"The Gate House" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeMille Nelson)

CHAPTER NINE

It was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.

The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.

On the sky blue wall facing the bed was a television, and sitting on the tile floor, near the window, were a few floral arrangements and a small potted Norfolk pine.

All in all, not a bad anteroom to the Great Beyond.

Ethel was sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall, and didn’t seem to notice me. I moved to her bedside and said, “Hello, Ethel.”

She turned her head toward me and, without a smile, replied, “Hello, Mr. Sutter.” I recalled that Ethel reserved her smiles for when she had the opportunity to correct you on something.

I said to her, “Please call me John.”

She didn’t respond to that, and said, in a clear voice, “Thank you for coming,” then asked, “Are you looking after my house?”

“I am.” I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

“All right today.”

“Good… you look good.” In fact, in the full sunlight streaming over her, she looked ashen and emaciated, but there was still some life in her eyes. I noticed, too, a touch of rouge on her gray cheeks.

I hadn’t seen her in years, but we’d communicated by letter when necessary, and she’d been good at forwarding my occasional mail to me every few months. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards.

She asked me, “Have you tended to my garden?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“I never let you or George in my garden,” she reminded me. “Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

“Right. But I’ve learned to garden in England.”

“Nonsense.”

“Well… right.”

She said to me, “You’ve been back for over a week.”

“Right…” I explained, “I would have come sooner, but I thought you might be coming home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Don’t-”

“Why don’t you sit? You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I sat in the armchair beside her bed and handed her the Teddy bear. “I brought this for you.”

She took it, looked at it, made a face, then set it beside her. I guess she didn’t love it after all.

I was batting about zero for three or something, so I picked another subject and asked her, “How are they treating you here?”

“All right.”

“Is there anything I can see to?”

“No.”

“Well, if you think of anything-”

“What is the purpose of your return from London, Mr. Sutter?”

“John.”

“Mr. Sutter. Why have you returned?”

Well, Ethel, I need to get my things out of your house before you die and the Iranian guy changes the locks.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well, I came to see you, of course.” This sounded a bit insincere, so I added, “Also, I have some business in New York, and I thought this might be a good time to recover some of my personal effects from the gatehouse.”

“You’d better hurry. That Iranian man won’t let you stay. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“You should speak to him. My life tenancy allows for a reasonable amount of time to have my property removed.” She asked, rhetorically, “But who knows what he considers reasonable.”

“Let me worry about that, if the time comes.”

“Augustus should have been more specific.”

Well, not too specific, Ethel. I’d actually seen the document in question, and it names both George and Ethel, of course, and mentions their loyal and faithful service over the years. George was certainly loyal and faithful, and Ethel was… well, apparently a good lay. I often wondered if George understood the reason for Augustus’ generosity. Anyway, I said to Ethel, “It’s premature to-”

She interrupted, “Have you seen your wife?”

“My ex-wife. No, I have not. Have you?”

“She stopped by yesterday.”

“Then you know I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman.”

I rolled my eyes.

“She looks so beautiful.”

I was getting a little annoyed, so I replied, “Many men seem to think so.”

She ignored that and said, “I think she would like to see you.”

I didn’t inquire as to why Ethel thought that. I changed the subject and said to her, “I opened a jar of your crabapple jelly, and it was wonderful. Would you like me to bring you a jar?”

“No, thank you. But see that Elizabeth gets them.”

“You’ll want some when you go home.”

“And give her all the vegetables I canned last fall.”

I nodded, but she was staring straight ahead, the way dying people do who suddenly catch a brief glimpse into eternity. She then said, as if to herself, “What will become of my harvest?”

I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “How is Elizabeth?”

Ethel came back to earth and replied, “She’s fine.”

“Good.” I’d also heard she was divorced, but ladies of Mrs. Allard’s generation would not mention that. I said, “I need to call her.” I was about to explain that Elizabeth needed to do an inventory of personal property and look over the paperwork, but that might confirm to Ethel that she had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, so I recovered nicely and said, “I need to arrange with her for your home health care.”

She was getting annoyed with my pretense that she was going home, and quite frankly, so was I. She said, “I am dying, Mr. Sutter. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Well, I’m-”

“That’s why I’m in hospice, and not the hospital.”

“Right.”

“What I need you to do is to take care of my affairs after I’m gone.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you.” She added, “I won’t keep you here very long.”

I wanted to say, “Take your time,” but instead I said, “I’ll be here as long as necessary.” I added, “And thank you for your hospitality.”

She reminded me, “You were, and I assume still are, a paying guest. A boarder.”

“Right.” Check’s in the mail, Ethel. I mean, talk about the world turning upside down. Upward mobility in America can be fast, but downward mobility is always a free fall.

Anyway, to put her mind at ease, I said, “If you’ll let me know how much the rent is, I’ll deposit the amount in your account.”

She replied, “The same rent as you were paying ten years ago.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“You may deduct that amount from your bill.”

“There’s no charge for any legal work I may need to perform on your behalf.”

“Thank you.” She asked me, “How long are you staying here, Mr. Sutter?”

Even if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t tell anyone who was in contact with Susan.

“Mr. Sutter? Are you going back to London? Or are you home?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Does that mean you may stay?”

“It means I’m not certain.”

She detected a note of annoyance in my tone, so she changed the subject and asked me, “Is my will in order?”

“I believe it is.” I added, “I’ll need to bring you a few documents to review and update, and perhaps a few papers to sign.”

“Don’t wait a week.”

“I’ll come Saturday or Sunday.”

“Sunday is the Sabbath.”

“Right. Saturday or Monday.”

I never quite understood these old Christian socialists. I mean, it wasn’t a pure contradiction of terms, and socialists could certainly be religious – social justice through Jesus – but Ethel was, in some ways, among the last of a dying breed.

I noticed a few magazines on her tray table and saw that none of them were the old lefty magazines she used to read; they were mostly house and garden monthlies and a few local, upscale Gold Coast publications that, as I recalled, chronicled the activities of the rich and famous, the charity balls, grand house restorations, and some goings-on in Manhattan. Maybe Ethel was collecting the names of millionaires for re-education camps when the Revolution came.

Or maybe, by now, in the clarity of approaching death, she’d realized, like everyone else, that in America all change is superficial; the structure remains the same.

Mrs. Knight, as promised, stuck her head in and inquired, “How are we doing?”

Why do hospital people use the first person plural? I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine. Your patient is still dying.” But before I could say that, Ethel replied, “We’re doing fine, Diane. Thank you.”

“Ring if you need anything.”

I needed a Dewar’s and soda. Ring!

Ethel got back to business and informed me, “I have given Elizabeth written instructions for my funeral. See that she follows them.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“See to it.”

“Right.”

“She’s strong-willed, and wants everything her way.”

I wonder who she got that from?

“I’ve picked out my dress. Have her find it.”

“Right.” Apparently, there’s a lot to think about when you’re dying, and I’m not sure I’d be as cool or organized as Ethel was being. Hopefully, I’d drop dead of a heart attack, or get run over by a bus, and let other people worry about the details.

“Also, be sure that Elizabeth speaks to Father Hunnings.”

“I will.” The Right Reverend James Hunnings was, and I guess still is, our parish priest at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. I thoroughly disliked him, and if he were honest, he would say the same about me. I’d driven past St. Mark’s in Locust Valley and noticed that Hunnings still had top billing on the signboard, which didn’t surprise me; this was a good gig in a wealthy parish, and though Episcopalians should be on the endangered species list, there were still enough of us around here to keep Father Hunnings in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

I asked Ethel, “Have you spoken to Father Hunnings?”

She replied, “Of course. He comes almost every day.” She added, “He’s a wonderful man.”

He wouldn’t be saying the same about Ethel after I told him that Mrs. Allard had left the church only five hundred dollars. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I was looking forward to that phone call. Better yet, I’d invite him to the reading of the will. And to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, I leave… pause for effect, smile, continue – five hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, Jim.

“Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”

“Oh… I was… So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”

“She’s well. Have you gone to church?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You should go. Your wife goes.”

“My ex-wife.”

“I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”

“Good. He does a good job.”

“I didn’t like George’s service.”

Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.

Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”

I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.

She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”

I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.

Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”

“Of course.” Poor George.

I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much… but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”

I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.

Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.

Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.”

I wasn’t sure if that masculine pronoun referred to George or Augustus, and I also wondered how they handled love triangles in heaven. I said, “Yes, you will.”

Ethel said to me, or to herself, “I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends and family who went before me.”

I didn’t reply.

On the subject of reunions, Ethel informed me, “Mrs. Sutter would like to see you.”

I feigned confusion and replied, “My mother and I are barely speaking, Mrs. Allard.”

“I’m speaking of your wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

“She’s very disappointed that you haven’t called her.”

This came as a surprise, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Actually, I felt pretty lousy, but I informed Ethel, “The phone works both ways.”

“Mr. Sutter, if I may be personal, I think you should forgive and forget.”

I slipped into my old master/servant tone of voice and said, “Mrs. Allard, I have forgiven and forgotten, and I have no wish to continue on this subject.”

But Ethel did, and since she was in a unique position to say whatever she wanted without consequence, she said to me, “You’re hurting her, and yourself.”

My goodness. Crotchety old Ethel Allard was seeing some sort of celestial light, and was determined to do something good before she got grilled by St. Peter.

Also, on a more earthly level, Ethel knew a thing or two about adultery and the weakness of the flesh, so she gave Susan a free pass on that. In other words, Ethel and Susan had something in common; to wit, they’d both crossed the Do Not Diddle line. These were two very different cases, of course, with far different results, but the bottom line was a pair of men’s shoes under their beds that didn’t belong there.

I was a little annoyed and said to her, hypothetically, “Would George have forgiven you if you-?”

“He did.”

“Oh…” I never thought that George knew about Augustus. Well, George was a forgiving soul, and I’m not. Plus, George got the free housing. I reminded her, “This subject is finished.” I looked at my watch and said, “Perhaps I’d better be going.”

“As you wish.”

I stood, but didn’t leave. Instead, I walked to the window and stared out toward the sinking sun. From here, I could see a glimpse of the Sound between the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the water.

“What do you see?”

I glanced back at Ethel.

“Tell me what you see.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I see sunlight sparkling on the water. I see trees, and the leaves are glistening from the rain. I see the sky clearing, and white clouds blowing across the horizon. I can see the head of Hempstead Harbor, and boats, and I see land across the Sound, and there are flights of gulls circling over the water.”

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I should have noticed it more.”

“We all should.”

Neither of us spoke for a full minute, then I moved to her bedside.

She was clutching the stuffed bear, and I saw tears in her eyes.

I took a tissue from the box and patted her cheeks. She took my hand and said, “Thank you for coming, John.”

Her hand was very cold and dry, and this, more than her appearance, made me aware that she was closer to death than to life.

She squeezed my hand and said, “I never liked you, you know.”

I smiled and replied, “I know.”

“But I respected you.”

Deathbed confessions are admissible as evidence, and deemed to be truthful, so I said, “Thank you.”

She further confessed, “You’re a good man. There are not many left.”

I agreed with that, and said, “You are a lady.”

“You’re lost, John. Find your way home.”

“I’m trying.”

“Call her. And call your mother. And your children. Reach out to those you love, or once loved.”

“I will.”

She squeezed my hand again, and said, “Goodbye.”

I returned the grasp, then let go of her hand and moved away from the bed. Then I turned back, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek.

I left the room quickly and headed to the elevator.