The ball hit the wall and bounced back, making a "whap" sound with each hit. Normally, Joan would have gotten chewed out for such behavior ("We didn't spend all that money on mortgage payments so that you could tear apart the house," her mother always said), but today nobody said anything
The doorbell rang from downstairs, echoing its familiar, cheesy tune throughout the house.
Whap, whap, whap…
"Hello," Helen's voice echoed.
"Hello," the visitor replied; it was not anyone Joan recognized, probably just a neighbor come out of the woodwork, "I brought you this in case you didn't have time to cook…"
"Thank you."
Whap, whap, whap…
"I'm so sorry to hear about the accident, such a tragedy."
Whap, whap, whap...
"If you need anything, just call," the mystery neighbor added in an all too helpful tone.
"Thank you. Goodbye."
The door clicked shut.
Whap, whap, whap…
Grace Polk always woke up early, though she didn't necessarily like it. She learned quickly that it was best to haul her mother off the kitchen floor before her father woke. The years of cold showers, well-meaning but useless interventions from family and close friends, and the false hope of small bouts of sobriety had taken an immeasurable toll on the rabbi. Grace refused to be worn down.
She rolled over to see her computer blinking. She must have forgotten to turn the damn thing off last night, and now she would probably have to recharge it. She sighed and made her way over the desk, the patter of her slippers on the floor. Not that Grace would ever admit she wore slippers to bed.
Just as she was about to flip the power switch, she noticed the IM message on the screen. It was from Luke at 11:47 PM: "Get over here. Bring Adam."
The hell? This was not a very Luke-like IM; he liked to explain things, to give long, detailed definitions and theories. This was more like something she would have written. That freaked her out.
She threw off her slippers, tossed on her jacket, and climbed down the gutter outside her window. Her father could deal with it today.
----------
Adam woke to feeling of an elbow being jabbed into his side, and Grace snarling, "Get up, Rove."
"What?" Adam asked, half-asleep. "How did you get in here?"
Grace gestured to a nearby window. "You really should get some better locks, Rove. I fixed it, though, so don't have a hissy fit."
"Grace? Why are you here?"
"We have to go to the Girardi's. Luke IM'd me; he sounded….weird."
"It's not Jane, is it?" Adam asked, a bit of panic creeping in his voice.
"I don't….I don't know. Let's just go."
---------------
Adam ran slightly behind Grace through the streets of Arcadia. The town was just beginning to awaken. Papers lay on some of the front porches, and some windows were lit up from the inside. A hint of morning dew still resided in the air and a slight fog surrounded the houses. Normally, Adam would have noticed these things and stored them in his photographic memory. Today, he saw nothing, thought of nothing, but Jane.
It can't be serious, he thought. If it was somebody would have called. We'd be going to the hospital instead of the house. It's probably just Luke wanting to plan a party or something for Jane; her birthday's coming up… Jane's alright; she has to be. She was fine yesterday…I would have noticed if she was feeling sick… They said everything was fine at the last doctor's appointment….The Lyme's Disease is in check… She's healthy; she's fine…
The thoughts circled in Adam's mind like a dog chasing its tail. He wondered if this was what insanity felt like: thoughts running around, circling, manic, and uncontrolled.
They thought she was crazy…She was fine…. I thought she was crazy…She was fine...Jane's always fine; she pulls through….It can't be too bad….God….
They ran through the streets, through other people's yards, through the back roads and byways until the reached Euclid Drive. Grace knocked on the door, and Luke appeared a moment later. He looked well-rested; surely, everything was fine.
"What the hell is going on, Girardi?" Grace demanded.
Luke just stared.
"Is it Joan?"
He nodded slowly.
Oh God…
"You'd better come inside."
Not even Grace protested. The door clicked shut.
-----------
"There was…a fire."
"Burned…"
"Killed instantly…"
"Yesterday…."
"No time…"
They were saying more than that, Adam knew, a lot more. But the words weren't coming together in his head quite right, bits and pieces instead of whole sentences. Everything was twisted and broken like pieces of a sculpture assembled without any rhyme or reason.
He had always thought of things like art: individual pieces, followed by the sculpture itself, and leading to the meaning of the work. Sometimes, he couldn't always see the meaning. That had always bothered him, but this new phenomenon was far worse: the middle, not the end was missing. He knew what the words meant; he knew Joan was dead, a victim of fire. What he didn't know was how she got there.
No one else knew what went on in Adam Rove's brain. He had tried telling people when he was younger, but they always just gave him funny looks and handed his parents cards embossed with the names of fancy psychologists they would never be able to afford. He knew how strange it would seem if he asked the Girardis to repeat everything they had just said, so he said nothing and attempted to look as though he comprehended. Their Joan, his Jane, was dead; now was not the time to make his own mental health look suspicious.
He sat and stared at Grace. She looked horrified. He wondered if he was lucky not to understand.
-------------
Grace Polk didn't know what to think. She didn't know if she should be sad or mad. Or if she should cry because Joan was dead or laugh at the crappy way she had gone. Or if she should pray to G-d or curse His name. So she, the most opinionated, fiery person in Arcadia, thought nothing.
Burned to death. It sounded surreal, like something out of a history book. Real people died like Judith, victims of violence and stupidity, like Adam's mom, victims of their own minds, like that kid Joan babysat, victims of disease…. But Joan had died in none of those ways; Joan had been a victim of chance… Really, really shitty chance.
And that, for Grace, at least, was the worst part of it. She hadn't yet figured out who to blame, and a rebel without a cause isn't that great of a rebel at all. You can't fight for freedom if there isn't a jail keeper to fight against.
--------
The office bustled around him, a constant stream of movement and life. Kevin had never before noticed how loud everything was. He wondered if the sedative or the incessant din was more to blame for his pounding headache.
I shouldn't be here, he thought. I should be at home with everyone else. Going to work today? What was I thinking? This is just stupid.
Everyone had told him to go, though, and see what was in the news. Which, of course, was code for "see what people know about Joan." Not that anyone said that. The idea was laughable at best, he decided. What was he supposed to do, chat people up in the break room about it? He put his head down on his desk and tried to block out the noise.
"Proof this."
Kevin looked up. The voice belonged to a new guy, Bill or Bob or some related name. He was a recently college graduate, though Kevin honestly couldn't imagine who the guy ever got through high school much less a university; three weeks on the job, and he still couldn't keep everyone's jobs straight. He was completely and totally unable to remember that Kevin was a reporter, that Sally did the proofing, that Samantha did the layout…
Normally, Kevin would have corrected the guy, but today he couldn't find the energy to protest. He simply got out a red editing pen and tried to correct the article as well as his somewhat sub-par grammar skills would allow. He flipped over the paper and froze. Staring back at him was his sister.
It was Joan's yearbook photo from junior year (The senior pictures were still being processed by virtue of the school's incredibly inefficient photography company). She looked beautiful in that picture but, more than that, she looked happy. Their family had been short on happiness that year; the lawsuit, Joan's sickness, Judith's death, and other misfortune had often threatened to drain the happiness out of the Girardis. Kevin knew why she was smiling, why she bothered ever smiling at all: Adam Rove. Even through their fights, you could always sense the love between them, like a rope that sometimes wavered and sagged but never quite broke. Because of Adam, Kevin knew, Joan could smile even into death.
Kevin adverted his eyes from the picture and began to read the obituary that accompanied it. It was dry and boring, the antithesis of Joan. She wasn't the type of person to have ever settled for a form-letter obituary and nor should she have to. He would write something better; he just needed time. He would have until Tuesday, the day of the memorial, to figure out what to say. He hoped to God that would be enough time. For that moment, he forgot his disbelief.
The copy editor across the room smiled. She did not work at the paper.