Up Against It - M. J. Locke [38]
“Hugh asked me to give you this.” Jane handed Geoff a hunk of nearly pure silver, mottled with copper. “He said he wished he could be here.”
Carl and Hugh were the same age. Once Hugh and Carl had gone on an asteroid-hopping trip with their Boy Scout troop. She remembered what a fit Geoff had pitched when he did not get to go, and how relieved Hugh had been to have time with Carl without Geoff there. Carl had found the nugget on that trip, and given it to Hugh as a memento of their friendship.
Geoff said nothing, staring at the oxide-mottled rock. It occurred to Jane now that he might not want this particular reminder of his brother, of being left behind by his brother and friend. But he said nothing, other than a muttered thanks; he thrust it deep into a pocket and turned away.
Surly as ever. But she should be kinder to him; right now he had ample reason to be surly.
Dierdre said something. Jane turned. “Pardon?”
Dee repeated herself. “He was so grateful you got him that job. He looked up to you. They all look up to you.”
Jane couldn’t stop herself. “Dee, I wish—”
“Don’t.” Deirdre snarled the word. A terrible gulf had opened between them. Jane’s son lived and Dee’s did not. Jane felt her face muscles working.
She won’t be able to close this gap, Jane thought. It’s up to me.
“Come over here. We’ve got seats for you.” Jane seated the Agres in the front row with the rest of the bereaved, then took her own seat.
The mayor spoke first, introducing the three religious figures who were officiating: a Baptist minister, a Jewish Orthodox rabbi, and a Buddhist priest. The rabbi, a man, wore a black suit and yarmulke; the Christian minister, female, wore a simple black floor-length robe, overlain with a stole embroidered in shades of white. The Buddhist priest was bald, bearded, wearing an orange, embroidered silk robe. During their eulogies, laments moved through the crowd. Lovers and life partners—children who had lost parents or siblings—parents who had lost a son or daughter—sat unmoving, shock stamped on their faces. Or they wept softly, or flung their pain out to rend the quiet air.
Jane spoke next, and read the prepared words on her heads-up about those who had died. She barely remembered later what she said; all she remembered was the fear and the jarring grief on the faces of her listeners.
She spoke of Carl last—otherwise, she had feared, she would not get through the talk. She needn’t have been concerned. Her voice remained steady. She spoke of his dedication, his humor and compassion, his kindness, his intellect, his passion for space exploration. She shared a memory or two from his childhood. She read a poem Dominica had sent and asked to be read at the memorial. And all the while, she felt made of stone as slick and impenetrable as the memorial wall.
It would have been better, she thought, shuffling back to her seat, to have lost control than to be trapped within this leaden lifelessness. She wished now she had accepted Xuan’s offer to attend with her.
The prime minister appeared last. He spoke of the terrible loss, of the fears they faced. He promised they would find sources of ice. He spoke of the efforts being taken to bring the situation back under control. He sought the support of the citizenry.
Despite all the machinations she knew were going on behind the scenes, despite Benavidez’s own worries, Jane found herself moved. She had needed to hear those words, too.
After the speeches, family members walked up and placed their loved ones’ memorials in the wall of the dead, above the nameplates, and activated the holograms. Dierdre and Sal clung to each other as they got up to place Carl’s memorial in the wall. The young man’s image flickered to life, and he smiled his breezy, self-confident smile. His intelligence and wicked-sweet humor shone in his face. He pretended to catch something and tuck it into his pocket. “Air kiss! Good shot, Mom. Two points.” He turned away, and faded.
Deirdre nearly collapsed. Sal helped her back to her seat.
Once all the memorials were in place, attendees filed past