"And waste Eunice's death? Are you crazy? You were unconscious; Garcia put you under as soon as I notified him that a body was going to be ready. Then that dreadful wait. I need your forgiveness, too, for—Joan—no, ‘Johann!' I hated you... for being alive when she was dead. But I pushed on—for her sake. Oh, I got over it, it was a sick hate. I knew better."
"Do you hate me now?"
"Eh?" Salomon looked at her, in sorrow. "No. You are not only my old friend, who has always been honest and decent under his crusty exterior—whose virtues outweighed his faults." Salomon managed to smile. "Though sometimes just barely. But also you are the only tie I have left to her."
"Yes. You may find me better tempered now, Jake. It's easier to smile, easier to be patient, then it was in that old wreck of a body I had. But, Jake, about Joe Branca. All right, he was in Philadelphia. But could he have arranged it?"
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Certain. Joha—Joan, it's that million dollars that worries you, fear that it might have started a chain of events. When they located Joe Branca, I had to jet there and get that piece of paper. He was dazed. Couldn't believe it. But accepted the fact. But not the money. I couldn't get him to sign the post-death authorization without first preparing another document, waiving the money. The escrow trustee—Chase Manhattan—was instructed by Joe to pay it to the Rare Blood Club—his idea—as a memorial to Eunice Evans Branca." (Oh, Boss! I'm crying.) (We all are.) (But, Boss—Joe must be starving.) (We'll take care of it.)
She sighed: "I'll be damned."
"Perhaps. And perhaps myself. But I don't think Joe Branca will be. He's an unworldly man—Joan. From a slum family. A flower in the muck. I couldn't even get him to accept a lesser sum. He insisted on paying for witnessing and notarizing his mark, and the tax stamp on the assignment—and it took almost every dime he could dig up. He just shook his head and said, ‘Broke don't scare me.'
"Jake, we must take care of him."
"I don't think you can, Joan. In his own odd way he is as proud as she was. But I did one thing. In searching for him I had to get a court order to open their studio—indispensable it turned out, as an old letter from his mother gave us the clue that located him. But I learned that the rent was almost due... the corporation's rent agent wanted to know how soon the lease was going to lapse—he assumed that, with her dead, the rent would not be paid. So I covered the matter for the moment; then when I got back, I bought the lease. As long as Joe chooses to stay, he won't be asked for rent. Then I checked around and located her bank account and arranged with a friendly judge to let me guarantee the matter and had it assigned to Joe without bothering him with legal formalities. The little dear was smart about money—a nice sum, enough to keep him eating a couple of years, I think." (All gone in a couple of months, I think. Boss, Joe doesn't understand money. A bank account isn't real, to him.) (Don't worry, darling. Jake and I will handle it.)
She sighed. "I feel reassured, Jake. But distressed about her husband. We must look into it. If he's that unworldly, then there must be some way to subsidize him without his knowing it."
"All right, Joan, we will try. But Joe Branca taught me—at my age!—that there are things money cannot buy. Not if the prospective seller is indifferent to money."
"Will you have more sherry? And may I have another drop? If you can't stay, I think I'll ask to be put to bed and right to sleep. Skip dinner."
"Oh, but you must eat, Joan. For your strength. Look, if I stay, will you eat?"
She gave him Eunice's best sun-coming-up smile. "Yes! Yes, Jake dear! Thank you."
Dinner was informal, service only by Cunningham and two assistants. Joan did her best to simulate a charming, gracious hostess—while trying not to appear greedy; everything tasted so wonderful! But she waited until coffee had been served and Jake had refused a perfecto and accepted a glass of port, and she then could say, "Thank you, Cunningham, that will be all," before returning to personal matters.
Once they were alone she said, "Jake, when will I be up for a competency hearing?"
"Eh? Any time you feel well enough. Are you in a hurry?"
"No. I would be utterly content to be your ward the rest of my life."
Her lawyer smiled slightly. "Joan, by the actuarial tables you now have a life expectancy of about sixty years; mine is more like ten or twelve."
"Well... that's hard to answer. But will you go on as before as my de-facto manager? Or am I asking too much?"
Salomon studied his glass. "Joan... once the court dissolves this guardian-and-ward relationship, there is no reason why you should not manage your affairs."
(Joan! Change the subject; he's trying to leave us!) (So I know! Keep quiet!) (Tell him your middle name!) "Jake. Jake dear... look at me. Look hard and keep on looking. That's better, Jake—is it that you would rather not see me ...as l am now?"
The lawyer said nothing. She went on, "Isn't it better to get used to what is...than to run away from it? Wouldn't she—Eunice—want you to stay?" (Keep slugging, Sis—he wants to stay.)
"It isn't that simple... Joan."
"Nothing ever is. But I don't think you can run away from it any more than I can—for I won't stop being what I am—her body, my mind—and you will always know it. All you accomplish by leaving is to deprive me of my one friend and the only man on earth I trust utterly. What does it take to change my name?"
"Eh?"
"Just what I said. I changed my surname from ‘Schmidt' to ‘Smith' when I enlisted on December eighth nineteen-forty-one simply by spelling it that way to a recruiting sergeant: No one has bothered me about it since. This time perhaps it must be formal, considering the thousands of places where my signature appears. It is technically a sex-change case, is it not? A court takes judicial notice, or some such, and it's made a matter of record'?"
Salomon slipped into his professional persona and relaxed. "Yes, of course; I had not thought about that aspect—too many other details on my mind. Joan, your earlier name change was legal—although informal— because any person is free to call himself by any name, without permission of a court, as long as there is no criminal intent—to defraud, deceive, evade responsibility, avoid taxes, whatever. You can call yourself ‘Joan'—or ‘Johann'—or ‘Miniver Cheevy'—and that is your name, as long as your purpose is innocent. And pronounce it as you like. Knew of a case once of a man who spelled his name ‘Zaustinski' and pronounced it ‘Jones' and went to the trouble of publishing the odd pronunciation as a legal notice—although he did not have to; a name may be pronounced in any fashion its owner chooses."
"Why did he do it, Jake?"
"His grandmother's will required him to change his name in order to inherit—but did not specify how he must pronounce it. Joan, in your case a formal change of name is advisable, but it might be best to wait until you are no longer my ward. But de facto your new name is already what you say it is."
"Then my name is now—'Joan Eunice Smith.'"
Salomon knocked over his glass of port. He made quite a busyness of mopping it up. Joan said, "Jake, let it be, no importance. I did not mean to shock you. But don't you see the necessity? It's a tribute to her, a public acknowledgment of my debt to her. Since I can never pay it, I want to publish it, place it on the wall for all to see, like a Chinese man's debt to his tong. Besides that, ninety-five percent of me is Eunice...and only five percent is old Johann now named ‘Joan' and even that fraction no one can see, only surgeons have seen it. Last but by no means least—Jake dear, look at me—if you ever forget that fraction and call me ‘Eunice,' it won't matter; it's my name.