Matthew died happy. I have every reason to believe it. But then, as Mama said, they all died happy.
Never again, Mama, I said. Never again. I feel like Typhoid Mary or somebody who brings doom on men’s heads.
Never is a long time, Mama said.
And she was right. I married Hugh.
I think it was Hugh.
Two things I was proud of and am proud of. I never spoke a harsh word to any one of my husbands and I never did call one of them by another’s name, and that took a lot of doing because after a while they just all sort of melted together in my mind.
After every loss, Homer was the greatest solace and comfort to me. Until he retired last year Homer was the Medical Examiner, and he was a childhood friend, though I never saw him except in his line of duty, you might say. It’s the law here, and perhaps elsewhere, that if anyone dies unattended or from causes that aren’t obvious, the Medical Examiner must be informed.
The first few times I had to call Homer I was chagrined. I felt apologetic, a little like calling the doctor up in the middle of the night when, however much the pain may be troubling you, you’re afraid it’s a false alarm and the doctor will hold it against you for disturbing his sleep.
But Homer always was jovial when I called him. I guess that’s not the right word. Homer was reassuring, not jovial. Anytime, Lucy, anytime at all, he would say when I began to apologize for having to call him.
I think it was right after Sam died. Or was it Carl? It could have been George. Anyway, Homer was there reassuring me as always, and then this look of sorrow or regret clouded his features. It’s a damned pity, Lucy, he said, you can’t work me in somewhere or other. You weren’t the prettiest little girl in the third grade, or the smartest, but damned if from the beginning there hasn’t been something about you. I remember, he said, that when we were in the fourth grade I got so worked up over you that I didn’t pass a single subject but arithmetic and had to take the whole term over. Of course you were promoted, so for the rest of my life you’ve been just out of my reach.
Why, Homer, I said, that’s the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me.
I had it in the back of my mind once the funeral was over and everything was on an even keel again that I’d ask Homer over for supper one night. But it seemed so calculating, as if I was taking him up on that sweet remark he had made about wishing I had worked him in somewhere among my husbands. So I decided against it.
Instead I married Beau Green.
There they go laughing again — Eliza and Lewis down in the kitchen. My kitchen.
It’s funny that Eliza has turned up in my kitchen, acting very much at home, when she’s the one and only person in this town I never have felt very friendly toward — at least, not since word got to me that she had said I snatched Beau Green right from under her nose.
That wasn’t a nice thing for her to say. Besides, there wasn’t a word of truth in it. I’d like to see the man that can be snatched from under anybody’s nose unless he wanted to be.
Eliza was surely welcome to Beau Green if she had wanted him and if he had wanted her.
Why, I’d planned to take a trip around the world, already had my tickets and reservations, and had to put it off for good because Beau wouldn’t budge any farther away from home than to go to Green River — named for his family — to fish. I really wanted to take that cruise — had my heart especially set on seeing the Taj Mahal by moonlight; but Beau kept on saying if I didn’t marry him he would do something desperate, which I took to mean he’d kill himself or take to drink. So I canceled all those reservations and turned in all those tickets and married him.
Well, Eliza would certainly have been welcome to Beau.
I’ve already emphasized that I don’t like to rank my husbands, but in many ways Beau was the least satisfactory one I ever had. It was his nature to be a killjoy — he had no sense of the joy of living and once he set his mind on something he went ahead with it, no matter if it pleased anybody else or not.
He knew good and well I didn’t care for jewelry. But my preference didn’t matter to Beau Green, not one bit. Here he came with this package and I opened it. I tried to muster all my politeness when I saw that it was a diamond. Darling, I said, you’re sweet to give me a present, but this is a little bit big, isn’t it?
It’s thirty-seven carats, he said.
I felt like I ought to take it around on a sofa pillow instead of wearing it, but I did wear it twice and felt as conspicuous and as much of a showoff as if I’d been waving a peacock fan around and about.
It was and is my habit when I get upset with someone to go to my room and write my grievances down and get myself back in a good humor, just as I’m doing now because of that girl’s questions; but sometimes it seemed like there wasn’t enough paper in the world on which to write down my complaints against Beau.
Then I would blame myself. Beau was just being Beau. Like all God’s creatures he was behaving the way he was made, and I felt so guilty that I decided I ought to do something for him to show I really loved and respected him, as deep in my heart I did.
So I decided to make him a cake by that elaborate recipe that had been in our family nobody is sure for how long. I took all one day to do the shopping for it. The next day I got up at five and stayed in the kitchen until late afternoon.
Well, Beau was a bit peckish when it came to eating the cake. Yet he had the sweetest tooth of any of my husbands.
Listen, darling, I said when he was mulish about eating it, I made this special for you — it’s taken the best part of two days. I smiled at him and asked wouldn’t he please at least taste it to please me. Really, I was put out when I thought of all the work that had gone into it. For one terrible second I wished it were a custard pie and I could throw it right in his face, like in one of those old Keystone comedies; and then I remembered that we were sworn to cherish each other, so I just put one arm around his shoulder and with my free hand I pushed the cake a little closer and said, Belle wants Beau to eat at least one small bite. Belle was a foolish pet name he sometimes called me because he thought it was clever for him to be Beau and for me to be Belle.
He looked sheepish and picked up his fork and I knew he was trying to please me, the way I had tried to please him by wearing that thirty-seven carat diamond twice.
Goodness, Belle, he said, when he swallowed his first mouthful, this is delicious.
Now, darling, you be careful, I said. That cake is rich.
Best thing I ever ate, he said, and groped around on the plate for the crumbs, and I said, darling, wouldn’t you like a little coffee to wash it down?
He didn’t answer, just sat there smiling. Then after a little he said he was feeling numb. I can’t feel a thing in my feet, he said. I ran for the rubbing alcohol and pulled off his shoes and socks and started rubbing his feet, and there was a sort of spasm and his toes curled under, but nothing affected that smile on his face.
Homer, I said a little later — because of course I had to telephone him about Beau’s death — what on earth is it? Could it be something he’s eaten? And Homer said, what do you mean, something he’s eaten? Of course not. You set the best table in the county. You’re famous for your cooking. It couldn’t be anything he’s eaten. Don’t be foolish, Lucy. He began to pat me on the shoulder and he said, I read a book about guilt and loss and it said the bereaved often hold themselves responsible for the deaths of their beloved ones. But I thought you had better sense than that, Lucy.