Going Home Part 22

"Mrs. Matthews?" I didn't recognize the voice. Maybe someone from one of the shops looking for new customers. So I wound up my "sorry, we don't need any" voice . . . "this is the cleaning lady," etc.

"Not till tomorrow. Yes?" I didn't see any point in volunteering my name. It couldn't be anyone we knew anyway.

"This is Tom Bardi. I'm a friend of Chris."

"Yes?" I remembered hearing the name, but only vaguely.

"Mrs. . . . uh . . . we were working on the same film over in Oakland this morning and . . ."

"Yes?" My G.o.d, was something wrong? "Yes? Is anything wrong?"

"Chris fell off a rig, trying to get a shot, and, I'm so sorry to tell you this, like this, but . . . he's dead. He broke his neck when he hit. I'm calling you from St. Mary's Hospital in Oakland. . . . Are you all right? . . . Are you there?"

"Yes . . . I'm here." I was leaden. There just wasn't anything else for me to say.

"What's your name?"

"Gillian."

"Gillian, are you all right? Are you sure? Look, can you come over here now?"

"No. Chris has the car."

"All right, don't move. You just sit there and have a cup of coffee. I'll be over right away and I'll drive you back here."

"Why?"

"Well, they want to know what to do with the . . . body." The body? The body? The body! Chris, not "the body." Chris, Chris, and I started to whimper.

"Now, you just hang on. I'll be right over."

I just sat there, on my bed, not moving, not even able to move my head or turn around. I just sat there in my new gray dress, looking down at my shoes, whimpering. And then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, strong man's footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time. . . . Chris! . . . It was a lie, it was a crank call, and he'd hold me and tell me it was a bad joke. . . . Chris . . . and I looked up and there was a strange man in our room, looking down at me with a look of tenderness and embarra.s.sment.

"I'm Tom," and I just nodded my head.

"Are you all right?" and I nodded again, but I didn't mean it.

"Can I make you a cup of coffee?" I shook my head. I stood up, not remembering where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to do, but knowing this man was here for something.

"My G.o.d, you're pregnant. . . . Jesus. . . . Oh, I'm sorry." I knew he was, he sounded as though he meant it, but I really didn't give a d.a.m.n. I stood up and saw myself in the mirror, with Tom Bardi standing behind me. I was still wearing my new dress, with all the tickets on it.

"I've got to change. I'll be ready in a minute," and I started whimpering again. "It's my wedding dress." He looked at me for a minute as though he thought I was hysterical. He had a nervous, doubtful look about him like that was something he really couldn't handle.

"No, it's all right, I mean it. We were going to get married tomorrow." I had to pull myself together to explain.

"Oh, I thought you were. I mean Chris said something about his wife . . . and a little boy named Sam. . . . He never said anything about the baby though."

"A little girl. Sam, I mean. Samantha. . . . Gee, what am I going to do? I have to pick her up at school in a little while."

"What school?"

"The Thomas Ellis School."

"Okay, you get dressed and I'll call the school, tell them to hold on to her for a while. We won't be long. . . . I mean . . ." and he turned around to walk downstairs. "Where's the phone?" he shouted back.

"In the kitchen, behind the door."

I put on my jeans and Chris's sweater again, grabbed my bag, and the dress lay on the unmade bed, half inside out, next to the T-s.h.i.+rt Chris had slept in. . . . Jesus, oh good G.o.d, sweet Jesus . . . what have You done?

I clattered down the stairs in my wooden sandals and heard Tom hang up the phone.

"It's all set, they can keep her till four thirty. We'll be back before that." He looked uncomfortable again. "Do you know what you want to do? I mean they want to know over there. What're you going to do with him?"

I hadn't thought of that. "I don't know. Maybe I should call his mother. . . ." Where the h.e.l.l did she live . . . ? Let me think a minute. . . . Chicago . . . ? No. . . . Detroit . . . ? No. . . . Denver. That was it. I had met her once when she came to see Chris on her way some place else. They weren't very close, and his father was dead.

I dialed long-distance. "Denver Information, please. "I'm sorry, you can dial that yourself. Dial 303, then 5, 5, 5. . . ."

"Look, G.o.ddamit, will you please do it for me. My husband was just killed in an accident."

"Oh . . . yes. . . . Oh, I'm sorry. Just a moment, please."

"Directory. What city please? May I help you?"

"Yes. Denver. Helen Matthews. I don't know the address."

After a pause, she came back on the line. "That's 663-7015." I repeated it back to her. Why did I sound so calm, why did I sound so much like me? 663-7015 . . . 663-7015. . . . Now dial it, tell the nice lady, go ahead tell her, Chris Is Dead. That's right, Mrs. Matthews, he's dead. . . . Oh my G.o.d. . . . I flicked the b.u.t.ton on the phone up and down a few times. "Operator? . . . Operator? . . ."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you want me to get that number for you now?"

"Yes. Please."

"Station? Or person to person?"

"Station. No, person . . . no, oh anything . . . I don't care."

"I'm sorry, but I have to know which."

"Oh s.h.i.+t . . . make it person to person then. Helen Matthews, Mrs."

She dialed, and the phone rang twice.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo. We have a person to person call for Mrs. Helen Matthews."

"This is she." She sounded a little like Chris.

"Go ahead please."

"h.e.l.lo . . . Jane?"

"No, Mrs. Matthews. This is Gillian Forrester. I'm a friend of Chris's. I don't know if you remember me. I met you last summer when you were here . . . I . . ."

"Yes, I remember. How are you?" She sounded a little puzzled.

"Fine, thank you. How are you?" Oh Christ, I couldn't get it out. And I looked over at Tom Bardi and knew how he had felt when he called me. I squeezed my eyes shut and sat down, holding the receiver with both hands to keep it from shaking.

"If you're looking for Chris, he isn't here. He's in San Francisco. Where are you? I'm afraid this is a very poor connection." It was, and it wasn't going to get any better in a few minutes.

"I'm in San Francisco, too . . . that is . . . Mrs. Matthews, Chris just had an accident. He's . . . dead. . . . I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. . . ." Oh Christ, don't go falling apart now, don't do that to her. "Mrs. Matthews, I'm sorry to do this to you, but the hospital wants to know what to do with, well . . . I thought I'd call and ask you what . . ." Oh G.o.d, she was crying. The nice old lady I met last summer was crying. "Mrs. Matthews? Are you all right?" Dumb question, and I looked up at Tom again. He was looking out the window, with his back to me, seeming to sag.

"Yes, I'm all right," and she pulled herself together. "I don't know what to tell you. His father is buried in New Mexico, where we used to live, and his brother is buried in Was.h.i.+ngton. He was killed in Viet Nam." Oh G.o.d, why did this have to happen to her? I had heard about the brother from Chris.

"Do you want me to bring him to Denver, Mrs. Matthews?"

"No, I don't see any point in that. My daughter lives in Fresno. I think you'd better handle it in San Francisco. I'll fly down today. I have to call his sister first."

"You can stay here with me. At the house" . . . his house . . . our house . . . oh Jesus, what would she think of us living together? It was a little late to worry about that.

"No, I'll stay at a hotel with Jane, my daughter."

"I'll pick you up at the airport. Call and tell me when you're getting in."

"You don't have to, dear."

"I want to . . . Mrs. Matthews . . . I'm so awfully sorry," and my voice broke again.

"I know you are, dear," and there were tears in her voice again too.

I nodded, and we hung up.

Tom Bardi was watching me as I hung up and handed me a cup of coffee. "Want something stronger?" I shook my head and took a swallow of the coffee. It was cold. "We better get going." I nodded and started toward the door.

"Oh, I want to make one more phone call. Please. . . ." Peg. I had to tell Peg. Who else could I turn to? Who else had seen me cry and throw up and die over the years? Peg.

I dialed her direct, at her office.

"Miss Richards, please."

"One moment please. . . . Miss Richards' office."

"I'd like to speak to her."

"I'm sorry, Miss Richards is in a meeting."

"Get her. Tell her it's Gillian Forrester. She'll take it."

"Well, I'll have to see. Please hold." Hold your a.s.s, lady. Peg would come. And she did.

"Gillian? What's up? I'm in a meeting."

"I know. Peg . . . he's dead." And I broke down all over again.

"When?"

"This morning . . . accident . . . broken neck . . . G.o.ddam crane. . . ." I could hardly get the words out.

"I'll take the eight o'clock plane tonight. At least I can spend the weekend with you. You okay?"

"No."

"That's okay, you just hang in there till Aunt Peg gets there, then you can let go. I'll be there tonight." Let's see, eight and five makes one A.M., minus the three-hour time difference. Peg would be there at ten. "And listen, don't pick me up. I'll take a cab. Same address?"

"Yes."

"Do you need anything else?"

"Just you. Oh Peg, thanks; thanks forever on this one."

"Gotta go now, take it easy. Listen, do you have any Librium or something?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

"Take it. You listen to Aunt Peg and take it," but I knew I wasn't going to.

"Okay, thanks again . . . g'bye."

"G'bye," and we hung up.

I looked up at Tom Bardi still standing in the kitchen but beginning to fidget. "Okay, let's go," and he looked relieved. Maybe he thought I was going to call everyone I knew, and make him stand there, listening.

33.

We drove to Oakland in silence. I had nothing to say. And I was grateful that Tom didn't try to talk. He just drove. Very fast. And I stared out the window, not crying, not thinking, not even feeling anything. I was just driving along in Chris's car, with a man named Tom Bardi, whom I'd never seen before today. It was strange, really strange, so I didn't think about it. I just sat.

The car veered suddenly, and I realized that we had swooped into the parking lot of St. Mary's Hospital in Oakland. We stepped out of the car and Tom led the way into the emergency room.

Once inside, there was a little group of people, long-haired and blue-jeaned. They looked stunned, and huddled together as though to keep warm. The camera crew.

Tom led me up to a desk and said something to the nurse in charge. She looked up, the only expression on her face a question, "Mrs. Matthews?"