Dr Grove was under the illusion that the only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having to do overtime, especially after he’d informed her that poor Mr Sommerfield didn’t have much longer to live.
Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine that ensured her patient’s every need was attended to. Mr Sommerfield’s preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favourite beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur – he insisted she call him Arthur – to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning constitutional around the grounds, during which he would always cling on to her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung on to.
After lunch she would read to the old man until he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favourite television sitcom, The Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.
At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt whisky – it didn’t take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was acceptable – accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr Grove, but encouraged by Lynn.
‘We just won’t tell him,’ Lynn would say before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something else she didn’t tell the doctor about.
One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only a few weeks to live.
‘Much more pleasant to spend your final days in familiar surroundings,’ Dr Grove explained to Lynn. ‘And besides,’ he added in a quieter voice, ‘it doesn’t look good if everyone who comes to Jackson Memorial dies here.’
On hearing the news of his imminent discharge – which, loosely translated, meant demise – Arthur refused to budge unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an agency nurse who didn’t understand his daily routine.
‘So, how would you feel about leaving us for a few weeks?’ Dr Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.
‘I don’t want to leave you, William,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘but if it’s what you want me to do . . .’
‘We wouldn’t be apart for too long, honey,’ Dr Grove said, taking her in his arms. ‘And in any case, as his physician, I’d have to visit the old man at least twice a week.’
‘But he could live for months, possibly years,’ said Lynn, clinging to him.
‘No, darling, that’s not possible. I can assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.’ Dr Grove was not able to see the smile on Lynn’s face.
Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.
He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn’s hand. He didn’t speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick mansion.
‘This is the family home,’ said Arthur proudly.
And it’s where I’ll be spending the rest of my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in a public park.
She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur’s master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.
It was on a Thursday evening, after his second whisky (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr Grove wouldn’t be visiting his patient that day), that Arthur said, ‘I know I don’t have much longer to live, my dear.’ Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved a dismissive hand before adding, ‘And I’d like to leave you a little something in my will.’
A little something wasn’t exactly what Lynn had in mind. ‘How considerate of you,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t want anything, Arthur . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Except perhaps . . .’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy cause? Or a bequest to your favourite charity in my name?’
‘How typically thoughtful of you, my dear. But wouldn’t you also like some personal memento?’
Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some time before she said, ‘Well, I’ve grown rather attached to your cane with the silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson Memorial. And if your children wouldn’t object, I’d also like the photo of you that’s on your desk in the study – the one taken when you were a freshman at Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.’
The old man smiled. ‘You shall have both of them, my dear. I’ll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.’
Mr Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins & Purbright, was not the kind of man who would easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie’s charms. However, he wholeheartedly approved when his client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected charities and other institutions to his will – after all, he was a Princeton man himself. And he certainly didn’t object when Arthur told him that he wanted to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.
‘Just a keepsake, you understand,’ Lynn murmured as the lawyer wrote down Arthur’s words.
‘I’ll send the documents to you within a week,’ Mr Haskins said as he rose to leave, ‘in case there are any further revisions you might wish to consider.’
‘Thank you, Haskins,’ Arthur replied, but he had fallen asleep even before they’d had a chance to shake hands.
Mr Haskins was as good as his word, and a large legal envelope, marked Private & Confidential, arrived by courier five days later. Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully. After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to be amended before the old man put his signature to it.
When Lynn brought in Arthur’s breakfast tray the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, ‘I don’t think Mr Haskins likes me.’
‘What makes you say that, my dear?’ asked Arthur as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.
She placed a copy of the will on his bedside table and said, ‘There’s no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of my favourite photo of you. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to remember you by.’
‘Damn the man,’ said Arthur, spilling his hot chocolate. ‘Get him on the phone immediately.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Lynn. ‘I’ll be passing by his office later this afternoon. I’ll drop the will off and remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that, my dear. But be sure you’re back in time for Phil Silvers.’
Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins & Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins & Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner. There were several other lawyers in the town who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr Kullick’s favour was the fact that he was the vice-president of the local branch of the National Rifle Association.
Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As she entered the lawyer’s office, Mr Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his potential client into a chair. ‘How can I help you, Miss Beattie?’ he asked even before he’d sat down.
‘You can’t help me,’ said Lynn, ‘but my employer is in need of your ser
vices. He’s unable to attend in person because, sadly, he’s bedridden.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Kullick. ‘However, I’ll need to know who it is that I’d be representing.’ When he heard the name, he sat bolt upright in his chair and straightened his tie.
‘Mr Sommerfield has recently executed a new will,’ said Lynn, ‘and he wishes one paragraph on page thirty-two to be amended.’ She passed over the will that had been prepared by Mr Haskins, and the reworded paragraph she had neatly typed on Arthur’s headed notepaper above a signature he had scrawled after a third whisky.
Once Mr Kullick had read the emendation, he remained silent for some time. ‘I will happily draw up a new will for Mr Sommerfield, but of course I’ll need to be present when he signs the document.’ He paused. ‘It will also have to be countersigned by an independent witness.’
‘Of course,’ said Lynn, who had not anticipated this problem and realized she would need a little time to find a way round it. ‘Shall we say next Thursday afternoon at five o’clock, Mr Kullick?’
The lawyer checked his diary, crossed something out and entered the name Sommerfield in its place. Lynn rose from her chair.
‘I see that this will was originally drawn up by Haskins, Haskins & Purbright,’ said Kullick.
‘That is correct, Mr Kullick,’ Lynn said just before she reached the door. She turned back and smiled sweetly. ‘Mr Sommerfield felt that Mr Haskins’s charges had become . . . exorbitant, I think was the word he used.’ She opened the door. ‘I do hope you don’t make the same mistake, Mr Kullick, as we may be in need of your services at some time in the future.’ She closed the door quietly behind her.
By four o’clock the following Thursday, Lynn felt confident that she had addressed all the problems posed by Mr Kullick’s demands and that everything was in place. She knew if she made the slightest mistake she would have wasted almost a year of her life, and all she would have to show for it would be a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of a young man at Princeton whom she didn’t particularly like.
As she and Arthur sat and watched yet another episode in the life of Sergeant Bilko, Lynn went over the timing in her mind, trying to think of anything that might crop up at the last moment and derail her. Mr Kullick would need to be on time if her plan was to work. She checked her watch every few minutes.
When the show finally came to an end, with Bilko somehow managing to outsmart Colonel John T. Hall once again, Lynn turned off the television, poured Arthur a generous measure of whisky and handed him a Havana cigar.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, patting her on the bottom.
‘Someone’s coming to see you, Arthur, so you mustn’t fall asleep.’
‘Who?’ demanded Arthur, but not before he’d taken a sip of his whisky.
‘A Mr Kullick. He’s one of Mr Haskins’s associates.’
‘What does he want?’ he asked as Lynn lit a match and held it up to the cigar.
‘He’s bringing over the latest version of your will, so you can sign it. Then you won’t have to bother about it again.’
‘Has he included my bequests to you this time?’
‘He assured me that your wishes would be carried out to the letter, but he needed them confirmed in person,’ said Lynn as the doorbell rang.
‘Good,’ said Arthur, taking another swig of whisky before Lynn plumped up his pillows and helped him to sit up.
Moments later there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door and a maid entered, accompanied by Mr Kullick. Arthur peered intently at the intruder through a cloud of smoke.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Sommerfield,’ said the lawyer as he walked towards the bed. He had intended to shake hands with the old man, but when he saw the look of disdain on his face, he decided against it. ‘My name is Kullick, sir,’ he said, remaining at the foot of the bed.
‘I know,’ said Arthur. ‘And you’ve come about my will.’
‘Yes, sir, I have, and—’
‘And have you remembered to include the bequests for my nurse this time?’
‘Yes, he has, Arthur,’ interrupted Lynn. ‘I told you all about it after I’d returned from visiting Mr Kullick last week.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ said Arthur, draining his glass.
‘You’ve given me everything – ’ she paused ‘ – that I asked for.’
‘Everything?’ said Arthur.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘which is so much more than I deserve. But if you want to change your mind . . .’ she added as she refilled his glass.
‘No, no, you’ve more than earned it.’
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ she said, taking him by the hand.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ said the old man wearily, turning his attention back to Kullick.
‘Would you like me to take you through the will clause by clause, sir?’
‘Certainly not. Haskins took long enough doing that last time.’
‘As you wish, sir. Then all that remains to be done is for you to sign the document. But, as I explained to Ms Beattie, that will require a witness.’
‘I’m sure Mr Sommerfield’s personal maid will be happy to act as witness,’ said Lynn as the front doorbell rang again.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Kullick.
‘But why not?’ demanded Lynn, who had already given Paula twenty dollars to carry out the task.
‘Because she’s a beneficiary of the will,’ said Kullick, ‘and therefore ineligible to be a witness.’
‘She is indeed,’ said Arthur. Turning to Lynn he explained, ‘I’ve left her the silver-plated dinner service.’ He leaned across and whispered, ‘But I can assure you, my dear, that the silver cane is, like you, sterling.’
Lynn smiled as she desperately tried to think who could take Paula’s place. Her first thought was the chauffeur, but then she remembered that he was also a beneficiary – Arthur’s ancient car. She didn’t want to risk going through the whole process again, but she couldn’t think of anyone suitable to take the maid’s place at such short notice.
‘Could you come back this time tomorrow?’ she asked, trying to remain calm. ‘By then I’m sure—’ She was interrupted by a knock on the door and Dr Grove strode into the room.
‘How are you, Arthur?’ he asked.
‘Not too bad,’ said Arthur. ‘I’d be even better if you felt able to witness my signature. Or is Grove also a beneficiary of my will?’ he asked Kullick.
‘Certainly not,’ said Dr Grove before the lawyer could speak. ‘It’s against company policy for any employee of Jackson Memorial to benefit from a bequest left by a patient.’
‘Good, then you can earn your fee for a change, Grove. That is, assuming Kullick agrees you’re acceptable.’
‘Eminently so, Mr Sommerfield,’ said Kullick as he opened his briefcase and extracted three thick documents. He slowly turned the pages, pointing to the small pencil crosses at the bottom of each page indicating where both signatures should be placed.
Although Lynn had taken a step back so as not to appear too involved in the process, her heartbeat didn’t return to normal until the last page of all three copies had been signed and witnessed.
Once the ceremony had been completed, Kullick gathered up the documents, placed one copy in his briefcase and handed the other two to Mr Sommerfield, who waved them away, so Lynn placed them in the drawer by his bed.
‘I’ll take my leave, sir,’ said Kullick, still not confident enough to shake hands with his latest client.
‘Give Haskins my best wishes,’ said Arthur as he screwed the top back on his fountain pen.
‘But I no longer work for—’
‘Just be sure to tell Mr Haskins when you next see him,’ Lynn said quickly, ‘that he obviously didn’t fully appreciate Mr Sommerfield’s wishes when it came to the very generous bequest he had in mind for me. But at the same time, do assure him I am not someone who bears grudges.’
Dr Grove frowned, but said not
hing.
‘Very magnanimous of you in the circumstances, my dear,’ said Arthur.
‘When I next see him,’ Kullick repeated. Then he added, ‘I feel it’s my duty to point out to you, Mr Sommerfield, that your children may feel they are entitled to—’
‘Not you as well, Kullick. When will you all accept that I’ve made my decision, and nothing you can say will change my mind? Now please leave us.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ said Kullick, stepping back as Dr Grove stuck a thermometer into his patient’s mouth.
Lynn accompanied the lawyer to the door. ‘Thank you, Mr Kullick, the maid will show you out.’
Kullick left without another word and after Lynn had closed the door behind him she returned to Arthur’s bedside where Dr Grove was studying the thermometer.
‘Your temperature is up a little, Arthur, but that’s hardly surprising, considering all the excitement you’ve just been put through.’ Turning to Lynn, he added, ‘Perhaps we should leave him to have a little rest before supper.’ Lynn nodded. ‘Goodbye, Arthur,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘See you in a few days’ time.’
‘Good day, Grove,’ said Arthur, switching the television back on.
‘He’s looking very frail,’ said Dr Grove as Lynn accompanied him down the stairs. ‘I’m going to advise his children to fly home in the next few days. I can’t believe it will be much longer.’
‘I’ll make sure their rooms are ready,’ said Lynn, ‘and that Mr Sommerfield’s driver picks them up at the airport.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Dr Grove as they walked across the hall. ‘I want you to know, Lynn, how much I appreciate all you’re doing for Arthur. When you come back to Jackson Memorial, I’m going to recommend to the medical director that you’re given a promotion and a rise in salary to go with it.’
‘Only if you think I’m worth it,’ said Lynn coyly.
‘You’re more than worth it,’ Grove said. ‘But you do realize,’ he added, lowering his voice when he spotted the maid coming out of the kitchen, ‘that if Arthur left you anything in his will, however small, you would lose your job?’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 49