Preston Vane died in November.
Elise called to tell me, which I had not expected and which told me something about what Thursday in Portland had meant to the people in it. She called in the morning, her voice carrying the specific quality of grief that is mixed with relief when someone has been suffering and the suffering is over.
“He said to tell you thank you,” she said. “He said it twice, which was not like him, so I think he meant it both times.”
“Thank you for calling,” I said.
“He was difficult,” she said, in the tone of someone being honest about a love rather than performing it. “He was calculating and he made choices that cost people. But he was trying at the end to put things down correctly.” A pause. “I think that matters.”
“I think it does too,” I said.
I told Damien over
