Forty-Four
Dune hadn’t ever tried to picture Clara’s life in New York City, but certain expectations had crept in.
If pressed, he would have described a run-down building in a marginal neighborhood.
An apartment she probably had to share with a stranger to afford.
All assumptions formed by television or movies.
“I am not,” Dune said. “I’m afraid I come empty-handed.”
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Clara Larkin.”
The man looked relieved. “Ah, okay. She’s out, but she should be back any minute. You want to wait?” He extended a hand. “I’m Philip Woolf.”
“Dune. I’m a friend from back home.”
“Really?” Philip waved him in. Something fantastic-smelling was simmering on the stove. “This is a first. I haven’t met anyone from Rochester. Does she know you’re in town?”
“No. No. Definitely not. I’m, um, I’m—I know Clara’s sister. Bridget? Clara hasn’t been returning her calls for a few weeks. I’m in town for work so I thought I’d check in on her. Make sure everything is okay.”
Philip turned the heat down on whatever it was that smelled so good Dune wanted to ask for a taste. He put a lid on the pot and pulled it off the burner. “What’s that lyric from The Sound of Music?” Philip asked Dune.
“The hills are alive?”
Philip hummed a tune and kind of sang, kind of spoke, “‘How do you catch a cloud and pin it down? A will-o’-the-wisp, something something, flibbertigibbet.’ Something like that.”
“Right, that one.”
“How do you solve a problem like Clara? She’s a tornado. A million things going on, a million phone calls unanswered. It’s also possible her sister is calling Clara’s old number. She keeps her old apartment but is pretty firmly ensconced in this one. Everything okay at home?”
“Oh yeah. Better than okay. I’m not here with bad news. I don’t think.”
“Did Bridget send you?”
“No, she doesn’t know I’m here. And neither does Clara’s mother.”
Philip gave a nervous laugh. “Her mother can’t possibly know. Right?”
“I guess?” Dune said, confused.
“No disrespect,” Philip continued, “but I’m of the belief that the dead don’t know what we’re doing after they’re gone.” He shrugged. “Just my opinion. I don’t believe Clara’s mother is watching from beyond the grave. May her memory be a blessing and all that.”
Dune went from dumb to dumbfounded, and it must have shown on his face because Philip said, “Are we sure we’re talking about the same Clara Larkin?”
“I don’t know,” Dune said. “Maybe not. My Clara Larkin’s mother is very much alive. I saw her this morning.”
“That Clara Larkin,” Philip said, pointing to a framed photo on the mantle of him with his arm around a woman, planting a kiss on her cheek.
The woman smiled directly into the camera, bright-eyed, laughing, the wind whipping her long hair around her face, and Dune, who hadn’t seen Clara in many years, involuntarily smiled back at the photo. “Yes. That exact one.”