She was obviously quite uncomfortable at having to use the telephone for this task.
"That's all right, Aunt Kitty," Jeff said, trying to make it a little easier for her. "I expected it sooner or later."
"Yes ... Your father ...
"I know. I understand."
"His heart..."
They talked a while longer, and then Uncle Roy managed to get on the line and exchange a few words. He wanted to assure Jeff that he would make all the necessary arrangements for the wake and the funeral.
"Will you...uh...?"
"I'll be on the first plane I can get in the morning," Jeff said, wondering if they really thought he might pass up his own father's burial.
Jeff reserved a seat on an early flight. Then he dialed a number in Van Nuys. Ted Benedictus, groggy with sleep, was soon alert and concerned as Jeff explained the situation.
The only alcohol in the house was half a bottle of Scotch that Jeff hadn't touched in ages. Now he poured a large measure into a glass with some ice. He smoked a cigarette, drank, and thought.
He hadn't been home in-what was it?-seven or eight years. His whole life was here now, in California. But his past, or at least the most important part of it, was there, on the other side of the country. He felt eager and excited about going back.
And the best part of it was that Jeff had spent the last several hours thinking about Georgianne.
CHAPTER TWO
Jeff drove with all the windows down. The air was like warm syrup, but he didn't turn on the air conditioner, because he hated sealing himself in a car, even on a scorcher of a day like this. It was the middle of the afternoon, early May, and Connecticut was experiencing a premature heat wave. Sweat trickled down Jeffs back, sides, and chest beneath his halfunbuttoned shirt.
It should have taken two hours to get where he was going, the town of Millville, up in the Brass Valley, but traffic and tolls had slowed him. The car, which he'd rented at La Guardia Airport, was only a year old, but it moved like a pig. One of the speaker wires must have been loose, because there were bursts of static that soon forced Jeff to turn off the radio.
So his father was dead. Chopping wood on a hot afternoon at the age of seventy-six. The damn fool. What did he expect? Who bothered to chop wood at the beginning of May? Perhaps his father simply didn't care any more. Jeff lit another cigarette.
The wake was tomorrow, the funeral the day after. Jeff thought he should feel sorrier about his father's death, but the truth was he didn't. It was more of an inconvenience than anything else, just about the only thing that could force him to travel clear across the country. But now that he was here, he felt a curious sense of anticipation. It might yet prove interesting, after all this time.
Jeff and his father hadn't been close in a long time, and they had hardly communicated at all since his mother died several years ago. There wasn't any open hostility between them, but neither was there any real warmth. Father and son were alike in this regard: each was a very separate, private person.
The traffic on 1-95 thinned out a little after Westport, and Jeff was able to make better time. Connecticut looked unfamiliar to him, what he could see of it from the highway. He had been living in Southern California for twenty years and had no desire to be anywhere else. He had it made out there.
The Waterbury sign appeared just after Bridgeport, and Jeff drifted into the right lane. He fell in behind a semi with its signal light blinking. He knew the exit was just ahead, although he couldn't see it, but he suddenly felt hesitant and indecisive. The truck stayed on the highway, and he followed it, passing the Waterbury exit. He cursed as he put his foot down and swung the car out to pass, but he didn't know whether he was angry with the truck driver or with himself. Now he would have to take route 63 north, the old New Haven Road. He knew it well enough, having traveled it many times. When you were in high school in the Brass Valley, New Haven was an attractive place to visit.
He caught the beginning of rush hour at New Haven, which slowed him some more. Once he got out of the city again, he was pleased to find route 63 in better shape than he remembered it. He seemed to fly up through Woodbridge and Bethany in no time. The road was wider, and there were new buildings everywhere. Twenty years ago it had still been vaguely rural, but now it was just another stretch of suburban America.
As Jeff approached Millville he slowed down to an almost stately cruise. Now he knew every side street, and the changes were even more glaring. A meadow that had been used as a picnic ground had given way to tract housing. High on one hill was a cluster of condominiums. The drive-in was still there, but it apparently no longer played creature features for audiences of impassioned high-school kids. Now-sign of the times-it showed three X-rated "adult hits" nightly. A little farther along, he discovered that the driving range had been replaced by a small industrial park. Across from it, two national hamburger chains had pitched their gaudy camps.
He spotted a familiar mailbox ahead on the right. It was the same, still there, with the name Slaton painted in black on the side. Jeff had known the Slaton family well when he was in high school, and the sight of their mailbox made him smile. But then, abruptly, he pulled the car off the road and stopped. He had just noticed, a couple of yards from the Slaton driveway, a For Sale sign with the name and telephone number of a local realtor. It was a shock, and Jeff felt as if another fragment of his youth had just died within him. He got out of the car.
The driveway, exactly as he remembered, ran about a hundred yards up a gradual slope and then swung around behind some trees to the house, which was only partially visible from the road. It was impossible to tell if anyone was there. But the bushes along the drive spilled over onto it, and weeds sprouted up through wide cracks in the asphalt. The mailbox, and even the For Sale sign, looked dirty and neglected. They had to be gone, Jeff thought sadly. Perhaps Mr. Slaton had been transferred somewhere else, and they had moved without waiting for the house to be sold. Then Jeff shook his head and smiled, realizing that he had lost track of time. By now Mr. Slaton was probably retired, the family scattered. Time to sell the house and move to a smaller place, a better climate. Yes, that was the most likely explanation. Not that it made him feel any better.
He drove on into Millville. Many of the businesses on Main Street had changed, but the old buildings were still the same. No hint of a new skyline here. Millville was aptly named. It was an old mill town, struggling to survive in a new era. That industrial park on the edge of town was probably only a recent flicker of hope. A few of the kids Jeff had known would still be here, but most, like him, would have gone elsewhere to make their lives.
Jeff drove through the quiet residential streets on the east side of town, and finally parked in front of a small, blistering, white Cape Cod house. Uncle Roy and Aunt Kitty came out to the front lawn to greet him. They looked fragile, but their movements were energetic, and he felt surprising strength in them as they hugged him. Still pretty sturdy, he thought. No doubt his father had been the same, right to the end.
"How long has it been?" Uncle Roy asked as they went into the house.
It was a perfectly natural question, but the old man immediately realized his mistake, and his wife flashed him a nasty look in case he didn't.
"I'm ashamed to say I haven't been back here since Mom died," Jeff admitted promptly.
Aunt Kitty nodded sorrowfully and tried to smooth it over by fussing about some food. Jeff declined, saying he had eaten on the road. It wasn't true, but he wasn't hungry. He merely felt tired now, very tired. Uncle Roy brought him a cold beer that was so good Jeff drained the can in minutes, then leisurely sipped a second.