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The day was kind on the mourners, and Margo resented that. A light drizzle of rain, at least, would have seemed more respectful to the occasion. Instead, birds sang and the branches of the trees in the cemetery were beginning to bend under the weight of abundant blossoms. The morning was very cool, more so to her, perhaps, after long years spent living in a more temperate clime. When Lamont had first been diagnosed, she had begged him to return north to the doctors there, but he had waved her concerns aside and they had stayed. Only now was she returning to New Jersey, to lay him in the cold ground of the Cranston family plot.
It was beyond unfair to return alone. There were no children or grandchildren to attend her, only a sweet-faced young grand-niece to fuss distantly at her, anticipating wants and needs beyond those she actually had. She say in a wheelchair through the graveside portion of the service, letting the words of the priest flow over her as she studied each face in turn. Some were familiar, but many more were not, until the first handful of dirt was cast on the grave and they came past her in a slow trickle to introduce themselves. The greetings were brief, the duty of paying respects to the widow, and they flowed into each other. These were people touched by the Cranston charity funds, grateful to her as well as to him for the generous donations over the decades. The causes they had both sponsored were many, and it was touching to see them turn up for a last thank you.
There were none of the faces she had hoped to see, however aged, and no greetings of silence and only a knowing, fleeting smile. There were no other agents.
When at last the stream had dwindled away, Margo pushed herself carefully out of the wheelchair, to stand at his grave only a touch unsteadily. She begged the grand-niece and priest to give her a few moments, and was grateful when they retreated to a very respectable distance. The grand procession of the whole funeral seemed to have worn away at her soul. She looked down at the dark coffin, and around at the family headstones, some leaning crookedly and damaged by acid rain and moss. Her eyes fell on the slim column of black among the trees, and it belonged there so utterly that she did not recognize him for more than a part of the scenery until he approached her.
He walked smoothly across the grassy hillocks, piercing blue eyes fixed on her. The suit was black, neatly tailored, broken only by a bright crimson tie. When he stopped at the far side of the grave, she was given a long moment to study him, and a much-needed one. She stood there feeling withered and ugly and old, and hating him. She hated his ease and confidence, his strength and his lean straight form. With Lamont she had been comfortable, the two of them at home with the ravages of age they shared. How dare he ruin that comfort with his inhuman longevity? Unable to meet his eyes at first, she stared at the heavy girasol ring on a hand that was more gnarled than she remembered. When at last she found the hawklike face, a dim echo of who Lamont might have been, she saw that he looked tired.
"You didn’t have to come…" She found her voice, and was frustrated to find that it wavered.
His burning gaze fell from her to the coffin, as if piercing through it to somehow touch the body within. "Yes, I did." The words were quietly spoken, but held a weight of sorrow. Here was the understanding she had looked for among the other mourners, but somehow she had never expected him to come himself. He, too, was here alone.
Margo looked down to the coffin as well, and fought for words, until a touch at her shoulder and a polite voice broke into her thoughts. "Auntie Margo?" She looked up, and around, and saw a distant dark shape of a man walking away, alone among the graves.
She sighed, and let herself be helped back into the wheelchair rather than risk a fall across the uneven ground. "I’m ready to go home."
In the Nexus.
It was beyond unfair to return alone. There were no children or grandchildren to attend her, only a sweet-faced young grand-niece to fuss distantly at her, anticipating wants and needs beyond those she actually had. She say in a wheelchair through the graveside portion of the service, letting the words of the priest flow over her as she studied each face in turn. Some were familiar, but many more were not, until the first handful of dirt was cast on the grave and they came past her in a slow trickle to introduce themselves. The greetings were brief, the duty of paying respects to the widow, and they flowed into each other. These were people touched by the Cranston charity funds, grateful to her as well as to him for the generous donations over the decades. The causes they had both sponsored were many, and it was touching to see them turn up for a last thank you.
There were none of the faces she had hoped to see, however aged, and no greetings of silence and only a knowing, fleeting smile. There were no other agents.
When at last the stream had dwindled away, Margo pushed herself carefully out of the wheelchair, to stand at his grave only a touch unsteadily. She begged the grand-niece and priest to give her a few moments, and was grateful when they retreated to a very respectable distance. The grand procession of the whole funeral seemed to have worn away at her soul. She looked down at the dark coffin, and around at the family headstones, some leaning crookedly and damaged by acid rain and moss. Her eyes fell on the slim column of black among the trees, and it belonged there so utterly that she did not recognize him for more than a part of the scenery until he approached her.
He walked smoothly across the grassy hillocks, piercing blue eyes fixed on her. The suit was black, neatly tailored, broken only by a bright crimson tie. When he stopped at the far side of the grave, she was given a long moment to study him, and a much-needed one. She stood there feeling withered and ugly and old, and hating him. She hated his ease and confidence, his strength and his lean straight form. With Lamont she had been comfortable, the two of them at home with the ravages of age they shared. How dare he ruin that comfort with his inhuman longevity? Unable to meet his eyes at first, she stared at the heavy girasol ring on a hand that was more gnarled than she remembered. When at last she found the hawklike face, a dim echo of who Lamont might have been, she saw that he looked tired.
"You didn’t have to come…" She found her voice, and was frustrated to find that it wavered.
His burning gaze fell from her to the coffin, as if piercing through it to somehow touch the body within. "Yes, I did." The words were quietly spoken, but held a weight of sorrow. Here was the understanding she had looked for among the other mourners, but somehow she had never expected him to come himself. He, too, was here alone.
Margo looked down to the coffin as well, and fought for words, until a touch at her shoulder and a polite voice broke into her thoughts. "Auntie Margo?" She looked up, and around, and saw a distant dark shape of a man walking away, alone among the graves.
She sighed, and let herself be helped back into the wheelchair rather than risk a fall across the uneven ground. "I’m ready to go home."
In the Nexus.