Rest In Peace (15 page)

“People talk too loud on those cell phones, act like they're the only ones in the world who have something to say. Well, let me tell you . . . nobody cares about hearing their business.”

I should introduce you to Mr. Montana
, Lucy thought, but aloud she said, “Well . . . I only use it for emergencies.”

“So in the meantime you're just going to sit out there in the cold? Catch pneumonia? Get your purse snatched? Or worse?”

Lucy was getting irritated. It had been a long day, an emotional night, and she wasn't in the mood for any more upsets.

“It's not like I have many options,” she replied, more sarcastically than she'd meant to.

The woman's lips pinched tight. “Come into the kitchen. Take off your coat, and put it in that closet. And for heaven's sake, hang it up neat.”

Surprised, Lucy did as she was told. When she entered the kitchen, she saw gleaming countertops, a well-scrubbed, though outdated, stove, and a table with a blue flowered cloth. Pots of ivy lined the windowsill over the sink, and a large gray cat peered at her from beneath one of the straight-backed chairs.

“You like pie?” The woman's back was turned away from Lucy, bent inside a pantry, taking out dishes.

“I love pie.”

“Then sit down. You don't eat pie very often, I can tell. Home cooking either. You're puny.”

Lucy sat. She could feel the cat rubbing against her legs, could hear its loud purr of contentment.

“One more thing wrong with kids today,” the woman went on. “Never have a decent meal. Never sit down as a family. Too many divorces.”

Since she didn't get the feeling that she was expected to answer, Lucy kept quiet. She leaned down and scratched the cat behind its ears.

“There were ten of us when I was growing up. Dinnertime was nonnegotiable. We all had chores to do. Made us learn responsibility. Made us appreciate what we had.”

Lucy watched as a pie was sliced, transferred to a plate, and shoved into the microwave. Within seconds, the warm fragrance of apples and cinnamon and buttery crust filled the room. She heard her stomach rumble. She'd forgotten just how hungry she was.

“Kids today expect handouts. Something for nothing, and right when they want it.” Indignantly, the woman set a plate and fork down in front of Lucy. “Use that napkin there. And don't make crumbs all over the table.”

It was the best pie Lucy had ever tasted. Flaky and sweet, it melted in her mouth and warmed her all the way down.

“This is wonderful,” Lucy sighed, feeling almost as contented as the cat. “Really, this was just so nice of you. I didn't want you to go to any trouble.”

“If it was trouble, I wouldn't have done it.”

The woman pulled out a chair. She sat down across the table, took a tissue from her apron pocket, and dabbed it over her brow. Lucy swallowed another bite of pie.

“So you haven't lived here very long.” The woman had obviously been thinking about this. “
How
long?”

“Just a few weeks.”

“You go to church?”

“I . . . really haven't decided on a particular church yet.”

“You should go to church. Young people today—no morals. No values. That's what happens when you don't go to church.” She leaned toward Lucy with a frown. “There's a new priest at All Souls. He's too young to be a
good
priest, but with Father Paul having problems, we're stuck with him.”

Lucy stared at her. “You mean Father Matt?”

“And how can I call him Father? It's like calling my grandson Father.”

“I've met Father Matt,” Lucy told her. “He's one of the grief counselors at my school.”

“And what would he know about counseling people? He hasn't lived long enough to counsel anybody.”

Giving a noncommittal shrug, Lucy casually checked her watch. Where
was
Irene, anyway? What if she'd been home for hours and just hadn't checked her answering machine?
How long will it take her to realize I'm gone? How long will it take her to notice the time and—

“So you didn't have time to know Byron, I guess.”

Lucy's head came up. The woman's eyes were narrowed on her like lasers. The last bite of pie stuck in her throat, and she struggled to choke it down.

“As if his grandmother hasn't been through enough already,” the woman added, not giving Lucy a chance to reply. “Well, it's not my place to say anything, is it? I'm just helping out. You've heard what you've heard at school already, so you know how he died in that wreck. But he was a good kid, not like most. Took care of his grandmother, just the two of them. Oh, there was an older girl once—mad as a March hare. But she took off, and no one's heard from her since.”

A strange feeling of dread began to creep over Lucy. A feeling of secrets and doom, of being in the wrong place at the worst possible time.

“That's him there,” the woman said, pointing. As Lucy's eyes moved to the refrigerator, she noticed for the first time a small photograph stuck to the door with a magnet. “That's Byron. Sad. He was such a good-looking boy.”

Oh my God
. . .

Lucy's throat was closing. Closing up around that wedged bit of food, so that she couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. Her chest was squeezing. Her hands were frozen on the tabletop.

“This ...” She could barely get the words out. “This . . . is his house?”

“Didn't you know?”

The woman got up and walked to the refrigerator. Lucy couldn't move, not even when the photograph was thrust in front of her.

“Well, I guess you
wouldn't
know,” the woman concluded, “since you haven't lived here that long.”

“You're Mrs. Dempsey,” Lucy mumbled, and those flinty eyes bored into her once again.

“Have we met?”

“No. Father Matt told me you were staying with Byron's grandmother.”

“She's bedridden. Stroke. Been that way for a long time. Oh, the nurse comes, but Mrs. Wetherly appreciates
little
things the nurse can't make time for. Fresh flowers every so often. Nice music. Being read to. Company when she's not too tired.”

Mrs. Dempsey returned the photo to its rightful place. Then she studied Lucy with a pensive frown.

“In fact, maybe you should go back and see her. Since you're from Byron's school. Just to say hello.”

The kitchen walls gave a crazy lurch, rocking the chair with them. Lucy held on tighter to the edge of the table.

“I don't want to bother her,” she whispered.

“You won't. Come with me.”

There was no getting out of it. As Lucy took the long walk down the hall, she felt like a prisoner bound for the execution chamber. She could see an open door at the end of the corridor. A glow of light spilling over the threshold, slanting across throw rugs on the floor.
Please, please, let her be asleep
. . .
please just let me slip out again without her ever knowing
. . .

Lucy wanted to turn, to run—but she had images of Mrs. Dempsey grabbing her by the neck and throttling her into submission.

“In here,” Mrs. Dempsey said. She stopped just inside the doorway, and Lucy could see the old-fashioned bed, and the mounds of fluffy white covers, and the soft, stacked pillows trimmed in lace.

“Odelia,” Mrs. Dempsey announced, “here's one of Byron's friends to say hello.”

The frail figure lying there seemed pitifully lost among the bed linens. As Lucy gripped the edge of the footboard, she could see how small Byron's grandmother was, how pale and still, her face a mass of wrinkles, her long braid of silver hair draped across one shoulder of her cream-colored nightgown.

But to Lucy's distress, Mrs. Wetherly wasn't asleep. In fact, her huge dark eyes, every bit as dark as Byron's had been, were directed toward the end of the bed, resting calmly on Lucy's face.

“She can hear you,” Mrs. Dempsey advised Lucy in an undertone. “She can understand you, and she can move her left arm a little. But she can't talk. So she uses those things there.”

She indicated a small slate and piece of chalk on the nightstand. Lucy managed a stiff nod.

“Well, go on,” Mrs. Dempsey insisted, nudging her. “You can't visit clear across the room. Tell her your name.”

But Lucy's feet were rooted to the floor. She tried to open her mouth. Her tongue was like cotton; her lips wouldn't move.

“Well, tell her your name, for heaven's sake. You expect her to read your mind?” As Byron's grandmother made a weak gesture, Mrs. Dempsey pushed Lucy forward. “Give her the chalk, and hold the slate so she can reach it.”

Lucy felt sick. She crossed the short distance to the bed, wondering desperately what to do. She couldn't tell the truth—she just couldn't. That Byron had died was devastating enough. But that
she
was still alive, standing here in his grandmother's bedroom—that was just too horrible for anyone to bear.

The old woman's eyes had never left her. Even as Lucy picked up the stub of chalk and placed it in the blue-veined hand, those faded eyes continued to watch her, showing no hint of emotion. She heard the doorbell ring and fought a moment of panic as Mrs. Dempsey marched from the room.

But still the words refused to come. Words of comfort, words of remorse—though they tore at Lucy's heart and welled up into tears, she just couldn't bring herself to speak them aloud.

And then, to her amazement, Mrs. Wetherly's hand began to move.

Slowly . . . painstakingly . . . the old woman's fingers clawed around the chalk . . . motioned at the slate. Lucy lowered it in front of her. Held it tightly as the gnarled hand began to write.

The letters were like a child's letters. Crooked and crude, but clearly readable as they printed across the blank surface of the slate.

Lucy stared at them in silence. Four clumsy letters that she recognized at once.

20

“Oh God,” Lucy whispered. “Oh God . . . how did you know?”

The old woman's eyes looked deep into hers. In the dark fixed stare Lucy saw a sorrow that was endless . . . and a compassion that was immeasurable.

The sheer power of it left her breathless.

Unconsciously she took a step back, but before she could look away, Lucy saw something else.

Something forming in the depths of Mrs. Wetherly's eyes . . . something gazing back at her . . . haunting and achingly familiar . . .

Byron's face trapped there in the dark . . .

“No,” Lucy mumbled, “no, it's not possible . . .”

Somehow she made it out of the room and down the hall. She snatched her coat from the closet, not even bothering to put it on. Fumbling with the lock on the front door, she didn't hear Mrs. Dempsey calling from the kitchen, wasn't aware of the footsteps approaching, until hands suddenly grabbed her shoulders and turned her around.

“Lucy!” Matt exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Lucy's head was throbbing, her eyes blurry with unshed tears. She jerked away from Matt and resumed her struggle with the door.

“Mrs. Dempsey told me someone had a flat tire, but I didn't know it was you.” Reaching out, Matt pried her hands from the doorknob and took them in his own. “Lucy, it's not a problem. I'll be glad to give you another ride home.”

“I don't want a ride home!” Lucy's thoughts were spinning—she couldn't get the image of Byron's face out of her mind.
It wasn't real—I just thought it was. Their eyes are the same, that's all. Just the eyes are the same, just the eyes, that's all it was, the rest of it was just in my mind.
“I'm sure Irene's called by now. I just need my phone. I need to get my phone from the car.”

“I'll get your phone—you stay in here where it's warm. What a coincidence I happened to stop by at the same time you did.”

“I didn't stop by. I didn't even
plan
to stop by. I never should have come inside, I never should have stayed. I want to go. I need to go!”

“You mean . . .”

Matt finally seemed to be comprehending the situation. For an instant he looked disconcerted.

“You didn't even know whose house this was, did you?” he asked her at last. “You didn't have a clue it was Byron's grandmother.”

Lucy turned back to the door.
She knew me—how could she possibly have known me?
Shaking her head, Lucy kept silent. She heard Matt sigh deeply behind her.

“Right,” Matt mumbled under his breath. “What are the odds?”

And I saw Byron
. . .
Byron in her eyes
. . .

“Save that tea for me, will you Mrs. Dempsey?” Matt shrugged into his jacket and ushered Lucy out the front door, leaving the woman to stare after them in bewilderment.

“Lucy, I can't imagine what a shock that must have been for you. How'd you end up here anyway?”

“I don't know,” she answered miserably. “I kept taking wrong turns and hitting dead ends. And then I was on this street, and I saw the porch light.”

“Let me take a look at that tire.”

Lucy watched impatiently as Matt knelt down by the Corvette. But after a thorough inspection, he shook his head

“It's split wide open; you'll have to get a new one.” He stood and brushed off the knees of his jeans. “Okay, two options. I can put your spare on right now, or I can take you home.”

“Please. I just want to go.”

“Then I'll call a tow truck for you in the morning, and you can pick it up sometime tomorrow. Glen's Repair over on Hawthorne Street. It's the one Father Paul uses, and that antique car of his still runs like a dream. So I figure this Glen guy must be some kind of miracle worker.”