Man of the Year by Caroline Louise Walker

Author:Caroline Louise Walker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

20.

No one lets you sleep after a thing like this. They’re not quick to say, “So sorry for your trauma, Doctor. Go rest, we’ll clean up this mess.”

Instead, a troupe of experts makes and leaves new messes. They expect me to be sharp and willing and accessible, but nobody ever says, “One last thing, then we’ll let you sleep.” The deputy medical examiner separates me from Elizabeth from Jonah from me, and they take turns squeezing minutiae from our memories before first releasing me, then Elizabeth, who offers to make tea for our unwelcome guests. I meet her in the pantry under the guise of helping her find Earl Grey.

“How much longer can this take?” she asks me. “Haven’t they harassed Jonah enough? He hasn’t even had a chance to process this yet. It’s so ugly. They make everything so clinical and technical and unemotional. He’s lost his best friend in the entire world. He doesn’t need this shit. He needs you, Robert.”

I rub her back. “I’m here for him. These guys will leave soon.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”

“I may fall apart.”

“Please don’t,” I beg. “We can lose our shit once they’re gone, or not. We’ll deal with this together. Do we even have Earl Grey?”

“No idea.” She scans shelves, flicking labels with her fingers, turning cans, rearranging bags of rice and beans. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I can’t read right now.”

I shush her and say, “Relax. Let me.” After a good turn inspecting dry goods, I call it. “There’s only English Breakfast and Matcha Green.”

“Do the English Breakfast. I feel so fucked up, Robert.”

“I do too.”

“So fucked up.” Her fingertips have gone pale from how hard she’s gripping her own arms. “I can’t go back out there.”

“Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” I take her hands and gently guide them to her sides. “We need to keep it together just a little bit longer. Try. Please.” Before she can argue, I coax her out of the pantry and into the kitchen, where she hides her hysteria and puts a kettle on to boil. She appears to be sad and weary, but not fragile, not cracked, as she spoons loose tea into a ball and chain.

People in uniform track mud from the roof through the house. Our living room rug will need a steam clean after this. Some of our neighbors call or stop by to snoop. Acquaintances telephone, having heard through the grapevine that there are squad cars in our driveway. They pretend to be concerned rather than nosy. They’re nosy.

I jot notes in the kitchen—a time line, officers’ names—and eavesdrop as Jonah tells the medical examiner about Nick’s next of kin, an aunt upstate who will, no doubt, be calling us to run through these same questions before long. (“What happened? What did you do when you saw him, Dr. Hart?”) The aunt will ask if there were warning signs. (“Why did this happen?”) She’ll want me to paint Nick’s last day for her, brushstroke by brick by breath by little bit.

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