The Obituary Writer A Novel by Ann Hood

Author:Ann Hood
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Birdy lay in the hospital bed with her long silver hair spread out around her like a fan. Claire had never seen her hair unpinned, and it made her seem vulnerable somehow, spilling across the white pillowcase. She did not have the grayish pallor Claire had seen on some sick people. Her cheeks still had a slight pinkish color and her chest rose and fell in the even breaths of someone asleep. That must be a good sign, Claire thought. She’d expected to see a shell, something emptied of the life it had once had. She’d expected machines beeping and solemn faces. But the room was bright, almost cheerful. A calendar on the wall said January 20 in big black letters, as if it were shouting.

“It’s inauguration day,” Claire said softly as she perched on the edge of the bed. She wondered if her mother-in-law could hear her. “Jack Kennedy is going to be our next president,” she continued.

She glanced up at her husband, who was standing by the window gazing out.

“She was so happy he won. Called me up and said that everything would be fine now,” Peter said. “Lifelong Democrat. They both were.”

It took Claire a moment to realize he meant his parents were both Democrats. He rarely talked about his father, who had died when he was twelve. He’d worked as a foreman in a textile mill and died in an accident involving machinery there. Although Claire didn’t know the details, Peter had alluded to how horrendous a death it had been.

She turned her attention back to her mother-in-law. “They say he’s wearing a morning suit,” Claire said. “Striped trousers, white jacket, silk top hat—”

Behind her, Peter chuckled. “This is what you tell a dying woman?” he asked.

“Well,” Claire said, “it’s what I’d want to know.”

A candy striper with a blond ponytail wheeled a cart stacked with magazines, newspapers, cigarettes, and candy bars into the room.

“Grab a newspaper, would you?” Peter said.

The girl held out a Providence Morning Journal to Claire.

“Does she have a Globe?” Peter asked.

Embarrassed that he didn’t address the girl directly, Claire looked through the papers herself.

“Here’s one,” she said, plucking a Boston Globe from the pile.

On the front page Jackie, dressed in a pearl white satin gown, smiled out at her.

“To think she had a baby just eight weeks ago,” Claire said, admiring Jackie’s waistline.

“Next thing I know, Clairezy,” Peter said, “you’re going to insist we name the baby Jackie.”

Claire skimmed the article about the celebration the night before, how they’d attended a classical concert by the National Symphony at Constitution Hall, and then drove past the Washington Monument, past bonfires and snow-removal workers with flamethrowers, until they reached the armory itself. She wondered what the concert had been. Something traditional, like Mozart? Or contemporary, like maybe Aaron Copeland? Why didn’t the paper give the details? In a couple of hours they could tune into Dave Garroway and maybe see some footage from last night, if there was a television set somewhere.

“It says

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