“It’s happened before.”
“Yes, but didn’t they ever stop to think of Esther, of me?”
“There are times,” Turee said, “when people don’t stop to think of anything.”
Nineteen
As far as the newspapers were concerned, the Galloway story died on the obit page, but rumors were flying wildly around town like kites without tails. One of them got entangled in Esther’s telephone wire: an anonymous caller accused her of murder and demanded five thousand dollars as the price of his silence.
After this episode, Esther refused to take any calls or to see anyone except the lawyers concerned with the probate of Ron’s will. It was a curiously simple will for a wealthy man to make. No trust funds or other safeguards had been set up for the children; except for a few minor bequests, everything was left outright to Esther, as if Ron had had greater faith in her good judgment and common sense than he had in his own. The lawyers came with papers for her to sign, and went away again, and came back with more papers. These visits were, for a time, Esther’s only contact with the outside world.
She stayed indoors, wandering from room to room of the huge house, trying to find things to do, straightening pictures that weren’t crooked, dusting ash trays that hadn’t been used, moving chairs that had been moved only a few hours before, reading aloud to the two boys in a new gentle faraway voice which had a strangely quieting effect on them. The extremes of unexpressed grief and rage, which characterized the early period of her mourning, began gradually to moderate with the passing of the days, leaving behind a kind of acceptance, and a broader perspective. She came to realize that she was not the only injured and bereaved person, that it was Thelma, perhaps, who would ultimately suffer more than anyone else. She had a growing urge to call Thelma, partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, but she was a little timid about doing it directly, since she couldn’t be sure how Thelma would interpret such a call.
As a compromise she tried to get in touch with Harry at his office. She was informed that Harry had left the country a week previously and his present location was unknown since the head office in Detroit handled all transfers to the United States.
The following afternoon she received a badly typed letter from him, postmarked Kansas City, Missouri.
Dear Esther:
I tried to say good-bye to you but I was told you were ill. I hope you are feeling better by this time and bearing up under the terrible strain. As you probably know by now, Thelma and I decided to separate, and I applied for a transfer and landed here, of all places. It’s a lot like home, even the climate, though I guess it’s warmer here because there’s no lake.
I feel the way I did when I first left home for boarding school, like a mass of jelly inside from sheer homesickness. The nights are the worst. In the daytime I keep busy. I have to. This is a big city and I have to get to know it the way I know Toronto, if I’m to be any good to the company. They’ve given me a company car to drive, by the way, and everyone is very nice, so I’ve really nothing to complain of, jobwise. If I could only get over this sick, empty feeling inside.
I have just reread the first page of this letter, and for a guy who has nothing to complain of, I certainly complain! Forgive me, Esther. You have your own sorrows, I’m a dog to add to them.
I’ve sent Thelma three special-delivery letters but she hasn’t answered. I know you two aren’t likely to go out of your way to meet each other, but if you hear any news of her through Ralph or Billy Winslow or Joe Hepburn, please let me know.
I have so many things to say to you but somehow I can’t say them. I want you to know one thing, though — I accept full responsibility for what happened. It was entirely my fault, I should have been more alert, more suspicious, more everything, I guess. I can’t go into the details, they are too personal, but I repeat — it was all my fault and mine alone. Ron would be alive today if it weren’t for my weakness and vanity. Last night I dreamed I was a murderer, so I guess this is how I really feel inside.
I will try to be more cheerful next time I write. Meanwhile, take care of yourself, Esther.
Love,
It was the second time within a week that the word murder had come up.
She reread the last part of the letter, thinking how simpleminded Harry was to believe that a catastrophe could be caused by any one person. A lot of people were involved, not just the leading characters, but the bit players, the prop man, the stagehands, waiting in the wings.
In the same mail a letter, with an imposing letterhead of six names and the address of a law firm, contained an incongruously informal message:
Dear Esther:
I’d like to drop in early Friday morning. No papers to sign, but a few matters to discuss.
Yours,
Charles Birmingham was a tall, austere man in his early sixties with a strong British accent which he had picked up at Oxford and managed to retain for forty years, intact. His too-formal manner of dressing gave the impression that he was always on his way to a wedding or a funeral, and his cold fishy eyes indicated that it didn’t matter which.
Esther didn’t like him, and he considered her a fool, so there was little room for a meeting of minds.
He came to the point of his visit without any preliminary niceties. “Mrs. Bream has retained an attorney.”
“Yes, I just had a letter from Harry yesterday telling me he and Thelma have separated.”
“I’m afraid you miss the point.” Women always do, his tone implied. “This has no bearing on the separation. It concerns Mrs. Bream’s unborn child. If Ron hadn’t been so idiotic as to write that letter and you hadn’t been so precipitate about handing it over to the police, we’d have an excellent chance of winning our case.”
“Winning our case? You intend to fight?”
“To the best of my ability. As your attorney, it is my job to protect your financial interests.”
“Have I any say in the matter?”
“Naturally, but it’s customary for clients to take the advice of their attorney.”
“Is it, indeed?” Esther’s smile was chilly. “Well, I don’t always do the customary thing.”
“I’m sure you don’t. However, in this case, I do hope your negativistic attitude toward me personally won’t interfere with your better judgment.”
“I don’t like the idea of going into court, not one bit.”
“If you’re sued, you’ll have to.”
“Well, fix it so I won’t be sued. Why can’t the whole thing be handled in a friendly, civilized manner?”
Birmingham’s lifted brows indicated his low opinion of this suggestion. “My dear Esther...”
“I don’t want any scandal or fuss.”
“There already is scandal.”
“I know that.” She remembered the soft, queer voice on the telephone, and her own terror, so paralyzing that she couldn’t answer, couldn’t even hang up. “It’s got to be stopped. I’m afraid to go out, afraid to send the boys to school. I have this feeling that we’re being watched.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know.”