It’s called petechiae, Mina. That redness of the eye. It’s a result of physical trauma. But you already know that, don’t you?
“Mina?”
I turn slowly, staring at Bert who is standing in the doorway with a box of groceries, smiling at me in a puzzled way that creases his eyes. “What’s going on? Where’s Alice? Why is the front door open?”
I stand, shoving the envelope into my pocket and push my hair away from my face. I can still taste bile at the back of my throat.
“Bert—”
“I managed to get the last pint of milk. We’ll be back to rationing if this carries on. In the war my mother had to cook with powdered egg.”
“Bert.”
He pauses and then he must see something in my expression or in the way I step forward as if to take his hand. He takes an automatic step away from me.
“No.” He is shaking his head. “No, don’t. Don’t tell me, Mina.”
“Bert, I’m so sorry.”
The words seem to ambush him, making him stoop in agony, his face cruelly lined. The box slides slowly out of his hands as I go toward him, putting my arms around him, feeling his frail shoulders begin to shake with hoarse, helpless sobs. “I’m sorry, Bert. She’s gone. I’m sorry.” Over and over.
THIRTY
For the second time that week, emergency vehicles make their way to Beacon Terrace. This time, though, there are no pulsing lights, no paramedics rushing to the scene—just the stately progress of the undertakers and Mary’s doctor, his hat respectfully removed as he enters Bert’s home. Even though it’s late, the air is sticky with heat, almost tropical. Sam says that storms are forecast over the next few days, breaking the back of this hot spell. I’ve always hated storms. Eddie loved them. He would hide out in our spot in the attic to get the best view of the lightning, me squirrelled beneath a coverlet in the dark, him with his eyes wide, face lit up with exhilaration. Eddie would count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder and tell me if the storm was moving away. He’d laugh at my fear, making sure to squeeze my hand when the thunder got too loud.“It’sjust opposite forces, Mina,”he’d say.“Just warm air meeting cold air, that’s all.”
I stayed with Bert as the private ambulance took Mary away. The vehicle was low and dark and close to the ground, the undertaker and two young men barely out of their teens, their gangly frames hung in black suits like crows. Bert looked stunned, as though someone had knocked the air out of him. He kept saying,“I hope she didn’t suffer,”and putting his head in his hands. I did not mention the burst blood vessel in Mary’s eye and, if Bert noticed it, he didn’t, either. He had simply drawn the bedsheet over her body and shaken his head sadly. I had to help him out of the room when his knees buckled.
Sam brought Lisa home just as the doctor arrived to certify the death. As soon as she realized what had happened, Lisa had started to sob and she hasn’t really stopped since. I remember Fern telling me that Bert and Mary had taken Lisa in when she was pregnant and homeless, and my heart sinks a little deeper.
I’m brushing my teeth with my head hung tired and heavy over the sink when Sam slides in, softly closing the door behind him. I get a shock when I see him in the bathroom mirror. He looks as if he has aged a decade overnight, washed-out and shaken. He scratches at the skin of his neck idly, waiting for me to spit and swill water down the sink before asking, “Are you all right?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. You look awful, Sam.”
“I’ve just got off the phone to the hospital.”
I stare at him, eyes widening in horror, because I know what’s coming, Iknow.
“Vicky passed away this afternoon. She never regained consciousness. Brain death, they called it. Imagine that, from a tinysting no bigger than a pinprick. You can imagine the state her parents are in.”
I remember the way that wasp had crawled over Alice’s fingers and shudder as if suddenly cold.
“God. They must be devastated. Does Alice know?”
“Lisa went in and told her just now. She said Alice barely responded. It was as if she already knew.”
We are both silent a moment, deep in thought. My mind keeps circling back to Mary’s eye filmed with blood, the bluish cast to her lips that hinted at a protracted struggle for breath. My hands are gripping the cold porcelain of the sink so tightly I can feel my pulse under my nails.
“That’s three people dead in as many days and Alice was with two of them when it happened,” Sam says. He is choosing his words carefully, as if picking his way across a minefield. “I don’t need to tell you what people are saying, do I?”
“She didn’t do it, Sam.”
“Have you tried telling that to all the people outside?”
“I’ve been trying to avoid them,” I say truthfully. It started with a handful, about half past ten. Now, at nearly midnight, there are dozens out there, stumbling around and catcalling, looking at the Webbers’ house with suspicion and a bright, bristling hostility. “Someone must have seen the undertaker take Mary away. She’s barely cold and the whole town knows about what happened.”
I turn on the tap. My hands shake as I soak a cold flannel and wipe it over my face. Sam watches carefully and I realize he is waiting for me to say something.
“What?” I ask.