Funny thing, scandal. One should find a scandal wrenching, considering all the pain and humiliation involved.
Yet people love the devastation of others. It breaks up the monotony. Gives the bystanders a new topic to hash out in the break room or by the water cooler. 'Why do you think he did it?' followed by the inevitable speculation. Walking through the office after the suicide of Diana's husband became known, I overheard the whispers, and the barely disguised excitement at the novelty of it all.
Who are we kidding? When Diane's husband shot himself, it revealed a lot about the people who worked for me. A few were horrified and said the appropriate things. But more eagerly debated the reasons for her husband's death. To them, it was just something to talk about. I made careful note.
Mark's funeral was on Friday afternoon, unseasonably bright and warm for a winter day. We closed the office after lunch so everyone could attend and support Diane, newly widowed with a young child and now pregnant with a second.
Carla and I finally found the church, tucked away in a remote working-class suburb on the other side of town. If some film crew had needed a standard, B-flat Baptist church as a scene for a movie, they could have done worse. The red brick, the white columns, the spire soaring above the immense parking lot. In all, the exterior looked like something drawn by a bright sixth-grader with a ruler and a pencil. I found myself disliking its stern, smug simplicity, as if ornamentation and brightwork were ungodly vanities. Carla took note and studied herself in the vanity mirror.
"Big crowd," she remarked. The parking lot was full, with overflow already beginning to park on the street.
"Well, he was the youth minister. Guess he cut a swath." Distracted, Carla pulled a tube of lipstick out of her purse for a touchup, a muted burgundy out of respect for the occasion.
"I suppose. Have you spoken to Diane?" I parsed her tone. No significance to her tone. No hints that she knew.
"Only when I took over that food on Tuesday." It had been a horror show. Her small house thronged with family and friends, a siege by the well-meaning. And Mark's parents standing by, stony and unreadable. Had they been suspicious of me? No, there was no way they could have known.
"That was nice of you to do that. People have to eat, even when they don't feel like cooking." Adjustments made, she capped the lipstick and dropped it in her clutch purse and snapped it shut. Making one last flick of something from her black dress, she opened the passenger door. "Come on, David. I know it won't be easy. But we can't be so late that we sit at the back."
The church was jammed. We found the delegation from the office, all seated together in the enormous sanctuary, the two of us squeezing in beside Sue, my bookkeeper. Sitting on the aisle, I could see the casket on its bier at the front, an enormous spray of flowers atop the lid. Flanking the casket were untold numbers of arrangements, the tributes of family, friends, and community. The piano offered soft and comforting appeals to Christ. The latecomers stood and fidgeted along the walls, shifting from foot to foot on the flagstone to the music, hoping for a short service.
They would get their wish. The family filed in behind the minister, himself in a black three-piece suit, the kind of outfit bankers used to wear. I caught a glimpse of Diane, her expression downcast, unable to meet the eyes of the congregation. She sat with an older couple, most likely her parents. With a gesture, she offered another older couple the pew beside her, but they marched past her to sit at the end. Her in-laws, I remembered from my Tuesday visit.
The minister spoke for fifteen minutes about damnation and hell and the certitude of death. Carla and I exchanged glances. He spoke at length about Mark's service to the youth of the parish, without any hint of the reasons for his termination. The Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm, "What A Friend We Have In Jesus," and then the benediction. Mark's goodbye had a perfunctory feel to it, an inconvenience now duly handled.
Pallbearers came to bear Mark away, bringing the casket up the middle aisle while we stood. Behind the pallbearers came Diane and the rest of Mark's family. As she half-wobbled down the aisle, she cast her gaze about the room until she saw me. Passing where Carla and I stood, the widow squeezed my forearm with her hand.
"Thank you for coming."
"Of course." With that, she continued out the church to join the burial procession to the cemetery. A private interment, the discreet, forgettable burial of a failed minister.
"That was awful," Carla remarked, breaking the silence on the way home. "You'd think that minister would have had have a few words of comfort. But, no. Just hell. I just don't understand those people. What did Diane say to you?"
"She thanked us for coming."
"Well, why wouldn't we? She's been a wonderful employee to you." I simply grunted in reply. "Do you know when she's coming back?"
"No idea. She's got a lot to deal with, from what I understand."
"And a child on the way. You need to help her."
"You're right."
Diane returned the week after. She sat heavily in the chair across my desk with a weary huff as I looked up from a report. She looked understandably haggard from the strain.
"Hi. How are you?"
"Fine. More importantly, how are you?"
She didn't reply. She only sighed deeply and stared up at the ceiling.
"You didn't have to come back so soon."
"No. I was already going stir crazy at home. People dropping by all the time. By the way, thanks for the food. I couldn't drink the wine, however."
"What? Because you're pregnant?"
"No. Because of my fundamentalist family. Trust me. I see why people drink now." I chuckled at her mild joke. "So. We need to talk."
"Okay." I had expected as much.
"It's Mark's insurance. No go on the life insurance. Suicide is their out."
"That's normal."
"Be that as it may, I have to do something. That was $250,000 I could have used." She paused for several seconds, as if to let it sink in. "Actually, we both have to do something." I flushed, wondering what would come next. Here it comes.
"I'm listening."
"This is your child I'm carrying. You know, the morning sickness, everything."
"Right. I told you I'd help."
"I'm glad, because I'm going to need it. My parents aren't broken out in funds and my in-laws aren't talking to me. You'd think I pulled the trigger." As Diane was about to say more, I was relieved to hear a tap at my office door. Jenny, apologizing, with papers needing to be signed. As I went through them, Jenny turned to Diane and expressed her condolences. Diane nodded, biting her lower lip, with the right mixture of sadness and strength. Jenny took the papers and left, but didn't close my office door. Diane turned to watch her leave before returning her focus to me.
"She's sweet. Funny, sharp, and really attractive."
"Yes, she is."
"Nice big, blue eyes. Like something out of a cartoon. Cindy Lou Hoo from Dr. Seuss, remember her? Good figure. Are you going to fuck her, too?" She laughed at my shock. It was much too soon for her to be joking. "I'm only kidding. Look, this is no time or place to talk business. You know where I live, right? I'll leave after lunch. Personal business. Show up there around two. I've seen your calendar for the day. Nothing you can't move."
At two on the nose, I arrived at Diane's ranch house. A nicely-kept yard, grass still the color of thatch. I parked on the street and rang the doorbell.
"Punctual as always. I've always liked that about you."
"Had it drilled into me at an early age."
"Well, let's go back into the den. The living room looks out on the street."
The house was tidy, with a few flower arrangements still scattered about the house. As we walked through the kitchen, a stack of thank you notes, envelopes, and postage stamps were spread out on the table. A casserole was defrosting on the counter, with cooking instructions written in red marker on the aluminum foil. The den was pine-paneled, decorated tastefully but no photos of Diane's husband anywhere to be seen. She sat on the sofa, in her dark-blue dress, the hem riding up past her knees. I chose the armchair.
"Thanks for coming. Want anything to drink?"
"Glad to." Who am I fooling? Of course, I would come. As if I had a choice.
"Well, I guess we should talk business."
"Wow. You got to the point."
"Well, I have to pick up from daycare at five thirty."
"Since we're being direct, do you need another raise?"
"That would be nice. And some assurances." The words were calm. But there was steel in them. She patted her stomach for emphasis. "This is your child. You fucked me after all."
"I think we fucked each other." Immediately, I regretted it.
"Really? Wow."
