They buried Miriam on an unseasonably cool day. I went to the funeral and stood with Robin at my side. My father was there with Janice, both of them looking sleepless, weathered, and bleak. Dolf stood between them like a rock. Or a wall. They did not look at each other, and I knew that grief and blame were chewing them down. Jamie lingered on the fringe, sunken, with splotches of red on his cheeks. He was drunk and angry, with no forgiveness in his face when he looked at my father.
I listened to the same preacher who buried my mother, buried Danny. He wore the snowy vestment and spoke similar words, but they brought me no comfort. Miriam knew little peace in life, and I feared that her soul might share the same predilection. She died a killer, unrepentant, and I hoped that she’d found a better place.
I looked across her grave.
I prayed for mercy on her wounded soul.
When the preacher finished, my stepmother folded herself against the coffin and shook like a leaf in high wind. George Tallman stared into nothing as tears slipped off his chin to stain his dress blues dark.
I moved away from the small gathering and my father joined me. We stood alone under a distant sun. “Tell me what to do,” he said.
I looked at what remained of my family, and thought of Miriam’s prophetic words. The family had torn itself apart.
Cracks all over the place.
“You haven’t called the police.” I was speaking of the postcard.
“I burned it.” He looked down and repeated himself. “I burned it.”
Then he, too, began to tremble.
And I walked away.