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Persephone.
I’ve no clue why but that’s what he called it. All underworldly, I
suppose. His quirky sense of drama.”
    “That’s sort of odd. I would have thought
Eurydice was more appropriate for a singer to name his instrument.
Could have been worse, though. It could have been Old Betsy or
Rover.”
    Suzan gazed down at the blue Gibson, her
pinched face reflected in its gleaming surface.
    “Strange no one stole it or pawned it when
Sean died. It’s like the thing has a charmed life and only its
owners are cursed.”
    “Suze, let’s leave this till some other
time. It’s clearly upsetting you,” said Claire. “None of this stuff
is going anywhere.”
    “It’s been too long already,” said
Suzan.
    She put the blue guitar back into its case
and snapped the case shut.
    Claire pawed through the other box.
    “Probably nothing you’ll want to keep in
here. Didn’t Sean know Grunge was dead?” She held up a torn pair of
jeans. “Though, whoever sent this stuff washed it first and folded
it. Nice touch. They must have liked him. That’s good to know,
don’t you think?”
    Hearing Suzan reopen the guitar case, she
looked up. Suzan was feeling around in the elastic pocket in the
lid. Then she lifted the guitar out and felt under the padding in
the bottom.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Something is wrong here, Claire,” she
said.
    Suzan moved to the box beside Claire and dug
through the shirts, underwear, and pants with her good hand,
scattering clothes over the floor.
    “What are you looking for?” said Claire.
    “Sean’s notebooks.”
    The look on her face told Suzan that Claire
had made the connection.
    “Shit,” said Claire. “He never went anywhere
without a little notebook tucked in his shirt pocket.”
    “No, he didn’t. and he can’t have changed so
much that he quit scribbling. Once, I actually saw him stop in the
middle of the street to jot down a lyric. He filled a dozen of
those little notebooks a year.”
    “Yeah, Tony always said he was going to get
himself killed someday doing that,” said Claire. “So where are
they?”
    “They could have shipped them
separately.”
    They both knew it was a hollow hope. Nothing
more was coming from Seattle.
    “You could write to the return address and
see if the person who packed up the clothes has seen the
notebooks.”
    “Sure. And while I’m at it I could ask them
if they know what my dead husband was doing for the last two years
that he didn’t want me to know about. Damn him, Claire! How could
he have done this to me? What did I ever do that I deserved this
and what am I supposed to do now, carry on as if none of it
happened? My whole life from here on is going to tainted by his
death.”
    “I kind of doubt he planned it that way,
sweetie.”
    “Of course not, but you see what I mean. If
only he had stayed here so that we could . . . I don’t know, fix
whatever was wrong. I feel as if I’m marked, that it’s just one
nightmare after another I can’t wake up from. I can hardly wait to
see what’s coming at me next.”
    “It might not be so bad as all that if we
take some positive action. Here’s an idea. I get some time off and
we go to Seattle. Talk to Sean’s fellow band members, hit some of
the clubs. Doctor Phil would probably call it finding closure,”
said Claire. “Okay, don’t cringe, you know what I mean. Girls
taking control of their destiny.”
    Suzan levered herself from the floor and
threw the green plaid shirt she had been holding back into the
box.
    “I don’t want to think about it any more. It
won’t do any good.” She tore the return address label from the box.
“What I’m going to do is write to this address and thank them very
kindly for Sean’s junk. That’s all I’m going to do. As far as I’m
concerned Sean can rot in peace. He chose his road and he had no
room for me on it.”
    She closed the box.
    “That’s it, Claire. I am sick to death of
taking the blame for Sean’s death. You can tell