(Indeed the widow has been behaving strangely since the husband’s death: keeping to herself, avoiding even her family, her closest relatives and friends. Avoiding him.)
“You know, Jim would want you to confide in me. He’d want you to bring me any questions you have about the estate, finances, death taxes, IRS taxes, putting the house on the market….”
But I do not want to put the house on the market.
He will be happy to take on the responsibility of acting as the executor of her husband’s estate, the brother-in-law says. If she wishes. Naming him executor in her place would require just a consultation with her lawyer. Such an arrangement is “very commonly done”—”a very good idea”—when a widow is inexperienced in “money matters” and has had a bad shock.
“Shall we make a date? An appointment? I can call your lawyer, we can set up a meeting early next week….”
The widow scarcely seems to hear. It is true that she is very pale, waxy-pale, her skin exudes a kind of luminescence that makes her appear younger than her age, as her loose, somewhat disheveled hair, streaked with gray, silver, white hairs and falling to her shoulders, gives her a look somewhere between despair and wild elation.
“I said, I’ll call your lawyer and set up a meeting for us….”
The widow is staring out a window, at the rear of the house; a short distance away, down a slight incline, the wind-rippled lake reflects the light of late afternoon.
“Claudia? Are you all right? You’ve been listening, I hope….”
The brother-in-law’s voice is edged with annoyance. The brother-in-law is not a man to be slighted. He is wearing an open-necked shirt of some fine, expensive material—Egyptian cotton perhaps. The shirt is a pale lavender as his cord trousers are a dark lavender. His shoes are canvas deck shoes. He makes it a point to be well dressed though his clothes are usually tight and he looks crammed inside them, like an ill-shaped sausage.
The widow recalls how, only a few days before her husband was stricken and hospitalized, the brother-in-law, at a family gathering, had approached her when she was alone and stood uncomfortably close to her, as if daring her to acknowledge his sexual interest and push past him.
Been missin you, Claudie. You’re looking terrific.
Always, insultingly, the brother-in-law has felt obliged to comment on his brother’s wife’s appearance. As if there were some competition between the brothers’ wives, of which the wives themselves were not aware.
Since the brother-in-law has gained access to the house, and has been sitting in the living room, repeating his rehearsed words to the widow, the widow has been observing the movement of waterfowl on the lake—ducks, geese. Predators have not gobbled down all of this season’s ducklings and goslings. There are even several cygnets, for there is a pair of resident swans on the lake. Dazzling-white swans of surpassing beauty and calm.
When she is feeling very sad, very lonely and distraught, the widow escapes the house in which the telephone is likely to ring, and walks along the lake shore counting ducklings, goslings. Cygnets.
She has sometimes seen the great blue heron, a solitary hunter. By day, the heron does not seem quite so terrifying as it has seemed by night.
“Oh, there!”—the widow speaks excitedly seeing a large rail-thin bird lift its wings suddenly and rise into the air, with initial awkwardness, alone over the lake.
“What are you looking at, Claudia? What’s out there that is so damned interesting?”—the brother-in-law turns to look over his shoulder, his chin creasing fatly.
The great blue heron is a prehistoric creature, of a strange and unsettling beauty. The widow stares entranced as slowly and with dignity the heron flies out of sight. But the brother-in-law doesn’t seem to have seen.
“Well, that’s quite a view. You’re lucky, to have such a lakefront property. Jim had the right idea, this property is quite an investment….”
The widow objects, more sharply than she’d intended: “James didn’t think of it as an ‘investment.’ It was—it is—our home.”
“Well, sure! I didn’t mean …”
“We chose the house together. James and me. I think you know that. It wasn’t the decision of just one of us.”
“Right! No need to get upset, Claudia.”
“I think—I think now that you should leave. I have many things to do….”
It is maddening, the widow hears her apologetic voice. Though trembling with dislike of the intruder she feels she must speak to him in a tone of apology.
The brother-in-law smiles, half-jeering. “ ‘Many things to do’! Exactly, Claudia. Things you should certainly be doing, that I could help you with.”
“No. I don’t think so….”
“What d’you mean, ‘I don’t think so.’ Jim would be concerned about you, Claudia.”
The widow is stung by the casual way in which the brother-in-law has been uttering her husband’s name as if it were an ordinary name to be batted about as in a Ping-Pong game.
“No. I said—no.”
The brother-in-law blinks at her, and raises his eyebrows, in a pretense of mild surprise. She is in danger of speaking shrilly. She is in danger of betraying emotion. She knows how closely the brother-in-law is observing her, how he will report to others. Claudia is looking awful. Obviously she hasn’t been sleeping. Hope she isn’t drinking—secretly. Can’t imagine what Jim was thinking of, naming that poor woman executrix of his estate!
The visit is over. But the brother-in-law is slow to leave.
He has set down his whiskey glass, which he seems to have drained. His face is flushed and ruddy, the little ant-eyes gleam with a malicious sort of satisfaction, yet aggression. For the brother-in-law is one to want more, more.
On their way to the door the brother-in-law continues to speak. The widow is aware of his hands gesturing—always, the man’s gestures are florid, exaggerated. He is a TV sort of person—he could be a TV salesman, or a politician. The widow takes care not to be too close to him. For (she knows) the brother-in-law is considering whether he should lay his hand on her arm, or slide his arm across her shoulder. He is considering whether he should grip her hard, in an unmistakable embrace, or simply squeeze her hand, brush his lips against her cheek…. The widow is distracted by how, though her backbone seems to have been broken and splintered, she is managing to walk upright, and to disguise the discomfort she feels.
The widow sees with a little thrill of horror that the front door has been left ajar….
The beginning. Just the beginning. Out of my control.
She will make sure that the door is closed securely behind the brother-in-law. She will lock it.
In a jovial voice the brother-in-law says: “Well, Claudia! I’ll call you later tonight. Maybe drop by tomorrow. Will you be home around four P.M.?”
Quickly she tells him No. She will not be home.
“What about later? Early evening?”
How aggressive the brother-in-law is! How uncomfortably close to her he is standing, breathing his warm whiskey breath into her face as if daring her to push him away.
“Goodbye! I’m sorry, I can’t talk any longer right now….”
The widow would close the door after her unwanted visitor but with a malicious little grin the brother-in-law turns to grip her shoulders and pull her to him and press his fleshy lips against her tight-pursed lips—so quickly she can’t push him away.
“No! Stop.”
“For Christ’s sake, Claudia! Get hold of yourself. You aren’t the first person ever to have lost a ‘loved one.’”
The brother-in-law speaks sneeringly. The damp close-set eyes flash with rage.
The brother-in-law shuts the front door behind him, hard. He is very angry, the widow knows. She can’t resist the impulse to wipe at her mouth with the edge of her hand, in loathing.
From a window the widow watches the brother-in-law drive away from the house, erratically it seems. As if he would like to press his foot down hard
on the gas pedal of his vehicle but is restraining himself. She thinks—But he will return. How can I keep him away!
She is feeling shaky, nauseated. She has neglected to eat since early morning. The remainder of the day—late afternoon, early evening, night—stretches before her like a devastated landscape.
When she returns to the living room she discovers the empty whiskey glass set carelessly on a mahogany coffee table. The rim is smudged from the brother-in-law’s mouth. Somehow, the amber liquid must have splashed over the side of the glass for there is a faint ring on the beautiful wood tabletop, an irremediable stain.
She is living alone since James’s death.
It is maddening to be asked, as the brother-in-law has asked, Will you sell the house?
With subtle insinuation, Will you sell this large house?
Yet worse, Have you considered getting a dog?
Well-intentioned friends, relatives, neighbors. Colleagues from the private school in which she teaches. Often she is unable to answer. Her throat closes up, her face flushes with pinpoints of heat. She sees these good people glancing at one another, concerned for her. A little frisson passes among them like a darting flame, their concern for the widow that links them as in an exciting conspiracy.
She has a fit of coughing. A thorn in her throat, she’s unable to swallow. A thorn in a cookie brought to her by one of the well-intentioned, she had not wanted to bite into, but had bitten into that she might prove how recovered from shock she is, how normal she is, how normally she is eating, unwisely she’d bitten into the cookie accursed as a fairy tale cookie for she has no choice, such cookies must be bitten into. And she begins to choke for she can neither swallow the thorn nor cough it up.
“Claudia? Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?”—the cries come fast and furious like bees.
Quickly she shakes her head No no—no thank you. Of course she is all right.
It is the widow’s task to assure others, these many others, eager-eyed, greedy to be good at her expense, of course she is all right.
Her husband was a well-liked person, indeed well-loved. There is an unexpected burden in being the widow of a well-loved man. Your obligation is to assuage the grief of others. Your obligation is to be kind, thoughtful, generous, sympathetic at all times when all you want is to run away from the kindly prying eyes and find a darkened place in which to sleep, sleep, sleep and never again wake.
Children are brought to the widow’s somber house. Staring-eyed children for whom death is a novelty that threatens to turn boring after just a few minutes.
Adults for whom the death of their dear friend James will provide some sort of instruction or educational interlude for their children.
A brash child who says My mommy says your husband die-ed.
The widow sees looks of shock, disapproval in the adult faces. Embarrassment in Mommy’s face. The widow wants to hide her own face, that the brash child will not see how his crude words have made her cry.
The widow stammers an excuse. Retreats to the kitchen.
The widow will not hear her visitors murmuring in the other room for they have pitched their voices low, and she would rather draw a sharp-edged butcher knife across her forearm than overhear what they are saying.
Has the widow become an object of fear? An object of terror?
Has she become ugly?
Has she become old?
She thinks of witches. Women without men to protect them. Women whose husbands have died. Women whose property might be annexed by rapacious neighbors. Fortunately, the widow does not live in barbarous times.
This widow is protected by the law. The husband left a detailed and fully executed will leaving her his entire property, his estate.
When the widow returns to the other room her guests smile at her nervously, worriedly. They have prepared something to tell her and it is the widow’s oldest friend who rises to embrace her speaking of how James had “seen the best in everyone”—”brought out the best selves of everyone”—and the widow stands very still in the embrace, her arms limp at her sides, arms that are not wings, arms that lack the muscular power of wings to unfold, to lift the widow out of this embrace and to fly, fly away for her obligation is to submit to the commiseration of others and not scream at them Go away all of you! For God’s sake go away and leave me alone.
“James! Darling, come look.”
She has begun to sight the great blue heron more frequently, at unpredictable hours of the day.
She believes that there is just one great blue heron at the lake. At least, she has never seen more than one at a time.
The large predator bird is fascinating to her. There is something very beautiful about it—there is something very ugly about it.
On her walks the widow has discovered the solitary heron hunting for fish in a creek that empties into the lake, that bounds the edge of her property—standing in the slow-moving water very still, poised to strike.
For long minutes the heron remains unmoving. You might think that it isn’t a living creature but something heraldic wrought of pewter, an ancient likeness. Then as an unwitting fish swims into view the heron is galvanized into action instantaneously, stabbing its beak into the water, thrashing its wings to keep its balance, emerging in triumph with a squirming fish in its bill.
It is a shocking sight! It is thrilling.
No sooner does the widow catch a glimpse of the fish caught in the heron’s bill than the fish has disappeared, in a single swallow into the predator’s gullet. The rapacity of nature is stunning. Here is raw, primitive hunger. Here is pure instinct, that bypasses consciousness.
Sometimes, if the fish is too large to be swallowed by the heron in a single gulp, or if the heron has been distracted by something close by, the heron will fly away with the live fish gleaming and squirming in its bill.
There is a particular horror in this. The widow stares transfixed. It is not so difficult to imagine a gigantic heron swooping at her, seizing her in its bill and bearing her away to—where?
The heron invariably flies to the farther side of the lake, and disappears into the marshland there. Its flight seems awkward, ungainly like a pelican’s flight—the enormous slate-gray wings like an umbrella opening, legs dangling down. Almost, if you don’t understand what a killing machine the heron is, and how precise its movements, there is something comical about it.
Except this isn’t so, of course. The heron is as much a master of the air as other, seemingly more compact and graceful birds.
The widow is appalled, yet riveted: that reptilian fixedness to the heron’s eyes. Obviously, the heron’s eye must be sharp as an eagle’s eye, to discern the movement of prey in a dense and often shadowed element like water.
The long thin stick-like legs, that dangle below as the bird flies flapping the great wings. The long S-curved neck, the long lethal beak of the hue of old, stained ivory.
Difficult to get very close to the vigilant bird but the widow has seen that it has a white-feathered face. Dark gray plumes run from its eyes to the back of its head, like a mask. There is a curious rather rakish dark-feathered quill of several inches jutting out at the back of the heron’s head—this feature (she will discover) is found only in the male. Its wide wings are slate-colored with a faint tincture of blue most clearly sighted from below, as the heron flies overhead.
Yet it is strange, the bird is called a great blue heron. Most of its feathers are gray or a dusty red-brown: thighs, neck, chest.
She has heard the heron’s cry many times now: a hoarse, harsh croak like a bark. Impossible not to imagine that there is something derisive and triumphant in this cry.
“James, listen! We’d been hearing the great blue heron for years without realizing what it was….”
The harsh cry is a mockery of the musical cries and calls of the songbirds that cluster close about the house, drawn to bird feeders. (She and James had always maintained bird feeders. Among her dearest memories are of James bitin
g his lower lip in concentration as he poured seed into the transparent plastic feeders on the deck at the rear of the house in even the bitterest cold of winter.)
In books on her husband’s shelves the widow has researched the great blue heron—Ardea herodias. Indeed the heron is a primitive creature, descended from dinosaurs: a flying carnivore.
Its prey is fish, frogs, small rodents, eggs of other birds, nestlings and small birds. Eagles, the heron’s natural predators, are not native to this part of the Northeast.
Considering its size the heron is surprisingly light—the heaviest herons weigh just eight pounds. Its wingspan is thirty-six inches to fifty-four inches and its height is forty-five to fifty-five inches. It is described as a wading bird and its habitat is general in North America, primarily in wetlands.
She and James had favored the familiar songbirds—cardinals, titmice, chickadees, house wrens and sparrows of many species—and had less interest in the waterfowl, which often made a commotion on the lake; now, she is less interested in the small, tamer birds and is drawn more to the lake and the wetlands surrounding it.
In the night, the blood-chilling cry of the screech owl wakes her, but also comforts her. She keeps her window open, even on cold nights, not wanting to be spared.
She has come to recall the heron attacking the mallards’ nests as an actual incident, shared with her husband. Vague in its context it is vivid in details and has come to seem the last time she and James had walked together along the lake shore, hand in hand.
Now I want only to do good. I want to be good.
If I am good the terrible thing that has happened will be reversed.
The cemetery is just ten minutes from the house. Very easy to drive there. No matter the weather.
It is not the cemetery favored by her husband’s family which is in the affluent community of Fair Hills fifteen miles away. It is not the cemetery the widow was expected to have chosen in which to bury her husband—that is, her husband’s “remains.” Instead this is an old Presbyterian cemetery in a nearby village, dating to the 1770s. It is small, it is not so very well tended. It is no longer exclusively for members of the church but has become a municipal cemetery. The earliest grave markers, close behind the dour stone church, are a uniform dull gray whose chiseled letters are worn smooth with time and have become indecipherable. The markers themselves are thin as playing cards, nearly, tilted at odd, jaunty angles in the mossy earth.
Dis Mem Ber and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense Page 15