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I have two cigarettes going. Mary takes one and smokes it. She’s not looking at me. I tell her about the phone call. They’re out of it, I say. They thought Chris was involved. She repeats what they said: I think you should brace yourself for bad news. Pours whiskey into a coffee cup. For a few minutes I can’t sit down, I can’t stand up. I can only smoke. The Born to raise cows forced to go to school shirt rings. Another physicist tells me there’s some bad news. He mentions Chris and Bob and I tell him I don’t want to talk right now. He says O.K. but to be prepared because it’s going to be on the news any minute. It’s four-forty five. Now they’re trying to stir Bob into the stew.
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I tell Mary. She nods; she’s heard this, too. I have a distinct feeling there is something going on that I can either understand or not understand. There’s a choice to be made. I don’t understand, I tell Mary. We sit in the darkening living room, smoking and sipping our cups of whiskey. Inside my head, I keep thinking, Uh-oh, over and over. I’m rattled; I can’t calm down and figure this out. I think we should brace ourselves in case something bad has happened, I say to Mary. She nods. Just in case. It won’t hurt to be braced.
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I realize that I don’t know what braced means. You hear it all the time but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. Whiskey is supposed to be bracing but what it is is awful. I want either tea or beer, no whiskey. Mary nods again and heads into the kitchen. Within an hour there are seven women in the dim living room, sitting. Switching back and forth between CNN and the local news reports. There is something terrifying about the quality of the light and the way voices are echoing in the room.
The phone never stops ringing, ever since the story hit the Born to raise cows forced to go to school shirt news. Physics, University of Iowa, dead people. Names not yet released. Everyone I’ve ever known is checking in to see if I’m still alive. California calls, New York calls, Florida calls, Ohio calls twice. My husband is having a party and all his guests call, one after another, to ask how I’m doing. Each time, fifty times, I think it might be Chris and then it isn’t.