Free Killer Heels by Sheryl J. Anderson Page B

Washington, DC; we discovered that during Contemporary American Literature freshman year of college, and the friendship was launched. Cassady doesn’t have much use for professional sports, but I continue to spend sixteen Sundays a year hoping that this will be a Super Bowl year. I like to think of those Sundays as an indication of a hopeful, optimistic heart. Cassady considers them a waste of time. This from a woman who will date married men.
    “This is a date,” Tricia insisted, selecting a teal silk blouse. It’s a great blouse, with a top button that’s in just the right place for a black, front-clasp bra but a bit too low for your basic white back-clasp.
    “No, it’s not,” I insisted, guiding her hand back. Tricia and Cassady looked at each other and laughed. Warmly, but they still laughed. I gulped another two ounces of coffee. “He has date potential, but this is not a date. And I’m not going to dress like I think he’s taking me out to dinner when I’m meeting him for breakfast to discuss my dead colleague.”
    It came out a little harsher than I meant it to, but then again, it should sound harsh to say “dead” and “colleague” together. Part of the adrenaline burning off was also the reality setting in. I’d had a really long night and I’d learned a lot. Many things I could have quite nicely continued living without knowing, but too late now.
    Right after I found Teddy, I thought I understood how awful his death was. When we told Helen, I realized it was even more awful. And then when I sat with Helen and Yvonne at three o’clock in the morning while Helen tried to dial her parents’ phone number so she could tell them, I thought I was going to shriek and not stop. Her agony was so palpable and I wanted so desperately to do something, even take it on myself, to relieve it for even a moment. And I couldn’t. Because the only thing that could make it better for her would be to bring Teddy back from the dead and I know my limits. Most of the time.
    I wasn’t sure any of us were going to make it through the night. But once Helen had called Teddy’s parents, her own parents, and her sister, she actually settled into this kind of dignified Zen deal which was pretty impressive to see. She started getting super-organized, making lists of who else to call, who to call right away and who to call once the sun came up, who would be offended if they heard after someone else. Maybe it was shock, maybe she just ran out of tears, but she kept going, she kept thinking, and I admired that. I would have scammed pharmaceuticals from my visitors, curled up in the fetal position, and moaned for at least three weeks.
    Of course, when her sister Candy arrived from Queens at about five o’clock, Helen went to pieces again, but she was entitled. Especially since Yvonne had been hovering over her most of the damn night, despite my best efforts to get her to heel. When she wasn’t suggesting that I write a series of articles for the magazine on how to deal with this kind of situation, Yvonne was grabbing Helen and telling her, “We all loved him so much.” It wasn’t helpful. I finally came up with the multi-purpose idea to send Yvonne out to an all-night pharmacy to get some Valerian and anything else she thought might be helpful (the pill case in her Prada handbag having proven to be deplorably empty). You’d think Eisenhower had asked her to take Omaha Beach all by herself. She seized upon the mission with frightening zeal, kissed us both about eight times before she left, and raced off.
    The door was barely closed behind her when Helen asked me, “So what do you really think happened to my Teddy?”
    The question threw me and so did the cool, clipped way she asked it. There was something in her tone that I couldn’t quite place, but it made me uncomfortable. Still, I’d never been with someone who was going through what Helen was going through, so I figured I needed to let it go and answer the question.