“Always,” she said.
“You’re doing great, Pam. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, Bobby.” Then she leaned in and said, “I don’t really care for these women friends.”
“I hear you,” Bob said. Then he added, “Sorry. But I’m going to have a slug of whiskey.” He walked over to the decanter, remembering how Helen had always poured him a whiskey as soon as he walked through the door, and he felt a sickness as he poured it into a glass and drank a swallow. Pam had followed him. “Don’t be sorry. That’s part of the deal, not drinking while other people are.”
“What’s been going on with you, Pam? Who are these people you had to apologize to for being a drunk?” Bob held his glass of whiskey and looked at her.
“Oh,” she said, with a sigh big enough to make her mask move slightly. “First of all, Ted, because I would get really nasty to him some nights after drinking.”
“And how did he take these apologies?” Bob asked.
Pam said, “With surprise, to be frank about it. He’s amazed I’m in AA.”
“Who else did you apologize to?”
“Oh, you know, a couple of women friends.” She rolled her eyes. “And they were—of course—very supportive. Said I had never said anything mean to them, blah blah.” Pam’s eyebrows went up. “And maybe I hadn’t, maybe I had just thought about the things I wanted to say to them, who knows.” And then her eyes watered, and she said, quietly, “And the boys. I guess I used to call them drunk.” She shook her head. “But they were great. Especially Eric.” Pam touched Bob’s arm. “He came to see me, Bob. And he was dressed in women’s clothes, and I’m not going to lie to you, it was very hard at first. Well, awkward. You know the fucking doormen and everything, I mean of course they didn’t say a word. But he’s such a great kid, Bob. And he said he really misses me, and he’ll come again as long as Ted’s not there.” She looked around. “Oh, Bobby. What a mess everyone is.” Then she looked at him and said, “What about you?”
“All good, thanks. What’s going on with Ted?” Bob asked.
“Well.” Pam twirled a piece of hair by her face with her finger. “I’m still trying to figure out what to do about him. I’ve been actually…pretty okay living without him. I mean, he comes back to the city sometimes, but otherwise he’s still in the Hamptons. Has been all winter.”
“With Lydia? She still out there? You didn’t apologize to her, did you?”
“Never,” Pam said. “Oh, she’s still out there.” She added, “Fuck them both.”
—
Jim had disappeared.
Bob found him sitting by himself in the study upstairs, and Bob walked in tentatively and said, “Jim?” His brother turned to look at him, his eyes were without expression. “Ah, Jimmy,” Bob said, and sat down across from his brother. They sat without speaking. And then Jim said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking I don’t want to be buried in that horrible plot next to her in Connecticut, I don’t want that, Bob. But we have two plots, Bob, it’s making me a little crazy.”
“Where do you want to be buried?” Bob asked.
Jim said, “I don’t. I want to be cremated and I want my ashes spread over the Androscoggin River in Maine. That’s what I want.”
8
Oddly, the memory of being in the car with both his wives became a very special thing to Bob; he had felt understood by them both—such different women!—and the fact that they were generous and benevolent to each other sort of slayed him. This is what brought tears to his eyes as he told Lucy about it later on their walk by the river. Not the death of Helen. “I guess I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Lucy said, “Probably not.”
“Except their house itself is so different, so empty.”
Lucy nodded and looked over at him. “Oh Bob, I’m sorry. Tell me more.” And so Bob said how alone Jim seemed at the burial, how attentive he was later to the little grandchildren, and Lucy listened, shaking her head. They walked in silence for a while.
“Everything okay with you?” Bob turned to ask her.
Lucy smiled at him. “You already asked me that. You poor thing. Yes, everything’s fine, Aiden is fine, Chrissy is fine. Becka’s seeing some philosophy student.”
And then she told him about her experience with Olive Kitteridge. “She was very confused by my stories, but so what.”
“So what,” agreed Bob. “But tell me the stories.”
Lucy squinted at him. “You sure? You don’t need to hear my stupid stories.”
“I want to hear them,” Bob said, and he did.
And so Lucy told him about the man on the train and also the taxi driver. Bob kept looking over at her as she talked. He tried to think of anyone else he knew that would tell such stories, and he could think of no one. “That’s so curious,” he said, meaning the man on the train. “That you felt like you were commenting together on the swollen rivers.”
“But we were, Bob. I swear to God we were.”
“Oh, I believe you,” he said, and he did. “You’re something, Lucy.”
She laughed. “William always says, ‘You’re a strange one, Lucy.’ ”
“You’re not strange, you’re Lucy.” He added, “William says he thinks you’re a spirit. That’s all he means when he says you’re strange.”
“Thanks, Bob.” She kept walking without looking at him.
—
It had snowed once again a few days earlier, and the path they walked on was slightly slushy. “I can’t stand this snow in April,” Bob said, and Lucy said, “Oh, me too!” But they already knew that about each other.
“I wish I could tell you about this case I’ve taken,” Bob said as they walked. “But I can’t because it’s all attorney-client privilege.”
“I understand,” Lucy said. “I went out with a lawyer for a while between my two marriages, and he told me that. Except he was always telling me stuff he shouldn’t.” She waved a hand dismissively. And then she stopped walking, and her eyes became warm as she looked at Bob and said, “David was such a lovely man, Bob. You know, my second husband.”
