I threw my diamond ring away and it rolled under a parked car. As we argued we were walking along a street near my rooming house. It was winter, like now. January or February. But the battle dragged on after that. I was supposed to find out about an abortion from a friend who had a friend who was rumored to have had one. I gave in; I said I’d do it. You couldn’t even risk making inquiries. But then I lied, 1 said the doctor had moved away. Then I admitted lying. I can’t do it, I said.
But was that because of the baby? Never. It was because I believed I was right, in the argument.
I had contempt. I had contempt when I saw you scrambling to get under the parked car, and the tails of your overcoat were flapping around your buttocks. You were clawing in the snow to find the ring and you were so relieved when you found it. You were ready to hug me and laugh at me, thinking I’d be relieved too and we’d make up on the spot. I told you you would never do anything admirable in your whole life.
Hypocrite, I said. Sniveller. Philosophy teacher.
Not that that was the end. For we did make up. But we didn’t forgive each other. And we didn’t take steps. And it got to be too late and we saw that each of us had invested too much in being in the right and we walked away and it was a relief. Yes, at that time I’m sure it was a relief for us both and a kind of victory.
“So isn’t that ironic?” I said to my father. “Considering?”
I could hear Mrs. Barrie outside stomping her boots, so I said this in a hurry. My father had sat all the time rigid with embarrassment as I thought, or with profound distaste.
Mrs. Barrie opened the door saying, “Ought to get a broom out there-” Then she cried out, “What are you doing sitting there? What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see the man’s dead?”
He wasn’t dead. He was in fact breathing as noisily as ever and perhaps more so. What she had seen and what I would have seen, even against the light, if I had not been avoiding looking at him whilst I told my tale, was that he had suffered a blinding and paralyzing stroke. He sat slightly tilted forward, the table pressing into the firm curve of his stomach. When we tried to move him from his chair, we managed only to jar him so that his head came down on the table, with a majestic reluctance. His hat stayed on. And his coffee cup stayed in place a couple of inches from his unseeing eye. It was still about half full.
I said we couldn’t do anything with him; he was too heavy. I went to the phone and called the hospital, to get one of the other doctors to drive out. There’s no ambulance yet in this town. Mrs. B. paid no attention to what I said and kept pulling at my father’s clothes, undoing buttons and yanking at the overcoat and grunting and whimpering with the exertion. I ran out to the lane, leaving the door open. I ran back, and got a broom, and set it outside by the door. I went and put a hand on Mrs. B.’s arm and said, “You can’t-” or something like that, and she gave me the look of a spitting cat.
A doctor came. He and I together were able to pull my father out to the car and get him into the backseat. I got in beside him to hold on to him and keep him from toppling over. The sound of his breathing was more peremptory than ever and seemed to be criticizing whatever we did. But, the fact was that you could take hold of him now, and shove him around, and manage his body as you had to, and this seemed very odd.
Mrs. B. had fallen back and quieted down as soon as she saw the other doctor. She didn’t even follow us out of the house to see my father loaded into the car.
This afternoon he died. At about five o’clock. I was told it was very lucky for all concerned.
I was full of other things to say, just when Mrs. Barrie came in. I was going to say to my father, What if the law should change? The law might change soon, I was going to say. Maybe not, but it might. He’d be out of business then. Or out of one part of his business. Would that make a great difference to him?
What could I expect him to answer?
Speaking of business, that is none of yours.
Or, I’d still make a living.
No, I would say. I didn’t mean the money. I meant the risk. The secrecy. The power.
Change the law, change what a person does, change what a person is?
Or would he find some other risk, some other knot to make in his life, some other underground and problematic act of mercy?
And if that law can change, other things can change. I’m thinking about you now, how it could happen that you wouldn’t be ashamed to marry a pregnant woman. There’d be no shame to it. Move ahead a few years, just a few years, and it could be a celebration. The pregnant bride is garlanded and led to the altar, even in the chapel of the Theological College.
If that happened, though, there’d likely be something else to be ashamed or afraid of, there’d be other errors to be avoided.
So what about me? Would I always have to find a high horse? The moral relish, the rising above, the being in the right, which can make me flaunt my losses.
Change the person. We all say we hope it can be done.
Change the law, change the person. Yet we don’t want everything-not the whole story-to be dictated from outside. We don’t want what we are, all we are, to be concocted that way.
Who is this “we” I’m talking about?
R. My father’s lawyer says, “It’s very unusual.” I realize that for him this is quite a strong, and sufficient, word.
There is enough money in my father’s bank account to cover his funeral expenses. Enough to bury him, as they say. (Not the lawyer-he doesn’t talk like that.) But there isn’t much more. There are no stock certificates in his safety deposit box; there is no record of investments. Nothing. No bequest to the hospital, or to his church, or to the high school to establish a scholarship. Most shocking of all, there is no money left to Mrs. Barrie. The house and its contents are mine. And that’s all there is. I have my five thousand dollars.
The lawyer seems embarrassed, painfully embarrassed, and worried about this state of affairs. Perhaps he thinks I might suspect him of misconduct. Try to blacken his name. He wants to know if there’s a safe in my (my father’s) house, any hiding place at all for a large amount of cash. I say there isn’t. He tries to suggest to me-in such a discreet and roundabout way that I don’t know at first what he’s talking about-that there might be reasons for my father’s wanting to keep the amount of his earnings a secret. A large amount of cash holed away somewhere is therefore a possibility.
I tell him I’m not terribly concerned about the money.
What a thing to say. He can hardly look me in the eye.
“Perhaps you could go home and take a very good look,” he says. “Don’t neglect the obvious places. It could be in a cookie tin. Or in a box under the bed. Surprising the places people can pick. Even the most sensible and intelligent people.
“Or in a pillow slip,” he’s saying as I go out the door.
A woman on the phone wants to speak to the doctor. “I’m sorry. He’s dead.” “Dr. Strachan. Have I got the right doctor?” “Yes but I’m sorry, he’s dead.”
“Is there anyone-does he by any chance have a partner I could talk to? Is there anybody else there?” “No. No partner.”
“Could you give me any other number I could call? Isn’t there some other doctor that can-”
“No. I haven’t any number. There isn’t anybody that I know of.”
“You must know what this is about. It’s very crucial. There are very special circumstances-”
“I’m sorry.”
“There isn’t any problem about money.” No.
“Please try to think of somebody. If you do think of somebody later on, could you give me a call? I’ll leave you my number.” “You shouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t care. I trust you. Anyway it’s not for myself. I know everybody must say that but really it’s not. It’s for my daughter who’s in a very bad condition. Mentally she’s in a very bad condition.” I m sorry.