Ch. 73 — Devastation
"Mourners lined the sidewalk outside the Donnelly Funeral Home in Alexandria yesterday as they waited patiently to pay their final respects to State Senator Trenton Wyndham-Pryce, who passed away unexpectedly early last Sunday morning from sudden cardiac arrest. Wyndham-Pryce, aged 64, was first elected to represent Fairfax County in 2038, and was, in the words of Republican party chair Patrice Bertrand, 'a tireless and dedicated advocate for his constituents.' The governor, in a statement issued Monday morning, expressed her shock and sorrow at the loss of so distinguished and exemplary a public servant, and directed that state flags be flown at half-mast until the Senator is laid to rest later today. Funeral services will be held this morning at Arlington Presbyterian Church, and live coverage of the proceedings will begin at 10:30 for the benefit of those viewers who wish to follow remotely."
The image on the screen winked out as Bonnie shut her eyes against a fresh welling of tears. They'd been too late, she and Trev. For all they'd raced through the Great Hall, heedless in their frantic rush of any consideration other than that of reaching the hospital with all possible speed, they'd arrived too late. Had they but known, it had already been too late when they'd jumped into the cab some kind soul had thoughtfully arranged to stand waiting. The EMTs, despite their quick response and continuous efforts both on the scene and during the wild ride to the emergency room, had tried and failed repeatedly to jolt the Senator's lifeless heart into beating again. And the hospital staff, not giving up the cause as lost, had brought all their considerable skill and technology to bear to resuscitate him; without success. Time of death had been recorded, officially, as 12:31am.
The nurse in Cardiology had evaded Trev's question about his father's status, asking him, instead, to wait in Reception while she paged the doctor of record. When the woman emerged a few minutes later, manner grave and eyes soft with sympathy, Bonnie had instinctively reached out for Trev, and he for her. "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce? I'm so sorry. We did everything we could…"
Trev had recoiled as if struck, an involuntary 'no' escaping him.
"I know this is a shock," the doctor'd forged on, gently, relentlessly. "I understand there were few outward signs of serious heart disease, but the plaque in his arteries, you see, just happened to rupture in the absolute worst possible spot — just above where the left main artery branches off into the left arterial descending and the left circumflex. A clot formed over the rupture, completely cutting off blood supply to the front and side of the heart." She shook his head regretfully. "Even if he'd already been here in the hospital when the rupture occurred, we still might've lost him. It's the deadliest kind of heart attack there is. Mortality rate is seventy percent."
A widow-maker. The doctor'd had the delicacy not to call it by that name, but Bonnie'd heard it whispered several times over the previous four days of trying to support Trev, Freya and Emma through their terrible grief. There'd been pitifully little she could do for them, except show up every morning prepared to share their sorrow and help in any small way she could. Trev's aunts Liv and Inga, having stepped in to manage things for Freya, had welcomed Bonnie in without question, treating her as ever as one of the family. They didn't hesitate to put her to work, sending her out to run errands, or tasking her with dealing with the gifts of baked goods, fruit baskets and dinner casseroles friends and neighbors dropped off with their condolences. She fixed sandwiches for the buffet set out for the select few visitors admitted to the house, brewed endless cups of tea and coffee, cleared away paper cups and plates as necessary, and, in the intervals where there was nothing for her to do, sat quietly by Trev, or, if he needed a break from the oppressive atmosphere indoors, went out with him to the back garden for air.
Unlike Emma, whose paroxysms of grief had been so violent she'd had to be sedated, Trev gave the impression of bearing up fairly well, but Bonnie knew from their private talks in the garden how very far this was from true. Behind his mask of stoical acceptance, Trev was every bit as shattered as his sister. He was still in shock, still struggling to believe that his father, whom he'd last seen enjoying himself with every appearance of his usual vigor and good spirits, could have died, could be gone forever, was no longer in this world. It was impossible, unfathomable; unfair. "I know I teased him about being old, but he wasn't. He should've had another twenty, thirty years." In the next breath, he'd reproached himself for not having taken full advantage of the time he had been allotted, for having neglected to tell his father often enough or recently how much he loved and respected him. And there'd been guilt, too, the senseless guilt that came with imagining he might've picked up the warning symptoms of heart trouble if only he'd spent more of the last few months with his father instead of stupidly self-absorbed in his own petty problems. Bonnie, heartbroken for and with him, comforted him when she could, but mostly just listened without comment, letting him relieve the feelings he might've otherwise kept bottled up inside.
On Tuesday morning, she'd phoned the Jeff, and formally requested the rest of the week off. She had five personal days coming to her, and Bear, accordingly, had made no objection. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, in a polite, but perfunctory, manner. "By all means, take all the time you need."
She'd regarded him uncertainly, taken aback by his cool demeanor. "Er… thank you." When he'd made no reply except to look at her as if to ask 'is there anything else?' she'd gone on to say, "I wanted to apologize, too, for the other night. For running off without telling you. That wasn't right. I should've found for you, first, and explained…"
He'd cut her off with a shake of his head. "I understand it was an emergency, and, anyway, I wasn't in the dark for long. Vanna found me shortly after you'd left, and filled me in." Another awkward silence had fallen, and then, some of the starch going out of him, Bear had said, somewhat gruffly, "Please convey my sympathies to Wyndham-Pryce. I've been in his shoes, and I wouldn't wish that grief on my worst enemy."
Bonnie's throat had constricted painfully, but she'd managed to choke out, "Thank you. I will."
A knock sounded on her bedroom door, and, looking up, she saw her grandfather in his best charcoal suit standing just over the threshold. "Ready to go, Sweet Tart? The car's been brought around."
Her mother had cancelled the last of her book-signing engagements to fly back for the funeral, and, severely attired in unrelieved black, stood waiting for them with a somber Eddie at the bottom of the stairs. Junior and Max would not be joining them; they'd taken advantage of the previous day's visiting hours to offer their condolences, as had Sonny and Adele, Hank and Annalise, and several hundred, if not a thousand, other people. Bonnie, watching an apparently endless succession of visitors file into the reception room, had worried that the outpouring of sympathy would, eventually, be too much for Freya and, especially, Emma's nerves, but, hour after hour, with hardly a break for Freya and Trev and only a few for Emma, they'd shaken the hands extended to them, submitted to the occasional hug, and briefly, but with grace and dignity, thanked each person in turn for having come.
It had been late afternoon by the time Vanna and her parents had appeared at the head of the queue. Bonnie'd sighed with relief to see her; she'd begun to think Vanna would skip the viewing. Though she'd phoned Bonnie several times since the fateful night for news on how the family was faring, Vanna'd consistently resisted Bonnie's urging that she stop by, herself, to express her condolences. "I don't want to intrude," she'd said one time, and "I'd be less than useless," another.
"We all feel that way," Bonnie'd assured her. "There's nothing any of us can really do or say to comfort them, except be there and remind them they're not alone."
But Vanna had murmured something foolish about it not being "her place" and would not be persuaded otherwise.
Bonnie'd found Vanna's obstinacy perplexing, and so it was with a mix of curiosity and concern that she'd had followed Vanna's progress through the room. She'd watched her pause rather longer than most by the Senator's open casket, and then move off toward the receiving line, discreetly blotting a tear from her cheek as she went. Freya'd brightened fractionally at her approach, and that warm welcome had, apparently, been Vanna's undoing, because she'd no sooner extended her sympathies and turned to Trev than her composure started to slip. Trev'd had to lean in toward her to make out what she was saying, and then, because she must've been close to breaking down, he'd enveloped her in a loose embrace, and rubbed her shoulder soothingly. She'd recovered enough to squeeze Emma's arm in passing and give Mitch's hand a hurried shake, but she'd still been trembling visibly when she'd dropped into the seat next to Bonnie's.
Bonnie'd given her time to collect herself, and at length Vanna'd raised her eyes from her lap and flashed Bonnie a shamefaced look. "I'm no good at these things. I always mean to stay calm and composed, but I can never get the words out without getting all teary-eyed and emotional."
"It's a sorrowful occasion. You're allowed."
Vanna'd smiled weakly, and returned her gaze to the casket in its setting of beribboned wreaths and enormous flower sprays. "He was such a wonderful person. A real Southern gentleman, old-school but in a good way, you know? Always with a friendly word, or a minute of his time to spare, for anyone." Her voice had wobbled dangerously over the last few words, so it was another moment before she'd added, barely above a whisper, "He had so much still to look forward to."
Like walking his beloved daughter down the aisle, and welcoming his first grandchildren, Bonnie'd thought, remembering the Senator's joy in announcing Emma's engagement with such a sharp pang, she'd had to blink rapidly, several times. "He was very special, and taken from us much too soon."
That was, inevitably, one of the themes each of the speakers touched on at the funeral, but, happily for the crowd that packed the church pews, they leavened their grief at the Senator's untimely passing with a celebration of his life and the legacy his public service had left behind. A number of dignitaries, including the Lieutenant Governor of Virginia, the Fairfax County Police Chief, and the Mayor of Alexandria, took the podium to pay tribute to the Senator's invaluable work, both locally and in Richmond, to preserve, protect and promote the interests of his fellow citizens. Randall Denholm, both as brother-in-law and former law partner, took a more personal approach in his remarks, prompting a few chuckles as well as some tears as he recalled, sometimes at the Senator's expense, their raucous years as young, unmarried attorneys, and, later, their settled years as family men, happily married to sisters, raising their promising broods together.
Finally, the moment Bonnie'd been dreading for Trev's sake — the eulogy — arrived, but, in the event, her fear that he'd be overcome with emotion proved unwarranted. Somehow, he found the strength to deliver a moving speech emphasizing, not his loss, but his great good fortune in having had a father who'd taught him by example how to be a good son, a good friend, a good husband, and, someday, if the fates were kind, a good father in his turn; in short, a good and honorable man. His father, he said, would forever remain the yardstick by which he would measure himself, the standard he would do aspire to attain. He struggled only briefly, right at the end as he finished, "We know, to our sorrow, that no man is immortal, but love never dies. For as long as we live, Dad, you will always be with us, every present in our hearts."
A steady rain had been falling when they'd arrived for the service, but, in the interim, a stiff wind had blown up, and Bonnie emerged from the church to find the rain being driven at her sideways and under the black umbrella she hurriedly unfurled. Given the weather, the ceremony at the graveside was conducted with all due solemnity, but also with a certain despatch, and, the final prayers spoken, people did not linger long over their condolences. Booth and Christine took immediate shelter in the car, but Bonnie and Eddie remained by Trev until, at last, Freya could be persuaded to leave.
There was a sit-down luncheon for family and friends at a country club that had hosted any number of Wyndham-Pryce functions over the years, and though Bonnie dutifully ate what was set before her and participated in the conversation going on at her table, she wouldn't be able to remember, later, what she'd eaten, heard or said. It was common knowledge that Freya, Trev and Emma would be retreating to the seclusion of their lake house directly after lunch, so no sooner had servers begun to circulate offering second cups of coffee than people began to gather their things and make their good-byes.
Bonnie shared a final hug with Freya, and let Trev walk her out to the main door. Eddie'd accompanied Booth and Christine back to the house, collected his own car, and sent the SteerE to the club for her use; it was waiting in the parking lot. She pressed the call button on her fob, and the car began to move out of its spot.
Trev wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly for a moment, and let go. "You know there's no way I wouldn't've made it through this week without you," he told her.
"Hey! Best friends for better or for worse, that was the promise!"
"Yeah." For some reason, that made him grimace. "About the 'best-friend' thing, I never gave a thought to what your being around so much would look like to my relatives."
"They think we're back together?"
He nodded. "Inga, Randall, Margot… They all said something about being glad we've patched things up."
"Well, don't worry about it. Right now the only thing you should focus on is getting some rest, and being kind to yourself, and your mother and Emma, for a while."
He nodded again. "All right. I'll call you when I get back to town next week. Maybe we can get together and send out some 'don't save the date' cards."
"Maybe," Bonnie said, finding a smile for him. "You take care of yourself. And call if you need me. Anytime. See you in a week."