I didn’t expect it at Patrick’s funeral, his new widow’s approaching me, saying, “How dare you show
your face, you bastard,” and slapping me in front of an audience of grieving friends and family. The other mourners
seemed more embarrassed than I, and went about their business as Catherine Vaughn, my dead colleague’s widow,
stalked coolly away—ethereal in black. My eyes were sealed on what I could see of her black-stockinged legs. I stood
there a moment like a buffoon, as would any idiot who’d been slapped by his dead friend’s widow, then
shuffled to my car.
In the car, I flashed back to Patrick, dying before me. I was witness, as I always play witness, the
reporter, the teller of facts and horrors. He died in Bosnia when we were both on assignment there—me
with my eyes and words, Patrick Vaughn with his camera.
Several days later, Catherine sent email apologizing for her actions and requesting a talk. I called her.
“You got my email,” she said.
“Why didn’t you phone?”
“Email is easier—you can say things without all the forced effort of the mouth.” She
added, “I didn’t know how to call.”
We got together for dinner, at a restaurant she and Patrick had frequented.
“I thought I’d feel strange coming here,” she said, “but I don’t.” She
was wearing a light green dress and gold earrings; the glint of the earrings caught me like a narcotic from
the depths of southeast Asia.
“I don’t blame you,” she said.
“Thought you did.”
“I thought I should, but I don’t. I didn’t like you, at first... because he
was going off to dangerous places with you.”
“I know.”
“That was his decision. You weren’t coercing him. You weren’t a bad influence.” She was
talking more to herself than to me. “You merely opened the door of opportunity. He always wanted to seek
out adventure. Go to exotic places. Put himself in danger. Little boy dreams. Like yourself, I guess.” She
sipped her wine. “I didn’t mean what I said. At the funeral. You had every right to be there. I had to hit someone.”
“If you feel the need to hit someone, hit me anytime you want.”
She stared at me for a moment. “Thanks.”
We didn’t speak as I drove her home. I kept looking at her from the corner of my eye. I remembered when
Patrick told me she ran a small art gallery. When I asked what kind, he’d said, “An avant-garde gallery.”
I’d laughed, telling him: “That’s so goddamn typical. Everyone likes to think of themselves
as ‘�avant-garde’ when all they’re really doing is the same boring, safe shit as anyone.”
Catherine leaned forward. I reached to turn on the radio. She grabbed my wrist. “Pull
over,” she said. “Just pull over, okay?”
I did.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Every detail. Everything. What you saw and heard and smelled. I want to get a perfect picture in my mind—a mind
movie—how my husband died.”
I didn’t hesitate. I needed this as much as she did. “We were just out of Sarajevo, in Belgrade, taking—”
“Wait,” Catherine said. “Where were you, in the car?”
“In back.”
“Will you get in back?”
“What?”
“Get into the back of the car. Sit where you were sitting and tell me this story.” I got out, opened
the back door, sat in the back seat. Catherine had her body turned, staring at me with more intensity than any human
should ever possess.
“I was sitting here,” I said.
“Exactly right there?”
“No, more like right here.”
“Okay,” she said. “Go on.”
“We’d seen all we needed to see in Sarajevo. I won’t go into those details, they’re frivolous.
Patrick took his pictures and the article was creating itself.” I touched my head. “We took the car assigned to us to
Belgrade. I was sitting right here. Patrick was sitting where you are.”
“The passenger seat,” Catherine said.
“Yes.”
“And there was the driver.”
“Yes—”
“Wait.” She got out and joined me in back. “I want to see it from your perspective. You were
alone in the back?”
“I was.”
She turned to me and lightly touched my sleeve, commanding my full attention. “Listen to me,” she
said, her eyes intent on mine. “Tell your story now. I won’t interrupt you. But whatever I do,
don’t stop. Don’t stop until your story is finished. No interruptions.”
