A Serious Widow

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  Something like acute indigestion or malaise is gripping me inwardly. I begin to move rapidly towards the door. “Sorry, Pam, but I really have to –”

  “I went to one in Scarborough yesterday run by a very kind, sweet woman – a nice big house with a verandah where they can sit in the summertime – the place was very clean inside and the old bods looked well cared for, but Rowena, they were lined up in a row in chairs and wheelchairs, all of them white as chalk, and all of them absolutely silent. Not a sound. Just sitting there waiting to die. It was perfectly horrible.” She pauses here to blow her nose fiercely. “And the worst of it is that that place was much the best of all I’ve seen.”

  Murmuring something sympathetic, I pull on my coat.

  “John’s been so sweet, he says why don’t we have him here, but now that Max will be home, it isn’t physically possible. And we agree the boy has a right to come home, after all … But even if we had room, it would be a question of how could I cope with the old blight on a day-to-day basis without falling to pieces myself, a process I can feel setting in already … Well, I mean Florence Nightingale herself couldn’t hack it, could she, actually spent all the rest of her life in bed, and as for me, I would immediately become a falling-down drunk, which is fun in its way once in a while, but not as a full-time future, don’t you agree?”

  The doorknob in my hand, I pause just long enough to say, “Couldn’t you all move in with Seb? There’s plenty of room at his place.”

  “My dear, that’s been considered, but even if I could bear the thought of it – which I can’t – the thing is, the mere mention made him fly into a major tantrum. He said if we really wanted to finish him off that would be the quickest way to do it. You see how totally impossible he –”

  “I really must get home now, Pam. Sorry to hear about all this, but I’m sure you’ll work something out. Give my best to Max and John. And thanks for the drink.”

  I am quite proud of this masterful exit, the first of its kind I have ever made. It surely indicates the development of qualities I’ve all my life seemed to possess only in the most stunted form. Better yet, with a little concentrated willpower, I am able to put all of Pam’s family problems right out of my mind for the rest of the evening. On the other hand, a thorough ransack of the house unearths no will.

  Early next morning, out of the confused landscape of a dream, a spectrally thin figure in pyjamas moves swiftly away, though I urgently want to see his face. A mournful voice says, “No proposition has only one complete analysis.” Sebastian then lays a wreath on a new grave – Edwin’s – and looks squarely at me from watery blue eyes. Resentfully I jerk awake. It really is not fair to be invaded like this when asleep. And how irritating to be plagued by a dream that seems to mean something, but is manifestly nonsense. When the phone rings I hurry down to answer it, glad to be called away to the real world.

  “Rowena? Cuthbert here. Look, things have moved a bit faster with your case than I expected. The hearing’s been fixed for tomorrow at nine, in the district court. We’ll be before Madame Justice Hart.”

  “Tomorrow!” My heart has given a great leap of fear. The tops of my knees begin to tremble. Somehow – though Cuthbert has mentioned it several times before – I’ve never actually believed I would have to stand up in court before a judge. After all, what have I done? And what excuse can I offer for it? The prospect is so appalling I can hardly take in what Cuthbert is saying.

  “I didn’t tell you the date before, dear, because I didn’t want you worrying way ahead of time. There’s nothing to it, really, you know. We’ll just go along there quietly together, and the whole thing may be over by noon. These hearings are open to the public, but I’m sure nobody will be there but Hill and his lawyer. And Corinne Hart is a good sort. Not like some of the old grouches on the bench. I’m reasonably sure she’ll decide you’re entitled to some support. So I’ll pick you up at the house a little after eight, all right?”

  I try to swallow. “All right.”

  “Now cheer up, dear. You probably won’t have to say a word. Hill’s lawyer and I will do all the talking. Just try to relax now. Oh, and no need to dress up or anything.”

  “Will Marion have to be there, too?”

  “Not unless you want her to be.”

  “No. Please, no.”

  “Then we won’t mention it till later.”

  “She’s so likely to –”

  “Yes, I know. Well, see you tomorrow, then.”

  “All right.”

  “And don’t worry, now.”

  We both know I cannot possibly accept this good advice, but I am grateful for the gentleness in Cuthbert’s voice. As soon as he hangs up, a dozen questions buzz into my mind – will the judge want to see my housekeeping accounts, for example, and what will she say when I admit I haven’t kept any since Edwin’s death? But the most urgent question of all is one I can hardly ask him, or anyone: namely, what can I say in my own defence at this hearing, when the very thought of it makes my head swim with guilt, stress and fear.

  By the time I get up next morning, after a white night, I feel peculiarly unreal, almost disembodied. Even my strongest brew of tea cannot dispel the sense of living in a dream. It persists all the way downtown as Cuthbert’s Buick floats us through rush-hour traffic, and only intensifies when I find myself on a hard seat in Courtroom Six. Two strange men are already in conference there, and when one of them remarks, “Hem – good morning,” with vague surprise I recognize John Hill. His strong resemblance to Edwin further disorients me. There is an institutional smell of floor polish in the room strong enough to make my eyes water. A nervous tickle at the back of my throat makes me cough persistently.

  A clerk in a grey jacket entering by a side door says in a loud voice, “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez. Anyone having business before the Queen’s Justice of the Ontario Court of Justice, attend now and you shall be heard. Long live the Queen.” By all means, I think confusedly, though what Her Majesty can have to do with my case is obscure to me. A bent old gentleman now shuffles in, followed by a small woman. He is formally dressed in grey flannels and a crested blazer. The woman with him wears shabby black.

  “That’s the sheriff’s deputy,” whispers Cuthbert. “He’s here to protect the judge.”

  After obeying the bawled order, “All rise,” we now sit down again. The small lady in black takes a seat on the dais facing us, and I realize she is not a petitioner like me, but the judge. That surreal sense that none of this can actually be happening closes over me again, bringing a sort of comfort with it.

  Cuthbert is now on his feet talking in a rather high, nervous voice. Then Hill’s man gets up and takes his turn. Very little of what they say seems to be in English. Try as I will, I have great difficulty following their arguments. So, it would seem, has the elderly official scribbling shorthand notes, who holds up a hand to rebuke Cuthbert for talking too fast. Somewhere out in the street a pneumatic drill chatters.

  I gaze curiously at Madame Justice Hart. She has very thin brown hair; indeed she is nearly bald on the crown. I daresay she wishes Canadian legal people wore wigs. I fumble in my purse for a throat lozenge and remind myself to buy milk on the way home for the cat. Bits and pieces of phraseology float around me, released like a shower of confetti by the Hill lawyer, an almost supernaturally beautiful young man with thick gold hair and pink cheeks. “Exemplary wife and mother,” he is saying. “Resumption of full marital relations. In very frail health. Financially straitened circumstances over a long period of time … The other establishment. Stress of recent events. In need of medical treatment … Change of climate advised.” Trying to separate which of these statements applies to me and which to the other Mrs. Hill only further muddles me. The one clear impression I have is a Kafka-like one: I am the accused in this room, on trial for some serious but unnamed crime.

  Eventually there is silence. The old gentleman appointed to protect the judge is asleep. The worried-looking little lady on the bench puts on bifo
cals to peer again at some papers handed up to her. Cuthbert bobs up and says something indignant. The shorthand man scrawls it down and then sits back to steal a glance at the Globe and Mail under his documents. Then the judge unhooks her glasses and rubs her nose rather fretfully. When she speaks it is in a voice so soft I have some trouble hearing her.

  “The deciding factors in this case appear to me to be the poor health and advanced age of the legitimate spouse.” Here she looks directly at me in a friendly, even kindly manner. “The deceased having made no provision for Mrs. Rowena Hill, a relatively young woman,” she goes on, “it must be assumed he thought her quite capable of self-support, as I do myself. I therefore cannot find in favour of her application for relief. The claim of John Hill to the estate, on behalf of his mother, is valid.”

  Here, after gently nudging her bodyguard awake, she rises. So, to my surprise, do I. In an almost audible voice I say to her, “Thank you.” Once more the clerk bawls, “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez. The sittings of this court are now concluded. Long live the Queen.”

  Once the judge and her escort have gone, the rest of us stand about for a moment uncertainly. Hill and his lawyer are shaking hands with effusive good will. Then, approaching me with a tight little smile, Hill offers me his hand. I stare at him frigidly and turn away. Cuthbert, looking pale and rather distraught, takes me by the elbow and hurries us out of the room. As we speed along the polished corridor his lips are set in such a grim line over the dimpled chin that he looks quite unfamiliar.

  “Moonshine,” he says with a vehemence better suited to a much stronger word. “All that medical testimony – pure moonshine. Sorry, Rowena, it’s turned out this way. I’m honestly not just surprised but shocked – and truly sorry. If I’d maybe had more courtroom know-how – well, who knows. I did my best, but –”

  “Of course you did, Cuthbert. It’s all right. Truly, I almost feel as if in a way we’ve won, not lost.”

  “You do?” he says, pausing to stare at me curiously. “Is that why you thanked Corinne?”

  “Well, you heard what she said. ‘Capable of self-support … as I do myself.’ That’s a lot. I mean a judge actually thinks I can cope. She assumes Edwin thought so, too. Never mind the estate – such as it is – that’s a lot for her to give me, you must see that.”

  A gorgeously braided commissionaire whisks open the door for us and we are abruptly out in the bright street. Cuthbert hugs my arm to him. We both blink in the sunlight that is winking gaily off melting icicles and car chrome and the courthouse windows.

  “Well, I want you to know, Rowena,” he says, looking earnestly at me through his thick glasses, “that ring can still be yours, if you want it. You’re not alone, you know. You can still have me. I mean it.”

  I stop to look at him while lunch-hungry lawyers and litigants jostle their way past us. “No, dear,” I tell him. “Thanks, but all that’s quite settled and final.” And though he mumbles something, I can see relief in his face. Not that this or anything else seems to matter much. All I know is that Edwin’s dead hand can never reach out to me again; not after today. This itself is such a discovery, and such a release, that nothing else really counts.

  “My dear,” says Tom, looking shocked, “I’m terribly sorry. I always understood Cuthbert was a first-rate … Well, it certainly leaves you in a most unfortunate position. I wish to heaven I could help, but as you know the Anglican Church of Canada doesn’t pay its clergy very much or I’d –”

  “Thanks anyway, Tom. Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage somehow. Have some more tea.”

  He has the resigned look of a priest experienced enough to know that human problems tend to be much more often financial than spiritual. “Yes, well, you’re a brave girl, but you must let me help with the practical side of things. A dear little woman like you who’s always been protected, after all … Now obviously it’s domestic work you have the skills for – the question is, exactly what kind. You don’t drive, do you? – that rules out some possible –”

  “One way and another, you can rule out pretty well everything, I’m afraid. Marion and I have been over it and over it. Nannying is out, we’ve decided. I couldn’t even be a good cleaning woman – haven’t got the knees for it any more. Also forget news anchorwoman and cover girl.”

  This levity draws a reproachful glance from Tom. After all, earning money is serious business, second only, perhaps, to godliness. It pains him to find me taking my plight so lightly; indeed, the mood of almost reckless detachment I am in seems odd even to me.

  “I’m trying to think who in the parish needs … Don’t you agree that some kind of housekeeper-companion job would be most suitable …”

  “Live-in,” I contribute helpfully. “Since the legitimate spouse will now legally inherit this place. Otherwise, I’ll be of no fixed address. All my worldly goods in a paper bag. Drinking vanilla in doorways. Can’t say the prospect appeals. So it will have to be live-in. If you can call that really living.”

  Tom waits patiently for these remarks to end. I refill his cup and discourage Wittgenstein from advancing his nose towards the milk jug. “Now let me see,” he mutters, smoothing his moustache with his thumb. “There’s old Mrs. McNair … her daughters have done their best to dry her out at the Donwood, but she keeps relapsing … No, that would be quite impossible. I don’t think … No, now wait a minute – there’s Miss Waterman on Birch Street. She’s getting on and needs someone – her last housekeeper walked out recently without notice, and her nephew –”

  “Why?”

  “Why did the housekeeper –?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I think we can assume she was just one of these irresponsible people. Anyhow, the nephew is our People’s Warden – a first-rate chap, but he has a busy dental practice, and – anyhow, this seems to me like a real possibility. Shall I give Brian a call when I get home?”

  “What’s Miss Waterman like?”

  “Oh, an excellent lady. Elderly, you know. Touch of arthritis. No doubt that’s why her disposition is a bit … After the active life she’s had, it can’t be easy. She was a missionary in China for more than twenty years – ran a girls’ school there. A little fixed in her views, perhaps – very high moral standards … yes. Splendid woman.”

  I murmur something polite.

  “Devoted to her three little Pekinese,” he goes on, “and her game of bridge. Unfortunately a chain-smoker, but poor soul, I suppose she finds some consolation in it. I really think you’d find … She lives in a bungalow, so the housekeeping part wouldn’t be too burdensome, and she spends a lot of time with her ham radio, so that occupies …”

  “Can you give me a few days, Tom,” I say rather desperately. “I’m still – I don’t think I can make any decisions about this right away.”

  “Of course, my dear. Most understandable. There must be many things to consider. And naturally you’ll want to consult Marion. I would have thought – I mean you could always move in with her, couldn’t you, on a temporary basis, at any rate?”

  “No, I couldn’t. She and her friend are going to share an apartment this spring, that’s all settled. To everyone’s satisfaction, Tom.”

  “I see. Well, no harm, is there, in my sounding Brian out – he’ll be at the vestry meeting tomorrow.”

  “Wittgenstein.” The cat, crouched nearby over his own folded paws, blinks at me inquiringly.

  “Eh?” says Tom.

  “I’ve been dipping into his book. He believed the daily dialogue mitigates dogmatic assertion because it reminds us of the different ways we apply words.”

  It is now Tom’s turn to blink. He steals a rather baffled look at me. Then, with a sigh, he levers himself to his feet. “Well, I must move on.”

  For a moment I think I hear Sebastian’s voice saying, “Give me proof, woman, that in diversity there is some unifying essence.” His face, with its long, flat cheeks a little flushed with whisky, and his young blue eyes, hangs a moment in the air like a mirage, and to exo
rcise it I follow Tom out to the hall.

  “Tell me how Miriam is. Have you seen her lately?”

  “Ah, it’s going more quickly than they expected. She’s very weak now. Needs oxygen nearly all the time. Poor soul, it’s sad to see her brought to this.” He clears his throat noisily. I push cold hands deeper into my cardigan pockets.

  “How on earth do you manage to comfort the dying, Tom? Come to that, how can you forgive God for inflicting things like that on helpless people?” Even as I say this, though, I know I am doing it chiefly to blot out that other matter in my mind, or at the back of it, which I have been so resolutely not thinking about.

  Tom pauses in the act of putting on his hat. He sighs, but is too professional to let my question pass. “It’s not easy,” he says. “You just have to hold onto the central truth – that in the end God will defend us from all danger, ghostly and bodily.” He looks tired, this having been one of his hospital-visiting days, but speaking these words seems to give him a kind of refreshment. He chafes my cheek affectionately with the back of his square hand.

  “That’s all very well, if you can believe it. Go home, Tom; you look exhausted.”

  “The giver of all goodness also gives us grace to believe, you know.”

  “Does he? Well, grace is a pretty word. And when you say ‘in the end,’ that doesn’t help much here and now, does it?”

  “You’ve become a bit of a radical lately, haven’t you, my dear? Quite a rebellious questioner. A splendid start.”

  “Start! I have no intention of starting anything.” I go on despite the fact it is clear we are talking at cross-purposes. “All I hope for is the sense to keep my head down and escape as many threats as possible. It’s only in Victorian novels, thank God, that people had to face a moral crisis. I’m just an obscure citizen of the twentieth century, so I’m quite safe from all that.”