The Astral, or, Till the Day I Die. V. J. Banis

I do like you, honestly,” was the best she could give him then, and that, of course, was not enough for a man in love. Even as she said it, she was aware of its inadequacy.

      What can I do, she asked herself? She couldn’t help being in love with Jack anymore than Walter could help being in love with her. Not just love, either: her feeling for Jack had been a burning, an overwhelming passion that never left her for a moment.

      Maybe, she sometimes thought even then, more passion than love. Waking or sleeping, he was always there. She had only to close her eyes and see him drawn in flames upon her lids: the dense dark curls of his hair, his blue gray eyes that seemed to see into her heart, his lips, too full, perhaps, for a man, but sensually thrilling to her. Especially when he kissed her, when he kissed her lips, when he kissed her there, the delirious prelude to that moment when he lowered his lean, hard body onto hers and she gave herself up to him so utterly.

      I mustn’t think of this, she told herself severely. I mustn’t remember. From the kitchen she heard the rattle of cups and silverware as her mother set the table. She started to throw the card away again, but her hand refused to do her bidding. Instead, she dropped it into the pocket of her denim skirt.

      She ran her fingers through the shapeless fringe of reddish blonde hair just beginning to grow back in over her scars. He wouldn’t find her so desirable if he saw her now, she thought grimly. And, probably, that was just as well.

      She followed the aroma of lamb stew into the kitchen.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Summer became autumn. The house stifled her. Everywhere she looked she found memories of Becky. She tried to watch television, and instead of Oprah, she found herself watching Becky’s one time favorite show, Daffy Danny’s Alley. It was a passion that Becky had shared with a great many pre-teens and one that (thankfully so far as Catherine was concerned) she had quickly outgrown. Catherine had come into the den one day to discover Becky watching cartoons instead.

      “No Daffy Danny?” she had asked.

      Becky’s answer was brief and to the point: “He’s smarmy.”

      An opinion Catherine shared. Danny was Danny O’Dell, host and hand-puppeteer, an altogether too fey young man—or, probably not really so young, but who worked hard at that illusion—who wore too-short trousers and a too-tight checked jacket and a tam with a red pom-pom and who mugged a little too outrageously for the benefit of the squealing girls in the studio audience.

      In the past she had gritted her teeth while Becky sat enrapt, from “Kids, what time is it? It’s Daffy Danny time,” through every “daffy laffy,” to the last “daffy bye-bye,” delivered with a big kiss thrown at the television screen.

      Now, of course, she would have kissed Danny O’Dell herself if it could have brought her daughter back to her.

      She clicked off the television with an angry gesture.

      * * * *

      She went back to work finally at Dean and Summers, Publishers, half days to start, both glad to have her time occupied, and sorry to have to face the well-meant expressions of sympathy, the worried glances that she pretended not to see when she went past people. As if the jungle drums had alerted them, everyone seemed to know when she was coming, were waiting for her appearance in the drama of their lives.

      Alden Summers had passed away years back, but the firm still carried his name on the masthead. She went first thing to Fermin Dean’s office. Fermin’s secretary waved her in with a friendly but guarded smile.

      “Catherine,” Fermin greeted her with evident delight. He was tall and gaunt, silver haired, one of those people who seem to be in motion even when sitting still. He bounded up from his chair and came round his desk to clasp her hands. “It’s good to have you back. Though when you see the load on your desk, you’ll know just how much I’ve missed you.”

      “I’ll be glad for the work. I can use the occupation,” she said.

      “Don’t overdo it. And, I mean this, Catherine, make your own hours, please, come and go as you want.”

      Even with his warning, she was not quite prepared for the workload waiting for her despite everyone’s obvious efforts to keep things moving along. As chief editor for their art books divisions, one of Dean and Summer’s major divisions, her input was nearly indispensable. Books that ought to have been in production by now had been held up for months and newer projects waited for her green light. A mountain of correspondence, most of it submissions for book proposals, filled up one half of her desk and overflowed onto a chair.

      She threw herself into her work. It was the best antidote she had found yet for the pain. Not, of course, that the pain ever quite went away, it merely curled itself up into a little knot in a far corner of her mind, where it ever waited to come back out into the light.

      She saw that her coworkers eyed her cautiously, and knew that many of them wanted to talk. She understood that they were saddened for her, and horrified by what had happened; but there was a certain thrill there, too. Murder, ghastly murder, tainted everyone with its evil glamour, even those at a distance, those whose involvement was only vicarious, the more so the more gruesome it was.

      She had no desire to satisfy their grisly curiosity and avoided the hesitant glances. Fortunately, most of them kept their distance. Her assistant, Bill—black and gay—worked closely with her each day, but she had learned early on that he was a very model of discretion, a fact for which she could be grateful now.

      Only Mrs. Pendergrast from their young adult division ventured beyond her door with personal condolences. “Catherine, you poor, poor thing,” she cooed and leaned over Catherine’s desk so far that Catherine felt she meant to embrace her, and cringed inwardly. “I just can’t tell you how awful I feel for you. If there is anything I can do, anything at all.”

      “As a matter of fact.” Catherine held up a pile of sketches, needing to divert all that dripping sympathy, “These need to go back to art, if you wouldn’t mind dropping them on your way.”

      “It would be a pleasure.” Mrs. Pendergrast’s voice was a shade less cordial. One did want one’s sympathy to be appreciated.

      Later, in the ladies room, Mrs. Pendergrast shared her insights with Mrs. White from accounting. “Such a tragedy,” she said, repairing her lipstick. “Of course, let it be said, I would never, ever leave my Samantha unattended. You just can’t be too careful these days.”

      Mrs. White patted her hair and frowned. “But, that isn’t quite the way it happened, is it?”

      Mrs. Pendergrast ignored the question. “I keep her practically glued to my side every minute when we’re out. People may call me over-cautious if they like, but no one will steal my little girl.”

      After two years of marriage, Mrs. White was still childless, and afraid to question her doctor because she was sure he would share her husband’s opinion that the fault was hers. She could not help thinking, however, that if God ever granted her the little baby girl she prayed for, she would be ever so vigilant as well.

      Of course, she did understand that it had been the husband looking after the Desmond girl, but, really, you just couldn’t leave something like that up to a man. Certainly not a man as easily distracted as her Robert.

      * * * *

      At first, Catherine went every day after work to Forest Lawn Memorial Park, to bring flowers to Becky’s grave. Becky had so loved flowers. “Red and orange and yellow and white and blue....”

      “I don’t think there are any blue flowers, darling.”

      “Purple?”

      “Yes, definitely purple. And pink. You forgot pink.”

      “And pink. And purple and blue....”

      She said nothing to Walter about her visits. She had no desire to share this pilgrimage with him, with anybody.

      She and Becky had used to come here in the past,