looked up at her mother, wondering why their faces were so close.
“You fainted.”
“I didn’t,” Claire argued, though evidence pointed to the contrary. She was lying on her back in her own driveway. The policewoman was standing over her. Claire tried in vain to think of an insect the woman resembled, but honestly, she just looked overworked and tired.
The cop said, “Ma’am, just stay there. There’s an ambulance ten minutes out.”
Claire forced away the image of the paramedics who had rushed down the alley with their gurney in tow, the way they had spent less than a minute examining Paul before shaking their heads.
Had someone actually said, “He’s gone,” or had Claire said the words herself? Heard the words. Felt the words. Watched her husband go from being a man to being a body.
Claire asked her mother, “Can you help me up?”
“Ma’am, don’t sit up,” the cop ordered.
Helen helped her sit up. “Did you hear what the cop said?”
“You’re the one who helped me sit up.”
“Not that. Someone tried to rob the house.”
“Rob the house?” Claire repeated, because it didn’t make sense. “Why?”
“I imagine they wanted to steal things.” Helen’s tone was patient, but Claire could tell she was unsettled by the news. “The caterers walked in on the burglars.”
Burglars. The word sounded antiquated in her mother’s mouth.
Helen continued, “There was a fight. The bartender was badly hurt.”
“Tim?” she asked, because she thought knowing the details might make her understand that this had really happened.
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know his name.”
Claire looked up at the house. She was feeling disembodied again, drifting in and out of the wake of Paul’s absence.
And then she thought of the Snake Man and snapped back into the present.
Claire asked the cop, “There was more than one burglar?”
“There were three African American males, medium builds, mid-twenties. They were all wearing masks and gloves.”
Helen had never had much faith in police officers. “With that description, I’m sure you’ll find them in no time.”
“Mother,” Claire tried, because this wasn’t helping.
“They were in a silver late-model four-door.” The cop gripped the baton handle on her belt, likely because she longed to use it. “We’ve got a state-wide BOLO on the vehicle.”
“Young lady, to me a bolo is a garish string tie.” Helen was in full librarian mode again, taking out all the angst that she couldn’t direct toward Claire. “Could you trouble yourself to speak English?”
Ginny provided, “Be-on-the-look-out. Am I right?” She smiled sweetly at the cop. “I have a color television in my sitting room.”
Claire said, “I can’t sit in the driveway like this.” Helen grabbed her arm and helped her stand. What would Paul do if he were here? He would take charge. Claire couldn’t do that. She could barely keep her legs underneath her. “Did the burglars take anything?”
The cop said, “We don’t think so, ma’am, but we need you to walk through with the detectives and check.” She pointed toward a group of men standing by the mudroom door. They were all wearing Columbo trench coats. One of them even had a cigar clenched between his teeth. “They’ll give you a checklist to generate an inventory. You’ll need a thorough report for your insurance company.”
Claire felt so overwhelmed that she almost laughed. The woman might as well have asked her to catalog the Smithsonian. “I’ve got people coming. I need to make sure the tables are set up. The caterer—”
“Ma’am,” the cop interrupted, “we can’t let anyone into the house until the scene is cleared.”
Claire put her fist to her mouth so she wouldn’t tell the cop to stop calling her fucking “ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” the cop said.
Claire dropped her fist. There was a car stopped at the bottom of the driveway. Gray Mercedes. Headlights on. Yellow FUNERAL flag hanging out of the window. Another Mercedes slowed to a stop behind it. The funeral procession had finally caught up. What was she going to do? Falling to the ground again seemed like the simplest solution. And then what? The ambulance. The hospital. The sedatives. Eventually, she would be sent home. Eventually, she would find herself standing in this same place again with the detectives and the inventory and insurance and the bullshit. This was all Paul’s fault. He should be here. He should be taking care of all of this. That was his job.
Claire Scott was furious at her dead husband for not being there to solve her problems.
“Honey?” Helen asked.
“I’m okay.” Claire had realized a long time ago that if you lie with enough