The Wood of Suicides Read Online Free Page A

artsy little town down in Monterey County. Since then, my mother had been in touch with Jillian Walden only sporadically, calling her on the phone and lunching with the couple whenever they came up to the city. My father, busy with his professorly duties, preferred to forgo these meetings. Nonetheless, they had driven up expressly for his funeral, and extended their sympathies—Jillian, with brimming eyes, lamenting the terrible illness that had cut short poor Jonathon’s life; Lee, with brusque joviality, stating, “Jon was a great guy. Really, he was great; a fine man.”
    “We’re just sorry we can’t stay longer,” Jillian told us, “Lee’s working to a deadline.”
    “Another English garden. They want hedge animals—squirrels, rabbits, the whole deal—but tell me it can’t look kitsch.”
    “Oh, dear,” my mother frowned in sympathy.
    “Hedges are all he can talk about! He isn’t very good company at the moment,” Jillian laughed, “And, as for Josie, she spends all her time with the boyfriend. It doesn’t matter that she won’t be seeing us when she goes back to college. Laurel, do you have a boyfriend?” Mrs. Walden turned to me.
    I shook my head and tried not to roll my eyes, giving her a polite simper. I had long since finished my sandwich. The women exchanged coy glances.
    “Good for you. All Josie’s man is good for is tracking sand in from the beach and stealing my beer,” Lee griped.
    “We make him stay in the guest room, of course,” his wife added.
    Lee gave a snort of derision. “Jill, you know as well as I do that that bed has never been slept on.”
    “It is a lovely room,” Jillian continued, diplomatically. “We renovated it last winter. It’s a shame for it to go unused. Josie’s room will probably just sit empty for most of the year as well . . .” She glanced at her husband, who nodded. “Lee and I were talking on the way here: we’d love to have you and Laurel come to stay sometime! Carmel is beautiful in September—still sunny and warm. Perfect weather for you to paint in. And Laurel can swim.”
    “Oh! Jill, how nice of you!” My mother’s brows went up in gratitude. “But we couldn’t impose like that.”
    “Really, Lizzie, we wouldn’t ask if we didn’t mean it! We hardly get to see you anymore. And Laurel—you probably don’t even remember ever coming to Carmel.” Jillian swatted me gently on my bare arm.
    “Oh . . . I do.” I had to turn my attention away from the napkin that I had idly been folding and refolding to look at her. In fact, I did vaguely recall a weekend by the beach when I was eight or nine, and sharing a slant-ceilinged bedroom with their dark-haired daughter. I also recalled that I would be starting school again in three weeks’ time. I informed the adults of this fact and there was a general murmur of disappointment.
    “Of course, there’s always Josie’s old school,” Jillian said, after a deliberative pause. “Boarding isn’t for everyone, but we were very impressed by Saint Cecilia’s. Their music program, I think, was what got her into Pomona.”
    “Great campus too. Built in the thirties. A bit Deco, a bit Gothic. You’d love the chapel, Lizzie.” Lee shot my mother a glance, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
    “I don’t know if boarding school is the best thing for Laurel right now.” My mother looked up at me. Once again, I was forced to rein in my wandering attention: this time, from a group of male professors who I’d been inspecting.
    “It might be good for her to get away from all the grief. What do you think, sweetheart?” Jillian smiled at me. I gave her another simper.
    “You should at least let us show you around the place. Wonderful stuff. Carvings, clerestories, willow trees. I think there’s even a lake . . .”
    “Don’t forget the woods, dear,” Jillian interrupted her husband. “Such beautiful woods!”

    September 11, 2002
    Saint Cecilia’s Catholic School
Marin County
    Dear