“You’re acquainted with the first?”
“I see her at church twice a week. We often share the same hymn book. She’s a soprano but not one of those screechy ones, just soft and ladylike as befits her birth.”
“Is she aware that you work for Mrs. Decker?”
“Sure. At our regular evening meetings we’re encouraged to stand up and talk out our predicaments and troubles. Then afterwards we all sit around and help each other.”
“Or not.”
“Or not,” Violet Smith agreed crisply. “We aren’t geniuses, you know. It’s the feeling that counts, the realizing you’re not alone, someone else cares and wants to help.”
“Your church meetings sound very interesting.”
“Oh, they are. They’re what really converted me. I didn’t mind giving up carnality, jewelry and red meat in return for comradeship and an afterlife.”
“I think you made the right decision.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not being sarcastic like Reed or Mrs. Decker?”
“No.”
“I’m glad. You know, when you’re stuck in a place like this most of the time, you’ve got to have something lively, something hopeful, going on outside. The death house — that’s what some of the employees call it. All the pretty flowers and trees, the sun shining, the pool, the birds singing, none of it makes any difference when you’re waiting for someone to die. You want to tell the birds to shut up and the sun to drop down and the flowers to fold their petals and blow away. Imagine telling a bird to shut up. But I did one day. There was this little red-headed creature singing on top of the T. V. antenna and I screamed at him, ‘Stop it, shut up, don’t you know someone’s dying down here?’ ”
“Did you ever express these feelings at any of your church meetings?”
“No. They’d think I was a loony... Listen, I hear Mrs. Decker coming back. She’s suspicious. Pretend I never said a word, not one word, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Gilly re-entered the room through the inside door that connected it with the main part of the house. She looked flushed, as though she’d been engaged in some strenuous physical or emotional exertion. She said, “I suppose Violet Smith has talked your ear off.”
“No.”
“That’s peculiar. She does it to everyone else.”
“Oh, I do not,” Violet Smith said coldly and went outside, pushing the screen door shut behind her as hard as she could.
Gilly waited for her to disappear around the side of the house. “My husband’s all right. He sometimes reacts badly when Reed goes off duty or when something unusual happens.”
“And I’m an unusual happening?”
“To Marco, yes. I’d like you to meet him. He sees the same people day after day and I’m sure he’d enjoy some different company for a change. No matter what impression Violet Smith gave you, Marco can hear and often understand as well — or almost as well — as you and I can.”
“It might be better for me to see him some other time.”
“This is the time I want you to see him, right now. I have my reasons.”
“Very well, Mrs. Decker. You’re the boss.”
Gilly spoke his name softly. “Marco?”
Nothing happened for a minute. Then the wheelchair, which had been facing the patio, suddenly and noiselessly turned and Aragon had his first glimpse of Marco Decker. He seemed a little smaller than life. His face was pale and shriveled, and around his head there was a fringe of sparse silky hair like a baby’s. Under the lap robe his knees showed almost as thin and sharp as elbows. A mohair shawl was wrapped around his shoulders and fastened at the front with a safety pin, the extra-large size used for diapers. It heightened the image of an old man returning through the maze of years to his infancy.
This was Aragon’s first time in the presence of a terminally ill person and he understood more clearly what Violet Smith had been talking about. The imminence of death altered the meaning of things. The plants outside the window looked too grotesquely healthy, the hummingbirds among the fuchsia blossoms were too lively and brilliant, the warmth of the sun useless, even offensive. Aragon felt the reaction of his own body, the increased flow of adrenaline that increased his heartbeat and signaled his muscles to fight or flight. Run away, man. Drop down, sun. Shut up, bird.
“Marco dear, this is Tom Aragon, the young man from the lawyer’s office.”
“How do you do, Mr. Decker,” Aragon said.
The fingers of one of Marco’s hands twitched slightly in acknowledgment of the greeting.
Gilly said, “I thought I’d introduce Aragon to you and tell you exactly why I sent for him, Marco. I’d rather have kept it secret to spare you any worry, but I know you’re bound to hear hints about it from Reed or Violet Smith or one of the maids, or even from me unintentionally. When very little occurs in a house, whatever does occur is repeated and blown up out of proportion. This is a small thing, actually.”
Marco’s right eye blinked. The movement was slow and labored but the expression in the eye itself was clear: Hurry up, get on with it, I haven’t much time.
“I won’t tell you if you’re going to fuss about it because it isn’t that important.”
Hurry, hurry, giddyap, giddyap.
“Now, don’t be upset... I’ve often talked to you about B. J., haven’t I? And I’ve told you what happened. We have no secrets from each other. Well, I’ve been thinking, what if B. J. struck it rich, down in Mexico, I mean rich rich. Some of these developers rake in millions and millions, and while he was always a lousy businessman, maybe this time he struck it lucky. I talked to Smedler. He said I’d be a fool not to try and cash in on it if really big money is involved. He said I should make an effort to find B. J.”
Aragon stared at her. There wasn’t the subtlest change of expression on her face or the slightest quaver in her voice to indicate that she’d just told three lies in three sentences.
“Well, now you know what Mr. Aragon is doing here. He’s collecting material on B. J. so he’ll know where to look first, and so on. I showed him some pictures of B. J. and also the last letter I received from him five years ago. There now. That shouldn’t upset you, should it?”
Marco’s paralyzed eye remained half open but the good one was closed. He might have gone to sleep out of weariness or boredom; he might have died.
“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re sleeping when you’re not, Marco, just to make me go away. I’ll go away in a minute when I’ve finished explaining to you... Listen, he treated me badly, he almost destroyed me. It was a long time ago and everything ought to be forgotten and forgiven by now. But it’s not. He owes me. I want to see him pay a few more damages.”
The wheelchair turned, as it had before, without a sound and faced the patio again, the plants, the birds, the sun.
“All right, Marco, I’m leaving. I won’t bother you anymore.” She opened the door and went out into the corridor. With a final glance at the man in the wheelchair, Aragon followed her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him but I felt I’d better. He’ll be quite reasonable once he gets used to the idea. If he is or isn’t, I must go ahead with the project anyway. I’ve been considering it a long time and I have no intention of giving it up. You think — you may think I’m doing all this out of revenge.”
“I may.”
“In fact you do.”
“Well, I was just wondering what the going price is for a pound of flesh.”
“The same as it’s always been,” Gilly said quietly. “A pound of flesh.”
Outside, the wind had gone down and all the billowy clouds had broken up and were strung across the sky in shreds. The plastic hose of the pool vacuum was floating in the water where Reed had dropped it. It looked like a giant white sea snake coiled to strike.