I will always—oh, always!—I will always love that woman.
* * *
A few weeks later William called from the lab—he tended to call me when he was at work—and thanked me again for coming to the party. “Did you have a good time?” he asked. And I told him that I had; I told him about talking to Pam Carlson and how she wanted to talk about her first husband, Bob something. As I spoke I was watching the river, a huge red barge was going by, pushed by a tugboat.
“Bob Burgess,” said William. “He was a nice guy. She left him because he couldn’t have kids.”
“Did he work with you as well?” I asked.
“No. He was a public defender or something. His brother was Jim Burgess—remember the Wally Packer trial? That was his brother who defended him.”
“It was?” I said. Wally Packer was a soul singer accused of killing his girlfriend, and Jim Burgess got him off. At the time, this was many years ago, the trial was huge; it was televised and the whole country seemed involved with it. I always thought Wally Packer was innocent, I remember that, and I thought Jim Burgess was a hero.
So we discussed that for a few minutes; William said what he had said before, that I was an idiot to think Wally Packer was innocent. And I let it go.
And then I suddenly asked William, “Did you enjoy the party?”
He said, after a pause, “I guess so.”
I said, “What do you mean, you guess so? Estelle put a lot of work into that party.”
“She hired a caterer, Lucy.”
“So what? She still put it all together.” The barge was moving quickly; it always surprises me how quickly they can move, it must have been empty, it was riding high, I could see a lot of the black underneath of it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. No, it was a great party. I have to go now.”
“Pill,” I said. “Let me just ask you. How are your nights going? You know, your nighttime terrors?”
And I could hear in his voice that this was why he had called me. “Oh Lucy,” he said, “I had one last night—well, it was around three o’clock this morning. About Catherine— It’s really weird, I can’t describe it exactly. I mean, it’s like she’s hovering there.” He paused and then said, “I think I might have to take a drug. It’s getting really tough.” He added, “It’s like Catherine is with me, I mean, her presence, and it’s just—it’s just not good, Lucy.”
“Oh Pillie,” I said. “Man, I’m just so sorry.”
We talked a bit more, and then we hung up.
* * *
—
But here is something I had not thought of until William called and spoke to me of the party:
The night of the party I had walked into their kitchen with a glass to put down and to say goodbye to Estelle, who was walking slightly ahead of me, and there was a man in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, he was a friend of hers, I had met him before, and I heard Estelle say to him quietly, “Are you bored to death?” And then she turned and saw me and exclaimed, “Oh Lucy, it was so fun to see you again!” And the man said the same—he had always seemed like a nice fellow, another theater person—and I chatted with Estelle and we kissed on the cheek and I left. But I had not liked the tone of her voice with the man; there was an intimacy to it, and it implied—perhaps—that she herself was bored, and this was a thing I did not care for. It was a tiny ping I felt, I guess is what I am saying. But I had forgotten about it until then.
* * *
—
Also （I suddenly remembered this too）， the tulips I had brought were still in their wrappings on the kitchen counter. This did not especially disturb me; the party had arrangements from a florist, it had been silly to think that tulips from a corner market would be wanted there.
It was the voice of Estelle that lingered.
* * *
My husband became ill early that summer, and he died in November. That is all I am able to say about that right now, except that it had been a very different marriage from my marriage to William.
* * *
—
Except I do need to say this: My husband’s name was David Abramson and he was—oh, how can I tell you what he was? He was him! We were—we really were—kind of made for each other, except that seems a terrifically trite thing to say but— Oh, I cannot say any more right now.
* * *
—
But there is this: Both with the discovery of David’s illness, and then again with his death, it was William I called first. I think—but I don’t remember—that I must have said something like “Oh William, help me.” Because he did. He got my husband to a different doctor—a better one, I do believe—although there was nothing any doctor could do at that point.