computer mailbox was not located at the old stone and brick house, nor
was it at Sidney’s desk at the offices of Tyler, Stone. And, currently,
there was no one home to read it. The message would just have to keep.
Sidney finally rose and left the study. For some reason the sudden
flash across the computer screen had given her an absurd hope, as if
Jason were somehow communicating to her, from wherever he had gone after
the jet had plunged into the ground. Stupid! she told herself.
That was impossible.
An hour later, after another episode of wrenching grief, her body
alliterated, she gripped a picture of Amy. She had to take care of
herself. Amy needed her. She opened a can of soup, turned on the stove
and a few minutes later ladled out a small quantity of beef barley into
a bowl and carried it over to the kitchen table. She managed to ingest
a few spoonfuls while she looked at the walls of the kitchen that Jason
had planned to paint that weekend after much nagging from her.
Everywhere she turned, a new memory, a fresh pang of guilt, battered
her. How could it not? This place contained as much of them, as much
of him, as was possible for an inanimate shell to hold.
She could feel the hot soup passing through her system, but her body
still shuddered as though it were almost out of fuel. She grabbed a
bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator and drank straight from the
container until the shakes stopped. Yet even as the physical side
started to calm down, she could feel the inner forces building once
again.
She jumped up from the table and walked into the living room; she turned
on the TV. Numbly channel-hopping, she ran across the inevitable: live
news coverage of the crash. She felt guilty about her curiosity
regarding an event that had ripped her husband from her.
However, she could not deny that she craved knowledge about the event,
as if her approaching it from a coldly factual angle would at least
temporarily lessen the terrible hurt that tore at her.
The newswoman was standing near the crash site. In the background the
collection process was being dutifully conducted. Sidney watched the
debris being carried and sorted into various piles. Suddenly she almost
fell out of her chair. One worker had passed directly behind the
newswoman as she rambled on with her story. The canvas bag with the
crisscross pattern barely looked damaged, only singed and dirtied at the
edges. She could even make out the large initials written in the bold,
black print. The bag was placed in a pile of similar items. For one
awful moment, Sidney Archer couldn’t move. Her limbs were completely
locked. The next moment she was all action.
She ran upstairs, changed into jeans and a thick white sweater, put on
low warm boots and hurriedly packed a bag. In a few minutes she was
backing the Ford out of the garage. She glanced once at the Cougar
convertible parked in the other garage bay. Jason had lovingly kept it
running for almost ten years and its battered look had always been
underscored by their memory of the sleek elegance of the Jag. Even the
Explorer looked brand-new by comparison with the Cougar. The contrast
had always amused her before. Tonight it did not, as a new cascade of
tears blurred her vision and made her slam on the brakes.
She beat her hands on the dashboard until jarring pain shot up to her
elbows. Finally she laid her head against the steering wheel as she
struggled to regain her breath. She thought she would be nauseous as
the taste of beef barley made its way into her throat, but it finally
receded into the depths of her quivering stomach. Moments later she was
heading down the quiet street. She looked back briefly at her home.
They had lived there almost three years. A wonderful place built almost
a hundred years ago with large-proportioned rooms, wide crown moldings,
random-width oak plank flooring and enough secret nooks that you didn’t
have to try very hard to find a quiet place to lose yourself on a gloomy