A Widow for One Year - Page 121

“Oh, baby, baby . . .” Hannah was saying to her. “It’s all my fault!” Hannah held a mangled copy of The New York Times; the newspaper was in a lumpy roll, as if Hannah had wrung it to death.

Ruth stood waiting for Allan to kiss her, but he spoke to Hannah: “She doesn’t know.”

“Know what ?” Ruth asked in alarm.

“Your father’s dead, Ruth,” Allan told her.

“Baby, he killed himself,” Hannah said.

Ruth was shocked. She’d not thought her father capable of suicide, because she’d never thought him capable of blaming himself for anything.

Hannah was offering her the Times —or, rather, its wrinkled remains. “It’s a shitty obit,” Hannah said. “It’s all about his bad reviews. I never knew he had so many bad reviews.”

Numbly, Ruth read the obituary. It was easier than talking to Hannah.

“I ran into Hannah at the airport,” Allan was explaining. “She introduced herself.”

“I read the lousy obit in the paper,” Hannah said. “I knew you were coming back today, so I called the house in Sagaponack and talked to Eduardo—it was Eduardo who found him. That’s how I got your flight number, from Eduardo,” Hannah said.

“Poor Eduardo,” Ruth replied.

“Yeah, he’s a fucking wreck,” Hannah said. “And when I got to the airport, of course I was looking for Allan. I assumed he’d be here. I recognized him from his photo . . .”

“I know what my mother is doing,” Ruth told them. “She’s a writer. Crime fiction, but there’s more to it than that.”

“She’s in denial,” Hannah explained to Allan. “Poor baby,” Hannah told her. “It’s my fault—blame me, blame me !”

“It’s not your fault, Hannah. Daddy didn’t give you a second thought,” Ruth said. “It’s my fault. I killed him. First I kicked his ass at squash, then I killed him. You had nothing to do with it.”

“She’s angry—it’s good that she’s angry,” Hannah said to Allan. “ Outward anger is good for you—what’s bad for you is to implode .”

“Go fuck yourself !” Ruth told her best friend.

“That’s good, baby. I mean it—your anger is good for you.”

“I brought the car,” Allan told Ruth. “I can take you into the city, or we can drive out to Sagaponack.”

“I want to go to Sagaponack,” Ruth told him. “I want to see Eddie O’Hare. First I want to see Eduardo, then Eddie.”

“Listen—I’ll call you tonight,” Hannah told her. “You might feel like unloading a little later. I’ll call you.”

“Let me call you first, Hannah,” Ruth said.

“Sure, we could try that, too,” Hannah agreed. “You call me, or I’ll call you.”

Hannah needed a taxi back to town, and the taxis were in one place, Allan’s car in another. In the wind, in the awkward good-bye, The New York Times became more disheveled. Ruth didn’t want the newspaper, but Hannah insisted that she take it.

“Read the obit later,” Hannah said.

“I’ve already read it,” Ruth replied.

“You should read it again, when you’re calmer,” Hannah advised her. “It will make you really angry.”

“I’m already calm. I’m already angry,” Ruth told her friend.

“She’ll calm down. Then she’ll get really angry,” Hannah whispered to Allan. “Take care of her.”

“I will,” Allan told her.

Tags: John Irving Fiction
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