It’s really no trouble.”
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I wanna walk.”
I suppressed a giggle. “I really think you should let me drive you.”
“No thanks, Sophie.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “It’s nice to know there are some decent people out there. You give me hope.”
And with that he stumbled off. I watched him until he turned the corner before getting into my car. I felt sorry for him. I wasn’t sure why he seemed so dejected, almost disillusioned.
I sighed, fastened my seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.
Just then I heard a quick series of loud bangs and the sound of a car screeching away.
My heart stopped. I quickly checked my rearview mirror, but there was no one on the block. The commotion had happened on one of the streets nearby.
Eugene.
Obviously the smart thing to do would have been to stay in the car and call 911 on my cell phone, but common sense temporarily abandoned me. I jumped out and ran to the street corner where I had last seen Eugene. As soon as I rounded the corner there he was, lying on the sidewalk, motionless. Blood was seeping through his previously white dress shirt.
I could see lights being turned on in the surrounding buildings as some of the residents tried to figure out what was going on. I sprinted to Eugene’s side and kneeled down. His eyes were at half mast and I heard a gurgling coming out of his throat.
“Eugene, it’s Sophie. Eugene, can you hear me?”
“Goddamned furry shit,” he muttered.
“Eugene, you’re delirious, just stay calm and I’ll get an ambulance.” But even as I said the words I heard the distant wail of sirens.
I also heard Eugene take his final breath.
2
People expect so much from the individuals they bear a fondness for. That’s why I focus my energy into being as disagreeable as possible.
—C’est La Mort
“Thank you so much for coming.” Melanie gestured for me to sit on her tan leather couch as she settled herself into an overstuffed armchair.
I sat down and stared blankly at the wall behind her. It had been three days since I called Melanie to tell her that she was a widow, and this was the first time since that awful event that I had seen her. I took three Advil before driving from San Francisco to her Walnut Creek home and now, forty-five minutes later, I still had a headache.
“Can I get you anything?” Melanie asked. “Johnny, Fitzgerald’s personal assistant, brought me a lovely fruit basket the other day. I could cut up a few pieces and some cheese if you’re hungry. Or how about a cup of tea?”
I shook my head mutely. Migraines and food didn’t mix.
There were a few moments of silence. Melanie squeezed her knees causing her linen pants to take on the quality of wrinkled paper. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to say.”
Melanie winced. “You think less of me now.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” I asked, surprise overwhelming my discomfort. “What I think of you? How can that possibly matter at this point?”
“Your opinion has always mattered to me, Sophie. You were a very special student…my favorite, really.” A sad smile played on her lips. “I am so proud of all of your accomplishments. I understand that C’est La Mort hit the NewYork Times bestseller list in its first week! I like to think I played a small part….”
“Melanie, your husband’s dead. Your fanatically conservative, crazy, good-hearted and loyal husband is being embalmed right now.”
“I know.” Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her, and her rapid blinking seemed to imply that she was holding back tears, but her grief didn’t do a lot to alleviate my indignation.
“I’ve spent the last few nights awake berating myself for agreeing to entrap him. I can’t believe he spent the last minutes of his life with me and all I did was lie to him.”
“You always told me you were a good liar,” she tried to joke.
“I’m a great liar! And I enjoy it, but now all of a sudden lying seems ugly and…wrong! I spent all of three hours with your husband, and I know damn well that this was not a man who would have ever compromised his beliefs by cheating on you. What I don’t understand is how could you even suspect him of something like that?”
Melanie ran her hand over the loose skin that draped from her neck. “I did know him, but something had changed. Eugene didn’t like secrets. He always said that a husband and wife should tell each other everything.
“Let me give you an example,” Melanie said, apparently noting my incredulity. “Last year Eugene was trying to organize a boycott against The Da Vinci Code in keeping with the request of the Vatican. But I really wanted to see what all the fuss was about so I went ahead and bought the book, and once I started reading it I couldn’t put it down! I was just finishing up the last chapter when Eugene walked in on me. It was awful. At first I thought it was because he thought that reading it against the Vatican’s advice was a sin and that was clearly a problem for him, but what hurt him the most was knowing that I had tried to hide it from him. He saw that as a betrayal.”
“Not telling him that you were reading a book that everyone and their brother had already read was a betrayal?”
“I know it sounds extreme, but that’s just the way Eugene was.” I could have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a note of respect in her voice. “Lately I could tell that something was bothering him and yet he wouldn’t talk about it. It was so unlike him, and even though I couldn’t imagine him cheating on me I didn’t know what else it could be. We all make mistakes, and I thought that maybe he wasn’t as immune to temptation as I thought he was. I wouldn’t have left him, Sophie, I just wanted to know what I was dealing with. But now…now, he’s gone….”
Fresh tears trickled down the pale skin of her cheeks and I felt the unwelcome pang of guilt. I shifted in my seat, unsure if I should offer an apology, condolences or just get up and leave.
Melanie was right. I did think less of her. The dynamics of our relationship had changed so much over the past twelve years. She had started as my writing professor and then quickly become my mentor. When my father died I completely fell apart and Melanie had helped me pull myself together. After I graduated from University of San Francisco we had stayed in contact, meeting for coffee every few months. During our visits I began to see Melanie for who she really was: an intelligent, kind and altruistic woman with a lot of insecurities. Eventually she took a teaching position at Saint Mary’s College in Moraga and our visits became semiannual occurrences. That was my fault. It just seemed like every time she suggested we get together I had something else I had to do. When she got married to Eugene and moved to Walnut Creek our visits became even less frequent, although she never forgot my birthday or failed to congratulate me when one of my books hit the stands. I often thought of her but rarely picked up the phone to tell her
