I had laughed, of course, but I also felt jealous of how Papa would show her his vulnerability and permit her to pet him and fidget around him. He always had to be “the general” as far as I was concerned. Maybe that, too, was a holdover from his time with Roxy. She was so difficult that he was afraid to show the slightest weakness, softness, even for an instant. It occurred to me that she might never have seen him as a human being, someone with real feelings, real pain, and real disappointment. Maybe if she had, she would have behaved better, been more considerate and loving.
But it was too late for any of that now, wasn’t it? It was too late for so many things. Too late for Papa to realize that I definitely would never be another Roxy. Too late for Papa to watch me graduate from high school and even college. Too late for Papa to meet the man I would marry and to give me away at my wedding. Too late for Papa to be grandfather to my children. It was too late to tell him one more time that I loved him or hear him say he loved me one more time.
It was too late for everyone in our family. Too late for his brother to mend fences and for his brother’s daughters to find out how much of a loving and considerate uncle he could be. Most of all, it was too late for Mama, who had died a little today, too. How lost and alone she already looked. How horrible it would be for her to lie in their bed and listen for Papa’s breathing or wait to feel his hand searching for hers under the blanket. Loneliness and loss would take so many forms in our home now, whether it be Papa’s empty chair at the dining-room table or the silence in the hallway. No more heavy footsteps coming our way. No more calling out Mama’s or my name. Yes, the silences would be most painful of all, the silences and the empty chairs.
What were his last thoughts? Did he realize he was going to die, and did he think, Oh, no, I have not spoken to Roxy, and I’ll never speak to Vivian or Emmie again? Did he rage against the dying of the light the way Dylan Thomas wrote in his poem? Papa was a soldier, a fighter. He wouldn’t simply surrender to death. There was surely a terrible struggle, a battle well fought. His ancestors would greet him with praise.
“You showed him,” they would say. “You weakened him good, and like a true Wilcox, you made death pay for his victory. He knew he was in a fight when he chose you.”
I smiled thinking about that, and then I went to my window and looked down at the street. Somewhere out there in this great city, Roxy was laughing with someone or having something wonderful to eat, completely unaware of what had happened. Maybe she was wearing that dress Chastity and I saw her try on in the boutique, or maybe she was in a limousine being brought to some man or returning from some man.
Maybe, just maybe, she heard something odd in the air and was confused for a moment.
Was that my name? she would wonder. Did someone just call to me?
She might have turned or paused and listened again.
Whomever she was with might ask her what was wrong.
She would shake her head but look a little confused.
“What was it, Roxy?”
“I thought . . .”
“What?”
“I thought I heard my father calling me.”
“Your father? What . . .”
“Nothing,” she would say, and shake her head. She would go on doing whatever it was she was doing, and she wouldn’t think about it again.
Because it was too late.
I sprawled out on my bed and looked up at the ceiling.
The phone was still ringing. I could hear more voices downstairs. I closed my eyes and didn’t wake up again until I heard Mama call my name. She had come up to my bedroom and was standing right beside me.
“Your friend is here,” she said.
My eyelids fluttered and then opened. I sat up. “What friend?”
Did the terrible news bring Evan back? How could I even care at that moment?
“Chastity,” she said. “She wants to come up to see you.”
“Oh.”
My first reaction was to tell my mother to send her away, but there was a part of me that longed for someone my own age. My father and mother’s friends and my father’s coworkers seemed to think of me as much younger now. I could hear it in their voices and see it in their eyes. It was as if they thought I didn’t understand fully what had happened.
“Okay,” I said, and got up to throw some cold water on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment. Of course, it was my imagination, but I looked as if I had aged years.
“Hi,” I heard, and turned to see Chastity standing timidly in my bedroom doorway. Over the past two years, my bedroom and hers were like our private clubhouses. The walls in both rooms were painted with our secrets. There was no formality. Nothing of mine was untouchable, as was nothing of hers. We no longer asked each other permission to do anything in our rooms.
“Hi,” I said, and sat at my desk.
She walked in gingerly, looking at me as though she were afraid I might suddenly develop thin cracks in my face and crumble before her eyes.