Ever After: A Father's True Story

  “Imagine—all those beautiful young people and we’re going to their funeral. It isn’t fair. They never had a chance at life.”

  I hold her more tightly and try to hold tightly onto myself. I wonder how she got herself together enough to call the airlines. She constantly amazes me. I know this is all a horror and a shock for me, but for her it must be impossible. Her life has been the kids. I have my painting and writing, other kinds of children in a way. But she’s just lost her much loved first-born Kathleen, along with Bert and those two beautiful babies.

  She gently pushes me away.

  “Let me get this over with, then I can collapse.”

  She calls Claire Woodman and tells her what time we hope to arrive. Bert’s brother, Steve, will pick us up at the airport and drive us down. Rosemary hangs up.

  “I don’t know how the both of us got through that. Claire was constantly stopping to cry. Bert was her first baby, too. I didn’t think of that.”

  She pulls out her address book and dials again. This time it’s the limousine service, and she arranges for pick-up at seven o’clock in the morning. She hangs up.

  “I can’t do any more. Would you call and tell Aunt Alice we can’t come tomorrow? Then call Jean. She’d want to know.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to call the kids first?”

  “I figure it’s about three o’clock in the morning. We don’t want to wake them, do we?”

  “I think they’d never forgive us if we didn’t tell them right away.”

  She stares out that window again.

  “You’re probably right. I guess we should call Camille. Please tell them not to come for the funeral. There’s nothing they can do and they don’t have much money.”

  I know the number by heart. It rings about ten times, then I hear Camille, sleepy-voiced, our only daughter now. I almost can’t speak because the sobs are building up.

  “Camille, this is Dad.”

  I stop there, take two deep breaths with my hand over the phone.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Something terrible has happened, Camille.”

  “What is it? Could you speak louder?”

  I might as well get right into it. I don’t have any choice. I’m sobbing as I say it.

  “Kate, Bert, Dayiel, and Mia were killed in a horrendous automobile crash in Oregon.”

  “What! Who told you that? How did you find out?”

  I can’t go on. Rosemary takes the phone. She’s crying but not sobbing.

  “I called to find out about Kate’s gynecologist appointment, how it went. I got Wills, but Claire took the phone from him and she told me. It’s hard to believe but it must be true. We can’t believe it, it’s so impossible.”

  I take the phone from Rosemary. Camille is crying, practically screaming. She’s trying to tell Sam, her husband, what’s happened. I say her name, try to get her attention.

  “Camille!”

  There’s a long silence, then she says between sobs, “I’m here.”

  “Don’t bother coming to the funeral. It’s too far and Mom and I are sure we can handle it.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  That’s not like Camille. She’s generally against what anybody has to say. It’s her way.

  “Listen, Camille. Would you tell Matt? We have no way to reach him. Maybe it’s best to wait till morning.”

  “It’s morning now.”

  “You know what I mean, real morning.”

  “No, Matt would never forgive us. He’ll want to know right away. Sam’s already dressed and getting the car out so we can drive over. We’ll want to be together, anyway.”

  She sounds more herself. Rosemary takes the phone from me.

  “We really mean it, Camille. Don’t come. We’ll handle it and there’s nothing you can do.”

  “I hear you, Mom, I hear you. We’ll work it out. When are they having the funeral?”

  Rosemary takes the phone from her ear, tears rolling down her face. She hands the phone to me.

  “She wants to know when the funeral’s going to be. I just know she’ll come and probably Matt, too. But it’s such a long way and all for nothing, a terrible waste of money they can’t afford. Talk to her, she doesn’t seem to understand.”

  Camille’s crying uncontrollably now. She’s the most emotional of the family. I wait.

  “Listen, Camille. The funeral’s Tuesday, but please don’t come. Think about it. You know Kate wouldn’t like it. Funerals don’t help. More important is for you and Sam to go over to Matt’s to help him and Juliette. You’re the ones we’re worried about; you’re all we have left.”

  There’s a long silence. Not quite silence. She must be muffling the phone because I can hear her sobbing.

  “Dad, we’ll decide what we have to do. We’re grown up now. I’ll talk to Matt and we’ll decide together. We probably can’t get all the way from here to there in that short a time anyway. The main thing is you and Mom take care of yourselves. Could you have some of your friends come over to help?”

  “We want to be alone, Camille. We’ve made arrangements for getting there and will arrive in Portland at noon tomorrow. Steve, Bert’s brother, is picking us up.”

  Talking about the practical aspects of this impossibility seems to help me. I’m not crying.

  “Dad, I’m going to hang up. Sam’s out in the car. We’ll call and let you know what we’re going to do. My God, this is just awful. I can’t even think of those two little girls dead. I don’t think I can live with this.”

  Then the line goes dead. She’s hung up. I put the phone back in the cradle the wrong way, then turn it around. I look at Rosemary. She’s sitting at the bottom of the steps to the bedroom with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She’s crying so hard she can hardly breathe.

  “Camille’s going to go tell Matt and Juliette. I’m not sure I convinced her not to come.”

  Rosemary doesn’t respond. I stand there, confused, feeling that I’m going to faint. I’ve never fainted in my life, but I think I now know what the feeling must be like.

  “I’m going to call Aunt Alice first. They have to know. Is there anything special you want me to say?”

  She’s slow responding.

  “Just tell them what happened and we’re sorry we can’t come. After all this reunion they were holding was for us. You know as well as I do what to say. I just can’t do it right now.”

  She’s still sobbing, wiping her eyes, her nose, the corners of her mouth with a Kleenex.

  I look in her address book to find the number. My hands are shaking so much I misdial twice. I look at my watch. It’s almost ten o’clock. They’re probably asleep, but there won’t be time to call in the morning. Aunt Alice answers.

  “Oh, hello, Willy. How are you?”

  “Did I wake you up, Aunt Alice?”

  “No, we were just watching a ball game.”

  “I think it might be a good idea for you to sit down, Aunt Alice.”

  “Why, do you think I’m so old I can’t stand up late at night?”

  “No, just sit down.”

  I take a deep breath. As each person learns it, it all becomes more real, a part of everyday life, one of the ordinary things that happens.

  “Aunt Alice, we can’t come Sunday. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t respond. She’s waiting. I try to put my thoughts, my emotions together.

  “A horrible thing has happened.”

  I pause, still no response. It’s her way. I never realized it until just that moment.

  “There’s been an awful accident out in Oregon. Kate, Bert, and the two babies were killed. We’ve just found out. We’re flying out tomorrow for the funeral.”

  I’m glad to get it all out.

  “That’s terrible, Willy. Oh, my. Are you sure?”

  “We’re pretty sure, Aunt Alice. I’m sorry. You all have the reunion just as if we were there. We don’t want to disappoint anybody. All right?”
r />   “All right, Willy. Thanks for calling.”

  That one’s out of the way, at least. One more, and then it’s finished. I dial my sister’s number in California. It’ll be just about dinner time there. Leo answers on the third ring.

  “Leo, this is Will. Could I talk to Jean, please?”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  I catch a feeling of hurt in his voice. We usually pass the time of day before he turns the phone over.

  “Hi, big brother. What’s up?”

  “I think you ought to sit down, Jean. I have bad news. Tell Leo to come on the extension.”

  “You’ve got me scared stiff, you big jerk.”

  She holds the phone down from her mouth, shouts. “Leo, would you pick up the extension?

  “OK, I’m sitting down. What’s the big news? I hope nothing’s happened. Are you all right?”

  “Jean, we just had a call from Bert’s mother in Oregon. Bert, Kate, Dayiel, and Mia were killed yesterday in an automobile crash. We don’t know any of the details yet.”

  “Oh, my God! Are you sure? I don’t believe it.”

  “Neither do we, but it’s true. We leave tomorrow, early, for the funeral on Tuesday. We’ve told the other kids and begged them not to come. There’s nothing anybody can do. It’s done. So don’t you or Leo get any crazy ideas about coming up. There are going to be more than enough people out there, all upset, probably with not enough places to sleep. I don’t think Bert’s family has such a big house to put people up, and I’m sure there are no hotels in Falls City where they live. There are only 600 people. I guess that’s 596 now.”

  “Honest, are you putting me on? If you are, I’ll kill you!”

  “I wish it weren’t true as hard as I can wish, Jean. They’re gone.”

  The sobs break out again. I’m crying hard.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. How could a thing like this happen? Did you hear that, Leo?”

  Leo comes on.

  “Oh, my God! I saw it on TV yesterday! There were about thirty cars in a big crash on the I-5. Smoke blew over from burning fields or something. There was a huge fire with fire trucks, helicopters, everything. They still didn’t know how many were killed. It must have happened about four or five o’clock yesterday. How is it they didn’t get the news to you sooner?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the same crash, Leo.”

  Rosemary gets up from the steps and comes over. She motions for the phone.

  “I think it was, Leo. I didn’t tell Will everything, but Claire Woodman, Bert’s mother, told me it was a huge crash with a fire. Bert, Kate, and the babies were coming up from Eugene when it happened. Thank God, little Wills wasn’t with them. It’s something to be thankful for.”

  She hands me back the phone. Her face is pale green.

  “Will, are you there?”

  “Yes, I think I’m here, Jean.”

  She’s crying but can talk.

  “I know saying we’re sorry is not much at such a time, but we are. We’ll pray for all of them and you, Robert, Wills, and Rosemary as well. We’re going over to Saint Joseph the Worker just as soon as I can get this food off the table.”

  She’s crying and it’s working up to sobs and long pauses. Hearing her cry sets me off again.

  “Look, Will, after you’ve done everything that can be done there in Oregon, would you and Rosemary please come down here for a little rest? You’re going to need it. Please?”

  “All right. We’ll see what we can work into our return flight. Robert’s coming with us.”

  “You know we have plenty of space. Just come. We’ll be ready. You two go to sleep now if you can. Take the phone off the hook and lock the door. If you have any sleeping pills take them. Sleep is what you need most now. I still can’t believe it. It must be awful.”

  I hang up. I’ve no sooner hung up than the phone rings. It’s Aunt Alice. I tell Rosemary who it is. She comes over to take the phone. I go to the front door and lock it. There are all kinds of other people we should call but I’m not up to it. Neither is Rosemary.

  Rosemary is finished talking to Aunt Alice. She’s smiling a flat smile.

  “She called up not believing what she’d heard. You know how slow she is reacting. This was just too much for her. She thought maybe you were playing some kind of joke. Nobody wants to believe it.” I also call Danny; he has to know.

  She’s moved into the kitchen and is unsetting the table she’d set for the pizza dinner. I go in and give her a hand. Twice, in passing, we stop, hug and hold onto each other. Neither of us can say a thing.

  Robert comes in as we’re finishing. He goes straight upstairs and into his bedroom. Rosemary sits in the reclining rocker. Now her face is swollen and red; her eyes are swollen, too.

  “We should probably pack tonight, Will. There won’t be much time in the morning.”

  “Right. I’ll tell Robert.”

  “Give him a little more time, first, dear. I know he’ll be up late: he usually is. Just before we go to bed, you can tell him about packing. Be sure to have him pack his suit, a shirt, and a tie, extra socks and underwear.”

  Going up the stairs behind Rosemary I’m reminded of the Myth of Sisyphus, a constant climbing and falling back. We each pull out a bag and start. It all seems so unnecessary. I bring a charcoal-gray suit, the only real suit I own. I also have a summer suit but it needs cleaning. I throw in socks, underwear, a few changes of shirts, an extra pair of shoes, more dressy than the ones I’ll wear on the airplane. I peek over at Rosemary packing. She goes about it in her usual, methodical way, carefully folding each dress, skirt, blouse, putting rubber bands around her stockings, underwear.

  I go into the bathroom. I look dreadful. I splash water onto my face. I take four Valium out of the medicine cabinet, two for me and two for Rosemary. They’re the yellow kind, five milligrams. I’ve never taken two before. Once in a while I take one when I can’t sleep. I hope two will be enough. I hope Rosemary will take hers. She doesn’t like taking medicine of any kind, and has a terrible time swallowing pills.

  We undress slowly, turn out the light, and climb into bed. The french doors onto the porch are open, letting in a fresh ocean breeze. Then I remember I haven’t taken my medication. I slide out of bed and go back into the bathroom. I take my pills for blood pressure and blood sugar, plus some others. I also remember I haven’t told Robert to pack.

  On the way back to our bedroom, I knock at his door and open it. He’s stretched out on his bed fully dressed. His eyes are red.

  “Robert, we’re leaving so early in the morning that you should pack before you go to sleep. Mom says be sure to pack your suit, a good white shirt, and tie. Take along your best shoes, too; a funeral is an awfully formal kind of thing.”

  “OK. But I’m not sure I’ll sleep much.”

  “We’re not sure we will either, but we’re going to try. Tomorrow will be a long day, as will the next few days. So dress in your PJs and try to relax. If you want something to put you to sleep I have some pills.”

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.”

  I back out of the room, shut the door. Robert is the same as Rosemary when it comes to pills.

  Our bed is basically two twin beds pushed together. We don’t like to sleep apart but there’s no double bed in this house, which we rent every summer. I usually start out in Rosemary’s bed and then as she falls asleep, roll over into the other bed, the one by the french windows.

  I close the bedroom door. Rosemary is stretched out on her back in her nightgown but not under the covers. In summer, I sleep without pajamas. I crawl across my bed to hers, snuggle in beside her, and put my arm across her breast. She has her arms up over her head against the bedstead and one leg cocked up. She often begins sleep this way. Her eyes are open, with tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, but there are no spasms of crying or sobbing. She’s crying to herself. I put my face against hers; her tears are cold. I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t really want to say anyth
ing, but feel I should. Her voice seems so calm, so far away, so dry and emotionless, not like her at all. She turns to me.

  “I never knew one’s teeth could hurt so much from crying.”

  “For me it’s the ears. I had no idea my ears could be so painful from trying not to cry. It’s like the earache I used to have when I was a kid. Even swallowing hurts. Probably your teeth hurt from the same thing: trying to hold it in, you’re biting down hard.”

  There’s a long silence. We stay close. I snuggle closer but there’s no response. We lie like this. It isn’t very late. We’re in bed mainly because it’s the most private place we know.

  We spend an hour this way, not moving; each, I think, pretending to sleep for the other. Finally, it’s too much. I roll over to where I’ve put the pills and a glass of water. I turn back to Rosemary.

  “I have some Valium here to help us. We really ought to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be tough, with the flight and then all the emotion in Oregon. I really think you ought to try swallowing these, Honey.”

  I hold out the pills. She doesn’t move.

  “I don’t want to sleep, Will. I just want to lie here and think, remember. But you take something. One of us is going to need to be awake and going tomorrow. Have you set the alarm?”

  “I’ve set the alarm on my wristwatch for six-thirty. That ought to give us enough time.”

  “Fine. Now listen, honestly, Will. Do you really think we should go all the way to Oregon? They’re dead. There’s nothing we can do. We’d only be going for the Woodmans. It doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. Why don’t we stay here where we were with them last and remember all the good times we had together? It was a miracle we had them that last week. Why ruin it by dashing off to the place where they were destroyed? I’ve never had any desire to visit Oregon. I know Kate was sure I wouldn’t like it. Most of the people there are roughnecks, the country scraggly. We hardly know the Woodmans. Why don’t we just keep it the way it is?”

  I’m shocked. But I shouldn’t be. It’s the same thing we’ve been telling our kids. But it seems bizarre not going to the funeral of your own child, her husband, and two of your only three grandchildren. I begin to wonder if Rosemary is all right. She’s so much for form, doing the proper thing. I keep quiet.