There was no avoiding it any longer. This above all pierced the heart--facing the place where he had lived, made happy plans for the future, stored the artifacts of his day-to-day life.
"Well, Dad," Lee said when they were back in Lloyd's car. "I guess it's time to face Greg's apartment."
He reached across the seat and took her hand. "Nobody ever said being a parent was easy. You have to weigh the responsibilities against the rewards. This is one of them. Maybe it'll help to think about all the joy he brought to your life. Remember that time when he and Janice were little and they decided to make you and Bill an anniversary cake?
The cake turned out just fine, but, as I remember, they didn't know what confectioners' meant so they used plain sugar in the frosting."
"And we ate it." Lee grimaced at the recollection.
"And that Mother's Day when he built you that little birdhouse."
"I still have it."
"I predicted then that that kid was sure to end up being a carpenter.
He was awfully handy with a hammer."
"Remember when he was in high school track? Gosh, how I used to enjoy going to those meets."
They went on reminiscing until they reached Greg's apartment.
When the engine was cut, they sat looking at the building, loath to approach it.
Lloyd asked, "Do you want me to come in with you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Please."
Christopher answered their knock, freshly shaven, his hair neatly combed, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Lee took a look at his puffy eyes and knew he'd had one hell of a night.
"Hi," she said simply and took him in her arms. They remained together for as long as they needed, remembering yesterday and how they'd been the first two to know, to console each other, to face the calamity. He smelled like fresh after-shave and felt sturdy yet vulnerable as Lee rocked with him, her eyes closed and her heart heavy.
When they parted Chris said, "Hi, Lloyd, how are you?" The two men patted each other's shoulders.
"Well, I've been better," Lloyd answered. "I imagine you put in a bad night yourself."
"Yessir, the worst."
Lee said, "You should've stayed at the house with the kids and me."
"Maybe," he replied. "Maybe. But all I'd have done was put off facing this place. There'd still be tonight, and tomorrow and the next day."
He had, Lee knew as she studied him, the most difficult task of any of them, since he'd been closest to Greg. Even she mother though she was--had not lived with Greg for over two years. This place was where his absence would be felt most.
"Did you eat my lasagna?" she asked.
"Yes, this morning." He put a hand on his flat stomach and managed a smile. "It was good."
She glanced around the kitchen, reluctant to move farther into the apartment, coming up with one more item of business to delay it a few minutes.
"May I use your phone, Christopher? I'd like to call the shop."
', "Sure."
He and Lloyd moved into the living room while she dialed Absolutely Floral.
Sylvia answered.
"Sylvia, you're there?" They employed four designers who came in at staggered hours.
"I thought I'd better come down and see how things were going."
"Everything okay?"
"Just fine. The girls are handling everything. Don't worry about a thing. Did you sleep at all?"
"Not much. Lloyd and I have already seen the funeral director and we've set the funeral for Monday at two P.M. We decided not to have a reviewal."
"Honey, I would have come with you."
"I know, so would Mom and Dad. Lloyd came. We did just fine . . .
really. But there is something you can do for me at the shop, Sylvia."
"Anything. Just name it."
"I'd like you to call Koehler & Dramm and order three dozen calla lilies, some freesias, gardenias and sword ferns. Everything white and green. Make sure we've got sprengeri and tall myrtle, too . .." She paused and added, "For Monday."
"Lee, you're not going to arrange it yourself."
"Yes, I am."
"But, Lee . .."
"He was my son. I want to do it, Sylvia."
"Lee, this is silly. Why not let one of the girls do it? Or me?
I'll be happy to."
"It's something I must do, Sylvia, please understand. Lloyd is going to give the eulogy, I'm going to arrange the casket flowers."
It took a while before Sylvia agreed. "Very well. Full or half?"
"Full. We've decided to leave it closed."
Sylvia sighed. "All right, Lee, I'll do it right away."
"Thanks, Sylvia."
"Oh, Lee? I thought you'd want to know. The orders are flooding in for Greg. I think I'll stay here and help the girls, but if you need me, just call and I'll come over, okay?"
"I'll be just fine. I'm here at Greg's apartment with Lloyd and Christopher, and the kids are at home."
"Okay, but call if you need me . . . promise?"
"I will. Thanks, Sylvia."
When Lee hung up and went into the living room she knew the two men had overheard, though they'd been talking softly all the time. She was grateful that neither one said a word to try to dissuade her. Instead they each put an arm around her and stood looking up at the collection of caps on the wall.
Christopher said, "He was wearing his red Twins cap, but his favorite one is still here. It's the one you gave him last year, Lloyd."
Lloyd nodded, and they all realized it was time to pull themselves out of the maudlin mood. Lee moved away from their arms toward the fig tree. "The ficus looks good." She poked a finger in the soil. "So does the pothos . . . and the grape ivy."
They made her want to cry, these dumb plants, simply because he'd never water them again. No, it was more than that: They'd been a symbol of his independence, gifts she'd given him when he went out on his own to start his adult life in his first apartment.
Only two years he'd had them . . . only two.
"Oh, this is stupid!" she said, angry with herself for starting to cry again. "They're just plants! Just dumb plants!"
"It's not stupid," Christopher said. "I feel the same way every time I look at them . . . and at his hats, and his CDs . . .
everything. It's not Stupid."
"I know," she said, mollified. "But I'm so tired of crying."
"Yeah," he replied softly, "we all are."
"I might as well face his closet--is that what you're saying?"
He nodded silently and led the way. At the doorway to Greg's room he stepped back and let her enter first. Lloyd had remained behind in the living room.
She took in the room and said, "Was he always this neat?"
"He said you forced him to be. Something about Thursday-morning cleaning."
"Lord, how he hated it."
"Didn't hurt him a bit though."
Chris moved to the dresser. "He got a couple pieces of mail yesterday." He handed them to her. "And I went through his bills this morning. The ones we share for the apartment are taken care of. These are for other things."
She glanced at them.
"This one's for his motorcycle," she said and broke down again.
He held her while she cried, held her hard and motionless, his own eyes dry, her hands clutching the back of his shirt with the envelopes bent in one. "Oh God," she whispered. "Oh God . .."
It struck him while he stood strong for her, how often he'd held this woman in the past twenty-four hours, closer and longer than he'd held any woman for years. Being relied on by her felt fitting, and each time she turned to him he found his own sorrow eased. The process of grieving was so new to Christopher. He'd seen strangers grieve in the course of his nine years on the force. He'd had psychology courses on handling traumatized victims and their equally traumatized families, but this was the first time true grief had ever touched him. No grandparents, extended family or dear friends of any kind had ever been part of his life, so there'd been no tearful funerals for him. He doubted that when his own parents died he'd care much at all.
This though--this was tough.
Lloyd came to the door holding the green bill cap. His eyes met Christopher's over Lee's shoulder. He waited patiently, his face a map of sadness.
Finally he shuffled into the room and sat down on the bed.
"I've been thinking," he said, almost as if to himself. "The casket's going to be closed. Greg loved this cap the best. And he hardly ever wore dress suits when he was alive. What do you say we bury him in jeans and one of his favorite T-shirts and this cap? Lee, dear, what do-you think about that?"
She drew herself out of Christopher's arms and fished for a tissue in her pocket. Wiping her eyes, she managed a snuffly laugh. "In blue jeans and that cap? Oh, Lloyd, you're priceless."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think that's a wonderful idea."
"Then let's pick a shirt. Chris, which one did he wear most?"
After that it wasn't so hard, opening the closet door, leafing through Greg's clothes. They had interacted as a team, one supporting the other as emotions demanded, and by the time they left the apartment they recognized they'd done a fine job of conquering another hurdle.
Lee said to Chris, "You're coming with us back to the house. You can't stay here alone."
"Thanks, but actually I have to go to the Ford dealer and pick up a new Explorer I ordered. I was supposed to pick it up yesterday, but . .
."
He shrugged. "I called the dealer and told him I'd be in to get it today."
"Then you'll come over later?"
He hesitated, afraid of spending too much time over there, getting in the family's way.
"Listen, I don't think--" "Christopher, I insist. What are you going to do here? And besides, the neighbors have been bringing in so much food. Come on."
"All right. I will."
"Oh, I almost forgot. Will you do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Will you speak to your captain and express my thanks to him for offering to have the members of the police force act as pallbearers?
Ask him to pick six of them--whomever he thinks.
Greg liked a man named Ostrinski, and someone named Nokes."
"Ostrinski and Nokes, sure."
"And you, Christopher . .." She touched his hand. "If . . . if you want to, I'd be pleased to have you act as pallbearer. But only if you want to."
"I'd have been hurt if you hadn't asked. Besides, he'd expect it, and so would I if it were the other way around."
She squeezed his hand and released it. "I need the names of the other men as soon as possible so they can be listed in the obituary."
"I'll take care of it all, Mrs. Reston. I'll speak to the captain and call Walter Dewey myself--how's that?"
"That would be a big help, thank you. It seems . .." She felt a renewed surge of gratitude at having him to rely on. "It seems as if I've been leaning on you very heavily, Christopher. Forgive me.
You've really helped--I want you to know that. Whenever you're around, things just seem--well, I feel better."
She smiled and he felt better than he had since awakening that morning.
"Me too."
When she was gone he drove over to the station and spoke to the captain, called Walter Dewey, then took care of an unpleasant detail that he didn't want Lee Reston to have to handle: He drove to the impound lot to pick up Greg's key ring. Toby, who ran the lot, knew him and knew he and Greg had been roommates.
"I'm sure sorry, Chris," he said as he handed over the keys.
"Yeah," Chris said, clearing his throat. "He was a good man and a good friend."
Toby clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and they commiserated in silence.
"I imagine the motorcycle is a loss."
"Yes, it is."
Chris nodded, studying the oily dirt of the yard. "That's good."
He hadn't looked around for the machine, nor would he. "I guess that's good, otherwise his mother would have to have it fixed and sell it.
This way she'll never have to deal with it at all."
Toby squeezed his shoulder and dropped his hand.
"Family must be takin' it pretty hard."
Chris nodded. Sometimes it was hard to know what to say.
"Well, take er easy, okay?" Toby said.
"Yeah, thanks."
The weather had grown muggy. To the east the sky was blue as an Easter egg. To the west the clouds looked like a dirty old hen who'd rolled in the dust. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Nearer, one could almost smell the first wetted-down dust, that summery scent that came just before the rain.
It was approaching 4 P.M. when Christopher drove his spanking new wild-strawberry Ford Explorer out of the parking lot of Fahrendorff Ford. The dust-rain smell whipped in the open windows and mingled with that of new vinyl and an engine burning away the residual factory oils from its metal housing.
This should have been a rip-roaring happy moment. He and Greg had looked forward to it for two months, ever since he'd ordered the vehicle. They had made plans to take a trip in it this fall, maybe down to Denver, where they'd go up into the mountains and search out some old abandoned ghost towns where gold mines had played out. They'd also talked about going up to Nova Scotia to see its rugged coastline, or even wait until winter and drive down to Florida. Whatever place they chose, they were going to take the Explorer.
Suddenly Chris was sick and tired of all these mawkish thoughts.
He was cruising along Coon Rapids Boulevard when he shouted at the thin air, "Hey, Greg--look! I got it!" He smiled and let some gladness seep in, let himself enjoy this milestone he'd anticipated for so long.
"You there, Reston? Hey, lookit this.
I've really got it at last and damn your nads for not being here with me! I'll get you for this, you little peckerhead! I'm gonna go to Denver anyway, just you wait and see! And you're gonna be sorry as hell you didn't stick around to go with me!" The Explorer had a faint tick in the right door panel. He'd have to have the dealer look into that. "So how is it up there, Reston?
They got hot dogs with everything on em? Well, good! You keep em up there, okay?"
He drove along feeling unexpectedly happy, realizing something for the first time: that until now he had not accepted Greg's death. With acceptance came a measure of peace and the ability to get on with life.