by Brian Moore
Mangan’s father stood up at once and came around to look. Mid-page, a one-column photograph of Beatrice, a two-column headline.
BEATRICE ABBOT, COMPANION, KILLED IN L.I. EXPRESSWAY TRAGEDY
New York. Jan. 2 (CP) Actress Beatrice Abbot was killed early yesterday morning in a highway accident when a sports car which she was driving crashed and burst into flames. Miss Abbot and a passenger, Perry R. Turnbull, a theatrical producer, are believed to have died instantly.
Larry Caputo, the driver of a trailer truck involved in the accident, told Highway Patrol officers that the small foreign sports car driven by Miss Abbot at “about a hundred miles an hour” ricocheted off his truck, leaped a road divider and crashed into a concrete wall, bursting into flames.
Beatrice Abbot, a two-time Tony Award winner on Broadway and a nominee last year for Motion Picture Academy Award as Best Supporting Actress, was widely known for her starring role in the film “Flight from Orleans” in which she created an unforgettable Joan of Arc, playing opposite Sir John Gielgud. Born to the theatre as the daughter of Delauncey “Del” Abbot, a leading theatrical designer of the forties, she was the star of such long-running Broadway hits as “Spring for Lennie,” “The Black Swan,” and “Look Homeward.” Among her many film roles were—
It went on for two more paragraphs. Then there was a paragraph on Turnbull. At the end there was this announcement.
Miss Abbot is survived by her husband, James Mangan, a freelance writer and broadcaster. Funeral details will be announced later.
He felt his father’s hand gripping him about the shoulders. “My God,” his father said, then turned to Ritchie. “Anything on the funeral since?”
“We called New York. I thought you’d maybe want to go. There’s to be a service on Friday at four.”
He sensed his father hesitate. “What do you think, Jamie?”
“It’s up to you,” he said. “But I don’t think you need to, under the circumstances.”
“Right,” his father said, and then said, in a low voice, ”You’ll go, though?”
“Yes.” He was aware now of other faces at the door. Chris Charlton, the telegraph editor, a gray man with failed gray face.
“Very sorry, Jamie,” Chris said. “Terrible thing.”
And Handelman. “Ah, Jamie, it’s terrible. She was a wonderful person.” They nodded, touched him, retreated. He could see a copyboy in the corridor, distributing the Final. “Come on,” his father said. “Let’s go home.”
Mute, he accepted a fresh newspaper from the unsuspecting copyboy as they went out into the City Room. Someone had whispered the news and now, with silent tact, men stood around the big desk, nodding to him. The elevator came. Those who had been waiting to take it drifted away. He and his father entered the elevator. No one joined them. The door shut. They went down alone.
As his taxi came through Beekman Place, turning right into the cul-de-sac at the end of East Fifty-first Street, Turnbull’s Mercedes sports car ran into his mind. He saw it skid in the snow as she drove it away from the apartment entrance five days ago.
“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the taxi driver said. He should have taken the airport bus. His limo days were over.
The doorman was Karl, the one who always got his name wrong. “Morning, Mr. Abbot.”
He nodded to Karl.
“You’ve been away, Mr. Abbot?” Karl said, grabbing his bag, moving crabwise toward the front door.
“Yes. In Canada.”
“Yeah, well, I want to offer my sincere, you know, condolence. She was a lovely person. Just a lovely person.”
“Thank you, Karl. I’ll take the bag, thanks.”
“Sure? I’ll be glad to bring it up for you.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“Okay then, sir.” Karl ran ahead to press the button for the elevator. “The staff chipped in for a floral wreath,” Karl informed him. “We sent it around to the chapel this morning.”
“Thank you, that’s very nice,” he said to Karl. What chapel?
When he unlocked the apartment door, he opened it with difficulty, pushing inward a thick silt of magazines, letters, and messages. Unused, the rooms were heavy with stale air, a hot, dead breath on his face as he entered from the morning chill. He shut the door, and as he did, the telephone began to ring. He reached it at the fourth ring, but whoever it was had hung up. He stood holding the receiver, looking out of the picture window. Huge in the window frame, a rusty tanker passed downriver, decks deserted, prow foaming waves. Who had arranged her funeral? What chapel? Someone must have signed some paper. Weinberg would know. But he did not phone Weinberg. Instead, he dialed the answering service. “This is Mr. Mangan. Any messages for me?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Mangan. Let’s see. Miss Polk called this morning. She called twice yesterday. She said you have her number. And Mr. Weinberg’s office called this morning and they also called yesterday and the day before. They said it’s urgent. Now, let’s see, there was a call from a Mr. Connell, at Gramercy 8-9456, and there was a call from Mr. Leo Davoren, no number. And there was a call from your mother. She didn’t leave a number, either. And a call from the Nassau County Police. That’s it. Do you want the police number? I didn’t give you that.”
“No, that’s okay. Thank you.”
Louise Polk had called three times in three days. That couldn’t have been just to offer condolences. She must know about the funeral arrangements. Maybe she had made them. Final representation of her client. He dialed the familiar number and heard it ring, seeing in his mind’s eye the somber lobby on Forty-fourth Street, the two elderly desk clerks moving about, slow as earthquake survivors, posting bills in pigeonholes. Under a bright lamp the matronly switchboard operator sat, and now as she pulled the plug he heard her remembered nasal whine: “Good morning, Royalton.” On hearing his request she stuck a plug in Louise’s switch. Louise had an office in the East Fifties but never went there until after lunch. She would still be in her hotel suite. He imagined it now, those rooms so dark that the light must always be on. She would be lying on her chaise longue in her green silk wrapper, surrounded by icons of her clients, friends, and mentors, from Beatrice all the way back to Gordon Craig. Always, they watched over her from silver frames which were arranged around the apartment in tiers like the balconies of a theater. Everywhere, mementos of that life: set designs, costume sketches, old playbills, and also the special relics of the lonely: stuffed cushions in the shape of cats, Dresden poodles, a real Pekinese named Nanki-Poo, miniature tea sets, toy shoes, a doll-house, and many dolls, even including a portrait doll of Louise, made for her in childhood at the command of her stepmother, the Contessa Bianchi. And the three white telephones, all with long, coiled cords, which permitted her to walk about expertly flicking the cord away from her feet like a singer manipulating a stage microphone. If she was in, the phone would ring once only, or be busy. She was its faithful attendant.
After one ring, her voice.
“Louise Polk.”
“Louise, it’s Jamie Mangan.”
“Oh, Jamie, I’ve been calling you. You got my messages?”
“I was in Canada visiting my father. I only heard about it last night.”
“It’s just so awful. So awful. If she’d still been with you, it never would have happened. You took such good care of her. I told her that, you know. Did you know I told her that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I told her, I said to her, Bea, you mark my words, Perry Turnbull is not going to look after you like Jamie did. Was I right? God, was I right!”
“I called about the service,” he said. “Where’s it going to be?”
“At Frank E. Campbell on Eighty-first. You know it?”
“Yes. At four tomorrow?”
“Right. You’re going, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Because E.P. called me and asked. He’s going to say a few words and wanted to know if he should mention you.
I said, sure. I said, just don’t mention Turnbull. It’s his fault, I said. I said, Jamie would never have let her drive in that condition.”
“She was drunk?”
“The way I heard it,” Louise said, “they’d been drinking since New Year’s Eve. New Year’s night, they were invited to dinner at Earl and Cissie’s. Cissie told me that when they arrived Turnbull was drunk and Bea was high, but she was still okay. Well, anyway, they had dinner and about eleven o’clock they told Earl they were going to drive out to the Island. To the beach house, you know? Well, Turnbull was so falling-down drunk by then that Bea had to drive. And she was pretty high herself. Oh, my God, Jamie, I still can’t bear to think about it.”
He hesitated. “What about the body?”
“Oh, it’s—ah—cremation, I believe. Sy Weinberg had to go over to Long Island to identify the body. His office is taking care of the arrangements. You better call him, I guess.”
“I will. I’ll call him now.”
“Right. Oh, Jamie, what can I say. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Take care.”
The phone receiver made a loud sound as he replaced it. Cremation. Last night, alone in the bedroom of his father’s house in Montreal, suddenly he had begun to weep. He had wept, remembering the stories Beatrice had told him of her life, wept for the waste of her death, for the years they had spent together, for that time when they were in love. It was a harsh, painful weeping which wore itself out, then started up again, lasting for about an hour, after which, like someone eased of a fever, he fell into a heavy sleep. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Her only human remains some ashes in an urn, the only evidence that she had walked on this earth some photographs, a heap of newspaper clippings, a few reels of film. No child, no continuance. From now on, she would live fitfully in the minds of those who had seen her act and of those who had known her. He would remember her most. Yet already he had begun to forget her.
The telephone rang.
“Is Mr. Mangan there?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“Oh, Mr. Mangan, will you hold one moment? This is Mr. Weinberg’s office. We’ve been trying to reach you.”
Weinberg’s voice. “Jamie, how are you? You’ve been out of town?”
“I was in Montreal visiting my father. I only heard the news last night.”
“I see. I thought you might be out on the Island someplace. We did our best to reach you.”
“I’m sorry. We were at a lake. There was no phone or even a radio.”
“No?” Weinberg said in the way he had, a way which implied he might or might not believe what was said. “You know about the service, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Look, maybe if you have a minute you could drop by the office sometime today. I’d like to go over the arrangements with you. Can you make it?”
Friendly, correct, the manner one uses to deal with a client’s wife. “All right, Sy, I’ll come over. Say in half an hour. Would that be okay?”
“That would be good. See you then.”
No mention of her death, no condolences as yet. Weinberg, the orchestrator of many a divorce settlement, knowing how quickly love becomes its obverse, would wait for a sign of sentiment before offering his regrets. Officially, he acted for both of them, but his fee was computed on Beatrice’s earnings alone. And now Mangan thought of the morning six years ago when he and Beatrice stood in Weinberg’s office while three junior lawyers witnessed their new and separate wills. Each was to be the other’s sole heir. And Beatrice, an only child, had inherited all of her father’s estate. Suddenly he felt tense in that hot, airless room. Unless she had changed her will in the past three weeks, he would be her heir. He would get all her money. He might even have enough to forget about the CBC job, go away somewhere, and do nothing but write poetry. Again he felt that strange surge of excitement which came over him when he looked at the photograph of his double. He took the photograph from his pocket, unwrapping the handkerchief which protected it. The eyes of the photograph stared into his, glittering, complicit. Of course, she could have changed her will in the past three weeks. She might have made a new will in favor of Turnbull, or someone else. Weinberg would know. He stared at the photograph. Should I call him back? But the photograph’s eyes seemed to mock his anxiety. You’re going to see him now, aren’t you? You’ll know within the hour. The photograph eyes seemed brutally triumphant. You know the answer already, they said. You know it. You’ve won.
In the offices of Weinberg, Greenfeld, Kurtz and Norris, a warren of narrow corridors led past rooms lined with shelves of leather-bound law volumes, rooms in which in seeming incongruity modern copying machines hummed in constant activity. The offices of the senior partners were large; Weinberg’s particularly so, with a corner view of the Lower Manhattan skyline. His desk was also large, and on it were piled legal documents of varying sizes. However, Weinberg rarely consulted print in the presence of clients. His phone rang constantly: his counsel was continually sought. Interrupted after an initial “Hello, Jamie” by one of these phone calls, Mangan sat down facing Weinberg, trying to simulate deafness as Weinberg counseled a worried author. He stared across the room at the view of Manhattan, then at a small table placed against the wall, an altar to Weinberg’s private life. Color photographs displayed his wife, Abby (pretty), and his two small sons (much orthodontal work in evidence). There was also a portrait of Weinberg himself, younger, but wearing a gray wig and beard, playing the role of Duncan in a Columbia Law School presentation of Macbeth.
On the telephone, Weinberg clarified for his client something which he had already explained. “No, no. Twenty percent is the European. That’s split fifty-fifty between your agent here and the subagent in Germany. The fifteen percent is just for England. That’s a special arrangement. Just for England. Right. The split? You mean of the fifteen? Yes, well, it’s sometimes split fifty-fifty, sometimes seventy-thirty. Okay? All straight now? Good. How’s Marisia? Great. Give her my love. Talk to you soon.”
Weinberg put down the receiver and shook his head in silent comment on the inevitability of telephone interruption. He was a tall man, tanned winter and summer, with a profile his actor clients might have envied. He dressed conservatively in well-cut pinstripe suits, rarely removed his jacket in the office, and now, as he stood up and came around the desk to offer a belated handshake, revealed only one minor incongruity of dress, Italian vicuña loafers, gold-snaffled, which seemed out of place on his feet.
“Jamie, how are you? I’m terribly sorry.” He waited, watching for Mangan’s reaction.
“It was an awful business,” Mangan said. “Such a shock.”
“Yes, terrible. Abby’s been in a state ever since she heard. She was so fond of Bea. As we all were. I’ve been trying to reach you, you know. I’d no way of finding out where you were.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was in Canada, as I said.”
“Well, as I couldn’t reach you, I’m afraid we had to sort of take over. I went down to identify her.”
“Oh.”
“The cremation was, frankly, because of the condition of the body.”
“I meant to ask you,” Mangan said. “What about Turn-bull? Is he being buried—I mean, he’s not being buried with her?”
“His funeral is today, I believe,” Weinberg said. “At his family burial place in upstate New York.”
“Oh.”
Weinberg opened a folder. “As for the arrangements for Bea,” he said, “we’ll have music, two musicians who will play backstage. I have the program here, Mozart, Telemann, Couperin. Julie Harris was going to read one of Bea’s favorite poems, but she’s come down with flu. So E.P. will read it instead.”
“What favorite poem?” Mangan said. “I don’t remember her having one. You don’t mean one of mine?”
“She did it in a play. I have it here someplace, a note from E.P. Where is it?”
“She did a play about Christina Rossetti,” Mangan said.
�
�That’s right. And she recited some poem, right?”
“‘When I Am Dead, My Dearest.’ Is that it?”
Weinberg was at his desk. “Wait. Yes, that’s it. And after that, Leo Davoren will say a few words. It will be very short. Very simple. What do you think? Does that sound all right? You don’t object to the poem, do you?”
“No, no.”
“Have you anything you’d like to see added?”
“No.”
“I forgot to mention that there’ll be a special seating section, the first two rows. Next of kin and some of the more prominent people.”
Next of kin. But Beatrice had no living kin except for an aunt, remote in Tennessee. Her father, Delauncey “Del” Abbot, was himself an only child, son of a thrice-married Florentine principessa, née Hanson of Philadelphia. From her father, a thirties aesthete, forties theatrical designer, Beatrice had inherited her expensive tastes and an estate which she told Mangan was worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars at the time of the will’s reading but wasn’t worth half of that today. And for as long as Mangan had known her she had always decorated her dressing rooms with a vita of photographs depicting her father’s life: a photograph of the ball his mother gave in the Hotel Crillon in 1925, five hundred guests all in white. A Cecil Beaton photograph of Del at twenty with Harold Acton and Virginia Woolf in the Tuscan landscape of his mother’s estate at Fiesole. A theatrical sketch of his first set design, The Sea Gull, at Yale, and a larger sketch of his Broadway success, A Palace in Siam. There was a snapshot of him on the Riviera with Cole Porter, in Paris with Bricktop, and one of him braving the waves at Nantucket carrying his one and only baby daughter in his arms. At dinner, night after night, that daughter reran the serial of his life, his amours and escapades, his theatrical triumphs. He was her flamboyant father, she his one and only. Her mother, tipa antipatica, had divorced Del and remarried a great deal of money, dying rich and lonely in Brazil, leaving Beatrice with only one living blood relative, the forbidding Aunt Edna Abbot of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, who had sent best wishes and a Georgian silver cream jug at the time of their wedding but had remained silent ever since.