Excerpt From A Killing Frost
By Myrna Milani
(Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3)
As the miles and minutes dragged on, Sara Klafin and I gradually became comfortable with each other in that special way of women. At first we explored only the most insignificant and unrevealing outermost circles of our respective lives. However each time we discovered an experience we shared in common, the conversation would make a sudden jump into a closer, more intimate ring, not unlike the way an electron gives up a photon of light when it moves from one energy level to another. Soon I knew that Sara was a biochemist who spent most of her professional life in academia, and Sara knew I was a veterinarian who explored the many ramifications of human-animal relationships.
"I find the idea of atoms and molecules totally incomprehensible," I admitted, although I didn't admit that I found those like Chandler McCarthy who also studied them damn incomprehensible at times, too.
"Well, I find the idea of diagnosing and treating animals equally mind-boggling—worse than working on infants," my companion laughed.
The thought of someone working on infants caused my mind to jump to the memory of the surgeon who performed corrective eye surgery on my son more than twenty years before. The incident remained so vivid in my mind that I felt compelled to describe it to my new friend.
"Just the sight of that huge man holding that baby scared me to death even though I knew he was quite competent," I summed up my feelings at the time.
"I know exactly what you mean," Sara agreed with an degree of conviction that approached passion. "My son was born with a renal problem and I came close to letting the poor boy wear diapers for the rest of his life because the specialist who treated him so frightened me. Something about the juxtaposition of that helpless child and all that cleverly disguised ego..."
She let the words trail off and I lost myself in thoughts of kidneys and urinary bladders and all their related problems in youngsters. Then a carload of boisterous college students overtook and passed us, and that precipitated comments about the trials and tribulations of modern youth, particularly those of its young men which we both knew of first-hand from raising sons of our own. That particular conversational ring disintegrated when I proudly laid claim to two sons and Sara quietly countered that her son and only child had died suddenly, two days before his twenty-third birthday.
Feeling a great deal more compassion than I could possibly hope to articulate, I proffered the usual inanities that invariably follow such a joyless revelation.
"How terrible for you and your husband," I sympathized without taking my eyes off the road.
"Yes, it was very terrible for me. Some days it still doesn't seem possible," Sara replied in a lifeless tone that suggested she, too, recognized both the social necessity as well as the vapidness of such exchanges.
Noticing that she had meticulously dissected her husband from her reference to the event, I attempted to rechannel the conversation along less troublesome lines without changing it sufficiently to suggest I didn't want to talk about her loss if she wanted to continue the discussion.
"I imagine if anything happened to one of my sons, I'd take a trip or do something very distracting to keep from thinking about it all the time," I commented, in reality knowing I'd probably go to pieces and do nothing, just like I did when my husband, Bob Brown, died.
"I feel exactly the opposite," Sara replied almost apologetically. "My husband and I spent some time at Hanover College, the sister school of Crowningshield Abbey where we both taught in England. Then Philip-my son-attended several summer sessions there. Philip and I both loved it so much, it seemed a natural place to visit when things fell apart."
"Hanover College? I teach there!" I felt my comments veering toward inanity again, but I prided myself in my ability to read people as well as animals and it bothered me that Sara Klafin exuded an aura that seemed to grow more obscure and impenetrable rather than clearer with each passing mile.
"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Sara.."Perhaps you knew my son, Philip, Philip Klafin?"
"Sorry," I apologized as I maneuvered around an overloaded truck. "I just took the job. As a Wentworth Fellow. Before that, I rarely set foot on the campus except for an occasional concert."
"Oh," Sara sighed, obviously disappointed. "Not about you're being a Fellow. That's quite an honor. I'd just hoped to meet someone who knew him."
The wistful tone that crept into her voice when she spoke of her son touched me deeply.
"Would you like to stop and get something to eat?" I offered, hoping to dispel the gloom that had settled over the two of us. If Sara wanted a graceful way to terminate the conversation about her son, I'd give her one.
* * *
After Sara gratefully accepted the offer, I pulled off the interstate about five miles west of Waterbury, Connecticut and we entered a McDonald's. As I smoothed my napkin over my rumpled skirt in an attempt to hide its wrinkles more than to protect it, I tried to pinpoint what bothered me about the beautiful creature sitting across the table from me.
She didn't seem normal, but not abnormal either in the kick-'em-in-the- crotch-ask-questions-later sense of The Single Woman's Guide To Self-Defense. Aside from nervously running her fingers over that same quadrant of her handbag occasionally, her behavior appeared perfectly ordinary.
Segmented. As I picked the sesame seeds off my bun I decided that word described Sara Klafin much better. She acted as if she were playing out roles on two different stages simultaneously. In one, she sat opposite me playing with her iceberg lettuce and carrot pennies, while in the other, she did...What? I didn't have a clue.
We ate in silence and eventually my thoughts drifted away from my enigmatic companion and toward my surroundings. Of all the diners I could see, only a handful didn't belong to one of the gaggles of noisy teenagers clustered around tables littered with limp french fries and sweaty soda cups. One of these drew my attention initially for purely visual reasons. Tucked far back in a corner behind a fake colonial column, I saw one obviously male sneakered foot attached to one denim clad leg below a table, and a masculine hand holding a copy of "The Wall Street Journal" above.
The incongruity of the image caused me to keep staring. Consequently, I was able to see part of the man's face in the brief interval when he turned the page.
Jeffrey Stone.
Why did his perfectly logical presence made me feel suddenly exposed and vulnerable?
* * *
Feeling more than a little relieved when we left the restaurant, I settled myself as comfortably as any short woman could in a car seat designed for a male gorilla with scoliosis. No sooner did I merge into the flow of traffic and bring the vehicle up to speed, though, than Sara suddenly blurted out, "Somebody murdered him!" an exclamation that obviously demanded some sort of reply.
I racked my brain for an appropriate response, found none, and sputtered back, "Murdered him? Who? Who murdered who...or whom?"
"My son. Philip. Somebody murdered him," Sara Klafin repeated with a great deal of agitation.
"Ah," the word slipped out before I could stop it.
Ah. An elegant, almost archaic word that few people used any more. Nonetheless, it often produced the most extraordinary results, probably because others intuitively sensed it signaled my assumption of my nonjudgmental listener's mode. As soon as I did, I sometimes suspected that I'd listen sympathetically to anyone tell my anything, no matter how bizarre.
"Somebody murdered Philip, your son?" I reiterated just in case I'd somehow misunderstood my companion.
"Yes." And like air rushing in to fill a vacuum, Sara Klafin began to speak.