I knew better than to contradict him. I had become involved in an argument with him the year before at Thanksgiving. It was over a small thing, whether Helmut Kohl was a Social Democrat. He thought he was, I knew he wasn't, Lisa and her mother were sure Eddie couldn't be wrong. I had stood my ground, and briefly spoiled what had been a very pleasant evening.
'Must have missed it,' I said, pouring Eddie some more wine.
There was a brief silence, then Ann spoke. 'I thought you got on so well with Frank,' said Ann. 'I'm sorry you parted on such bad terms.'
'So am I,' I said. 'I do feel bad about it. There's a lot I'd have liked to say to him before he died.'
'Me too,' said Lisa flatly.
We finished in silence, the shock and anger seated with us like extra guests at the table.
That night, as I lay in bed, trying to get to sleep, I felt the bed shudder gently. I reached over and touched Lisa's shoulder. It was shaking.
'Come here,' I said.
She rolled over into my arms. I felt her warm tears trickle down my chest.
'You know that shirt Dad was wearing? The plaid one?' she said.
'Yes?'
'I gave that to him for his birthday last year. He really liked it. And now it's covered with his blood.'
I squeezed her even tighter into my chest. She cried some more. Eventually, she broke away, sniffed and reached for some tissues beside the bed.
'It must be awful for Eddie,' she said.
'It's awful for everyone.'
'Yes. But he hasn't seen Dad for six years. He's barely spoken to him since he and Mom broke up.'
'Why do you think it got to him so badly? You had no problems with your father, did you?'
'I don't know. I really think it would have been better if they'd told us the real reason they split up. I mean they said they just didn't want to live together any more. Eddie thought Dad was running away from us. He never forgave him.'
'I wonder if we'll ever know why now.'
'I guess now I'd rather not. Now Dad's gone. I mean one of them was probably messing around with someone else. Mom, I guess. I don't know.'
'I suppose that's why Eddie's so angry,' I said.
'Because he feels guilty about not seeing Dad? Probably. But you know Eddie. He can get pretty angry anyway.'
Actually I didn't know Eddie that well. And I was quite happy to keep it that way.
'I'm angry too,' Lisa went on. 'It's just so wrong for someone to die like that.' Her voice had suddenly become hard and bitter. 'He wasn't ready to die. He had years left to him. What right has anyone to take another person's life? Mom has a point, there's no good reason why anyone should want to kill him. I don't know about the death penalty, but I sure as hell hope they get the bastard who did it. He's not fit to live, whoever he is.'
This outburst surprised me. Lisa had been so submissive up to now in the face of Frank's death. But she was right. Murder wasn't just evil. It was callous as well.
We lay in silence for a while. Then Lisa spoke; this time her voice was so quiet I could hardly hear it. 'When I was little and felt bad or scared, Dad used to sing to me. He had a terrible voice; he never liked to sing in front of anyone but me. I wish he could do it now.'
I couldn't sing to her. But I could hold her. I didn't let her go until, a long time later, I heard the regular breathing of sleep.
8
Frank was buried in a Jewish cemetery in Brookline, where the Cook family had lived when it was still a family. The ceremony was simple. After the Kaddish, mumbled with varying degrees of confidence by those present, the rabbi spoke of Frank in his younger days; I suspected he hadn't set eyes on him in many years. Gil made a low-key eulogy, short, honest and very moving. Only a small group of about twenty or so people were there: family and close friends. I was annoyed to see Mahoney standing at the back, his sharp eyes scanning the gathering. He caught my glance, and the side of his mouth twitched upwards. I looked away. It seemed wrong to me that he should be here at Frank's funeral. I would have thrown him out if I could.
The shiva or visitation, was held at Frank's sister's house a mile or so away. Shiva meant seven, and technically it should have lasted seven days, but Eddie had to get back to his studies, and Frank was at best a lapsed progressive, so the family had decided on the one evening. The mourners were joined by others who came to pass on their condolences to his family. It seemed as if hundreds of people were trying to cram into the modest house. I was amazed at how many people knew and liked Frank.
Frank's sister, Zoe, did her best as a hostess. She was a tall, black-haired woman, with a gentle smile and kindly eyes. She stood smiling and nodding, patting hands and being patted. I extricated her from an earnest man wearing dark glasses and a yarmulke who had been talking to her for several minutes, and brought her a piece of cake.
'Oh, Eddie, thank you so much,' she said. 'I know these people, but half the names don't come. And I don't want to offend them.'
'You're doing very well,' I said, not bothering to correct her.
She smiled. 'It's such a shame about poor Frank. Had you seen much of him lately?'
I wasn't sure whether by calling me Eddie she had just got my name wrong, or whether she thought I was Lisa's brother. So I decided to answer blandly. 'Quite a bit,' I said.
'Aunt Zoe!' Lisa rushed up and gave her aunt a huge hug. The older woman beamed. 'Has Simon been looking after you?'
Aunt Zoe' looked momentarily confused and then glanced towards me apologetically. 'Yes. Yes, he has, dear. How are you?'
'Oh, fine, I suppose.'
And how are your potions?'
'Bubbling away,' she answered. 'Can you believe all these people? I don't recognize most of them.'
'Neither do I. It's extraordinary to have so many of Frank's old friends here at one time,' Zoe said. 'I wish he could be here to see them all.' She looked around the room, somewhat bemused. 'I wonder how long we've got to go. What time is it, dear?'
Lisa glanced down at the watch on her aunt's wrist, before looking at her own. 'Nine thirty.'
Aunt Zoe seemed to sigh.
'It's very good of you to do this,' Lisa said. 'We couldn't possibly fit everyone into our apartment.'
'Oh, don't worry about it,' Aunt Zoe said. 'I'll miss him.'
Zoe was accosted by a childhood friend of Frank's who wanted to talk to her. Luckily, she remembered his name.
'She looks OK,' Lisa said.
'Yes,' I said. 'But she called me Eddie.'
'No, really?'
'And you saw how she had to ask you the time.'
'It's so sad,' Lisa said. 'I remember so clearly playing with her when we were kids. She used to come up to Marsh House and stay with us before she was married. She was so much fun. We used to play all kinds of games exploring the creeks and the marshes. And in a year or two she might not remember any of it.'
'Yes, she will,' I said. 'Don't they always say that old people forget what they had for breakfast, but remember clearly everything that happened decades ago?'
'She's not old, Simon. She's fifty-two. She's ill.'
Aunt Zoe was suffering from the early symptoms of Alzheimer's.
Are you talking about Zoe?' Carl, her husband, had joined us. He was a heavy man with a grey beard, several years older than his wife, who wheezed after any sort of exertion. He was a professor at Northeastern University in some kind of social science.
'Yes,' said Lisa. 'How is she?'
Carl sighed, a heavier wheeze than usual. 'You know she lost her job at the Library?'
'Oh, no,' Lisa said.
'But she's not too bad yet. She forgets names of people, names of books – that was her problem at the Library, and she has some trouble telling the time. But she still remembers me, and she always knows where she is and what day it is. There's a lot further to go. Unless the drug Frank recommended really works.'