She followed dumbly, managing to stay on her feet as the pallbearers lowered John into the ground beside his long-dead wife. She consented then to be drawn away and driven home. Larry, who had looked after Hilly for the day, left Nell’s apartment with his grandparents, headed to John’s house for the post-burial reception.
When at last Hilly and Nell had each gone to bed, Nell heard her son rocking and moaning in his sleep. Later, he screamed, “John, it’s a bomb!”
Nell herself was too exhausted to sleep. Her eyes burned, her head and throat ached. Her body was cramped and arthritic the way a body grows when, for long hours, it hardens against reality.
Blindly she reached for the book: “There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal. In this matter of shimmering into rooms, the chappie is rummy to a degree. You’re sitting in the old armchair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you look up, and there he is. He moves from point to point with as little uproar as a jelly-fish . . .”
How could she laugh—but she did. Long ago, Mr. Wodehouse had promised.
Monday morning, with a robe tied tight around her waist and her hair hanging loose, Nell opened the door to knocking, expecting Aunt Martha. Instead, John’s partner Apollo Shane, wearing a black armband and removing his bowler, asked, “May I step in, Mrs. Stillman?”
“Of course.” Perplexed, Nell stepped aside. “A cup of tea? I was about to pour myself one.”
“That would be kind,” he said, laying his hat on the side table.
“Milk and sugar?”
“If it’s no trouble.”
Spare and scholarly, Shane was a welcome figure. Devoted to John, he’d attended the wake, been a pallbearer for the funeral and burial, and probably turned up at the post-burial gathering as well. In the little that Nell had observed at the wake, he had reassured with a word here, and sympathized with a hand clasp there. Though roughly Nell’s age—or even a bit younger—he possessed a grandfatherly quality of which he seemed unaware.
Setting a tray beside the bowler, Nell said, “Forgive my appearance. I took a sleeping powder last night, and I’m only just out of bed.”
“I can come back later,” Shane suggested.
“Please stay. Is it something to do with John?” She removed a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe and dabbed her eyes.
Shane stirred his tea. At length, he nodded. “You are free to discuss any or all of this with whom you will, but in the event you choose not to, my silence goes without saying.”
Setting his cup aside, he delved into an inner pocket. Pulling out a folded manila envelope, thin string wrapped around the small button of closure, he continued, “This is not John’s will. That’s a separate matter. The bulk of his estate will go to his son, Paul, as you might imagine.”
“Yes.”
“This gift, because it is not part of the will and has already been in my keeping the past five years, will not be mentioned to the newspapers.” He handed the packet to Nell. “If there’s anything unclear, please call on me. That was part of my pledge to John.”
“Did he expect his death?”
“He was prepared for it. His father died young of heart failure. John lived longer than he expected.”
Nell wept. “I wish I had known.”
“It was John’s wish that you didn’t. I’ll see myself out.” Finishing his tea, he said, “John was a grand fellow. None better. If there’s anything I can do, please come to me.”
Each act required more conscious thought and more mettle than Nell felt possessed of. So when she had closed the door, she ignored the tea tray and the envelope, returning to the green chair. The atmosphere of death and loss was too dense for even small gestures. Breathing was a strain. She would rest until she had the strength to open the envelope.
After half an hour, she lifted herself by the chair arms and stood immobile for long moments before pushing forward. What would Mam say? “Put one foot ahead of the other, darlin’.”
chapter forty-six
WHEN NELL HAD RINSED the teacups and saucers, she sat staring at the packet. Though she knew she had nothing to fear from it, she was loath to unwind the little string and lift out whatever lay folded inside.
Rising again, she washed her face, twisted her hair up, and pulled on a dress. She poured now-cold tea into a cup and sat once more. Hilly’d had a night of tears and violent dreams, but now he was stirring in his room. Better to read whatever was in the envelope immediately, lest he find her sobbing. She noted her name on the front in John’s generous scrawl. Turning the packet over, she unwound the string, lifted the flap, and withdrew a letter of several pages.
Darling Nell,
If you are reading this, well, you know . . . But one thing you cannot know is how much I hate leaving you. I have wanted to be here for you, always. Though I know that is wishful thinking, given my damned heart thing. I didn’t share this with you because it might have caused you to make decisions in a way contrary to your own judgment.
After the death of Gratia, Paul’s mother, I was not especially eager to find another wife. Gratia and I had been happy; she had been a fine wife and an excellent mother. But I had not counted on the wonderment that lay ahead.
I think I knew from that evening in Juliet and Laurence’s gazebo that I was in love. Was I terribly show-offy? I wanted so to impress you. But I was also stupidly nonchalant in those days, afraid of frightening you off. I regret the hours wasted that could have been spent . . . well, in bed. To put it frankly.
You were my heaven, so I won’t complain unduly if I’m sent where doubtless many another cursing Irishman has been sent.
The Professor has been a second son and a great source of satisfaction. His safety was daily remembered in my prayers, darling girl.
And now—I must get down to business. If ever you need legal help or advice, you have only to ask Apollo Shane. He is at your service, gratis. Do not hesitate!
When you are ready, I want you to make an appointment to see Laurence in his capacity as bank president. I’ve put a little money in an account for you, all of which he alone has handled, for discretion’s sake. So far as anyone else knows, this money will be a legacy from a distant relative.
In a safe-deposit box with your name on it are a few odds and ends of stock certificates. I’m afraid you won’t be so wealthy that you can elope with the first penniless Lothario to kiss your scented hand, but I hope that these small provisions will create a pillow, a soft place to lay your head.
With part of the money, you might think about buying a little house, a snug and comfortable place from which you could thumb your nose at Gus Rabel, the younger. Old Gus won’t be around forever.
I send you a thousand embraces and a million kisses, my own dear woman. Wherever I am, I love you.
Your John
A separate note on different stationery said, I’m enclosing the business card of Henry Skellings, a book dealer in St. Paul. He will keep you informed of the latest masterpieces from our Mr. Wodehouse. Order them!
And now the tears flowed, but only briefly, for Hilly was emerging from the bathroom. Nell returned the letter and note to the envelope, shoving it between two Wodehouse volumes in the living room.
She glanced up, then looked again.
Hilly was washed, shaved, and dressed. Though his shoelaces were not tied, he crossed the room with sudden dignity and laid a hand on Nell’s shoulder.
“I’ll get breakfast on,” Nell told him, beginning to rise.
He motioned her to sit.
“Mah,” he said. “Mother” was still too difficult.
“Mah.” His brow creased with effort. “I look . . . after you now.”
The Standard Ledger dedicated a full interior page to remembering John, with affectionate quotes scattered throughout. Among them was one from Apollo Shane:
“John hadn’t a petty thread in his fabric. He said to me, ‘Shane, even the devil must have a genial streak—or else how’d he invent all these forbidde
n pleasures?’ I spent an hour or two unraveling that, but I think he meant, ‘By God, I love ’em all.’ Chicken thief or saint—he’d put his shoulder to the wheel for you.”
When Nell made her trip to the bank, Laurence met her, leading her to his office and closing the door. “Have a seat. Feels strange, doesn’t it? I always feel like I’m acting in a play when I do business with a friend.”
Nell nodded.
“Well, what this is about is the account John set up in your name. He deposited fifteen thousand dollars in it, five years ago. Of course, it’s accrued a bit of interest since then.” He handed her a passbook with her name on it.
She swallowed. “Fifteen thousand dollars?”
“He wanted you to have a cushion. Given the differences in your ages, it was prudent.” He played with an inkwell.
“There’s also a safe-deposit box,” he continued, passing a key across his desk. “Mrs. Jeffers can get it out for you.”
“Not today, please.”
“Of course.” He pushed the inkwell away. “Juliet and I understand what a nightmare this has been for you. And for Hilly. Remember, we’re here.”
It would be months before Nell unearthed the passbook from beneath a stack of towels in the linen cupboard. Each act of moving forward seemed a disloyalty. In not advancing, she kept John alive, as if he were in Washington.
But late at night, when Hilly was asleep, the sharp-edged fact of John’s death cut through. In those hours, she huddled, legs drawn up, clutching herself, as if to present Fact with a smaller target. Then, finally, she would reach for Wodehouse.
Nell and Hilly spent that summer at John’s cabin. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with it,” Paul had told her. “You take it for now.”
Not owning an automobile, Nell walked to town once a week to pick up groceries and the mail. A farmer down the road provided milk and eggs. Every Saturday, Juliet drove out, always bringing treats, starting with a quart of bootleg whiskey: “For medicinal purposes.”
Nell felt close to John there, and Hilly was at ease. He swam, fished from the dock, and read, though he still preferred having Nell read to him. Did the printed words disorganize themselves in his head, she wondered, the way that spoken words did?
He stumbled over simple constructions. “Pass the milk, please” could emerge as “Milk . . . um . . . milk . . . please . . . um . . . pass.” His difficulty angered him, and he took his feelings out on Nell. “Don’t . . . tell . . . me! I . . . know!”
Late one afternoon, Nell rose from the glider and asked, “What would you like for supper? There’s cold roast beef for sandwiches, or we could have sausages and beans.”
“Sand . . . sand . . . rrr . . .”
“Roast beef?”
“No!” Hilly leapt up, fists clenched, and lunged toward Nell, turning at the last moment to fling a deck chair across the porch. A small table and pitcher of iced tea went flying.
Nell cowered. “Hillyard!”
Hilly ran outside, slamming the screen door and screaming unintelligibly. Hurling himself down at the picnic table, he pounded the surface till ancient dust rose from the pores.
“For God’s sake, Hillyard, what are you doing?” Nell cried, following him. But he moaned like a bludgeoned beast.
That night, still shaken, Nell sat staring at the moon on the lake. Dear heaven, John . . . Well, it was no good crying to John. Catching tears with the balled-up handkerchief from her apron pocket, she shook her head with helpless resignation and a sense of abandonment.
“Mah?” Hilly stood in the doorway.
“What is it, Hillyard?” She’d thought he was in bed.
“Sorry.”
“Sit down.”
He slumped onto a chair.
“We have to talk.”
“Yeth.”
“I was frightened this afternoon. Afraid of you. Afraid of violence.”
He puled low in his throat.
“It’s a terrible thing to be afraid of your child. Something inside feels like it’s dying.”
“Mah . . .”
“Let me talk, Hillyard.”
“Yeth.”
“Life is hard for you. You’ve been good, and you’ve been patient, for four years. But today was bad. You cannot throw things. You could hurt someone. As it is, you broke a pitcher.”
“But, Mah . . .”
“I’m not finished, Hillyard. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Or break things. When you feel very angry, what could you do instead?”
Hilly was silent, squirming. Was she causing him even greater frustration? But she waited. He had to understand that this was his problem to solve.
He rubbed his forehead and looked around as if an answer might be posted on the doorframe. Five minutes passed. Nell started to offer a suggestion, then bit the words back.
At length Hilly straightened, turning to her. “Har . . . har . . . mon . . . harmonica.”
That was surely not what Nell had expected. But she closed her eyes with relief.
It was a warm day in September. Returning from school, Nell noticed one of Kolchak’s trucks backed into the alley behind the meat market. Investigating, she found three men loading the old outhouse onto the truck bed. She groped to steady herself against the building.
When the outhouse was loaded, they began filling the hole from a great mound of dirt. She crossed herself and stared, unmoving, as each shovelful fell into the abyss. Finally, one of the men looked up. “Can we help you . . . ?”
Nell started. “I . . . no, no. There’s no help.” Puzzled, the men shrugged and continued shoveling.
chapter forty-seven
THAT AUTUMN OF 1922, another Democrat ran for John’s congressional seat, a Dwight Bledsoe from St. Bridget. It angered Nell unreasonably; only John could do justice to that seat. She would feel guilty voting for this parvenu, Dwight Bledsoe, but reasoned that she could hardly neglect her newly acquired right to go to the polls.
By January of the next year, Nell had decided what to do with some of the legacy from John. First, she sent her mother a thousand dollars, with the caution not to let Paddy drink it up. “Mam,” Nell wrote, “you’ll know what’s needed there.” Her mother was not many years older than John would have been and described herself as “still on my feet, and dancing when I get the chance.” She would parcel the money out with scrupulous economy.
Didn’t Nell remember how her mother had educated her in all she thought crucial: house care, gardening (though that had came to naught), home remedies, manners and proper ways of doing things. When Nell’s sister, Nora, had married, her mother had told Nell, “Now, Nell, girl, pay attention because you’re goin’ to need all this. When y’ve finished your high school, y’ve got to leave us. We can’t afford you more.” Weeping and slapping away the tears, her mother had embraced Nell. “We love you, but these acres won’t support another grown body. As it is, I’m here on sufferance.” Despite that the land had been Da’s. And so Nell had left, and worked her way through teacher certification.
The second expenditure from John’s money was pure luxury: a telephone. Refusing previously to be connected to the world by wire, she had caused her friends no end of inconvenience. If only I’d had a telephone when John was in Washington, she thought. If only.
When the phone was hung on the kitchen wall, Hilly gave it a wide berth, glancing the other way when he passed. Nell could have saved money by using a party line. But the extravagance of a private line so tickled her, it did seem worth the extra money.
The third outlay purchased an electric refrigerator. Old Gus Rabel was flustered. “Missus, I would have got you one,” he said.
But he had already installed plumbing. The kitchen boasted running water; the bathroom owned a sink instead of a basin, a genuine enameled bathtub instead of a galvanized one, and a toilet with a water box above.
Sometimes, during an idle hour, Nell simply sat in the green chair and could not believe her comfort. Thank you, John. And then s
he fell into a black space.
It was indeed thanks to John that Nell and Hilly could afford to spend the next few summers in Mankato, where Nell worked toward her bachelor’s degree at the State Teachers College, insurance against a loss of employment in Harvester. With Hilly to think of, she must be prudent.
Mankato was built on hills rising one above the other. Set in a valley of the Minnesota River, the lower part of town was breathless in hot weather, but the rooms they rented, in a house behind the campus, caught a bit of breeze from the west.
Here, where no one knew him, Hilly relaxed. But one evening Nell found him weeping. “You’re sad?”
He nodded.
“Do you miss Harvester?”
“Professor,” he said. “Call me Professor.”
“John?”
He nodded. “Bomb.” He threw his arms up in an explosive gesture.
“No.” Nell put a hand over her breast. “A heart attack.”
“Another thing people are hashing over,” Aunt Martha said one day, as she retailed town gossip, “is how you can afford to trot off to Mankato for the summer and keep up your rent here? Flynn money, they figure.” Eyeing Nell over the rim of her glasses, she added, “They’re wondering how you earned that.”
But the bloated old woman was the color of dust, and Nell couldn’t be bothered with anger.
Then, on a Saturday morning in November 1924, seventy-four-year-old Laurence Lundeen clutched his chest and dropped dead on the sidewalk outside Lundeen’s Dry Goods. “He’d just told Howard Schroeder and me a joke,” Anna Braun said later. “It’s a good thing to die laughing.”
“I was expecting this,” Juliet told Nell that afternoon, sitting in the little library off her sitting room. “We’re in trouble at the bank. Big losses.” Juliet knew the Lundeen businesses nearly as well as Laurence had.
Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse Page 21