The Executor Part 22

There was a small pause; then her husband put out a hand. "Ron Cargill."

I introduced myself. "Beautiful place," I said. "It's kind of a shame she didn't want a ceremony."

"That's what she wanted," Dr. Cargill said.

"Yes ... Still, it would have been nice to be able to say something."

She nodded, tucked away her handkerchief. "Well, take care."

"Thanks. You, too. But, uh. I'm not sure if you're aware, but she left you a piece of jewelry."

Silence.

"So I'm told."

"Oh," I said. "I take it you've seen the, the-"

"I have."

Immediately I felt like an idiot. I hadn't meant to gloat, but how else could she take it? Here I was, lolling atop a fortune, while fifteen years of housecalls had earned her a bauble. Still, I thought her iciness uncalled-for. Alma had made the decision, not me.

"Was there one piece in particular that you admired?" I said.

Silence.

"I can't say I've given it much thought."

"There's all sorts of things." I knew I ought to shut up, but I kept digging, digging, talking and digging. "Come by anytime, you can pick one out. Or, I mean, do you want to have a look?"

She stared at me. "Now?"

"No no no, of course not, of course not now. At your convenience. "

Silence.

"You know what," she said. "Let's just get it over with."

The drive back to the house was atrociously long.

"Number forty-nine," I said to her husband. "It's at the end of the block."

"He knows where it is," Dr. Cargill said.

Upstairs, she froze on the threshold to the master bedroom. I knew right away what she was thinking: I had eradicated all traces of Alma.

"This way," I said, striding overeagerly toward the vanity.

There were rings, bracelets, whisper-fine necklaces in gold and platinum; sapphire earrings and a matching pendant; South Sea pearls; a ruby brooch in the shape of a parrot-none of which I had ever seen Alma wear. As Dr. Cargill ran her fingers over the offerings, I found myself mentally urging her toward the cheaper-looking things. Whatever she left would be mine to sell, after all, and I had decided that twenty thousand simply wouldn't cut it. I had bills to pay; I had research costs. I was thinking of getting a new computer, a desktop. Hunching over a tiny screen was all well and good when you had to be prepared to move at a moment's notice, but it didn't suit a homeowner. These things didn't grow on trees, did they?

At the same time, I felt badly about the way I'd comported myself in the cemetery. I might need to call on the doctor as a character witness.

"Feel free to take more than one piece," I said.

Her lips pinched again. "Thanks."

"Would you like a drink?"

"I'm fine."

"Do you think your husband would?"

We'd left Ron Cargill down in the living room.

"He'll be fine."

"All right," I said, watching, relieved, as she set down a weighty gold cuff. "I don't know much about jewelry."

She looked at me.

"Why would you?" she said.

At once a frightening thought came to me: the change that I'd felt come over me on the day of my homecoming, when I took possession of my house-she could see it on me, it had spread across my body like a rash. I tried to speak, could not.

The doctor returned to browsing, holding a pair of earrings up to look in the mirror. "I got a call from the police."

"... did you."

She nodded. "They asked me about your relationship with Alma."

Silence.

"Hm," I said.

Silence.

"I said that you cared a great deal about each other," she said.

"... we did."

She put the earrings down. "Obviously." She stepped back, crossed her arms. "I don't want any of this."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just don't want anything."

"Well. But. Okay, but, be that as it may, she wanted you to have something."

"That doesn't mean I have to accept."

"I understand, but ... Here." I seized the parrot brooch. "What about this. Or-or-okay, but, but it doesn't have to be a piece of jewelry." I heard myself, I sounded crazed. "Strictly speaking, okay, yes, it should come from here, that's what she specified. But if there's a book, or a piece of art, I'm fine with you going and having a look ... I mean, she wanted you to have something. She was grateful to you, and she wanted you to have something. It's totally up to you, of course, but in the spirit of the bequest, it seems appropriate, I think, for you to ... I mean. There isn't anything you want?"

Silence.

She said, "Why don't you pick something out and send it to me."

"I-uh. I guess I can do that. I mean, did you have a pref-"

"No."

"Okay. Okay, well. If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

"All right. Okay. Although, like I said, ha ha, I don't know much about jewelry, so it's not my fault if you don't like what I choose."

"I don't really care," she said. "I just don't want to think about it anymore."

"Well," I said. "All right."

She thumbed at the door. "I'd better go."

Downstairs, her husband was examining the Audubon. "All set?"

"All set."

Listening to them drive away, I made up my mind to send her more than one item. Two or three nice pieces, half a dozen of the cheaper ones ... Naturally she was upset. We both were: the image of Alma going into the ground was fresh in our minds. I considered, as well, the shock of losing someone to suicide after devoting so many years to healing her. I was angry, too, and I'd known Alma less than one-fifteenth as long. But I had gotten over my squeamishness, and so would Dr. Cargill. She would like what I would send her. She would, it was beautiful stuff, all in the best taste.

On some level I did worry that she would see my gift for what it was: a bribe. I couldn't take back the clumsy things I'd said, though, and I needed her on my side. She of all people could best attest that I had loved Alma. That I had to prove so-to a court or to the police or to anyone at all-was degrading. But I reminded myself that none of this had to do with love anymore. It had to do with money, and I couldn't trust anyone, not anymore.

20.

The first snow came early, two days after Thanksgiving, though it didn't stick, running from the roofs in gray stream-lets. Down by the corner, a gutter clogged, flooding the street and making the trip to the market a filthy, muddy ch.o.r.e. Alone with my thoughts, exhausted, I rubbed my eyes and stared at my computer screen. Is there any abyss deeper than the blank page? Anything more ominous than a winking cursor, its slow beat a death march?

The doorbell provided a welcome distraction. I inched back the front curtain and saw Eric standing on the porch, shifting from foot to foot. His lips were blue, his coat alive with vibration, and I took a shameful degree of pleasure in noting that the universe had not been treating him well of late. He looked s.h.a.ggy, malnourished, sapped of confidence, his Adam's apple prominent, his hand darting to touch a deep, unhealed cut that glistened above his left eye. If my meeting with Palatine had left me with any doubts as to Eric's recent whereabouts, they were now dispelled: it seemed fair to a.s.sume that he had been in jail, fair also to a.s.sume that he deserved whatever rough treatment he'd gotten there. The change in him was profound, and I smiled as I watched him struggle to keep warm.

It then occurred to me that I had not seen him since the day he had threatened to report me to the police. If he had been locked up shortly thereafter, he could not have killed Alma. There was no reason to a.s.sume this to be the case. He might have been free until recently. But if in fact he had been away the entire two months-and I suspected he had; how else to explain his total absence?-then that would make Alma's suicide just that: a suicide. It seemed that Eric had missed his chance, probably not for the first time in his life. It had taken her initiative and my neglect to realize his dreams. And thinking of my neglect made me feel implicated, and guilty, and angry all over again. These were feelings I thought I'd gotten past. I didn't deserve to feel them again; I had more important things on my mind. I put the chain on, cracked the door.

"Hey," he said. "I need to talk to you."

"Go ahead."

"Come on, man, lemme in. It's like twenty below out here."

I, nice and comfy inside my inheritance, while he stood there like a pauper ... I stilled my hand, moving unconsciously toward the chain. "What is it," I said.

"I can't come in."

I shook my head.

"Why not."

"Because I don't want you to."

"Listen, man, you don't need to be like this."

"Be happy I'm talking to you at all," I said. "You should be speaking to my lawyer."

"Jesus Christ, would you chill out?"

"I'm going to go now."

"Wait."

I waited.

"Just let me in for like five minutes," he said.

"Goodbye," I said, and closed the door.

Moments later he was at the side door, banging. When that failed he went around to the back. Finally the phone began to ring.

I picked up. "Knock it off or I'm calling the police."

"Hey, hey, hey. Calm down. I just want to talk to you, all right?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Sure there is. Come on. I'm dying out here. It's important."

"If it's so important then stop wasting time and get on with it."

"What do you think I'm going to do, shoot you?"

"How should I know?"

"Come on, man. Are you kidding me?"

I said nothing.

"Well, s.h.i.t." He sniffled. "Can I at least get some coffee or something."

"I don't have any coffee."