I blew out a breath. “I can’t cry,” I said. “Why can’t I cry? What the hell is wrong with me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Do you know what my first thought was when I found out? When her father told me?”
“Don’t—”
“Relief.”
“Sam, don’t.”
“I felt relief that I wasn’t going to have to confront her; that I didn’t have to tell her it was over and that she needed to move out. What kind of a person thinks that way?”
“A good person.”
“Nice try.”
“I’m serious. A bad person wouldn’t be that honest. They wouldn’t feel any guilt at all. A bad person never would have done what you just did. A bad person would have punted the responsibility and told her family that he wanted nothing to do with any of it. But I know you. And I know that you’ll go to your grave and never tell another living soul that she cheated on you, and neither will I. Her parents will bury the daughter they loved and get to keep all the memories.”
The tears burst from me with a gasp, like a dam exploding. Now I could not control them, could not stop the flood. I felt Mickie pull me to her and place my head against her chest, stroking my hair, letting me sob. She removed the pillow from behind her and leaned back, holding me until I could hear my breathing slow and I drifted off.
5
Everyone at Eva’s funeral seemed willing to play their part in a tragedy Shakespearean in its magnitude—the young couple about to embark on a life together ripped apart and forever separated by the forces of nature, leaving the future groom to pull together the pieces of his shattered existence.
Ernie and Michelle flew down with Mickie and my mother to be with me for Eva’s funeral in Redondo Beach, and I was grateful they came. Their presence gave me back my identity and validated my existence beyond the role of the unknown grieving boyfriend.
At the end of the service, I followed Eva’s casket out of the church with the rest of her family and watched the hearse depart. They had a town car for the family, but Ernie saved me. “You want a ride to the reception?”
I nearly hugged him.
The reception was held in the backyard of the Pryor home, a beautiful setting with a view of the Pacific Ocean and a light breeze that brought the smell of the salt air. I parked my mother beneath the shade of a table umbrella with a plate of catered food and a Diet Coke. Mickie and Michelle sat and talked with her while Ernie and I made our way to the bar. I noticed a few people from the church approaching and mentally steeled myself for their condolences.
“Excuse me,” one of the men said, “but aren’t you Ernie Cantwell?”
“Yes, I am,” Ernie said.
“We thought so,” the man said. “We saw you in church. Can we get your autograph?”
As Ernie signed the autographs, the men looked to me and introduced themselves. “How do you know Eva?” one of them asked.
“Just a friend,” I said.
Ernie and I picked up our beers and found a corner of the yard.
“How are you holding up?” Ernie asked.
“Like an actor backstage in the green room waiting to go on again.” I felt guilty saying it, but it was the truth. What seemed to be either lost on everyone, or at least unspoken, was the irony that we did not know one another. Except for a dinner at a restaurant in San Francisco that I had shared with Eva’s parents when they came to visit, I had never eaten with them, never shared the holidays with the family, visited over a weekend, or attended family vacations. I had never even met Eva’s sisters.