The House of the Wolf

4

"I still can't believe she's gone," a voice said.

Whose voice, Chantal neither noticed nor cared. She stood apart, drained and listless, as family and friends talked together in low voices. Uncle Hank and Aunt Ginny had come up from Nebraska, and Uncle Nate from South Carolina with his new girlfriend whose name Chantal could never remember; Uncle Phil was there of course, and most of her cousins too. Katharine had come all the way from Oregon with her new husband Walter, Liz from Boston where she was attending college. It was like a grim shadow of former Vandusen clan gatherings. Full mourning was no longer required for such occasions, but it happened that Chantal's one good dress was black: a sleeveless sheath, originally bought for parties at college. She'd never had a chance to wear it – until now. With her old black blazer on top, it struck the right blend of formality and somberness. And reflected her mood of utter misery.

Another voice rose above the subdued murmuring. "Well, it could be worse I suppose. There was poor Sally, now, wastin' away with the Alzheimer's. And old Henry West, now that was just awful..."

The voice belonged to Mavis Dooley, from Nana's bridge group. Chantal's cousin Liz called her Mrs Ghouley behind her back, and the name was well earned. On being told that one was going to have surgery, she could be relied upon to mention an acquaintance who had died of the very same procedure; any announcement of travel plans invariably produced grisly accounts of train and plane accidents. When she spoke she always sounded as though she were munching with gruesome relish on her own words. At least I'll never have to hear that voice again, Chantal thought. It was the only positive thing to come out of her loss: the idea that her life now would belong to her alone, and contain only those people she wanted to have in it.

"...and when they opened him up it'd spread everywhere, no use tryin' to do anything about it, so they just sewed him up again. They're doin' a nerve block on him to stop the pain, but he's down to a hundred pounds, last I heard."

"And him just left a widower the year before!"

"That's right. He woke up one morning and there was his wife, stone cold dead beside him. Must've been her heart, but they never did... Oh, would you excuse me a moment, Doreen? Just saw someone I need to talk to –"

Oh no, Chantal thought. Mrs. Dooley had spotted her standing alone. She tried to head for the door, but the old woman intercepted her, moving with alacrity, an eager look in her small close-set eyes. "Chantal honey! How're you doin'?" she asked. "So sad losin' your gran like that. Very sudden, wasn't it?"

Yes, a horrible slow lingering death would have been so much better, Chantal thought in distaste, and barely restrained herself from saying it aloud. Mrs. Dooley was fishing for details with which to regale her friends later. She was like a monstrous leech, battening on the misery of others, and Chantal was determined to yield her nothing. "Yes," she said, snapping her lips shut on the word.

"So what're you goin' to do now?"

"I don't know." This was true. She had left college mere weeks into the first term of her freshman year. Her uncles had been urging Nana for some time to go into a nursing home, but her grandmother had fiercely resisted the idea of leaving the house Gramps built for her as a bride. It was too dangerous for her to live there alone, the uncles argued. She was over eighty now. What if she had another stroke, or fell on the staircase and broke a leg? She might lie alone and helpless for hours... Chantal had finally intervened, leaving her first term of college so Nana could have company and stay on in the house. But she had not been back home for more than a month when the second, fatal stroke hit.