Dying for Chocolate

Marla was there; she held my hand. There was a slew of people in country club clothes. The Farquhars came, as did Julian, a very red-eyed Sissy, Weezie Harrington, and Brian Harrington, whose beeper went off during the service.

Do not let the pains of death turn us away from you at our last hour. . . .

Elizabeth Miller had convinced the priest to allow friends of Philip to talk briefly about the good work he had done in the community. So many people depended on him—his clients, his friends, his supporters in the Audubon Society and Protect Our Mountains. There were subdued sobs as acquaintances told anecdotes. Still. In all this, and it was indeed lovely, there was no discussion of the strangeness of the way in which he had died.

Let our faith be our consolation, and eternal life our hope.

Somehow, I felt Philip’s presence. Maybe hovering somewhere around, I didn’t know. I thought, Did you ever say anything that would help me understand what happened that morning?

There was no response.

After a small gathering at Elizabeth’s house I came home and took a long bath. Arch said he was going to work on some of his dives in the pool, and then on some tricks. I asked him about his homework. He said he couldn’t do anything until I had done my reading, and had I decided about money for a cape?

No, I said sullenly as I trundled on to bed with the Poe under my arm. I was at the high tide of fatigue; there was no way I would read more than a page or two, I said.

But it was not to be. Splashing, calling, diving sounds from the pool gradually diminished. The floorboards creaked as Arch went to bed. I was glued to the book. The big house became quiet. In a far corner of my brain I could hear the telltale heart, beating its way to discovery. Beating, beating, beat—

“Agh!” I cried when I thought I heard a splash outside. My windows were closed against the cold night air of the mountains. Slowly, I slid the east-facing window open. There was no sound of arms or legs thrashing down the lap lanes. A neighbor’s dog began to bark, then stopped abruptly. The pool lights were off. I could not see a thing. I peered into the darkness, thought I heard whispers.

“Who’s there?” I called. My whole body shivered.

There was sudden quiet.

14.

In the relationship with John Richard, I had learned I was a physical coward. There was no way I was going outside. If you weren’t secure, why call it a security system, anyway? The perimeter motion detector would scream if the house was violated. I crept back to bed and turned out the light.

The next morning, I de-activated the security system and stepped outside to look around and call for Scout the cat. Lime-green aspen leaves clicked in the early breeze, like the sound of tiny hands clapping. It did not sound like a splash.

I had the feeling of being watched. There was no sign of anything or anyone who might have been by the pool after Arch came in. My eye found Scout. He was sitting very still, watching me from inside the French doors leading to the patio.

“Lot of help you are,” I said. He looked up with reproachful pale cat eyes. He was still too spooked by the dogs he’d encountered during his tenure of homelessness to have been last night’s noisemaker. Don’t venture into the world, his impassive face said. It’s dangerous out there.

Adele gleefully announced we had a go for the Audubon Society picnic. Wednesday and Thursday I finished planning and ordering the food for that affair and Adele and Bo’s wedding-anniversary party on the fourteenth. Philip’s absence was a hole to be filled with work. Keeping busy helped deal with grief.

Bo and Adele were also preoccupied—with phone calls, committee meetings, buying and planting flowers for the garden. The general was one of those rare men who love to shop. Late Thursday afternoon he surprised me with a package of fresh sole fillets. He asked if I could do something with them for dinner the next night. He began a long explanation about becoming an Episcopalian when he married Adele. But there really is no such thing as a former Catholic, and could we start having fish on Fridays? In case Vatican II had been wrong.

We eat for different reasons, I said with great seriousness. Fish was no problem.

Friday morning I awoke with a heaviness in my chest. It’s not the day of a funeral that’s most difficult, or even the next day or the next. I did my yoga routine, turned off the security system, and made my way to the kitchen. No, the first few days you have the memory of the church service, of the casseroles afterward, of the conversations you had with friends when you remembered the person who died. Within a couple of days, though, the reality of the loss hits. The person is gone. Forever.