Chapter 8: Junie

I called Peter from the sidewalk outside the ballroom with my back against a lamppost.

"Tell me about my heart," I said.

"Your heart is excellent."

"Geneva says it's going to stop this winter."

He was quiet for one second.

Then he said, in a voice I had not heard before, "I ran every test before surgery."

"You have the heart of a twenty-year-old. Where are you?"

"Park Avenue. I'm fine. I want to go somewhere."

"Where?"

I looked at the traffic.

"I haven't seen my daughter since the funeral."

He did not say he was sorry.

He said, "I'll bring the car."

The cemetery lay across the river, on a hill of old trees, and it was nearly empty on a weekday.

He parked on the gravel and came around to open my door, and I walked the last stretch alone.

The stone was small and grey, set low in the grass.

It had a lamb carved at the top and a single line of letters.

JUNIE SCHUYLER.

I stood there with my hands in my coat pockets.

The wind moved in the branches overhead, a long dry rushing sound I had forgotten leaves could make.

A bird clicked somewhere, and far off a train went by.

"I never said her name out loud," I said.

"Not once?"

"I signed it. I never said it. I didn't have a voice to say it with."

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