February 20th
When Greg emerges from the house, a nice morning is underway. The ambient temperature is close to something like warmth, and the sun is out. Icicles drip and glitter in the bright light, and there's even a bit of driveway exposed. The sky above is blue, with a few small white clouds here and there. After a moment he steps off the porch and takes off down the lane to the house next door.
The first thing he notices, when he enters the mudroom, is the quiet. There's no bustle in the kitchen, no music or news on the radio; the washer and dryer stand silent, with unsorted clothes in baskets on the floor. A chill of anxiety slide down Greg's spine. Without further hesitation he goes into the kitchen, and spies Sarah at the dining room table.
He approaches her slowly. She looks out the window at the beautiful morning. On the table are seed catalogs, a half-finished list next to a garden-planner printout. The phone is still in her hand. There is a stillness about her that tells him the call came in a short time ago, perhaps even moments before he walked in. "What is it?" he says like an idiot, his voice too loud, too harsh. Sarah doesn't react at first. Then she turns her head just a little to look at him. There are no tears, no overt sadness, but her sea-green eyes hold so much pain. She doesn't get up though, doesn't come to him; she knows he has no skills at comfort, or any desire to do it in the first place. He gropes for a chair, sits down.
"We were talking about making a vid of us planting peas. Jason and me, I mean," she says at last. Her words are quiet, without emotion. Shock, he thinks. She's pale, even for her fair skin. "We knew it was a long shot . . ." She closes her eyes for a moment. "He asked for me at the end. The woman who was taking care of him—Holly, she said . . ." She stops, takes a breath, opens her eyes. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm babbling."
"Where's Gunney?"
Sarah looks down at the phone. "In town. To put gas in the truck . . . and bring some home for the snow blower." She sets the phone on the table, gets to her feet. "I'll make your lunch."
"There's no point acting like nothing's happened," he says, helpless in the face of what she's going through. She makes a little gesture of negation.
"Don't. Just—just don't. Not yet. I need . . . Things need to be—normal, for a little while. Just a little while. Okay?"
He follows her into the kitchen. "Things aren't normal now," he says, still in that loud harsh voice he can't seem to stop. "You can't—"
"Greg. Please." She turns around, faces him. Now he sees the tears in her eyes and understands finally she is doing her best to control the grief she feels, because it's a wild thing inside her, and it threatens to tear her to shreds. 'Normal' is the only way she can handle it, for right now at least.
"So . . . don't tell me you're out of roast beef." It's a completely lame line, but it's the best he can do on short notice. Sarah doesn't move at first. Then she goes to the fridge and opens it, takes out the lunch meat.
"There's some left. Jason got most of it this morning," she says. She doesn't try to sound cheerful; her voice is very quiet. This is so opposite what constitutes 'normal' he can't bear it. But he has to, because she's asked him.
So he sits at the breakfast bar and watches as she makes him his usual: two sandwiches, with the ritual of bread to slice and layers of meat and cheese, dry with no pickle, the way he likes it; cookies, an apple and a banana, chips, a bottle of Coke. They all go into the container, packed with care. Then she hands it to him. He takes it, sets it aside and pulls out his phone, calls work.
"I won't be in," he tells McMurphy. "Tell the gang of idiots to work on files and get some candidates, I'll be in touch later."
"What's up?" she wants to know. There's concern under her sharp tone.
"Family business. Not mine, Goldman's," he says, and hears her intake of breath. She knows what he means.
"Okay." And she's gone. He makes another call, this one to Roz.
"Get home."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. It's Sarah's brother."
Roz doesn't hesitate. "I'm on my way."
He makes one more call to a number tucked away in his contact list. "Sarah needs you," he says when it's answered.
"Her brother," the Brit says. "Right, then. I'll put in my best effort to get there as fast as can be done."
Sarah stands there as he puts his phone away. "Sit down," he says. As she slowly obeys he gets up, goes to the stove, puts the kettle on, and makes her a cup of tea with plenty of sugar. When he puts the mug in front of her she takes it without comment, sets it on the counter.
"Thanks," she says. There's a little bit of color in her face now. "You don't have to stay."
"Yeah, right. I'm leaving you here alone because that's just such a smart thing to do. Shut up and drink your damn godawful brew. You might also consider thanking me for knowing how to make a decent cuppa."
That earns him a slight smile. She sips the tea as he opens the cookie jar and extracts a handful of oatmeal-raisin cookies, dumps them on the counter. He takes one and stuffs it in, chews noisily, swallows. "When's the yard ape due home?"
"This afternoon." She looks around. "I should—I should call him. Where did I—where's the phone?"
Greg picks up another cookie and goes into the dining room to retrieve the phone. He hands it to Sarah without comment. While she makes the call he listens to her talk to her boy in her quiet voice—too quiet; the music's gone out of it. When the call ends she sits with the receiver in her hands, head bowed a little. "Thanks," she says after a brief silence. "He'll call Gene and come home with him."
"What's going on in Oklahoma?"
Sarah shakes her head. Her curls barely move. "I'm not going out. Ben asked me not to—he said he set everything up with the hospice. He doesn't—didn't want anyone at a funeral or—or anything like that." She straightens, sets the phone aside. "I'll respect his wishes. But tonight I'm having a wake. He—he did ask for one." She lifts her gaze to his. The pain is still there, but it's not taking over. "I'd like the band to play here tonight."
"Amplified instruments in your home?" Greg raises his brows.
"It's a special occasion. Don't get used to it." She smiles again, or tries to. It's a valiant attempt, and even if it falls short, he gives her credit for doing what she can.
So he stays with her, through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, while Gunney and the kid and Roz come in and take over. At one point they persuade her to take a nap, but when Greg makes a surreptitious check on her half an hour later she's still awake, huddled on the couch with a blanket draped over her. He sits down in his easy chair and reaches out, takes her hand. Sarah opens her eyes and looks at him, clearly surprised.
"Special occasion," he says. "Don't get used to it."
After a moment her fingers tighten on his. A few minutes later she's asleep—just a light doze, but it's better than nothing.
It is dark and well into the supper hour when the Brit shows up. He doesn't even bother to greet anyone else; he goes straight to the couch, where Sarah is camped out. Without a word he eases her to her feet, and envelops her in his embrace.
"My dear girl," he says quietly. She stands there for a moment, and then she buries her head in his coat. Her shoulders shake. The Brit holds her as his big hands rub her back. Then he takes her with him into the office and closes the door.
They emerge half an hour later. Sarah's eyes are swollen and her nose is red, but she looks better. Without another word she goes into the kitchen and helps with dinner. The Brit comes over to Greg. "Better now," he says, "she'll be all right," and Greg nods. They leave it at that.
Eventually a potluck buffet of sorts is laid out on the dining room table. The house fills up with people—Greg's team, Chase's woman and her kids, McMurphy, Anne Faust and her daughter, Jay, Poppi Lou—and everyone's brought some dish to share. Sarah goes from group to group, exchanges hugs, talk, even a bit of laughter now and then. Greg notices Jason is never far from his mother, and Gene stays close too. Not hovering, just within eyesight.
After the food's been enjoyed, gathered up and put away, the band sets up in the living room. This is just weird, no other word for it, but it's also got the feel of a ceremony, which is exactly what Sarah wants of course. This is a wake, after all. After they have everything in place—keyboard, amps, drums, all of it—Chase takes the toddlers upstairs where they'll sleep and not be kept awake by the music, while everyone else gathers in the living room with a drink of some kind, mostly whiskey, though one or two are doing non-alcoholic stuff. As people find seats and Jason tends to the fire, Sarah comes in with the Martin six-string in one hand and a stiff shot of whiskey in the other. She sits down, sets the shot on the floor by her chair, checks the guitar's tuning, waits for them to quiet down.
"You all know my brother Ben died today," she says at last. "Thank you for coming out to offer support. It means a lot." She holds the Martin gently. "Ben was my little brother and I loved him with all my heart. It was hard to do that for a lot of years, but at the end we made it as right as we could." She falls silent a moment. "A few days ago he asked me to play for him. He requested one song in particular. I'm going to play it for you now. It was one of his favorites, and I think he would be happy to have this start off his wake. He had a tough life, but it still deserves to be honored because he did his best to make things good, when he was able."
She strums a chord, and then she sings a song Greg knows well from his long stay in this house—his first true home, where Sarah's soft, clear voice eased him into sleep many a night.
who knows what tomorrow brings
in a world where few hearts survive
all I know is the way I feel
if it's real I keep it alive
the road is long
and there are mountains in our way
but we climb a step every day
love lift us up where we belong
where the eagles cry on a mountain high
love lift us up where we belong
far from the worlds we know
to where the clear winds blow
Roz gives his hand a squeeze. She sits next to him, her chair pushed up close to his. Her fingers are warm and strong; her touch is welcome, an anchor to love and life in this moment.
some hang onto used to be
they live their lives lookin' behind
when all we have is here and now
all our lives up there to find
the road is long
and there are mountains in our way
but we climb a step every day
Greg looks around the room as she plays. This collection of people have become family, to Sarah, to him, to each other, in a process of alchemy peculiar to the human mind and heart. Much as he might rail against it at times, it's still true; and if he's honest, some part of him deep within is just a bit relieved.
time goes by
no time to cry
life's you and I
alive today
love lift us up where we belong
where the eagles cry on a mountain high
love lift us up where we belong
far from the worlds we know
up where the clear winds blow
When the song is done, Sarah stills the strings and sits in silence for a moment. Greg knows she says goodbye to her brother, but probably to much more as well. Then she lifts her head and offers them a smile. It's a bit dimmed, and yet still genuine. She picks up her shot of whiskey and lifts it. "To Benjamin James Corbett, with love and a kiss for good luck," she says, and waits until everyone does the same. They toast her brother. The house is silent as they do it, with only the crackle and pop of the fire as they drink.
"All right, let's get this wake going," she says when glasses are lowered, and Greg gets up to take his place at the keyboard. Gene starts them off with 'Whiskey in the Jar' done Thin Lizzy style, at Sarah's request. "Ben loved this song the way they did it," she'd said a couple of hours before. A quick consult and an impromptu run-through has them on a nodding acquaintance with the song—and anyway, it's a wake. Perfection is far from required here.
And so they move on to other songs, with laughter and singing, and Sarah tells a story or two on her brother—happy ones, no pain or anger here, just bright memories. Soon enough the evening's done, and he and Roz get ready ready to go home as people slip away one by one. Before they leave Sarah comes up to him and slips her arms around him in a gentle embrace.
"Thank you for taking such good care of me today, son," she says softly. He brings his arms up, awkward and yet oddly pleased too.
"Have to make sure the only decent shrink for miles is in good shape," he says, and she laughs just a little.
"Nothing like enlightened self-interest." She goes on tip-toe and kisses his cheek. "You and Roz be careful walking home." Her eyes hold so much love and affection—for him, he knows. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"That you will. You need anything, you call," he says quietly, and she nods.
"I will."
"I meant 911, not me."
She smacks his arm lightly. "Shut up and go home, smartass."
When he and Roz step out it's to find a cold night, but clear. The stars twinkle bright and sharp in the tree branches; the snow crunches and squeaks under their feet. "Thanks for calling me today," Roz says. Greg glances at her. After a moment he slips his arm around her waist, just a loose hold, but still claiming her. She does the same, so that her small hand comes to rest on his hip as they enter their yard and make their way home.
'Up Where We Belong,' Buffy St. Marie