by Mary Burton
“How awful.”
Edith took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with her napkin. Her eyes were dry.
“Tom’s birth was so difficult, it prevented me from returning to the mainland with the other dependents. The boys and I didn’t come back to Virginia until early 1945.”
“You must have been relieved to be back home.”
“My mother wasted no time finding me a new husband. Arthur, seventeen years my senior, was an executive in a local bank whose bad eyesight and flat feet had kept him out of the military. He was polite, shy, affluent, and mesmerized by what he called my ‘russet tresses.’” Edith made air quotes.
Gail shifted in her seat.
“Our brief New York honeymoon was long on sightseeing and short on connubial activities—Arthur spent most of his time brushing my hair and muttering about its cinnamon color. The boys and I settled into the old, dreary house Arthur inherited from his parents. He was pleased when I was invited to join a garden club; he thought I would make social connections befitting the wife of a bank executive. I just wanted to hone my knowledge of herbs and plants. Arthur’s feeble efforts at fatherhood evaporated when Frankie and Tommy showed no interest in his stamp collection.”
Edith refilled Gail’s cup and fiddled with the sugar bowl. Gail eyed her mother-in-law over the rim of her cup until she resumed her narrative.
“We’d just marked our first anniversary when Jake’s mother died and left money to Frank and Tom. Without telling Arthur, I opened accounts for each of the boys in a savings bank that offered higher interest rates than Arthur’s bank. When he found out, he was furious that I’d ‘acted behind his back,’ then shouted that I was too stupid to make financial decisions. Arthur succumbed to a fatal heart attack on the sixth tee at the country club that very spring. My fox gloves were spectacular that year.” Edith smiled at the memory.
Edith paused staring into her teacup. “Arthur was leveraged to the hilt, even mortgaging the house to cover his bad investments, so I was left with nothing but a thin gold wedding band. We moved back with my parents, and I took a job in a local college library.”
Edith rose from her chair, left the room, and returned carrying a large framed photograph of a pleasant looking young man with curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She placed in on the table, gently stroked the face, and smiled.
Gail recognized the picture. “Your husband, Henry, as a young man.”
Edith smiled and nodded. “One snowy morning, a man in his thirties with a hitch in his gait, requested an obscure engineering reference book. It took a while to find because it had been misfiled on a dusty shelf in the basement. He thanked me and spent hours poring over the book and making copious notes. Two days later, he came back, asking for another technical book, which I found easily. When he came back a third day, I asked what he was up to. He told me that his name was Henry Beadle and that he had earned an engineering degree from the college in the late thirties. Like most men in his generation, he’d gone to war soon after, leaving part of his foot on a hillside in Italy. He worked at the shipyard and had an idea for a new kind of switch. He hoped to patent his invention and wanted to make sure it worked before he hired an attorney.”
Edith rested her chin on a hand, lost in happy recollection.
“One day, while searching for something else, I found a book that I thought might apply to Henry’s switch theory, and set it aside for his next visit. ‘This is just what I was looking for, but didn’t know it,’ he said when I showed him the book. He took it to a table and spent the rest of the day taking notes. I stood behind his chair just before the closing chime so he could work until the last minute. When the end of day sounded I tapped him on the shoulder. Flustered, Henry thanked me, gathered his papers and left. He was back when the doors opened the next morning, and I had the book waiting for him on the counter. He apologized for treating me brusquely and keeping me from getting home to my husband.”
Edith caressed the thick gold band on her left hand.
“I wore Arthur’s ring to discourage suitors and remind myself that I was done with men, but I explained to Henry that I was widowed and my sons had been at a Scout meeting.
“Two days later, he asked if the boys and I would like to go to the circus with him. ‘It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help,’ he said. Henry and the boys took to each other right away. I hadn’t realized how much they needed a man in their lives and began to wonder if I did, too. That trip to the circus led to Saturday movie matinees, outings to museums, and, as the weather warmed, baseball games and the ocean. Henry became a regular at Mother’s Sunday dinner table. I enjoyed being with Henry and liked how he slipped his arm around my shoulders sometimes,” Edith said, touching her shoulder as if searching for Henry’s familiar hand.
“Tom settled things one summer evening when a trip to the beach was cut short so Henry could get home to prepare for work the next day. ‘Momma, why don’t you just marry Henry so he can live with us?’
“I blushed with embarrassment. Henry said ‘Why not indeed. Momma? Will you marry me?’ and slipped to one knee. I could only nod. He finally kissed me—it was well worth waiting for.”
Gail sighed. “How romantic.”
Edith beamed at the recollection. “We were blissfully happy. Henry patented his switch and several other arcane but lucrative devices. Not for lack of trying, we never had a child together. As you know, Henry was a wonderful father to the boys. He felt fortunate to have survived the war and considered it an honor to raise Jake’s sons in his place. I never told anyone else the truth about my first husband.”
“Why are you telling me all this now?” Gail asked.
“It’s time someone knew the whole story. As you recall when he turned fifty, Henry declared that he’d made enough money for one lifetime and retired. We traveled a lot and visited many parts of the world, but never Hawaii. Then, after nearly forty years of wedded bliss, cancer darkened our door.”
“That was a hard time for all of us,” Gail wiped away a tear. “I’ll be right back, my heart pills make me need to pee all the time.” She headed for the powder room.
Edith realized that it was a day very like today when she gathered ingredients for a special tea for Henry. He had been too weak to hold the cup but smiled as she held it to his lips. When he’d finished, she crawled into bed and held him in her arms until he fell into his final slumber.
Edith emptied the teapot into her cup, rose, turned up the kettle, and rummaged in the back of the cupboard for a different container of herbs. She measured those into the pot and filled it with hot water.
“You’ve done a good job keeping the house updated. It will show well. You could be out by summer,” Gail said as she sat down. “Mother, don’t make this difficult for everyone. We don’t want to go to court to invoke your power of attorney, but it is time for you to move to a place where you’ll be well cared for. It’s not safe for you to live alone anymore.”
Edith ignored the comments and refilled Gail’s cup.
“There is so much of Henry here that I never feel truly alone. The night before his memorial service, I worked the contents of his urn into the soil around my prize camellia. Maybe that’s why it weathered several hurricanes and recent bitter Virginia winters. Bone meal was interred in the columbarium the next day. This is my home, Gail. I will die here and join Henry under the camellia.” Edith did not add that she believed she would join Henry in the not too distant future.
“But you can’t do that,” Gail sputtered.
“I can and I shall. I named Phoebe as my executor. She will inherit the house and carry out my wishes. Drink up, dear.”
At a loss for words, Gail drained her cup then gasped. She clutched her chest as her eyes rolled back in her head.
Edith pulled her phone from a pocket, tapped 9-1-1 into the keypad, but did not hit send.
Her eyes drifted to the picture of her young sons as the rest of the story of “the day that will live in infamy”
rose from the depths of memory.
“Gail, there’s more to Jake’s story.”
Gail pressed a hand to her damp forehead. “Really?”
“I drove to the gate guarded by a very nervous Marine. He was distracted by the bombers flying overhead, and it took him a minute to process scene before him. A convertible driven by a pregnant woman in a bathrobe, a little boy bleeding from a deep cut on his cheek in the back seat, and a man—an officer by his uniform—slumped against the passenger door with half of his head missing.”
“What the—?” Gail said.
“I begged the guard to do something!” Edith said. “But when he opened the door, Jake’s body fell to the ground. I could tell by his expression that he knew that head wound had not been caused by a bullet from the sky.”
“You shot him.” Gail’s words slurred.
Edith smiled. “I told him to never marry a redhead as I sped off. In the rearview mirror, I saw the enemy plane bear down on him.”
Gail slumped forward, her breathing ragged.
“You know stress didn’t cause my second husband’s heart attack.” Edith waited several more minutes and then tapped the send button on her phone. “Please send an ambulance. I think my daughter-in-law is having a heart attack.”
After reciting her address, Edith finished her tea and went to the door to wait for the first responders.
ART ATTACK, by Heather Weidner
“Move the amethyst goblet more to the left,” gallery owner and curator, Harvey Owens, demanded, pointing to the right.
Jillian Holmes, Harvey’s personal assistant, was balanced on a ladder in front of the glass cabinet. “Better?” She slid the goblet about four inches to the right and farther away from three green urns.
“I liked it better where she had it before,” said Ilsa Prescott, owner of the featured glass and stoneware collection. As she stepped nearer to the display and shook her head, her silver bob shimmered under the gallery lights.
“Here, let me do it.” Harvey hardly waited for Jillian to step down from the ladder before he moved the goblet back to where it was originally. “Hand me the green urns,” he said, snapping his fingers. “
“Be careful with those, Harvey!” Ilsa shouted. “Those pieces are the cream of my collection. My late husband and I bought them on our travels and I expect them back in one piece after the exhibit ends.”
“Thank you for reminding us again that you loaned them,” Harvey said peevishly.
“They are the perfect addition to your gallery opening on Friday,” Ilsa added.
“Right along with Da’rel’s collection of acrylics and Marilyn Culpepper’s watercolors,” he countered.
“Your entire collection is lovely,” Jillian added. “But that goblet is especially stunning—the way it fades from purple to violet to white. And that metal filigree design of wolves and the moon—gorgeous!”
“That’s the blood goblet,” Ilsa said. “My husband and I acquired it from a dealer in Romania. The dealer said whoever drinks from it and has an impure heart will be cursed. Those who drink and have reckless courage will be gifted with abundant success and great wealth.”
Harvey rolled his eyes.
Ilsa winked at him. “It worked for me. It’s my good luck charm. And my favorite piece.”
Unconvinced Harvey turned to Jillian. “Hand me those ruby-colored flutes. I want them under the blood goblet.”
“They look so gothic and magical.” The comment came from behind them. Angie Webb, the receptionist, hung over her circular desk for a better view of the display. “I can’t keep my eyes off all the pieces. The lighting is perfect over there.”
“I’m hoping your guests will enjoy them as much as I do. I’ll see you all on opening night.” Ilsa slung her Gucci purse over her shoulder and tossed a wave at Harvey and his staff.
Just as the older woman stepped toward the gallery door, Marilyn Culpepper, the featured artist barreled in, pushing the door with enough force for it to hit the jamb. The rotund woman waved several sheets of paper at Harvey and said, “I need to see you about this. Now!”
“I’m working here, Marilyn,” Harvey said. “Can’t whatever it is wait?”
Jillian shelved a set of Ilsa’s delicate perfume bottles and crystal decanters.
“No, it most certainly cannot,” Marilyn sputtered. “These figures you sent me for last month’s sales and consignments are off. You sold four of my large paintings, and your report shows only three.”
“I’m sure it can be explained. Step into my office, and we’ll look at it.”
“Harvey, I’m getting tired of this,” Marilyn said. Her voice got louder as she shook the papers again at the portly gallery owner.
He grabbed them, licked his fingers, and paged through them. “Come with me.”
“This is the second time that the numbers and your checks have been off. I seriously doubt you want me to spread the word that you cheat artists. Richmond is a close-knit art community. We all talk to each other.”
Ilsa Prescott frowned and slipped out the front door. Harvey followed Marilyn to his office and shut the door.
Jillian closed the ladder and stuck it in the corner. While she was putting the finishing touches on Ilsa’s stoneware display of fiery orange and red sunset-patterned plates, Harvey’s door burst open. Marilyn stormed out through the gallery and slammed the front door. Angie Webb raised her eyebrows and returned to the papers on her desk.
Harvey strode out of his office and stopped in front of the glass cases on the long wall of the main gallery in the refurbished antebellum warehouse. He looked transfixed by the glassware exhibit.
“Everything okay with Marilyn?” Jillian asked.
“That old bat has a greater sense of her talent than actually exists. It was just an accounting error. I don’t know if we’ll show any more of her stuff here.” He started rearranging the plates and cups on the first shelf. Then he snapped his fingers. “Ladder.”
Jillian dragged the stepladder back in place. He climbed up and rearranged the goblets. Green, red, and royal blue gemstone-colored glasses surrounded the blood goblet. He picked up the amethyst one again and admired it under the spotlight. He turned it around and tilted it to catch the light. Harvey looked mesmerized by the Romanian glass.
“Harvey. Harvey!” Angie called out from the reception area. “Kathy from the catering company is on line one. She wants the final count on the attendees for the opening. And she needs a check to cover the balance.”
He put the glass back and climbed down the ladder. “I’ll take it in my office.”
* * * *
The next morning, Jillian found Angie standing on the sidewalk in front of the gallery smoking. “Morning. How are you?”
“Dreading the exhibit tonight. There is still so much to do and it looks like the rat bastard isn’t even here.”
“Does that surprise you?” Jillian asked.
“We don’t need him anyway. You’re the one who holds everything together around here. Ol’ Harvey would be in a world of hurt if you ever left.” She dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it with her pointy-toed shoe.
“Thanks. I want to learn everything I can while I’m here. I want to be a curator someday.” Jillian unlocked the door.
“It looks like Harvey ran off and left the lights on again,” Angie said as she dumped her purse and coffee mug on the counter. “This place is a wreck. People—even the rich ones—are slobs.”
“Harvey. Hey, Harvey!” Jillian yelled. She walked through the gallery and pushed open the partially shut door to his office. A foul stench smacked her in the face.
Stepping inside, she covered her nose with her hand. She jumped when she spotted two thick legs on the floor jutting out from behind Harvey’s desk. Her stomach did a flipflop. “Angie, call 9-1-1!”
“What’s going on?” Angie stuck her head in the office and immediately raised her fingers to her nose. “What died in here? Oh, crap. Is he okay?”
“I don’t think so,” Jillian said.
Jillian stepped closer to the body and the smell, a mixture of bodily fluids and stale alcohol, caused her stomach to roil. A puddle of congealing dark vomit surrounded the body, and a coffee mug and its contents lay beside him. Harvey’s bloated face and hands made it look like he’d been in a fight, but the red and purple splotches on his cheeks hinted that it was something else. His swollen tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth like that of an elderly dog.
Harvey, what happened to you last night?
The question barely formed in her head when Angie snapped a picture.
Jillian glared at her. “What are you doing?”
“I watch CSI,” Angie said. “I want to show the police how we found him. He’s on his side like he fell out of his chair—covered in a mess of yuck.” She punched numbers in her phone.
Jillian’s heart pounded, and her knees felt weak as she stepped out and took a couple of deep breaths in the gallery. She dialed 9-1-1, reported their find to the police.
Angie followed. “Who else do you think we should call?”
“Ilsa Prescott is Harvey’s landlord and silent partner,” Jillian said.
“Wonder if we’ll still have jobs?” Angie asked.
They stood in the doorway for several minutes until they heard sirens blare louder and louder. Two police cars and an ambulance parked in front of the gallery.
The first EMT jumped out of the ambulance with his bag. “Where is the patient?”
“In the office. Behind the desk.” Jillian pointed toward the back of the gallery.
The EMTs scrambled inside, and the two police officers followed closely behind.
A few minutes later, both officers returned to the main gallery. One spoke into his shoulder mic. The other said, “I’m Sergeant J.T. Mason. Officer Ridgely and I will take your statements.”
Officer Ridgely stepped toward Angie and the oval receptionist’s desk while Sgt. Mason and Jillian stood near the front door.
“Your name and relationship to the gentleman in there,” Sgt. Mason said as he nodded his head toward the office.