I’m sorry, I cannot do this anymore.

I cannot go back to treatment, and I cannot find my way. You’ll be better off without me.

Don’t go looking for me. Send the sheriff to the old Northern Red Oak.

Take care of each other.

Love you all.

Lyman/Dad.

The next hours are a blur, with Lyman’s message running on an endless loop through Eva’s mind. Frantic, she calls 911, hoping it’s not too late, that Lyman can be pulled back from the precipice. She almost yells at the operator, frustrated with her difficulty understanding about the old Northern Red Oak, with her trouble spelling the address. She repeats all the information, slowly, one more time, to the sheriff.

Then she calls her oldest boy Ezra’s cellphone, twice; no answer. Pacing the boarding area, she tries teenage Olivia’s phone. What will she say if her youngest picks up? But she doesn’t. She tries Gabriel’s number. The three of them are backpacking together for a few days, to celebrate Gabe’s college graduation. She supposes the kids could still be out of range, up in the hills. Finally, Olivia’s phone connects briefly, then immediately breaks off. She notices people streaming toward the gate. It’s time to board.

She looks for her seat, mind racing. She has to intercept them. She cannot let them get home before she does. They must not access their e-mail and discover Lyman’s message, not until she is with them. Another thought assails her: what if they drive straight to the house and find—God, they’d find what? The sheriff? Sirens wailing? She cannot let that happen. Someone stares. Is she muttering to herself? She finds her seat on the aisle, shoves her carry-on in the bin, and sits down, phone still in hand. The person next to her looks over briefly, then turns away.

Buckling her seat belt, she thinks of an even worse possibility. What if the boys drop Olivia off at the driveway and continue into town? What if they leave their sister alone, to discover —oh God. She can’t focus, she wants to jump up, do something. But what?

Just before take-off, she sends Ezra a text. “IMPORTANT: Please pick me up at my office in the hospital, before you go home. All of you together please.” Then she adds, trying not to sound alarmed, “See you soon. Love, Mom.” She types: “Call me as soon as you can. I have a layover in Newark at 2 PM.” She erases that message. It sounds too urgent, too ominous.

An annoyed attendant stands over her. “Ma’am. Ma’am? You have to turn off your phone.” Eva holds up a hand and whispers “just one minute please.” She types: “Arriving in Burlington at 4:30,” hits send, flips her phone shut, and powers it off.

As soon as the seat belt sign is off, she gets up to walk down the aisle. She spends a long time in the bathroom, crying. When she comes out—after how long?—other passengers look at her strangely. Her eyes are burning, her face is wet. It occurs to her that she might be a disturbing sight.

A stewardess approaches. “Ma’am, do you—may I—um, excuse me, can I get you anything?” She places a gentle hand on Eva’s arm.

Eva shakes her head. “No, no. There is nothing …”

The attendant is an older woman, kind and calm. She guides Eva toward the rear of the plane, the area reserved for personnel. Closing the curtain that separates this section, she sits next to Eva, hand still on her arm. “I can sit with you a bit. Or would you prefer privacy?”

Eva looks up. “Thank you. But I need to collect my thoughts.”

The woman stands.

“May I…” Eva asks, “would you mind bringing me my day pack?”

“Of course. Is it above your seat?”

Eva pulls out a small notebook and searches for her pen. Her hand hovers above the page. It’s always easier to collect her thoughts by writing. But what is there to write? What is there to decide? What choices does she have? All she can do is wait…

Frustrated, she jabs the paper fiercely with her pen. That familiar burst of rage leaves her breathless. A black veil covers her mind; a scream rises in her throat, but she traps it there, a hand on her mouth. Panicked, she drops the pen and reaches for that white paper bag; she is going to be sick, she knows it.

She retches and tastes bile. Then the wave passes, leaving blinding anger in its wake. How could he do this to them? How could he? How could he? Her mind goes around and around, trying to escape the fury, falling back into it. She digs her fingernails into her palms. She ought to feel compassion for Lyman’s suffering, not anger. “Do I feel compassion?” she asks herself. “I do, don’t I? Certainly, I did.” She had known, in the clinical part of her mind, that this awful possibility existed. She and Camila had discussed it. But in her heart, she trusted Lyman, she believed he would never . . . . She looks at the notebook in her lap. She rummages under the seat for the pen she has dropped, finds it, and blindly scrawls HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO OUR CHILDREN?

Useless, useless rage. She tries to focus on what she’ll have to deal with, the practical things. She starts a list but quickly loses patience. She stares out at the vast, blank, empty cloudscape below her.

Will fiery Olivia conjure up her wise self, the strong one? Or will she rage and shout, act tough and then lose it, fall apart? She is too young to have to cope with this. And too vulnerable: she has only just broken up with her volatile girlfriend. Eva can picture Carla, pouting in the background. Outside the window, a snowy peak pokes through the cloud cover and floats past them. Will Olivia turn back to Carla for comfort? Eva imagines a teary reconciliation and a couple of weeks of showy caretaking. She stares at a stain on the carpet in the aisle. Something sticky is there. Sticky like Carla herself. If she reaches down to touch that spot, will she find goo on her finger?

She blinks. She remembers Olivia sobbing about Carla’s self-centered demands. Imagines her wondering what the point of love is. Look where it got you, Mom, she’d say. Eva inhales. Her palms are clammy. She rubs her hands together. Exhale.      

Another mountain peak floats by above the clouds. Then another, further to the north. And another. A jagged line of decapitated mountains, hazy wisps of cloud around their heads. Gabriel comes into her mind. Tender and quiet, he holds his deepest feelings well below the surface. She can almost hear his calming voice, see his arms reaching for his sister. Only twenty-two, yet he will try to be their anchor, their rock. He is just launching his career in the wake of his father’s, and now he will try to fill his father’s vacated role in the family too. She mustn’t let him carry that load.

Eva stands, agitated; the notebook drops from her lap. There is nothing she can do, nothing at all now. She reaches for the curtain in front of her. Should she go back to her own seat? She cannot face the stares. She sits again.

Should she worry more about Ezra, charming Ezra, so on top of the world? He can be impulsive, but he seems a man on his own path. He is building his own life with smart and loving Vicky. Will this crush their hopes, twist their trust in the future? She puts her face in her hands and cries silently. She lets herself cry until she can lift her head, take a deep breath, and steel herself. She will do whatever has to be done.

During her layover in Newark, she mills around, looking for a quiet corner. There is no such thing; she gives up and dials the sheriff’s office where she stands. Her heart is beating so hard her ears feel like drums.

“May I speak with the officer who answered my call earlier, about Lyman Willis, please.

The receptionist asks “Who?” and then “Spell that, please.”

Eva explodes. “Ma’am! I received a suicide note from my husband this morning. And I’m in New Jersey waiting for a flight home; I have only a few minutes. Please! Surely someone must have gone to our house? Please find them.”

“Oh!” the woman says quickly. “I’m sorry, yes of course. I will page officer LaGrange. Please hold…”

Eva walks toward the food court. A moment later, a man’s voice comes on the line. She sputters out her question. “Is he –? Did you…”

“Ma’am. We found your husband,” the officer says, slowly. He pauses, making sure she is listening. “We found him exactly where his message said we would. I am very, very sorry, ma’am.”

“Then you weren’t…” She turns and walks slowly back toward her gate. She cannot ask whether he lives. “Where is he?” she asks instead.

“We waited for the medical examiner, ma’am, before we transported him.”

She does not want to take this in. “To the hospital?”

“No ma’am. I am very sorry. To the coroner’s office. You may come and see him whenever you are able.”

“See him?”

“We will need you to identify the body, ma’am.”

“My God…” She chokes down a sob. “And my children, officer? Have you seen them? Were they home?” She leans against the nearest wall.

“Your children? No, Ma’am. We haven’t heard from them.”

Thank goodness, she thinks. They did not have to witness any of it. “Officer?” she hesitates. “May I ask how he –?”

“A firearm, ma’am. There was nothing the EMT team could do. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she manages. She paces up and down the hallway near her gate. She has time yet. She finds a bathroom, sits there a moment. Should she call Ezra again? Should she text? What will she say?

She wipes her eyes, clears her throat, and stands. She finds a seat in the waiting area and dials. There is no answer. She sends him a text. Then she texts Olivia. Again “Did you get my message? Meet me at my office at the hospital, don’t bother going home first. OK? Love you.” She hopes that sounds convincing, yet casual enough.

Just as she boards the plane for the short flight, there’s an answering text from Olivia: “Got it Mom. Just packing up the van. See you there, six or so. We’ll text when we park.” A small blessing…

She vaguely registers the bumpy flight from Newark to Burlington. A rough landing jolts her out of her stormy feelings, her endless loop of useless thoughts. At 4:35 pm she is at the taxi stand. It will take less than fifteen minutes to get to the hospital. She will have time before the kids arrive.

She gives the driver the address of the psychiatry building in which she works. Then she calls the sheriff’s department. The same woman answers and recognizes her immediately this time. “Excuse me,” Eva asks, “is the medical examiner located near the hospital grounds?”

“Yes ma’am, across from the Emergency Room.”

That’s only a minute’s walk from her office. Eva’s hand shakes. She dreads seeing Lyman, having to confirm his death, the brutal fact of it. But she will still dread it tomorrow, or the day after. It will not go away. She trembles. “I need to identify my husband’s body. Can I do it now, in fifteen minutes?”

“Hold on a moment, please,” says the woman.

Eva hears hushed voices, then Officer LaGrange comes on the line. “Ma’am, I understand that you’d like to see your husband in a few minutes?”

“Yes, please.”

“Of course, I will meet you at the entrance. I would be glad to guide you.”

“Thank you,” she says. She updates the driver on the building she needs, and she texts the kids. “I will be at my office by 5:45 PM. Text me and I’ll meet you at the entrance. Love. Mom.”

When she gets out of the taxi, an officer approaches her and identifies himself. “Officer LaGrange. Let me take your bag, ma’am.” He is a slight middle-aged man, with penetrating, kind eyes. “This way, please.”

She follows him through a hallway to an elevator, down to the second basement level. Away from everything, as far down as possible, she realizes. She shivers. They reach a steel door with a small window, too high for her to see anything. He pauses, his key in the lock, and turns to her. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I am,” she says as steadily as she can.

He unlocks the steel door. “Nobody is here at this time,” he explains.

He flips on the cruel fluorescent lights. They are in a large room, the walls are tiled white, the floor is a nondescript beige. There are gleaming steel cabinets on three walls, and a double swinging steel door off to the left. At the far end, there are two narrow windows near the ceiling. A green slope blocks the view. It is cold in here. In the middle of the room stand three narrow stainless-steel tables, seven feet long. The middle one has a white sheet covering what could be a body—what must be Lyman…

“Oh,” she breathes, and she covers her mouth. She stares at the sheet. Is that him? Or is there another body in here?

The officer explains. “When you called me, I asked the technician to wheel him out, ma’am, before leaving.”

“Out from there?” she points to the double doors.

“Yes, that is the cold room. I thought it might be easier for you if he were ready.”

She nods, a little confused, and stands uncertainly near the entrance. “May I?”

“Yes, come in. And in case you need to sit, I’ll bring a chair,” he adds.

She imagines that people must faint sometimes, confronting what she is about to see. She slowly walks to the table. LaGrange gets there first, takes the top hem of the sheet in his hands, and waits for her. She just wants to get through this now. She gestures for him to go ahead.

At first, he folds the sheet down so only Lyman’s head can be seen. He is terribly pale. There are blood spots on his chin, his cheek, his neck. His mouth is slightly open, making him look gaunt, a hollow face. His eyes are closed. His head is intact. She looks up. Hadn’t the officer said it was a firearm? Then in a flash, she understands.

She reaches for the sheet and yanks it down, out of LaGrange’s hands. She is not prepared for what she sees, for the bloody ragged hole torn into his chest. “Omigod,” she cries out. She staggers to the chair near the wall. The officer quickly pulls the sheet back to Lyman’s neck, then moves toward her, but she holds up a hand. “Give me just a moment, I’ll be…” No, she will not be fine. She might never be fine. But she will get through this.

She takes deliberate slow breaths until she can stand up. She looks at Lyman’s face for a long while. “Why, why, why…” she whispers. Her eyes are dry, she is too devastated for tears. She reaches her fingers toward his face; she strokes his cheek. He is already cold. The cold penetrates her, deep into her bones.

LaGrange stands at a respectful distance, near the wall. When she finally turns away, he covers Lyman. He offers her a seat in the tiny adjacent office and pulls out a clipboard. He has some questions, obvious ones; yes, she confirms, this is Lyman Willis. There is paperwork to sign. They dispense with it quickly. LaGrange asks if she has any questions. She shakes her head. She has no coherent thoughts right now. He reaches into his breast pocket, and gives her Lyman’s ID card, which was placed in clear view by Lyman’s side, at the foot of the tree. An unbearably practical touch, so very Lyman, so terribly meticulous.

LaGrange wheels her carry-on out for her, locks the door behind them, and asks where she is going. She points to her building. “I will walk you there,” he says.

Stories Never More Timely, A Perfect Gift for the Holidays

A Year Without Men

Stories of Experience and Imagination.

by I.D. Kapur

It’s 2054 A.D., and the world needs a rest from men. Women have developed a novel solution, and the men can’t wait to leave. When my taxi driver tells me he has bullet wounds from the Russian police, speaks five languages, and is teaching at Harvard, I start taking notes. After the funeral, a widow loses all her married friends. Then karma sends flowers. “Indra Kapur writes with clear insight and an acute sense of humor. The stories in A Year Without Men are varied, clever, and often delightfully surprising! Cue me rubbing my hands together with glee.” — Katherine Longshore, author of the Gilt series. “The stories in A Year Without Men create a powerful sense of place with rich sensory and emotional detail. Characters are appealing in their humor and the compassion they inspire. I want to meet these people and be there with them! Some endings surprise us, and others give us a satisfying sense of the inevitable playing out. The stories have a depth of reality that makes them unforgettable.” — Ann Saxton Reh, author of the David Markam Mysteries “Mickee Voodoo is a very entertaining parody of a “hardboiled” detective story in the mode of Chandler, Hammett, and, more recently, Robert B. Parker…witty banter ensues with the detective cracking wise in a colorful idiom both in dialogue and narrative…delights in wordplay…very clever, and is quite funny…Kapur is a talented and skillful fiction writer.” — John DeChancie, author of The Skyway Trilogy and The Castle Perilous series. Available from Amazon or on order from your independent bookstore.

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