For the Sake of Elena

by Elizabeth George

  I am wood, he had thought. Nothing she says can touch me. Although this stoic determination to remain inviolate sufficed to keep him from striking out in turn, it was not enough to prevent his unrestrained mind from shooting back through time, sifting through memories in an attempt to recall—let alone understand—what forces had ever brought him together with this woman in the first place.

  It should have been something more than sex: a mutual interest, perhaps, a shared experience, a similarity of background, a goal, an ideal. Had any of those been present between them, they might have stood a fighting chance of survival. But instead it had been a drinks party in an elegant house off the Trumpington Road where some thirty postgraduates who had worked for his election had been invited to the victory celebration of the new local MP. At loose ends for the evening, Anthony had gone with a friend. Glyn Westhompson had done the same. Their shared indifference towards the esoteric machinations of Cambridge politics supplied the initial illusion of mutuality. Far too much champagne provided the physical allure. When he’d suggested that they take their own bottle out onto the terrace to watch the moonlight silver the trees in the garden, his intention had been a bit of casual kissing, a chance to fondle the ample breasts which he could see through the sheer material of her blouse, and an opportunity in privacy to slip his hand between her thighs.

  But the terrace was dark, the night was quite warm, and Glyn’s reaction was not what he’d thought it might be. Her response to his kiss took him by surprise. Her eager mouth hungrily sucked his tongue. One hand unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra while the other insinuated itself into his trousers. She moaned her arousal. She straddled his leg and rotated her hips.

  He had no conscious thoughts. He had only the need to be inside her, to feel the warmth and the soft wet suction of her body, to feel his own release.

  They didn’t speak. They used the terrace’s stone balustrade as a fulcrum. He lifted her to it, she spread her legs. He plunged and plunged, panting with the effort to bring himself to climax before anyone should walk out onto the terrace and catch them in the act, while she bit his neck and gasped and tore at his hair. It was the only time in his life that he actually thought of the word fucking when he took a woman. And when it was over, he couldn’t remember her name.

  Five—perhaps seven—graduate students came out of the house before he and Glyn had separated. Someone said “Whoops!” and someone else “I’ll have a bit of that myself,” and all of them chuckled and went on into the garden. More than anything else, it was the thought of their derision that made him put his arms round Glyn, kiss her, and murmur huskily, “Let’s get out of here, all right?” Because somehow leaving with her elevated the act, making them more than two sweating bodies intent upon mating, without intellect or soul.

  She’d gone with him to the cramped house on Hope Street which he shared with three friends. She spent the night, and then another, rolling around with him on the thin mattress that served as his bed, eating a quick meal when the mood was upon her, smoking French cigarettes, drinking English gin, and padding again and again to his bedroom, leading him to lie on that mattress on the floor. She’d moved in slowly over two weeks’ time—first leaving behind an article of clothing, then a book, then stopping by with a lamp. They never spoke of love. They never fell in love. They merely fell into marriage, which, after all, was the highest form of public validation he could possibly give to a mindless act of sex with a woman he didn’t know.

  The office door opened. A man—presumably P.L. Beck—entered. Like the office itself, his clothing reflected a careful avoidance of that which might underscore death. He wore a natty blue blazer over soft grey trousers. A Pembroke tie formed a perfect knot at his throat.

  “Dr. Weaver?” he said. And then with a crisp turn on his heel to Glyn, “And Mrs. Weaver?” Somehow, he’d done his homework. It was an artful way to avoid linking their names. Rather than offer factitious condolences over the death of a girl he did not know, he said, “The police said you’d be coming. I’d like to get you through this as quickly as possible. May I offer you something? Coffee or tea?”

  “Nothing for me,” Anthony said. Glyn was silent.

  Mr. Beck did not wait for her to reply. He sat down and said, “It’s my understanding that the police still have the body. So it may be some days before they release her to us. They’ve told you that, haven’t they?”

  “No. Just that they’re doing the autopsy.”

  “I see.” Thoughtfully, he steepled his hands and leaned his elbows on the top of the desk. “It generally takes a few days to run all the tests. They do organ studies, tissue studies, toxicology reports. In a sudden death, the procedure moves fairly rapidly, especially if the”—with a quick, concerned glance in Glyn’s direction—“if the deceased has been under a doctor’s care. But in a case like this…”

  “We understand,” Anthony said.

  “A murder,” Glyn said. She moved her eyes off the wall and fixed them on Mr. Beck although her body didn’t alter a degree in the chair. “You mean a murder. Say it. Don’t slither round the truth. She isn’t the deceased. She’s the victim. It’s a murder. I’m not used to that yet, but if I hear it enough no doubt it’ll pop up quite naturally in my speech. My daughter, the victim. My daughter’s death, the murder.”

  Mr. Beck looked at Anthony, perhaps with the hope that he would say something in answer to the implied invective, perhaps with the expectation of Anthony’s offering some word of comfort or support to his former wife. When Anthony said nothing, Mr. Beck continued quickly.

  “You’ll need to let me know where and when the services are to be held and where she’s to be interred. We’ve a lovely chapel here if you’d like to use that for the service. And—of course, I know this is difficult for you both—but you need to decide if you want a public viewing.”

  “A public…?” At the thought of his daughter being put on display for the curious, Anthony felt the hair bristle on the backs of his hands. “That’s not possible. She isn’t—”

  “I want it.” Glyn’s nails, Anthony saw, were going completely white with the pressure she was exerting against her palms.

  “You don’t want that. You haven’t seen what she looks like.”

  “Please don’t tell me what I want. I said I’ll see her. I’ll do so. I want everyone to see her.”

  Mr. Beck intervened with, “We can do some repairs. With facial putty and makeup, no one will be able to see the full extent of—”

  Glyn snapped forward. Like a self-preserving reflex, Mr. Beck flinched. “You aren’t listening to me. I want the damage seen. I want the world to know.”

  Anthony wanted to ask, “And what will you gain?” But he knew the answer. She’d given Elena over to his care, and she wanted the world to see how he’d botched the job. For fifteen years she’d kept their daughter in one of the roughest areas of London and Elena had emerged from the experience with one chipped tooth to mark the only difficulty she’d ever faced, a brawl over the affections of an acne-scarred fifth former who’d spent a lunch hour with her instead of his steady girlfriend. And neither Glyn nor Elena had ever considered that uncapped tooth even a minute lapse in Glyn’s ability to protect her daughter. Instead, it was for both of them Elena’s badge of honour, her declaration of equality. For the three girls whom she had fought could hear, but they were no match for the splintered crate of new potatoes and the two metal milk baskets which Elena had commandeered for defensive weapons from a nearby greengrocer’s when she’d come under attack.

  Fifteen years in London, one chipped tooth to show for it. Fifteen months in Cambridge, one barbarous death.

  Anthony wouldn’t fight her. He said, “Have you a brochure we might look at? Something we can use in order to decide…?”

  Mr. Beck seemed only too willing to cooperate. He said, “Of course,” and hastily slid open a drawer of his desk. From this he took a three-ring binder covered in maroon plastic with the words Beck and Sons, Funeral
Directors printed in gold letters across the front. He passed this across to them.

  Anthony opened it. Plastic covers encased eight-by-ten colour photographs. He began to flip through them, looking without seeing, reading without assimilating. He recognised woods: mahogany and oak. He recognised terms: naturally resistant to corrosion, rubber gasket, crepe lining, asphalt coating, vacuum plate. Faintly, he heard Mr. Beck murmuring about the relative merits of copper or sixteen-gauge steel over oak, about lift and tilt mattresses, about the placement of a hinge. He heard him say:

  “These Uniseal caskets are quite the best. The locking mechanism in addition to the gasket seals the top while the continuous weld on the bottom seals that as well. So you’ve maximum protection to resist the entry of—” He hesitated delicately. The indecision was written plainly on his face. Worms, beetles, moisture, mildew. How best to say it?—“the elements.”

  The words in the binder slid out of focus. Anthony heard Glyn say, “Have you coffins here?”

  “Only a few. People generally make a choice from the brochures. And under the circumstances, please don’t feel you must—”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  Mr. Beck’s eyes flitted to Anthony. He seemed to be waiting for a protest of some sort. When none was forthcoming, he said, “Certainly. This way,” and led them out of the office.

  Anthony followed his former wife and the funeral director. He wanted to insist that they make the decision within the safety of Mr. Beck’s office where photographs would allow both of them to hold the final reality at bay for just a while longer. But he knew that to call for distance between them and the fact of Elena’s burial would be interpreted as further evidence of inadequacy. And hadn’t Elena’s death already served to illustrate his uselessness as a father, once again underscoring the contention which Glyn had asserted for years: that his sole contribution to their daughter’s upbringing had been a single, blind gamete that knew how to swim?

  “Here they are.” Mr. Beck pushed open a set of heavy oak doors. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  Glyn said, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But surely you’ll want to discuss—”

  “No.” She moved past him into the showroom. There were no decorations or extraneous furnishings, just a few coffins lined up along the pearl-coloured walls, their lids gaping open upon velvet, satin, and crepe, their bodies standing on waist-high, translucent pedestals.

  Anthony forced himself to follow Glyn from one to the next. Each had a discreet price tag, each bore the same declaration about the extent of protection guaranteed by the manufacturer, each had a ruched lining, a matching pillow, and a coverlet folded over the coffin lid. Each had its own name: Neapolitan Blue, Windsor Poplar, Autumn Oak, Venetian Bronze. Each had an individually highlighted feature, a shell design, a set of barley sugar end posts, or delicate embroidery on the interior of the lid. Forcing himself to move along the display, Anthony tried not to visualise what Elena would look like when she finally lay in one of these coffins with her light hair spread out like silk threads on the pillow.

  Glyn halted in front of a simple grey coffin with a plain satin lining. She tapped her fingers against it. As if this gesture bade him to do so, Mr. Beck hurried to join them. His lips were pursed tightly. He was pulling at his chin.

  “What is this?” Glyn asked. A small sign on the lid said Nonprotective exterior. Its price tag read £200.

  “Pressed wood.” Mr. Beck made a nervous adjustment to his Pembroke tie and rapidly continued. “This is pressed wood beneath a flannel covering, a satin interior, which is quite nice, of course, but the exterior has no protection at all save for the flannel itself and to be frank if I may, considering our weather, I wouldn’t be at all comfortable recommending this particular coffin to you. We keep it for cases where there are difficulties…Well, difficulties with finances. I can’t think you’d want your daughter..” He let the drifting quality of his voice complete the thought.

  Anthony began to say, “Of course,” but Glyn interrupted with, “This coffin will do.”

  For a moment, Anthony did nothing more than stare at his former wife. Then he found the will to say, “You can’t think I’ll allow her to be buried in this.”

  She said quite distinctly, “I don’t care what you intend to allow. I’ve not enough money for—”

  “I’ll pay.”

  She looked at him for the first time since they’d arrived. “With your wife’s money? I think not.”

  “This has nothing to do with Justine.”

  Mr. Beck took a step away from them. He straightened out the small price sign on a coffin lid. He said, “I’ll leave you to talk.”

  “There’s no need.” Glyn opened her large black handbag and began shoving articles this way and that. A set of keys clanked. A compact snapped open. A ballpoint pen slipped out onto the floor. “You’ll take a cheque, won’t you? It’ll have to be drawn on my bank in London. If that’s a problem, you can phone for some sort of guarantee. I’ve been doing business with them for years, so—”

  “Glyn. I won’t have it.”

  She swung to face him. Her hip hit the coffin, jarring it on its pedestal. The lid fell shut with a hollow thud. “You won’t have what?” she asked. “You have no rights here.”

  “We’re talking about my daughter.”

  Mr. Beck began to edge towards the door.

  “Stay where you are.” Angry colour patched Glyn’s cheeks. “You walked out on your daughter, Anthony. Let’s not forget that. You wanted your career. Let’s not forget that. You wanted to chase skirts. Let’s not forget that. You got what you wanted. All of it. Every bit. You have no more rights here.” Chequebook in hand, she stooped to the floor for the pen. She began to write, using the pressed wood coffin lid as support.

  Her hand was shaking. Anthony reached for the chequebook, saying, “Glyn. Please. For God’s sake.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll pay for this. I don’t want your money. You can’t buy me off.”

  “I’m not trying to buy you off. I just want Elena—”

  “Don’t say her name! Don’t you say it!”

  Mr. Beck said, “Let me leave you,” and without acknowledging Glyn’s immediate “No!” he hurried from the room.

  Glyn continued to write. She clutched the pen like a weapon in her hand. “He said two hundred pounds, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t do this,” Anthony said. “Don’t make this another battle between us.”

  “She’ll wear that blue dress Mum got her last birthday.”

  “We can’t bury her like a pauper. I won’t let you do it. I can’t.”

  Glyn ripped the cheque from the book. She said, “Where’d that man get off to? Here’s his money. Let’s go.” She headed for the door.

  Anthony reached for her arm.

  She jerked away. “You bastard,” she hissed. “Bastard! Who brought her up? Who spent years trying to give her some language? Who helped her with her schoolwork and dried her tears and washed her clothes and sat up with her at night when she was puling and sick? Not you, you bastard. And not your ice queen wife. This is my daughter, Anthony. My daughter. Mine. And I’ll bury her exactly as I see fit. Because unlike you, I’m not hot after some big poncey job, so I don’t have to give a damn what anyone thinks.”

  He examined her with sudden, curious dispassion, realising that he saw no evidence of grief. He saw no mother’s devotion to her child and nothing that illustrated the magnitude of loss. “This has nothing to do with burying Elena,” he said in slow but complete understanding. “You’re still dealing with me. I’m not sure you even care much that she’s dead.”

  “How dare you,” she whispered.

  “Have you even cried, Glyn? Do you feel any grief? Do you feel anything at all beyond the need to use her murder for a bit more revenge? And how can anyone be surprised by that? After all, that’s how you used most of her life.”

  He didn’t see the blow coming. She slammed her righ
t hand across his face, knocking his spectacles to the floor.

  “You filthy piece of—” She raised her arm to strike again.

  He caught her wrist. “You’ve waited years to do that. I’m only sorry you didn’t have the audience you’d have liked.” He pushed her away. She fell against the grey coffin. But she was not spent.

  She spit out the words: “Don’t talk to me of grief. Don’t you ever—ever—talk to me of grief.”

  She turned away from him, flinging her arms over the coffin lid as if she would embrace it. She began to weep.

  “I have nothing. She’s gone. I can’t have her back. I can’t find her anywhere. And I can’t…I can never..” The fingers of one hand curled, pulling at the flannel that covered the coffin. “But you can. You still can, Anthony. And I want you to die.”

  Even through his outrage, he felt the sudden stirring of a horrified compassion. After the years of their enmity, after these moments in the funeral home, he wouldn’t have believed it possible that he should feel anything for her save outright loathing. But in those words you can, he saw the extent and the nature of his former wife’s grief. She was forty-six years old. She could never have another child.

  No matter that the thought of bringing another child into the world to take Elena’s place was beyond unthinkable, that he’d lost his reason for living the moment he’d looked on his daughter’s corpse. He’d spend the rest of his life in a ceaseless involvement in academic affairs so that he would never again have a free moment in which he might have to remember the ruin of her face and the mark of the ligature round her neck, but that was no more than a point of indifference. He could still have another child, whatever the wilderness of his current grief. He still had that choice. But Glyn did not. Her sorrow was doubled by the incontrovertible fact of her age.