My wife was killed outside Boston Courthouse on September 21. Jill was an assistant DA working with her boss on the trial of Fat Ritchie Calabrino. At the end of the day, she was walking down the steps alongside the DA. A shot rang out from a car at the curb. The bullet hit Jill in the right eye.
Her office called. I raced home, found my five-year-old twins at Mavis’s house, two doors down. She was Jill’s best friend. She’d heard about the shooting on the radio and brought Kara and Jason to her place to avoid reporters. When I walked in, coats were strewn on the floor and the three of them were running around her living room playing Duck Duck Goose, banging into tables and lamps. Surprised me. Jill had said Mavis was particular about her house: oriental rugs, Queen Anne furniture, Sevres vases. The twins were in corduroy overalls, Mavis in a black dress, heels shucked off. Seemed she knew what to do with kids, even though she didn’t have any of her own. She and Harold had tried, were never able to, and he was dead set against adoption or any of the unproven-untested-phony experiments. If it couldn’t happen naturally, God didn’t mean it to. Amen.
Picture in the Globe showed Jill splayed on the courthouse steps. Fortunately, her hair covered the gaping hole in her face. Police figured the gunman had been aiming for the DA, and were focusing their investigation on Calabrino’s gang. Rotten way to die; hit man who couldn’t shoot straight. The car was found abandoned near the Fenway T station.
Mavis saved us those first days. After what happened to Jill, I couldn’t seem to connect with Kara and Jason. But Mavis would sit in the middle of the sofa, hold them in her arms, and when they started to cry she’d get out Where the Sidewalk Ends and they’d act out “Hug of War.”
Mavis started, “Kara, you hug; Jason, you giggle.”
Kara chimed in, “And we all roll on the rug.”
And they’d roll off the sofa.
That was Jason’s cue. “Now everyone kisses, everyone grins, everyone cuddles, everyone wins.”
The finale was Mavis sandwiched between the twins, long red hair between two curly blondes.
Sometimes I’d see Jill there. Memory playing tricks. But she was an adult even when she played, always teaching: word games, number games, names of state capitals.
At bedtime we took the twins by the hand, climbed upstairs, and tucked them in. I gave them the usual peck on the cheek; Mavis, big sloppy kisses. Then Mavis and I would have a drink. She was a comfortable shoulder for all of us. Wasn’t anyone else. My parents had died in a car wreck when I was in college. Jill’s family lived in Arizona. They came for the funeral, but didn’t stay long. I saw to that. At our wedding reception I’d overheard Jill’s mother talking: Debutante Cotillion, Harvard Law Review, and she’s marrying an accountant? From Hagerstown? Sometimes I picked up bits of that attitude from Jill. Like when I’d suggested we see The Da Vinci Code, nothing she said, but her look. I remember we ended up at Ne le dis à personne.
Never thought Mavis would be the one to console me. She and my wife had been close and she and the twins had gotten on famously, but she’d always been cool to me. Couldn’t figure why. Asked Jill about it; she brushed it off. Brad, you just don’t understand Mavis, she’s moody sometimes; it’s nothing personal. That was another one of Jill’s things: me not being able to figure out people; numbers, but not people.
Harold didn’t seem to mind the time his wife spent with us. With his schedule--Sunday night, fly to Cleveland, work, fly to Bangor, work, fly to Ashville, work, fly home--who would? He was a project engineer for Oracle; some ten years older, a foot taller, and probably a hundred pounds heavier than Mavis. He came across as someone used to getting his own way. But she had her own style for handling him. Like her attempted adoptions. She told the agency he’d agreed. The first try ended when they insisted on seeing the proposed father. Second try, Mavis got a friend to pose as Harold. That fell apart the day she was due to bring the baby home.
The twins went back to school and I was back at work. I had a new practice specializing in tax returns for small businesses. Things were going okay, but my biggest client had pulled a fast one; expensed his wife’s Ferrari as a delivery truck, two actually, and wanted me to figure out how to get it past the IRS. Wasn’t going to do it and told him so. Losing his fees on top of Jill’s salary was going to make it tough sledding for a while.
I started cooking, and it didn’t take two weeks but word about my limited repertoire leaked out. One night there was a chicken cacciatore dinner sitting on the counter, ready for the oven. Called Mavis to say thanks and asked for the recipe. Mavis suggested a cooking class. Private.
A couple of nights later she came over, walked me through the recipe, and the four of us had dinner. The twins had set the kitchen table, but Mavis moved us into the dining room. First time we’d eaten there since Jill’s death. Kara and Jason were quiet: looked down at their plates, picked at their chicken, and answered our questions with only “yups” and “nopes.” Then they started crying. We picked them up, carried them into the living room, and just held on til they settled down.
Week before Thanksgiving, Mavis was over teaching me how to make beef stew. It was storming. Lights went out. We looked out the window down the street; our heads brushed as we stood there watching candle flickers in the dark.
“Brad, do you mind awfully if I stay here tonight? Weather like this, I’m afraid to be home alone.”
“Sure, no problem,” I said. “We’ve got a fold-out in the little room upstairs.”
In the morning she made us breakfast and went home.
That storm was followed by a true nor’easter, sleet streaming sideways shattering windows. Shut down New England for ten days. Harold couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving. Mavis fixed us a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. We were just finishing up when Jason turned to Mavis. “This is really swell, Mom.”
She blushed; I cleared my throat. Only Kara said something, “She’s not our Mom, our Mom’s dead.”
“I wish she was our Mom,” Jason said.
“Jason, I can’t be your mother, but I love being with you and Kara,” Mavis said. “You’re the most wonderfulest bravest children in the world.”
Jill and I hadn’t been half as good with the twins. There were some tears, but pumpkin pie and whipped cream put us all back in a holiday mood.
Then the twins ran off to watch the Aladdin DVD she’d brought over. We stayed at the table and I poured some port. They fell asleep halfway through the movie and we carried them up to their room.
I could blame it on the port, or the weather, or missing a woman. It had been a while. After the twins were born, Jill had kind of lost interest. Whatever; we ended up in my room.
When the door closed Mavis said, “Lie back; I’m going to make you a night like no other night has been or will be.”
Managed to sneak her back into the other room just before the twins woke up.
Harold finally made it home so we didn’t see much of Mavis. Then she called to ask a favor. Said Harold got an e-mail from Norway. His parents lived in Steinkjer, a small town north of Oslo. They’d been in a car accident and were in serious condition. She’d managed to book him on the last flight out. Would I drive him to the airport? It had begun to snow and she didn’t like to drive in bad weather. She’d watch the twins. So I dropped him off at Logan, left him at the curb, though I remember saying how quiet it was out there that night, nobody around. He said not to worry; Logan was his second home.
When I got back the twins were over at Mavis’s, nearly asleep. She had her overcoat on, said the furnace was acting up.
“What took you so long Daddy?” Kara asked.
“It got snowier and snowier,” I said. “I had to drive slower and slower to be sure to get back safe.”
The first Christmas without Jill was coming up; Mavis and I worked overtime to see the twins didn’t have much time to think about their mother. A visit to Santa, Christmas at Old Sturbridge Village, shopping for presents. Meanwhile we continued to make nights like no other, so by Christmas morning the twins weren’t too surprised when they came into my room and found us together.
Jason piped up, “This is just like it used to be, isn’t it Daddy?”
