“Your daughter-in-law has the same name as you.”
“Sonya, I’ve accepted your correction.”
“And in my house, I decide what I talk about.”
“Very well, I withdraw my remark.”
“And you’re listening, whether you mean to or not.”
If Mother replied to that, I don’t just now recollect, but Sonya had cut her to size, and now got up from her chair and sashayed over to her, in kind of a slow way she had, one hand on her hip. “So the dream,” she said, “is kerflooie — the white moon, the white shells, the white cotton, are gone, except the lilies aren’t.”
“When did lilies get in it?” I snapped.
“White ones, on Miss Jane, before they close the lid.”
“Of the coffin, you mean?”
“The casket, they call it now.”
That settled my hash for a while, as it was the part of the dream I tried not to think about.
She went on then, to Mother: “You’re not scrubbing Miss Jane — she’s married to your son.” Then, to me: “And you’re not — she’s been your godmother, and she’s now your brother’s wife.” And then, tapping her own wishbone: “And I’m not — I’m the cause of it all.” And after letting that much sink in: “One of us, one of us three in this room, is on that hook, the one my father worries about. Because, if she signs a new will, making Burl her heir, she won’t live to see the snow — it’ll drift down on her grave before it falls on her. Somebody here must see that she doesn’t die.”
She picked up her cocktail glass, raised it, and said: “Here’s to the lucky one, whichever of us gets elected.”
Chapter 19
Hook or no hook, the summer dragged on, and what had been a beautiful dream, with us up there on our cloud, had turned into an ugly nightmare, but not one that you hoped would end, because somehow you knew the awakening was going to be still worse. I carried on, I got listings. I helped the salesmen, I closed deals, though it was all tougher than usual, as the recession was on, and things were slow, terribly slow.
But all that time the other was bugging me, especially Stan Modell. Couple of days after that evening with Mother, he called with news of the new will, which he’d got from Mort Leonard — Jane had drawn it, making Burl her heir, had it witnessed, signed it, and handed it over to him. Stan was all hot to sue, to recover the ten thousand I’d paid, “or at least draw the papers, and out of courtesy show them to Mort. Graham, he dare not let that suit come to trial. Because if it comes out in court, that while claiming to farm her land, to enjoy Rural Agricultural assessment, she was actually deriving her main income from you, that does it. They pop her up to her proper status, on the basis of actual value, probably retroactive, so she’ll be eaten alive by taxes. She’ll have to do something about you, at the very least refund your ten thousand dollars. It’s not hay, Graham — and what do you have to lose? — I’ll carry the load, on a contingent basis, of course, and all you have to do is nothing.”
I told him I’d think about it.
I told him on Mother’s phone, where I did all my talking with him, on call-backs I’d give him, when he’d ring me at the office. He’d call, I’d tell him stand by, and then go running out and drive to Mother’s. Helen Musick thought I’d gone nuts, and who am I to say I hadn’t? Of course, when I’d hang up on a call, I’d talk it out with Mother, who was still dead set against suing.
“Gramie,” she told me very solemn, “you’ll do as you like, of course, and Stan’s idea sounds good — certainly she has her nerve, to be keeping the money you’ve paid her. Just the same, who says you’ll get it back? Suppose the court holds that while you were paying her, you were actually heir to her land, if she had died in that time, and would have inherited. When she didn’t die, you had assumed a risk and lost, on the principle of insurance, and have no refund coming.
“Also, Gramie, suppose she says, suppose she swears in open court, after coaching from we-know-who, that wedlock was part of the deal, that you promised to marry her, after spending years in her bed, but when out of the blue, you up and married a young girl, she decided to call it off. Don’t forget, you lived for ten years in her house, and the bed may be hard to disprove.
“I’m against the lawsuit, Gramie. It would be wonderful, I’d love it myself, I confess, to get a judgment against her that Burl would have to pay, out of that money he made, from poor little Dale Morgan’s death — but it might not turn out that way, and I’d simply hate it, his laughing at us in court, the wolfish grin he’d give it, in case we lost, which we might very well do. It’s a wrench to give up that dream, it had become part of me. But let’s face it, it’s gone! It’s not there any more! Well, life is like that! I say let’s forget it!”
“Amen, I say it too!”
“...We can’t forget it!”
She screamed at me, after one of Stan Modell’s calls, marching up and down, digging her fingernails in, and nipping her lip with her teeth. “We’re in one key, the orchestra in another, as your little wife reminded us, that evening at your house. Jane won’t live to see the snow, that’s what we’re up against, unless something is done! So she’s a nut, a screwball, a kook, but we always knew that, didn’t we? Now she’s a screwball with a bad egg winding her up, a Trilby who met her Svengali — but can we hold it against her?
“The main thing is, she’ll be hit by some horrible accident, as Dale Morgan was hit, and for exactly the same reason — so he can cash in on it big! So okay, okay, okay, now we’re on key, at last. But what do we do about it? What can we do about it? Go to the police? What do we know to tell them? Let Stan Modell file his suit? What good is that going to do? Go to her? Warn her? Then he could file suit against us. And, it wouldn’t do any good, not in her present mood. Can you think of anything, Gramie?”
“Not right now I can’t.”
“I’m at my wits’ end, I confess.”
I’d have given anything to talk all that out with Sonya, but something came up, so I couldn’t. The beds were delivered, and Modesta made them up, so they looked identically the same as the ones that were taken away. And I got into mine, pleased to be back again in our own proper room.
And I waited and waited and waited, but nobody came in there with me. I called, and she answered, from across the hall in the guest room. I went over there, and she was in bed, in the same bed she’d been sleeping in, reading Playboy. I asked if she wasn’t coming in with me, and she said: “Better I sleep in here.”
At that I blew my top. “In what way better?” I asked. “You keep screeching that you’re my wife. Has it occurred to you, I’m your husband? Get out of that bed! Get in there, where you belong!” I ripped the covers off her and tried to pull her out, but she fought me off, stronger than you might think. I wound up slapping her and she started to cry. So a woman in tears calls for love, and God knows I was willing. But these weren’t that kind of tears. They came in heaves and twitches and jerks, and had a bitter sound. I tried to ease her, but she wouldn’t relax to let me. Then I went back to my room, sobbing worse than she was. So I couldn’t talk anything out with her, not in a friendly way.
And then one day, at the office, came a mysterious call, from some guy I probably knew. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “if you’ll drive down past the playground, the playground by the creek, where Forty-fourth intersects, you’re going to see something, you’re going to get a surprise.” I paid no attention, but went back to work, for at least eighteen seconds. Then I had Elsie ring the house. When no answer came I went down and got headed for Forty-fourth Avenue.