On the Beach Ch. 21

The pimp was still breathing when the first cops, alerted by neighbors who were only surprised they hadn't heard shots before now, arrived. He didn't breathe much longer. He wasn't so dead that the paramedics didn't feel compelled to try to resuscitate him. They tried. It was their job to try. He didn't make it. No one noticed his absence in the world. Not a single tear was shed.

Jill left with Bill to go to their parents. The school allowed her dad in to pack up her room. She wasn't coming back, not until next fall, at the earliest. She'd went through the motions, pretending she was still alive. She didn't go to the funeral Bill put together. No one in Jim's family was capable of planning a funeral. Jim's funeral was packed with his friends. His sister's, drew not a soul other than the grave diggers and the volunteer minister. Jim's remaining siblings were parceled out to relatives. His mom was under an involuntary hold at the state psych hospital How much of what ailed her was alcoholic dementia versus grief and depression was more or less irrelevant. No one put much effort into figuring it out. Why waste time on an alcoholic whacked out old black woman?

Jill perked up a little when Mark and Muriel moved in. The loss of Jim shook both of them. Three days after the funeral they married. Bill clung tightly to Owen's hand. They all clung tightly to each other. Jill had sunk back into herself after the wedding. None of them had seen any life in her eyes until she touched the baby's cheek with the tip of one finger.

"James Watson Casey. Hello, baby." She whispered.

Newborns don't smile. That's a myth.

Try convincing Jill of that.