“Just wondering.”

“Are you going to write up what happened in the newspaper?”

“Well, yes. But not as anything suspicious. I’ll keep in simple: Mary Albertson dies in auto accident. Something like that.”

“Albertson? I feel silly admitting it, but didn’t know her last name.”

“Her late husband used to own the repair shop out on 44. Still has his name on it.”

“So that’s the place. I knew he’d been in that business, but--”

“How about you Dietrich, how are you doing?’

“You mean about the accident?”

“Or in general.”

“I’m OK. My wife has been staying with her mother but she’s coming back tomorrow. I’m happy about that.”

“Good,” he said. “Listen Dietrich. This whole business with the boy …”

“Sagan.”

“Yea, Sagan. This whole business about him and your church. You know I’m not a member there but in a town like this word gets around -- I just want to say I admire you. I chose the newspaper business as my life’s work because it made me feel like I had a mission. I wanted to make a difference. Not to say I never have, but after awhile you get to seeing how hard that can be. So I look at you, trying to make a difference -- standing your ground on one little thing that is important to you and … well, I just think if more people did that -- didn’t just go along to get along, the world would be a better place. Once you go along on one little thing, the next little thing gets easier and pretty soon you’re in full retreat. … So, I just wanted to say I admire you. I’ll put away my soap box and be on my way.”

I walked him to the door and thanked him for coming by, and for what he said. It was important to me.

He stopped in the drive, turned and said, “I want to be your friend Dietrich. Call on me if you need help.”

I guaranteed him that I would and hoped I wouldn’t need to.

Back to my vacuuming. I was excited knowing Carolyn was coming home. My spirit felt restored. She’s a good woman. I wondered how she moved herself to this new position. “In for a penny in for a pound,” my Father used to say, but he was a risk taker. I didn’t think Carolyn was; at least that’s how she’d been behaving. Just as I turned off the vacuum the phone rang. It was John-John.

“Hey padre,” he said with his familiar cheerfulness.

“Hi John-John,” I replied, surprised by his high spirits and wondering what he was up to. I waited for him to come out with it.

“I been thinking about Mary,” he said, “and how we need to do something for her, like a memorial service or something. Whaddaya think padre?”

“Well … yea.”

“And isn’t that usually something a person’s church would handle and, one way or another, you’re the closest thing she had to a church--”

“I suppose that’s … doesn’t she have a daughter somewhere?”

“Yea, I think she does. I know she planned to be buried out to that cemetery where we were headed last night. She has a plot next to her … you know … her husband. So whaddaya think? Should we put together some kind of memorial. She was pretty well known around here, especially … well I guess there’s no harm in sayin’ it since it’s true -- in the bars.”

“I suppose that’s a good--”

“And you would lead it? What‘s the word … officiate?”

“When were you thinking?” I asked.

“I don’t know; maybe Saturday.”

“How did you feel when you woke up this morning John-John?”

“A little sore; a little hung over. My face kinda hurts where I sewed myself up.”

“You sewed yourself up?”

“Yea, that spot between my eyes where I smacked the windshield … wouldn’t stop bleeding and I don’t have insurance or the cash to be hitting the emergency room. And … my chest is a little sore where I slammed into the … I guess I musta hit the dash or something.”

“But other than that …” I said.

“Other than that … you know the old saying padre: ‘Other than that how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?’” John-John chuckled nervously at his own joke.

“That’s my point,” I said. “You can’t just watch a person die, then get up the next morning and put a smile on your face, take a couple aspirin and start planning her memorial service. It doesn’t work that way. Watching someone die has to hurt -- I don‘t care how tough you are. So let me ask you again: How did you feel when you woke up this morning?”

“Sick. I felt sick inside,” he said.

“That’s better,” I said. I could here John-John breathing heavily on the other end. He may have been crying, I wasn’t sure. Neither of us spoke for a minute, both I’m sure thinking about Mary and being in the presence of her death, knowing that either one of us could have stood up to her and said, “no, we’re not in any condition to drive across the county.” Then if she climbed in her own car to drive over and killed herself it would have been completely on her and not partly on us as it is now. Hindsight is always 20-20 and we’d just have to live with it. Do the best we could to make it as right as it ever could be.

Finally, John-John spoke. “Padre, has the cops called you today?”

“No. You?”

“Yea. An investigator for the county.”

“What did he want?”

“He was asking me a lot of the same questions the trooper asked last night -- why she was driving my car -- stuff like that. He asked if we’d been drinking. Said the trooper messed up by not makin’ me do the field sobriety test even though I said I wasn’t driving.”

“Did he say anything about Mary’s blood work?”

“I asked him. He said it was none of my business. I’m a little worried padre.”

“Why?”

“He just seemed suspicious.”

“Well, they didn’t call me.”

“Good, let’s hope they don’t.”

“I didn’t really see anything.”

“Yea, that’s what you said. … So padre, Dietrich, should I get started planning the memorial?”

“I’ll try to reach her daughter and get her OK. Where would we hold it?”

“I was thinkin’ down at the beach. Mary loved the beach.”

“Maybe I can get a notice in the paper.”

“You do that, and I’ll spread the word … you know, my way.”