Читать книгу Sacred Trust - Meg O'Brien - Страница 13

Marti is buried in a small Catholic cemetery south of Carmel, along the road to Big Sur. The burial site is on an old Spanish estate, and I have learned through Ben that the owner, Lydia Greyson, came forward to offer it. She would be honored, she said, to have Marti laid to rest along with her own ancestors. In addition, she pledged that Marti’s grave would be well protected from curiosity seekers, behind the high adobe walls of the estate.

Who this woman is, or why she has offered a family burial plot to Marti, I don’t know. I can only suppose she must know Marti’s brother, Ned, or at least have talked to him, as he would have had to agree to the arrangements.

A long line of black cars and limos winds southward along the twisting road. There are places where one can drive only fifteen miles per hour in the best of weather, and the best of weather has not graced us today. Fog creeps in on great big elephant feet, clomping up from the sea and over the road, where it smothers the hills.

Jeffrey drives our black Mercedes, and we sit quietly beside each other, steeped in our individual thoughts. Ahead of us, in a limo, is Ned, whom I’ve never really met, despite the few times I saw him years ago with Marti. When we were in high school, Ned was away in college, and when we went to Joseph and Mary, the most he ever did was show up on visiting Sunday once or twice.

With Ned are two women veiled in black. One seemed slightly familiar at the church, in the way she carried herself, but there was no way of knowing who she might be. Family, surely, to be veiled that way. This surprises me, as I had thought all of Marti’s other relatives had passed away.

Behind us are limos filled with local residents, some of whom want only to be part of history. A great many, however, genuinely came to offer their respects to Marti. This show of affection stuns me. Even though I have always known how much my friend was loved, she has reached many more people with her photographs and stories than I’d realized. In the church, the words Shining Bright were whispered often among the pews.

Bringing up the rear of the cortege are local and international reporters. Everyone who could possibly commandeer a limo or car has become part of this today, including famous anchors like Jane Pauley, Tom Brokaw, Katie Couric. Our local congressman was at the church, as well as more than one senator, and I wonder briefly what Marti would say about this fuss. Would she be gratified? Or embarrassed? My guess is a little of both.

“Hmm? What?” Jeffrey says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a noise.”

“I was smiling.”

“No, you made a noise.” His voice is cool, though his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “A snort, unless I miss my guess.”

“Well, if anyone knows my snort, it would be you, Jeffrey.”

“Not only am I far too familiar with it, but I’m rather certain I know what you’re snorting at now, as well.”

“No doubt you are.”

“You think this is all too much, all this attention paid to Marti.”

I look at him. “And you? What do you think, Jeffrey?”

“That you are far too cynical. It’s your worst failing.”

After a moment of silence I can’t help it. I snort. “Well, at least we know it’s not your worst failing, Jeffrey.”

My husband stands beside me, his arm linked through mine supportively as photographers snap more photos of us than of Marti’s grave. “I told you they didn’t split,” I hear one of them say, not bothering to keep her voice down, while another murmurs, “She looks like she’s holding up better than him.”

It’s true that Jeffrey doesn’t look well. His eyes are strained, his face gaunt. I would feel sorry for him, but I’m guessing that exercise, not illness, is at fault for this. Most of Jeffrey’s life energy is sucked dry these days by his frenetic attempts to stay young and firm for the bimbo. The old platitude does hold true: After a certain age one must choose between the face or the ass. The fact that I’ve added a few pounds as ballast helps to plump out any wrinkles that might threaten to emerge as I move closer to forty, while Jeffrey lifts the weights, runs the miles and hurtles recklessly toward the sea of romance and early cardiac arrest.

On the other side of the coffin from us are the two women in black with veils over their faces, and Marti’s brother, Ned. His face is somber, though his mouth twists in what might be rancor at the priest’s words: “To you, oh Lord, we commend the spirit of this woman of utmost virtue and unfailing faith. We ask your angels to carry her swiftly to that High Place where you reside, to guide and keep her throughout her journey home…”

My eyes meet Ned’s, and I am shocked by the look of hatred he sends me. Within moments I shiver and am forced to look away. I can still feel those cold dark eyes on me, however, and the emotion behind them. Searching my mind, I can think of no reason for it, and after another moment I give a mental shrug and go back to listening to the priest. He is saying the prayers of the dead, and the two women next to Ned are making the sign of the cross. As the service ends, one steps forward to toss a handful of dirt onto the lowered coffin. She draws the black veil from her face and looks directly at me. I am shocked to see the now-aged but unmistakable face of Sister Helen.

It has been twenty years, but not a day has gone by in the look that passes between us. I am still the novice, she the angry and disappointed sponsor of my and Marti’s ill-fated gift of our lives to God.

The other woman draws her veil back, as well—a stranger with short, steel-gray hair. No one I have ever met before. Sister Helen turns her gaze from me and speaks softly to her companion, who nods and walks slowly back toward the line of waiting black cars. Sister Helen moves toward me.

“Good morning, Abby,” she says, the gravelly voice still strong and just as intimidating. She is in civilian dress, a black suit, stockings and shoes, which further surprises me. Years ago she swore never to stop wearing her habit.

The look she gives me is one I remember, though—stern and unyielding. I feel I’ve done something wrong and, as if in a time warp, I look down quickly to see if I’ve got my white postulant’s collar on backward, or if my black oxfords have come untied from too much racing along the halls.

Is there a run in my black hose? Did I spill gravy down my front?

The glint in Sister Helen’s eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking and is enjoying every moment of my discomfort.

“A sad day,” she says.

“Yes,” I agree. “A very sad day. I’m surprised to see you here, Sister. How are you? How have you been?”

She doesn’t answer but continues to appraise me. An awkward silence ensues.

“Did you, uh…did you and Marti keep in touch all these years?” I try.

“We spoke now and then,” she says noncommittally.

I wonder why Marti never mentioned being in contact with Sister Helen.

“Are you still in Santa Rosa?” I ask. “At Mary Star of the Sea?”

“Hardly.”

Her tone is bitter, and I don’t know what to make of that.

“You’ve retired?”

“I suppose one might say that.”

I’m at a loss.

“And you, Abigail?” she asks.

It has been years since anyone called me that, which oddly adds to my discomfort.

“I live here now. In Carmel.”

“Of course you do. And why not?”

This time her tone annoys me. “What do you mean, Sister?”

“I mean, Abigail, that you always land on your feet. Despite the cost to others.”

Her hostility astounds me. It is as if, in her mind, my breach of promise to become the Bride of Christ occurred yesterday.

We face each other, two women with far too much to say, and too many years behind us to say it.

At this moment Marti’s brother comes to stand behind Sister Helen, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Helen?” he says. “We’re ready to leave.”

She gives him a brief look and turns back to me. “You know Marti’s brother, Ned?” she asks with what seems to be studied courtesy.

“No, we’ve never met.”

Up close I can see that Ned Bright is handsome, in a rather old-fashioned, Jane Austen–novel way. His face is thin, like Marti’s, composed of elegant angles and lines. The brown eyes, enhanced by long lashes, can only be described as lovely.

I extend my hand to shake his, but he doesn’t take it.

“It’s you who killed her,” he says. “When all’s said and done, it’s you.”

I am stunned. “That…that isn’t true!” I can only manage, as a third-grader might. “Marti was my best friend!”

“You were never a friend to my sister.”

I look at Sister Helen for help, for support and confirmation that none of this is happening, but she turns away.

“I’m ready to leave,” she says crisply.

Ned takes her arm and they walk together, joining the other woman at one of the few remaining cars. I stare after them in bewilderment and shock.

Feeling newly bereft, I ache to be at home with my dog, my books, my bed. It has been only four days since Marti died, and every moment has been packed with grief woven tortuously with brooding attempts to figure out what happened.

I wonder when the Secret Service will be on me again. I’ve done my best to throw them off the track, Marti. Ben’s the only one I’ve told about your son. With any luck…

Suddenly, to stand on yet another foggy, rain-soaked hill when my friend is no longer here, and then to be told she was not my friend, is more than I can stand without breaking down.

Looking around for Jeffrey I find him schmoozing with a group of people we know, as well as several strangers. I watch my husband shake hands, nod, smile, laugh and generally act as if he’s at a political clambake. Sighing, I turn away, thinking to walk back to our car and wait for him.