasing his implacable mother, filling the too-big shoes of his dead brother: these were dangerous, impossible goals. The fearsome pressure on him made him more worthy of fear. Her dread built, crows landing one by one in a field.
“I was looking for the restroom,” she said, grasping for graceful egress.
“The Muslim’s name—can you tell it to me?” she heard. The party had been joined by a reporter—Alyssa Spier. She covered all the memorial events, never seemed especially taken with the hagiography of Claire.
“The jury’s deliberations are confidential,” Claire said.
“But you talked about the design up there,” Sean said.
“Only because of the frenzy around this. What I said up there is true: I know almost nothing about the designer.”
“Almost nothing,” Alyssa said. “So you know his name.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear. The jury will speak to the press when we’re ready to reveal the design,” Claire said, feeling Mrs. Gallagher’s stare bore into her. Squirming inside, Claire tried to wrest free. “I’ve got to get home,” she said. “My children. Sean, I’ll be in touch. Mrs. Gallagher, it was a pleasure to meet you.” About to hold out her hand, she stopped herself. It might be refused, which would be awkward. “An open mind,” she said. “We can’t let them take that from us.”
As she picked her way toward the exit, steering clear of theater equipment and set pieces, she realized Alyssa Spier was with her. Claire quickened her pace, only to be followed down halls, around corners, out of the building and into the parking lot. She could hear the footsteps behind her, the panting—the reporter’s legs were short—the endless questions: “Mrs. Burwell, what’s his name? Is it a him? What’s the jury going to do? What’s your response