The Truth About Death by Robert Hellenga Page A

history, but he could remember, and the memories were no longer painful. They had weathered this storm, and others too. That was part of the fabric now, like the pattern in the Oriental rug she’d put on the floor for him—a dark red ground covered with leaves and small flowers in different colors: blue, gold, navy, green, tan. His brother-in-law had brought it back from Oman. Simon could see into the past but not into the future, not even five minutes into the future. He was lost in a fog. He had no compass. It was chilly in the belvedere, but he didn’t turn on the little space heater. He was accustomed to entering into the grief of others without breaking down. This life had been hard for Elizabeth too and was still hard. She wanted him to sell, but he couldn’t do it.
    He looked at the pictures. He liked them, most of them, but they didn’t speak to him, didn’t move him deeply. He couldn’t see what she saw. She’d taught him to pay attention to surfaces and not search for deeper meanings, but he couldn’t help himself. He tried to look through them to the life behind life, the death behind death. She kept changing them, two or three new ones every week. A Van Gogh self-portrait had replaced Georgia O’Keeffe’s Iris. She’d taught him to say “Van GAWCHH ” rather than “Van GO .” Van Gawchh was clearly unhappy, about to dissolve into the whirling blue chaos behind him. No wonder he’d committed suicide. Next to Van Gawchh was Francis Bacon’s portrait of his lover, George Dyer. Dyer had committed suicide too. The man in the painting was certainly a mess—composed of splashes of paint, with an accident report at his feet, his body crushed, his face cut in half in the mirror, the man thrown from his chair but still sitting on it.
    Simon took the pistol out of the drawer. He put the tip of the barrel in his mouth and closed his lips around it. Relief was possible. Let things take their own course, shape themselves without him. Just a squeeze. He could taste the gun’s metal—like the color gray—the bullet in the chamber like a vitamin. But before he pulled the hammer back, he remembered he needed to leave a note for Elizabeth. He knew the importance of notes. He’d handled too many suicides. He put the gun down and started to write with a fountain pen. He wanted Elizabeth to be happy, or be as happy as possible. She could sell out to Service Corporation. Gilbert could stay on as manager. Then he started to write down all the things that would have to be done. He went down to his office and checked the computer for the e-mail from the consulate in Rome. It hadn’t arrived yet. He’d have to explain that too.Elizabeth knew his password, could handle the transition. She was a good manager. And she spoke Italian. She could deal with the Italian undertaker. She knew the business. He could hear her in the kitchen. He left his note on his desk and went into the kitchen, where she was making tea.
    “Want a cup?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said, sitting down. He waited for her to pour the tea. Two white porcelain cups. From the college food service. They seemed to accumulate.
    “Sit down,” he said. “Some bad news.”
    “You’ve been crying,” she said, looking at his face.
    The cup rattled on the saucer when she put it down in front of him, and he knew that a new life was about to begin. Another new life. But not entirely new. He still had to take the Connolly funeral. Gilbert had put on the Bob Dylan album. He could hear, faintly, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. “Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?” He could hear Gilbert downstairs with the family. The guest book. The supply of tissues. He needed to check the body one last time. Adjust the hands.

    There were no direct flights from Chicago to Rome in November. They had to change planes in New York. On the flight Simon and Elizabeth were not always in sync. Normal mental function alternated with grief and tears. The flight attendants