The story so far:
Maggie and Della are building a special computer for a woman who was blinded in an accident. Her husband requested the computer, but is also widely held responsible for the accident. Maggie and Della interview a number of people on the scene and Maggie’s suspicions blossom into an assumption of guilt.
The blinded woman is also dying of cancer, so Maggie and Della are working against time to complete the computer before it’s too late. Just as they’re about to bring it over, Della gets a call with some bad news: a death in the family. They at first assume the wife has passed, but are soon proven wrong. The husband died, suddenly, the night before.
Want to read more? Click here for a listing of Chapters. Now, here’s the conclusion of our story:
Reaching the Summit, photo by Zsolt Zatrok, Hungary
So, we come to it at last: the heart of the matter, the crux, the revelation. We’ve reached the summit, climbing above tree-line to stand at the top where we can see, unhindered, in all directions.
The problem is, the mountain top is bare and cold. The air is thin and it burns your lungs. There’s a harsh wind that brings tears to your eyes and roughs up your face. There’s nothing to hide behind for warmth and safety: no trees, no rocks, no cubby holes. You’re at the top and there’s nothing else there but you and the truth.
I stood with the phone in my hands, not knowing what to say or do next. “Just a minute,” the man on the other end continued. “Maria wants to talk to you.”
The phone crackled a bit as Maria came on the line. “Hello, Maggie,” she said. “I know we were supposed to call you.”
Della picked up another phone extension and slowly raised it to her ear. “I’m here, too, Maria,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she replied, polite as ever.
“Do you know what happened?” Della continued, picking up the ball which had dropped from my hands the moment I picked up the phone.
Maria cleared her throat. “The doctor said it was some kind of blood clot,” she explained. “It went into his lungs and cut off his air.” There was a silence on the other end, as Maria fought to compose herself. “It’s been going on for a while, I guess. No one had any idea.”
“Maria,” I started. “What should we…”
“It’s been happening for a while.” Maria talked over my sentence as it trailed off. It was obvious she hadn’t heard me. I let her go on. “He’d get all funny, like he was drunk or on drugs or something. But it was the blood clot. He didn’t have enough oxygen.” Through the corner of my eye I saw Della lift her head, listening intently. “Last night he just passed out. We thought he was sleeping.”
The Guilty Party, Revealed (photo by gerard79)
“Maria,” Della said, in a soft, but strong, voice. She had a way of doing that, taking subtle control of a conversation. “Is that what happened the night of the car crash?”
“They think so, maybe…” Maria’s voice cracked and she stopped for a moment, again composing herself. She was a stronger woman than I had ever realized. “David felt so bad. I told him it wasn’t his fault, and you two have been so good, helping us like this. Maggie, thank you for believing in him. You, too, Della. It made all the difference.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath and I took in air in a sudden gulp. My ears began to ring and I felt a throbbing sensation starting to pound behind my eyes. ”That’s all right, Maria,” Della continued. “Now I’m sure you have a lot on your mind, but we still have a computer here for you which we’d be happy to deliver whenever it’s appropriate.”
“Yes, yes,” Maria replied, clearing her throat again before continuing. “That would be wonderful. David wanted it for me, so I could do more. That would be good. It would…help.”
Della nodded. “I think you’re right, Maria. We’ll be happy to come by any time you’d like.”
“Yes, thank you,” Maria said. “The wake is tomorrow. I wondered if you’d mind coming, as my guest. The…funeral home is in Cambridge.”
Guilty Parties, photo Janet Burgess
“Of course,” Della answered, then said her goodbyes. I saw her click off the phone and heard a dial tone a moment later. My hand felt numb. God in heaven, what had I been thinking?
“Maggie!” Della’s voice cut through swaths of guilt and the beginning of something even worse. “Don’t go there,” she commanded.
“But…”
Just leave it.” Della raised her hand and turned her head in my direction. Her face was set and stern. “Just leave it alone. That’s an order.”
*******
I did.
I spent a month walking off guilt, and rage. Della accepted none of it and, to her credit, didn’t let me wallow. I had one consolation: as badly as I felt about my rush to judgment, Anne and company had it even worse. We’d turned an innocent man into a criminal, watching his descent from life to death without a second thought. David Carlini had passed out in the car following his nephew’s wedding. Yes, he’d had one small glass of wine, after plenty of food. The true culprit had been oxygen deprivation. He’d come to in time to drag his wife and sister from a burning car. The police never bothered to test him – for alcohol or for anything else. The doctors followed suit. The parade gathered momentum with David’s sister and work-mates, until he was left completely isolated from his family and his friends. He might still be alive if…Della won’t let me go there, thank goodness.
Instead, she pushed me into the work with Maria, forcing me to set aside everything else to attend to the task at hand. She did the same with Anne Carlini. We had no time to think, just tested and trained until Maria mastered the computer. She used it to read her letters and her emails. She ordered groceries, paid bills, joined groups of other grieving people online. It became her life line, even as her own health faded.
Maria Carlini outlived her husband by six or seven months. Even now, I keep wondering if there was a point to all this, some lesson I could have learned. I guess I’m not much of a detective, although Della disagrees with me on that, too. “Evidence is in the eye of the beholder, Maggie,” she said to me once. “We’re all guilty of jumping to conclusions. Take it as a lesson the next time it happens.”
“The next time?”
“People will always turn to us for help,” Della replied, fingering her white cane before folding it. “You and I know about things other people don’t. You’d better get used to it.”
A Gift to Ourselves, photo Macin Smolinski, Poland
She was right, as she’d been all along. Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves. It took a while, but eventually I was able to give myself that gift. Anne Carlini did too, and so did the guys at David’s old work-site. They erected a memorial to David, a whole wall of candles, pictures and prayers. I hear church attendance rose for a while in their home parishes, too. They finished the building a few months ago, but the memorial is still there.
Della and I still check in on Anne from time to time, and we still eat at Trocco’s, sometimes the three of us. We’ve long since stopped getting the best seat in the house, and a bill always accompanies our meal. I think we’re back to normal.
If there’s any lesson, it’s that It’s okay to be human and that life goes on. We gave something to Maria, for all that we took away from David. I’m sure there’ll be other stories to tell like that.
As soon as there are, I’ll let you know.
