When people pass through, Mrs. Crowley says, “And you remember our Ginger, don’t you?” and no one says no even though many probably have no idea who she is.
Ginger keeps her hands in her lap. “I thought about him so many times. I saw him at the toy shop before your granddaughter’s birthday.”
Mrs. Crowley nods. “He said he was going to take a ride over to your house to visit the dog.”
“Really?”
“But he chickened out. I said, Go. Go. I kind of wanted to drag him over there. He never felt worthy, of so many things.” She shakes her head.
Ginger imagines Luke pulling up to her parents’ house, and she feels warm and relaxed all of a sudden. Thunder barking his familiar bark, wagging his thick tail and running toward Luke, smelling his hand. He would remember Luke. What would Luke say? “Hey, buddy. Been a while.” She would stand on the porch. Maybe the late fall sun would be glowing through the trees. She would invite him inside. Why couldn’t they fix what they lost? What does she do with all this now?
She holds Mrs. Crowley’s hand. “Can I visit you when I’m home again?”
“I would adore that, darling.” More mourners are walking up to the casket. Their hands leave fingerprints on the dark wood as they touch it respectfully. One woman bends down to smell the yellow flowers, and Ginger imagines Luke’s expression. The way he would lift his eyebrows. The way he’d shake his head.
She stays next to Mrs. Crowley and keeps thinking of him coming over to her house that day in October. What if he had? What if he hadn’t chickened out, what if she hadn’t? What if she watched him from their porch, and he walked across the grass and smiled at her, and she smiled back, and right in that second, in that second that never happened, they would fix all this.
Wouldn’t she have been able to help him? Wouldn’t she give anything to have that day? She can picture the scene so easily: the bare trees, the excited dog. Her mother and father inside watching the news. Luke’s ripped jeans and ragged sweater. His easy smile, his carefree laugh. His straight teeth, occasional freckle, the mole on his neck.
Right now, next to this woman with her perfect posture, her carefully worded responses to every person who bends down, Ginger is glad she came. Her parents sit in the back talking to a retired teacher her mother knows. There is a line out the door. Customers of the dry cleaning place, friends of the family, that seamstress lady, musicians Luke knew: Murph, Chucky, Jimmy—their faces shocked and frowning, all sweetly wearing their old Luke and the Killers shirts. Neighbors, aunts and uncles. She wonders about his last concert. What was the last song he sang?
Mrs. Crowley holds her hand, and Ginger’s mind keeps slipping back to that imaginary day, Luke pulling up to her house. It seems so simple now. Why didn’t he?
Why didn’t she call him earlier from the wedding? Before he got into the car, before he took whatever route he took and swerved along the long, black road, those patches of ice, those oncoming cars. Poor Betsy never stood a chance, did she? Why didn’t he know better? She wonders when the autopsy report will come out. She already knows what it will say: alcohol and probably more. She wonders if this information will destroy Mrs. Crowley and Mary Jane, but they must already imagine the worst.
Her mother asked her when it happened if Ginger thought Luke had wanted to die, but Ginger shook her head. She knew he’d never do that—she would bet her life on it. At his lowest point, Luke always had hope. He must have been in over his head with some bad stuff, trying to seem normal under the fierce grip of something terrible. Did he know he could have told her anything? Did he know she would have done anything to help him?
I should. That was what he said to her that day in the toy store when she said he should come by. Almost two months ago. His hand holding the white shopping bag with the gifts for his niece inside. His hopeful stare as she made her way to the back of the store. Did she wave to him?
Ginger smiles politely while Darcy talks to the seamstress, Freddie Tyler. Both women cry a little together, Freddie touching Darcy’s shoulder, patting her hand. “Call me even if you just want someone to watch television with,” Freddie says, and Darcy nods.
“You’re a gem,” Darcy says. “And the carrot cake was lovely.” Ginger turns to the side and sees Hannah a few rows back. Her thin face is drained, and her friends sit beside her, trying to make her smile. Hannah stares straight ahead, her eyes swollen. She wears a skirt that’s too big, and a white silk blouse. Ginger can see what Luke saw in her. She’s a pretty girl. She has kindness to her—Ginger can feel it. Then Hannah turns her way, and they are caught in a stare. Hannah’s expression doesn’t change, and Ginger doesn’t look away. She wants to say she knows what this girl knows, she fought for him the same way. She wants to go talk with her, to say he was wonderful, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he as good as they come? Wasn’t he just a tragic soul, stumbling around in an ill-fitting costume?