Blackbird Fly Read Online Free Page B

baby.
    She chops leeks and tears flow from her eyes. As she
throws the vegetables into the kettle she prays once more for a
child. Then they will both be so happy they will love each other
forever.
     

Chapter 4
     
    It was late morning by the time they arrived in the
financial district. Fifteen days since Harry died, a Wednesday.
Merle was missing a staff meeting at ten-thirty, a lunch meeting in
Queens, and six afternoon appointments with clients, one of whom
was an old black man named Elmer she’d been helping for years.
    She sighed and tried not to think about Elmer and his
problems. She was a walking appointment book, her mind fixated on
the calendar the way others memorized football scores and bird
lists. It was a curse to be so obsessed with days, hours,
appointments. Calendar Girl, Harry used to call her, teasing her as
he asked on what day of the week the Fourth of July fell three
years from now, as if she were a parlor game. And she knew, she
always knew.
    Tristan sulked in the train. Merle forced herself to
look at the scenery and feel joy — or something, anything —
whenever she saw a redbud or crabapple in bloom.
    Why was she so obsessed with time? Now the future
looked fuzzy, and it scared her. She had no idea what was going to
happen, and felt herself clinging to her old life, unwilling to let
it go even though the reality was that it was gone already. And
shame, that was a big one. Her failure to love her husband hovered
at the edges of everything. She was deficient. That was obvious.
She hadn’t admitted it to her sisters yet but she would. She
couldn’t keep something so big, so emotional, from Annie
especially.
    She watched Tristan, his black eye and sad face full
of boredom and pain. She loved her son deeply, but that was
organic, wasn’t it? She reached out for his hand on the train. He
allowed the touch for exactly ten seconds. She didn’t have to
consult her watch.
    Don’t think: of pain or regret, love or hate,
past or future. Just be in the world. She breathed out, slowly. Relax, this is your life . Why is that so hard? Her mind
spun, torturing her. The past was a minefield. The future refused
to show itself, as murky as the puddles in the streets.
    Hanford Welsh was on the ill-fated seventh floor of
the building, not far from the Stock Exchange. They took the
elevator.
    “ Whoa, buddy,” said one of the
traders in the lobby, Mike, or Ike, or Mickey. “I hope the other
guy looks worse.”
    Tristan put up his fists. “You want some?! Come on!”
The trader laughed and edged away.
    Dragging the boy into Harry’s corner office Merle
shut the door. “This is hard enough without you acting like a
child.” He stalked to the corner windows. Everyone had stared at
him on the train. She could kick that trader except she’d said the
same dumb thing.
    Harry’s secretary poked her head in. “Hi, Merle. Do
you need anything?”
    Merle tried to smile. People were scared enough
around the Widow. “Thanks, June. A box maybe?”
    She returned with two paper boxes with lids. June was
a tiny, young thing, just Harry’s type, with wispy light brown hair
and big gray eyes. “I’m working for Mr. Marshall now. He said to
help you, if you need me.”
    “ I want to look at Harry’s computer
files before I leave. I need his password.”
    June frowned. “I’ll check.”
    Merle looked over Harry’s desk, the death site. There
was no sign of his last breath, of the ambulance workers who pushed
him to the carpet and pounded on his chest, shocked him with
paddles, gave him mouth-to-mouth. Everything was tidy, as if he’d
be back tomorrow. There was his nameplate, which she dropped in the
box. On a spindle a stack of pink “While You Were Out” messages sat
skewered.
    “ You want all these pens and stuff?”
Tristan was staring at the open pencil drawer.
    “ Why not.” He grabbed two handfuls.
“Do you see any passwords?” The boy pushed the mess of papers
around and said no. “Keep an eye