Pamela did not say I never said that.
She said: “That is not what I said.”
I have interviewed a great many people in twenty years.
There is a difference between those two sentences and it is not subtle.
“Then what did you say?”
“Chris, we are three minutes—”
“What did you say?”
Her jaw moved.
Down on the lawn, sixty-one people were sitting in white chairs listening to Pachelbel.
“I said,” she said, in a much lower voice, “that today was about us.
That’s all I said.
And I don’t think that’s an unreasonable thing for a woman to want on her wedding day, and I don’t think it’s cruel, and I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me like I’m a defendant.”
“She’s the junior bridesmaid.
She’s in the program.
She has a job.”
“And I have watched that child hold your entire life hostage for two years!”
It came out fast and much too loud, and both of us heard how loud it was, and she stopped.
The quartet kept playing.
“Say the rest of it,” I said.
“Chris—”
“No.
You’ve started.
Say the rest of it, because I would rather hear it now than in four years.”
And Pamela Gable, who had held herself together beautifully for two years and for the previous ninety seconds, looked at me and let go.
“You want the rest of it?
Fine.
Every room in that house has her in it.
Every single room.
There are four photographs of your dead wife in the living room and one in the hall and one on the refrigerator and one in your daughter’s room and one in yours, Christopher, on the dresser, on your side.
“Every argument we have ever had, I have had with a woman who isn’t there, and I lose every time, because how do you win against somebody who never gets old and never leaves dishes in the sink and never says the wrong thing?
