Afterlife - Julia Alvarez Page 0,34
What weird card game are you playing with your loss? Antonia wondered.
Is something wrong, Sheriff?
A neighbor reported seeing someone coming in and out of your garage. You’ve been away, they said.
What neighbor would that be? No one lives directly beside or in front of her; all the houses are staggered and separated by an acre or more, except for the cluster toward the end of the road. Perhaps the report was by one of those neighbors. Mrs. Gaudet? The cranky lady in the cardigan? Unlikely it would be Roger. Given his work crew, he wouldn’t want cops patrolling the road. She assures Sheriff Boyer that all is well. I’d ask you in but—she glances down at herself, still in her nightgown, her feet bare.
No need for that, he says, peering over her shoulder. Antonia wills herself not to turn and check, betraying her guilt. You mind, though, if I take a look in your garage?
A slight hesitation, before she says, not at all. Let me open it for you. Hold on a sec while I put on my shoes. She closes the door, hurries through the mudroom into the garage, casts a look around, stacks the cushions back in a pile, a last glance, before she presses the button and the door lifts on Sheriff Boyer. He grins at the sight of her and again touches his hat in salutation. Ma’am, he repeats. The way he says it, in that low syrupy voice, it almost sounds sexy, better, at any rate, than “Mrs. Sawyer,” as most people in town refer to her.
She watches his assessing gaze. Sorry about the mess, she says, as if this were her living room and he an honored guest.
You should see mine, he says, chuckling.
I haven’t kept up much since my husband’s passing. With this set of folks, the same subset with whom she feels she can allude to Jesus, she uses the term passing, death no more than a lane on a highway, for those speeding into the unknown.
Sorry for your loss, he says genuinely, one hand actually flying up to his heart. That Dr. Sawyer was a good man. Took care of my mother’s glaucoma. Yours truly, too. I called him up one Sunday afternoon, a thistle in my eye, and he had me drive over to his office, took it right out, didn’t charge a red cent.
That, more than the sheriff donation sticker, probably kept the Sawyers safe from speeding tickets.
Sounds like Sam all right, Antonia says wistfully. Then, too apropos not to add: he was the good cop to my bad cop.
Oh, I don’t know about that, the sheriff wags his head. You’re a pretty nice lady yourself. The freckles on his face sharpen. Ruddy-faced, big-chested, he looks good in that hat. Cowboyish and kind.
He has stepped inside the garage, peering into the corners, circling back to face her, nothing seems to have caught his eye that she can tell. Sorry to disturb you, he concludes.
Can I ask who reported the intruder?
You can, he concedes the point, but it’s me who can’t say. He looks away, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face. Let’s just say some people have nothing better to do than keep an eye on everyone else. He chuckles—a verb coined for his type of avuncular laughter.
Stay safe, he says for good-bye, and starts walking away, but then pivots, pulls out his wallet from his back pocket, and hands her his card. You see anything worrisome, anything, you give us a call. We’ll be right over. The civil servant’s royal we.
The card has a sheriff-star logo in soft focus, the contact information in sharp, black no-nonsense print. On the back, his handwritten extension.
Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll be okay. What she tells everybody. The best thing you can give the people who love you is to take care of yourself so you don’t become a burden on them.
Who is the most important one? Myself, myself, myself. Maybe Izzy decided on the second best thing: to disappear altogether from the isolation of self-care.
Feeling more urgency after the sheriff’s visit, Antonia heads next door to talk to Mario and José. She needs to make arrangements for Estela before she takes off for Massachusetts. She is getting out of her car when she runs into Roger, scowling as he comes back from the barn. Already a bad day and it’s only just begun.
Hey there, she says with the cheerful lilt of a kindergarten teacher. She launches into her story. A