The Jeweler (2 page)

After a few more minutes, Fender handed the ring box with its precious cargo to Brad. Fender looked at the sales slip again and lined it up neatly with the check Brad had given him on the counter. He smiled and waited for the guy to leave.

“Take care now, Brad. Pleasure doing business with you.” Fender fingered the front door key in his pocket. Even unloading a ring he’d thought he was taking as a loss could not stanch his desire to leave.
Walk out the door so I can lock it, you moron
.

“Thanks so much. She’s gonna love it. I can’t wait to give it to her.” Brad swung around and hurried out the door.

Fender shut the door behind him. He flipped the
Open
sign over to
Closed
and got out his keys to bolt the door so he could finish cleaning up. Just then a blue car swerved toward the store at a crazy angle. Brakes squealed, and the sound of shattering glass followed the pop of light metal and fiberglass.

Fender instinctively took two steps back from the door. The blue sedan’s front tires lurched up onto the sidewalk, and the car jerked to a stop against a light pole. Fender ran out the door to see. A man in a business suit jumped out and shook himself off. Then he turned and sprinted to the center of the street. Fender thought it strange that the man didn’t come around the front of the car to check the damage.

That’s when he saw the person. Actually, all he could see was a person’s foot. It poked out from behind the tire of a red station wagon, which was turned sideways behind the blue car. A crowd of people hid the rest of the person.

Then Fender spotted something else. Under the chassis of the wagon was an object, amid the broken glass. It was small. It was a box. It looked like a ring box. It looked like the ring box he’d placed in Brad’s hands less than two minutes ago.

Fender walked to the station wagon and got to his knees. Reaching an arm under the car, he felt for the fuzzy ring box. He closed his fingers around it, careful to avoid the shards of glass. He stood up and looked at the box in his hand as an ambulance arrived, and the paramedics loaded the injured person inside. When it left, the ambulance pulled away slowly, with no sirens or lights. The crowd of onlookers was silent. Fender turned and walked back into the shop, past the wrecked car on the sidewalk. A feeling pressed down on his chest. It felt like dread.

Zoë made a beeline for her water bowl as Ginger dropped the leash on a chair. The phone had rung three times before she could get it. When she did, a man spoke on the other end of the phone.

“Mrs. Janson?” The connection was crackly.

“No, what can I help you with?”
Salesman
, she thought.

“Is this the home of Brad Janson?”

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?”

“Ma’am, Mr. Janson has been involved in an accident. Does he have family I can contact?”

“Not here. His parents live in Florida.”

“We’re transporting him to St. Mark’s. You should contact his next-of-kin as soon as possible.”

Next-of-kin. They say that when…
Ginger grabbed her car keys. “I’m going to the hospital now. Thank you for calling.”

“Good-bye, ma’am.” The line went dead.

In the car, she clutched the steering wheel and tried to breathe.
Just get there; just get there,
she told herself. Every light turned red as she approached. The parking lot of the hospital was full. By the time she made it to the reception desk, her heart felt taut with adrenaline.

The nurse took her name, wrote down Brad’s information, and left to find out his status.

The waiting area faced a covered drive with ambulances parked under the canopy. Two young men, paramedics, put a stretcher back into the one parked closest to her. She wondered if Brad had come to the hospital with them. No one else sat in the dingy chairs. She watched other people walk to the bank of elevators. Some looked relaxed; others had a worn look about them. She felt sick. She kept her focus on these people who did not seem surprised or shocked to find themselves here.

The magazines in front of her were all outdated copies of
Reader’s Digest
. She absently flipped through them. She kept trying to figure out how to handle this and what was happening, anyway. Nothing came to her. But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The nurse came over, looking grim. She took one of Ginger’s shaky hands in hers.

“Hon, I’m going to have you follow me.”

Fender locked the shop door and headed down the street with the ring box in his coat pocket. He wasn’t sure what to do. After a moment, he looked up and found himself in front of the chrome door of the Rendezvous Bar. He nodded.
Pop will know what to do
.

He stepped inside. This thing was going to gnaw at him.
Really, how are you supposed to react when the guy who just bought an engagement ring from you becomes road pizza?
He had no idea. If someone else had found it, they would’ve kept it. That thought chapped Fender.
I worked hard on that sucker, it’s worth a good chunk of money, and some dumbass off the street could’ve just picked it up.
So at least he had the ring. And he had the check Brad had given him. Now what? Now that he had the ring back, was it was stealing to keep the money? Maybe if he got rid of the ring, he could keep the money. But how was he supposed to know who to give it to?

“Sonny!” Fender knew that voice: Pop.

Fender’s dad had retired five years ago and left his son the family business. Fender’d taken it on grudgingly. He was awfully young to be saddled with so much responsibility, and it was a forever kind of responsibility. He liked the finer points of owning a jewelry shop: designing stuff, flexible hours (Fender took a whole lot of license with the word
flexible
), and sometimes it was even a good conversation starter with a girl who caught his eye. But it was a job, and it was the family “legacy,” and he was Fender Barnes, king of screwing shit up. He certainly couldn’t take on Barnes and Son and then sell it to a schmuck off the street if things didn’t go well. That would kill his pop. And he worried a lot that he’d lose the business. That would definitely kill Pop.
And he’s been so happy lately, killing him with my ineptitude just wouldn’t be fair.
Pop’s occupation now was holding court in a booth in the back of the Rendezvous. He dispensed advice and opinions to anyone who stumbled into the bar on weekday afternoons. He especially liked to give advice to his son.

Fender made his way to the vinyl booth and scooted in opposite his father. “Hi, Pop.”

Fender got the up and down once-over. “How are you? You look like you’re worried.”

“I’m okay.” Fender paused.

Pop was eating an unusually greasy Rueben. He stopped mid-bite. “Fender, out with it. You’re mulling. It’s enough to give me heartburn.”

“You get heartburn all the time. Look at what you eat, for crying out loud.”

Pop set the sandwich down. “Are we going to chat like librarians at tea or are you going to tell me what you’re here for? I know my son. Cut to the chase.”

Fender shifted, and the vinyl creaked noisily. “This guy bought an engagement ring from me.”

Pop huffed. “You’ll have that in a jewelry store, my son. I’m beginning to wonder if putting you in charge was such a good idea.”

Fender grew annoyed. Pop was right—time to cut to the chase. “He wouldn’t shut up about the girl, and then he walked out in the street and got hit by a car. He dropped the ring, and I picked it up. So, now what do I do with it?”

“Take it to him in the hospital.”

“I think he died, Pop. The way the ambulance took him away, I’m pretty sure…” His voice trailed off.

“Oh. Who’s the girl?” His father focused intently on him.

“What girl?”

“Who was he going to give the ring to?”

“I have no idea.” Fender wished for a second that he’d paid more attention to the love-struck man.
What was her name? Did he say it?

“No worries, Sonny. This is what you do. Take the ring to his funeral; they’ll say where it is in the paper. Look around for the saddest girl. That’s the girlfriend. Give her the ring.”

“I don’t know, Pop, this—”

“Fender, this girl, this woman, she needs to know about that ring. This man was thinking of her in his last moments. She should know that, know that he wanted to marry her.”

Fender felt a bad mood creeping up on him. “Maybe she’ll be glad she’s off the hook.” He motioned to a figure behind the bar. He’d take that beer now.

W
HEN
P
OP
H
AD
C
ALLED
five days later, Fender hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.

“Found it for you, Sonny.”

“What?” Fender had tried to clear his voice. He and two of the goldsmiths from up north had been out late the night before. He felt a little hung over. Maybe a lot hung over.

“The funeral. Of the guy. It’s in the paper this morning. Now you can go find this woman. It’s today out at Dry Creek. Four p.m.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You’re going, aren’t you?”

“
Yes
, Pop, I’ll go.”

“Grouchy! You ought to get more sleep. Bye, Sonny.”

So, just a few hours later, there he was, at the funeral of a person he didn’t even know. But he had to admit, the whole thing had been bugging him. He’d taken the ring home. The little box sat on his dresser and reminded him of the accident each time he reached in his drawer for socks.

He’d dug his one suit out of the back of the closet. He’d even taken a dishrag to the dust that had settled on the shoulders.

The sad fact was that people didn’t even dress up for funerals anymore. He stood at the edge of the crowd and felt stupid in a dark wool suit. Beads of sweat raced from his armpits down to his waistband inside the shirt. What a stupid idea. What the hell was he doing here?

Then the priest started.
Well, shit. Now I can’t go anywhere
. Who ever heard of somebody leaving a funeral early?

The priest really did say a lot of nice things about Brad, though. Sounded like he knew him personally.
That’s nice. Jesus, no one’ll probably even realize I’m dead until the stench is so bad from my condo, the neighbors call the cops.
Fender shook himself out of it.
I’m supposed to find the girlfriend. Concentrate
. The ring box pressed against his chest pocket urgently.
Find the girl, Fender
.

He looked around.
Okay. She’s the girlfriend, so probably near the casket. Not right next to it.
He stepped left to get a better view of the chairs under the awning. There were only two.
Gotta be Mom and Dad.
Sure looked like it. A gray-headed man in a suit had his arm around the woman. She had dark hair, a Nancy Reagan suit, and bony, old-looking hands. She kept her eyes focused on the ground in front of her. A handkerchief was permanently at her mouth in one of the bony hands, stifling sobs.

Behind them. It had to be her. She looked around at the other people. She looked bewildered, almost. She had long, reddish-blond hair. Part of it was pulled into a barrette at the top of her head, and some had fallen into her face.

Her eyes darted around again and rested on him briefly. They were a very deep green. They were wet with tears. She shifted, and he noticed how the hem of her dress floated up with the breeze.

Hmm…
This had to be her.
Oh, God, I cannot talk to this woman. She is…she’s like…
Fender turned around and headed for the car, certain he was the first person in history ever to bail in the middle of a funeral.

Ginger stood still and felt the wind play at the hem of her dress as she looked out over the town. The streets had a haze of brownish smog over them. She could barely make out the cars. She had a strong sense that, for the rest of the city, time moved forward and an ordinary day was in full swing.

But for her, time had paused here, in this green square perched on a dusty foothill. The arch of the cemetery gate signaled a time-out from the regular world. It’d been five days since she had gotten the awful phone call. Ginger felt loss, but it still seemed Brad had gone away, that he was alive somewhere, just not here.

So, she tried to talk herself into it. She focused on the glossy lid of the coffin and reminded herself that he was in there. She wondered if people who witnessed a death were the only ones who really believed the dead person wasn’t just away.

Ginger had never seen someone die. Only once had she seen someone almost die. It’d been terrifying. A man had collapsed at a football game when she was in college. He’d been walking on the track, coming toward her, holding a Coke and a bag of popcorn. It’d been a humidly oppressive day. She’d been looking at him because she was bored and because he was in front of her.

And then it happened. His personality disappeared. He’d had a distinctive walk—a swagger almost—as if he’d been conscious of walking in front of the crowd. But in an instant, his face was expressionless, his eyes not focused anywhere. He fell forward, and his hands did not come up to break his fall.

The paramedics, rushing from the sideline of the field, had descended on him and rolled him over. He’d already become a person again, only a person in pain and distress. His face was bleeding, but the emotion and expression had returned.

What stayed with her was the impression that his personality had evaporated in the afternoon sun. She remembered feeling scared and bewildered as she witnessed his body shutting down.

Maybe if she’d seen Brad’s face just at that moment when he was gone…then maybe she could stand here and realize the void opening in her life. Right now she just felt numb.

The green awning over the grave creaked a bit in the wind, and Ginger looked around at the other people in attendance. Some were visibly upset. Others looked more concerned with finding a good vantage point. She stood at the edge of the Astroturf that lined the gaping hole in front of her. Brad’s parents sat in front of her.

Ginger hadn’t made much of an effort to talk with them. She felt out of place after the hospital. She’d made the awful calls and picked up his parents at the airport the next morning, but afterward there had been a strange stillness to her life. Brad’s folks handled the details of the funeral, and they didn’t seem to care to have her involved. Ever since she and Brad had moved in together, she hadn’t worked during the summer—Brad’s practice was successful, and with her off in the summer, it had given them flexibility to travel. So now she had nothing to do. Even her friend Molly had cooked dinner for her and picked out the navy dress she wore for the funeral.

She’d skipped the open house Brad’s family held and made a brief appearance at the wake. Brad’s mother had come by the house to pick out a suit for him to be buried in and a photograph to place on the casket at the graveside service. But she didn’t touch anything else, and she hadn’t lingered. Brad hadn’t made his family very happy when he’d decided to move out west. He hadn’t really gone home to visit, and they hadn’t come out to see him, at least not since he and Ginger had been together. She simply didn’t know his mom well enough to have anything but brief apologies and sympathies to say to her during her short time at the house. And then Ginger had been left alone.

It was a relief to go to the funeral, really. Facing the prospect of cleaning the house or packing up his things was unthinkable. What would she do with his clothes?

The house was filled with his things, their things together. What upset her was looking at all the mundane stuff. Toothbrush. Who cared about his toothbrush? How could she get rid of it, though? A person accumulated stuff, never figuring he wouldn’t be around to tie up the loose ends. Brad had arrogant, unfinished stuff, like half-drunk Gatorade bottles in the fridge.

And his office. Who’d take his patients? Who’d take care of Zoë? It all washed over her, and she felt powerless against the details. This was her grief, and she had a feeling this was how she would realize the cold fact of it: Brad was dead, and he was not coming back. And people would probably deal with that, eventually. The details would be tied up, his affairs settled, and some other vet would treat Zoë when the dog was sick.

Ginger felt nauseated. A vague uneasiness worked its way up into her consciousness. She couldn’t put a finger on it, and exploring what this was about felt evil and rumbled in her gut. She didn’t poke at it. She let the strange awareness stay under her shock and sorrow.

People crowded around, and she marveled at the variety. Some of Brad’s buddies wore khakis and golf shirts. Older friends of Brad’s parents had flown in and wore dark suits. Women’s attire ran the gamut. Only in the West would casual attire be okay at a funeral. No place was too fancy or too somber for shorts. She thought Brad might have liked that.

It occurred to her, looking around, that she shared no friends with Brad. He had his mountain biking buddies, his fellow veterinarians, his fishing buddies—she knew none of these men except in passing. She had no one to speak to at his funeral, really. That struck an odd chord, and she tried not to dwell on it.

The priest seemed to be wrapping up his homily, so Ginger tried to quiet her mind and listen. He was a client of Brad’s. His golden retrievers were longtime customers, and it was comforting to know this man in black could say something about Brad from experience. She decided she needed to get to know clergy. If she were gone tomorrow, it’d be an anonymous service some holy man would have to give.

That would be horrible. Brad was different, though. So many people could think of him fondly and tell good stories about him.
Life is not fair.