He is surprised Kay hasn’t bent down to take out her rosary. She believes so much in these candles, in her beads, in her words whispered to the stained glass above them. She has so much reason not to believe, but she still believes.
He’d like to think that Lawrence is smiling down on him, that both their parents are nodding solemnly somewhere as they wait to greet him and Kay, that they’ll get to see who they want to see most when they die （What would that reunion look like? Is it really, really you? they’d say）， but lately he wonders. He wonders about the reality of life and death. What if this is all there is?
He looks over at Kay. Behind her is the scene of Mary holding the dead body of Jesus. Kay has been just as brave and noble, hasn’t she? The dark red carpet below their feet is so thick that it hushes his thoughts, and in the pews, he sees an old woman sit by herself and blot her face with a handkerchief. He wishes he could go to this woman, put his coat on her shoulders as some type of comfort, even though he’s sure she has her own coat, but he has to stop this business of wanting to save everyone. He smiles meekly at his wife.
If he tells her right this moment about Iris, what will she do? Will she stare at him with that pitiful, crumbled face she can get and grab her purse and limp away from him? Will she wait by the car outside in the chilly November air and not talk to him? He breathes slowly and lights a candle for Greg Tyler, whom he can’t stop thinking about. Be good to this one, he thinks—if there’s someone who can hear him. He needs you.
His heart stings for Greg. The last of the good boys. Okay with only four hours of sleep. Never, ever said no. Greg the American Dream. Greg whom he could send anywhere: Mexico, China, the Middle East. A younger, better version of himself. That sweet wife. That outspoken little girl Kay buys Christmas gifts for. The Tylers have had them over for dinner a few times, and their home was one of those places you don’t want to leave: the sun setting, golden on their hardwood floors, the cat in its bed, the old dog by the fireplace. “You did pretty well for yourself,” Alex said, squeezing the back of Greg’s neck. He had never done this to anyone, felt this fatherly to one of the company guys. Fatherly. That word makes him ache.
“Will you say something for Gregory?” he whispers to Kay, and she nods. He always feels Kay has a better line to the holy network.
Can Greg beat this? Of course he can, can’t he? The guy can run a six-minute mile. People aren’t dying the way they used to, but Alex knows better than anyone about tragedy. We are guaranteed nothing. Lawrence’s words in the only letter he would write home.
Alex thinks of Benny then and the blue bicycle, how twisted and mangled it looked. He always tries not to think of that bike. His first instinct was to bend down and start untwisting with all his might. He wondered if they could loan him a pump for the deflated tires when they showed it to him in the back of the police car.
He closes his eyes and tries to cast that image away. Greg. Think about Greg. Greg who’s still among the living.
Greg’s eyes, his quietness: he knows it’s bad. Will Greg be able to know what he knows and shake this? Alex hopes so. To stop working and do the treatments and listen when the doctors say to rest? He can’t imagine Greg Tyler in a hospital bed. He can’t imagine Greg in pajamas, lying still. He watches the candle he’s lit for Greg, and can’t help but feel powerless as the small lightbulb flickers its best. You can do this, he thinks. We are rooting for you.
Kay whispers a few more things, rosary beads now in hand. The heavy artillery. Good. He turns around and notices they are alone in the church. The long aisle, the gleaming wood of the pews. In the back is a framed corkboard with announcements and a box where people take the weekly news bulletin. Alex thinks of his third candle. He and Kay each always light their own for Benny.
Could Benny really be dead twenty-four years? He thinks of their son, their only child, the child they didn’t have until their early thirties because “God was taking his time,” Kay said. The kid who turned fourteen so fast, who only ate Kraft macaroni and cheese and Honey Smacks most of the time; the kid who made a sculpture out of old egg cartons that won an award in the junior high art show. Benny with his ribs always showing, with his cowlick. Benny trying to learn Spanish at the kitchen table, his accent so Connecticut.
Alex tries to imagine him in his late thirties now and can’t. He can only see that bike, and for the millionth time, he tries to remember the last moment he had with him that Saturday, and has no idea. Benny was going to Ryan’s, Alex knows. He was wearing that Vermont sweatshirt he loved. Alex only knew from seeing it on the floor in the hospital. So much blood. Can Kay get the stains out? he wondered as he stood there, hand over his mouth. What was the last thing he said to his son that day? What did Benny’s voice sound like? Did he look up from his newspaper or whatever he was doing when Benny said goodbye? Please, please, he thinks. Tell me I did.