Till the End of Tom

by Gillian Roberts

  “Did she mention a dead man?”

  “That’s precisely it.” She pursed her mouth.

  “Dead men? Wait—I’m lost now.”

  “Your own life, your wedding day—just about the most important day of your life!—is secondary to—”

  I could not believe she meant what she was saying. I mean I knew she meant it, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe she meant the subtext, that a murder was not as important as the choice of lace or satin trim on a wedding gown. Or as a visit to a place so infatuated with itself that it named itself The Manse.

  She. Meant. Well. That was becoming my mantra for all of them. And I knew it was true. Beth was a professional events planner, so she couldn’t contain herself when faced with a celebration. Gabby Mackenzie created chaos while also meaning well. So did Bea Pepper, who had drawn up blueprints for my nuptials while I was still in the womb. So did Sasha, who believed in love and marriage and proved it repeatedly. They. All. Meant. Well.

  That didn’t make the barrage easier to endure. “So many decisions,” I said. “I’m overwhelmed with work—two jobs, and, yes, the dead man who has become part of both my jobs, and then, to think about guest lists, and—”

  “It isn’t him?” Her whisper was barely audible.

  “That’s the one thing I’m sure of.”

  “I’m so glad!” She smiled. “And I’m glad we cleared the air.”

  Did I dare hope I’d therefore have a day or two without wedding imperatives?

  “You’re stressed,” she said, “but I’m here for you. I’m here to make it easy for you. To relieve you of the burden.”

  No. Nothing had changed. “I don’t see the point of all this.”

  She put her hand back on mine. “It’s a cultural tradition. It’s bigger than we are.”

  “As if that were the only day of my life that counted. Need I say how I feel about that concept of my existence?”

  “It brings the two families together, and you get to be even more gorgeous than you usually are and there’s this huge party for you.”

  I tilted my head in the general direction of the in-house student. “What about him?”

  “Well, of course, him. But it’s really Your Big Day. You are the center of attention.”

  I have no problem being the center of attention when it’s appropriate, but I did have a problem with the idea that finding a man willing to join you in marriage was IT. A woman’s big day, and then, if you really bought that idea, that left all the rest of her days doomed to be little. I wanted the marriage, not the ceremony, to be the big and long IT. But I knew when I was beaten. “And I only get married once, right?” My turn to speak softly.

  “Absolutely,” Beth said. “Okay, then. Get a sweater—it’s brisk—and let’s go. If nothing else, it will be a beautiful ride on a positively glorious autumn day.”

  When the phone rang, I was rooting around for something to make my jeans and T-shirt look more acceptable at the sort of place that would make Beth flip.

  “I’ve got it,” Beth called out. Either she assumed it was our mother, or she herself had become as meddlesome as our mother.

  “Then you come, too!” I heard her say in her professionally animated voice.

  Not our mother, then, I hoped. She was supposed to stay in Florida until the shower. I’d found my rust-suede shirt jacket and thought I looked sufficiently countrified to enter The Manse. “Who?” I shouted.

  “Sasha. She wanted to talk to you about the shower, so I said I’d pick her up en route, and that way you won’t feel overwhelmed or harried. We’ll have lunch and go into the country and look and see and discuss—and we’ll get everything taken care of today.”

  Even she knew that couldn’t happen, and Beth is, if anything, honest. She amended her promise. “We’ll get a lot done today.”

  There was another pause. “We’ll get something done.” She left it at that.

  THE MAIN LINE RECEIVED its name by virtue of being the area along what was once the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and it runs from Overbrook to Paoli. We drove its woodsy streets—Beth avoided all expressways whenever possible—ogling the sprawls of homes, with admiration for the many elegant and understated beauties, mostly older homes, and a silent thumbs-down for the new and raw-looking pretentious temples to wealth.

  The Manse was located just beyond the end of the Paoli local, in Malvern, on a vast expanse of land. Even as we entered its long drive, I knew its pedigree and credentials were as deep-rooted as the ancient trees that lined the road. I wondered what had become of its original inhabitants, and that made me think about the Severins’s homes and what would become of them. Tomas’s properties must have been in some dispute because he’d moved out of his marriage into his mother’s house. What would become of the place after Ingrid moved on? Given Tomas’s pattern of wife-shedding and child-ignoring, I wondered who, if anyone, would make a claim.

  Could Carole Wallenberg stake out a right in the name of her son, Tom’s firstborn? Unless, of course, said heir did in his father, which would crimp any legal claims.

  It was situations like the Severins’s that turned homes like this into rent-a-ballrooms.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous? Imagine it with tiny lights all over it, and greens and holly.”

  “Um.” I ummed so much I sounded like a quietly operating appliance all the way up the drive as Beth and Sasha blathered about the loveliness surrounding us. I continued umming as we walked through wide double doors, and into a perfectly splendid entryway.

  Perfect, that is, if I were royalty, or marrying into it.

  Glorious it was, but—I didn’t belong here. I wasn’t going to have a good time here. The scale was enormous, the ceilings too high and serious, the thick walls and stained glass panels suggesting a citadel, a cathedral to acquired wealth, not a celebration of love.

  The booking agent, though surely there’s a more elegant upscale job description when booking mansions, hustled up to Beth, who’d obviously made our appointment in advance.

  We were not her only guests. A rather awkward and grim couple, a sort of urban American Gothic, stood in the middle of the enormous ballroom looking as if they’d been abandoned there. They were tall and solid looking, serious, both with short gunmetal gray hair, and both slightly squinty-eyed, as if we three women might be an invading army. They were alert and wary. Then I became aware of a third person, a woman in her late thirties or early forties, pacing the perimeters of the room, as if inspecting every square inch.

  “. . . waited till the last minute,” the agent whispered to Beth. Her smile, which she flashed after almost each sentence, was tight, nervous. She turned to toss another smile at the waiting couple, but when she turned back, her voice, even pitched low and confidentially, was filled with disapproval. “Literally. As you know, today was the deadline.”

  She had to be talking about me. Sounded as if I’d forfeited the place. I controlled the urge to cheer.

  The agent shepherded us toward the gray-haired couple. They frowned as we got near, but in puzzlement, I thought, not displeasure. The agent introduced us to the Arbussons, Philip and Meredith, and them to Beth, and she to me and finally, to Sasha.

  It all took a great deal of time and I had no idea why we were being introduced to the squinting Arbussons in the first place. Furthermore, the agent said, with a weak smile, “I’ll be just a minute,” and hustled off to the woman who was still resolutely examining the room and making notes on a clipboard.

  “Haven’t we met before?” Meredith Arbusson asked. She was speaking to Sasha, though they did not look as if their social orbits occupied the same universe. Meredith A., in a royal blue knit suit, pale cream silk blouse, and proper black pumps, awaited Sasha’s answer. “Perhaps at the . . .”

  Sasha peered back. She was at least six inches taller than Mrs. Arbusson, and she’d chosen to wear an ankle-length brown velvet skirt with a burnt orange vest embroidered in gold thread, a green long-sleeved blouse, a chif
fon scarf in blazing oranges and hot greens, and her favorite suede boots. I thought she looked great, and fittingly autumnal, but I was fairly certain Meredith Arbusson wouldn’t agree. Nor, of course, would she approve of my jeans and suede jacket. We didn’t belong here.

  “I don’t think . . .” Sasha began.

  “Perhaps at Sylvia and Donald’s?” Mrs. Arbusson said. “I know I remember you. I never forget a face.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know a Sylvia and Donald.”

  “I know, then—I volunteer most afternoons at the library, the main library. You know, after school, when the children are there. I was a librarian, once, and I suppose it’s in the blood, though I’m past working full-time, of course. Past working, in fact, but one does get bored, and I don’t play golf. Or bridge, so—”

  “Meredith . . .” her husband said.

  “Oh, Philip thinks I go on about everything too much, and he’s right. I absolutely do, but still—I must have seen you at the library, right? So many people there every day, I remember their faces, but—”

  “Actually, I’ve been in England . . .” Sasha tilted her head, and moved slightly to the side of the woman. “Aha,” she said. “Were you—I don’t mean to cause you any pain, but were you at Tomas Severin’s funeral this week?”

  Both Arbussons looked as if his name had indeed caused them grief, but they nodded.

  “I sat next to you,” Sasha said. “Recognized you as soon as I saw your profile. We didn’t talk.” And she introduced herself.

  This, then, must be the couple who’d been looking to see if somebody was there, somebody who should have been there but apparently wasn’t. I wished I remembered more precisely what Sasha had said.

  “You were his friend?” Philip Arbusson asked.

  Sasha nodded.

  “My condolences.”

  “And mine to you, too. You were there. Are you relatives, or were you his friends?”

  “We knew him, of course,” Meredith said. “We knew all of them, from the time they were newlyweds and the children were born. Philip worked with Tomas Senior, years ago. He left the firm when this Tomas took over.” She looked as if she were still pissed about whatever had caused her husband to sever his ties with the family. “It’s been awhile. We came out of respect for his father’s memory.”

  I wondered why they’d felt the need to make it clear to strangers that they had not come on behalf of the deceased or the deceased’s mother or wives. Confusing, but interesting, as was mention of “the children.” Whose? Hers? Or plural Severin children and if so, who and where were the others?

  And then Sasha flicked me a glance—no more than a shift in her eyelashes, it seemed, but with it, she’d hit the invisible ball to me, and I knew that she’d hooked on to her memory of that day, too. It was a definite “dare you.”

  “Absolutely lovely ceremony, didn’t you think?” I murmured.

  “Ah, so you were there, too,” Meredith said.

  I nodded. Who was to know?

  “The crowd was impressive,” Philip said. “But of course, Tomas Senior and Ingrid were very social.”

  “Beyond being social,” Meredith said with a brief laugh that didn’t seem all that happy. “Ingrid was the arbiter of what was social. If she bought it or wore it or ate it—then it was fashionable.” She sighed. “Oh, but that was long ago.”

  “She’s still quite . . . stunning,” I said. On this, I was on firm ground. Her looks had stunned me. Even the memory of them left me light-headed.

  Meredith didn’t seem to care. Ingrid was no longer arbitrating anything for her. But she looked like a woman who needed to vent about something, and I wanted to release that steam valve. I remembered Sasha telling me that she and her husband had talked about a missing someone, but I couldn’t remember if they’d said who it was, or even what sex the person had been. I thought female, but we’d also talked about Nina, and I was afraid I was mixing the memories.

  “I hope this isn’t out of line,” I said, “and the truth is, I couldn’t see everyone who was there, of course. It was too large, except that I could see the family, and I paid my respects, and I wondered . . . well, you know . . . I had thought, given the seriousness of the occasion, that . . .” I shrugged. “You know.”

  A teacher learns so much from her students. This was how they often answered test questions, saying nothing, hoping that by dancing around the idea, they’d find the outline of it.

  It worked about the same way for me as it generally did for them, which is to say, not very well.

  Meredith Arbusson stared at me as if I were an alien species.

  Now my panic was authentic, so that my starts and stops were no longer faked. “Somewhat upsetting—if I’m right, that is. Of course, as I said, I couldn’t see, so many people there, but—” I was going to have to use a pronoun soon, a “him” or “her,” but which? Who was it that had been missing?

  Meredith nodded, her lips tight. “I thought so, too, but I didn’t see her. I think she must be dead. I heard she was living a . . . hard life. In and out of trouble of one kind or another.”

  A her! “Let us hope not,” I said. “Let us hope she found peace somewhere.” Let us please be told who this is and what she’s about and also why I was speaking in this horribly stiff manner.

  “Of course,” Meredith said, her mouth curled and angry, “Ingrid behaves as if she never existed—and he was just as bad.”

  It’s quite amazing what people think they hear, the way Meredith Arbusson thought she’d heard me say something tangible, something that proved I was intimate with the family and its history.

  Sasha watched the exchange with undisguised admiration. At one point, her brows lifted, and she looked surprised. She’d remembered something more. “But of course,” she said with great emotion, “it’s also possible she’s still—or perhaps again—locked up.”

  Locked up? Had Sasha told me that before? Where, in prison? Name erased from the family rolls because of a crime? Was she, perhaps, one of those rich young revolutionaries?

  “No wonder she had to be committed,” Meredith said. “No wonder. The authorities should have been brought in a long time ago.”

  Committed. I tossed the image of the Severin revolutionary. A mental institution.

  “Meredith,” Philip Arbusson said.

  She ignored him. This had obviously been bottled and left to ferment in her for a long time, and Tom Severin’s death had pulled the plug. “I found it disgraceful that she wasn’t even mentioned, even if she is away somewhere—even if she’s dead! Not during the ceremony, not even in the obituaries. If Tomas Senior had lived this would never have been allowed to—”

  “Meredith, these people came here to look at this building. To rent it. Isn’t that so?” he asked me directly.

  “I’m enjoying talking to—”

  “But they must agree,” Meredith said. “And where’s the secret, anyway? It’s been a long time since I worried about making Ingrid Severin angry. Why shouldn’t I say that I find it monstrous that any mother could turn her back on her flesh and blood that way, could treat her so—”

  “Meredith,” her husband repeated softly, urgently.

  She applied the brakes with a long, deep breath. I knew that we’d hear no more, but Philip would, later on.

  At that point, the agent bustled back to us. “Sorry to have had to leave you both in the lurch, but I had to be certain. Dorothy—” she waved toward the woman who was still at her measurements, “has decided to be married here.”

  “Nice,” Sasha said. “So has Amanda.”

  “Dorothy decided months ago,” Meredith said.

  “Unfortunately,” the agent said, “her wedding’s the same date you’d proposed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sasha said. “We—”

  “It is the only time Dorothy can be married, given her schedule,” Meredith Arbusson said.

  I wasn’t in a mood to be pushed around by any more arrogant members of the social re
gister. I was ready to stomp and carry on and inform them all that the same applied to me—the teaching calendar was not going to bend on my behalf. And all that though I didn’t want this place at all. But I was saved from making a fool of myself this one time, and saved from The Manse, when Meredith completed her sentence.

  “She’s a reconstructive surgeon, you know, and she’s about to begin a stint with Doctors Without Borders in the Congo. So sorry we weren’t able to confirm the date till now, but it’s taken forever to be certain when precisely she was leaving, and—”

  “I understand.” I kept my eyes on the polished inlaid floor, trying to look as if relinquishing this setting required a great deal of backbone and moral strength.

  We shook hands, said how lovely it had been to meet, wished the bride well, and walked to the door with the agent. “I’m sure we can find another time for you,” she said. “Maybe a weeknight? Or next spring? I am so sorry. I truly thought she’d . . . I was positive . . . I told your sister—this morning was her deadline with us, and we’d heard nothing. Not a peep.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Honestly. My sister is amazing, and we will find a place. Or we’ll change the date and be back to you again.” I was elated. I’d made my escape without needing to be the guilty party. Not My Fault. I didn’t want it to show, so I managed a slight tremble in my voice, and felt I did a pretty convincing act of being brave despite adversity.

  And for the rest of the afternoon, through lunch and bridal shower discussion and even through all Beth’s reassurances, based on nothing whatsoever, that we’d find another place, I controlled the bubbles of joy popping inside me as I replayed Meredith’s words. I didn’t know what precise relevance they had to anything, but I was sure they were important—why else such a secret?

  Ingrid Severin had two children: a boy, Tomas, and a girl.

  I hadn’t lost a Manse. I’d gained a daughter.

  * * *