Dying for Mercy

by Mary Jane Clark

  “Please, Unity,” said Fitzroy. “Don’t nag me. People in the deli wouldn’t leave me alone. They all wanted to talk about Innis. Let’s just have our breakfast.”

  The apartment upstairs at the Black Tie Club was close quarters. There wasn’t much distance between the small table in the dining area and the television in the adjoining living room. The couple ate as they watched KEY to America.

  “To think that we were talking to Eliza Blake as Innis was taking his own life,” observed Unity. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Shh, dear,” said Fitzroy. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  Eliza was looking straight into the camera lens. Though she was reading from the teleprompter, it appeared as though she was talking spontaneously to the viewing audience.

  “As the shock at the suicide of Innis Wheelock begins to lessen, family, friends, and the authorities are trying to make sense of the event and the method of his death. To begin sorting things out, we have to start by understanding what stigmata are.”

  Various artists’ renditions of the crucified Jesus Christ appeared as Eliza continued speaking.

  “The word ‘stigmata’ comes from the Greek stigma, meaning mark. In Christianity it’s thought that some people develop wounds like those Christ received at the crucifixion…signs from God that the person afflicted with them is holy.”

  Another artist’s rendition, this one of a bearded dark-haired man in a belted long brown robe, popped up on the screen.

  “The wounds on both hands, both feet, and one side were suffered by St. Francis of Assisi, the first person recorded to have shown stigmata. St. Francis did not die until several years after receiving the mysterious wounds.

  “Innis Wheelock killed himself Sunday night, at a party he hosted at his home, a party in honor of St. Francis, the founder of the Franciscan Order. St. Francis, possibly the most venerated figure in Catholic history, taught repentance and called his followers to embrace a life of poverty and to help others. He was known for his love of nature, and he is the patron saint of animals and the environment.”

  The same file video that had been shown yesterday morning of Innis, Valentina, and Eliza walking in the Rome garden began to run.

  “Innis Wheelock had made it known that he’d become deeply devoted to St. Francis while living in Italy when his wife served as U.S. ambassador there. Coming back to the United States after her assignment was completed, Innis immersed himself in the renovation of an old family home in Tuxedo Park, New York. He named the house Pentimento—a name that comes from the Italian word meaning ‘to repent’ and is a word that describes an alteration in a painting showing traces of the artist’s previous work, illustrating that the artist changed his mind. For many of the guests at the party on the night he died, it was their first glimpse of the place since the restoration was completed.”

  Eliza peered from the television set again.

  “The manner and circumstances of Innis Wheelock’s death raise speculation and questions. Was Innis Wheelock trying to leave a message? Was he trying to repent for something? What would he have done over if he could?”

  As the broadcast went to commercial, Fitzroy sat back in his chair, the color drained from his face. He was finding it a strain to breathe when the telephone rang. His wife picked it up.

  “Unity? It’s Valentina.”

  “Yes, dear. How are you this morning?”

  “All right, I suppose,” Valentina said softly. “I haven’t been able to drag myself out of bed yet, but I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, Fitzroy and I have both been up for a while.”

  “Oh, good,” said Valentina. “It occurred to me in the middle of the night that it would be wonderful if Fitzroy would say a few words at Innis’s funeral tomorrow. After all, Fitzroy was his oldest and dearest friend.”

  Unity looked at Fitzroy, who motioned he didn’t want to take the phone call.

  “I’m sure Fitzroy would be very touched that you’ve thought of him like this, Valentina,” said Unity. “He’s indisposed right now, though, dear. I’ll tell him, and he’ll call you back as soon as he can. Is that all right?”

  When she’d hung up the phone, Unity looked quizzically at Fitzroy. “Why didn’t you want to talk to her?” she asked.

  “I just didn’t,” he said flatly.

  “Well, she wants you to speak at the funeral.”

  Fitzroy rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess there’s no way out of it,” he said. “Did Valentina mention if Innis was being buried or cremated?”

  “Buried,” said Unity.

  “Thank God,” said Fitzroy. “I’ve always felt that ‘dust to dust’ is better than ‘ashes to ashes.’”

  CHAPTER 33

  Cleo had slept later than usual, allowing her father to get some things accomplished. But now they were rushing to get ready.

  Cleo knocked over the box of cereal, spraying Cheerios all over the kitchen floor.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Clay sighed tiredly, barely able to bring a smile to his craggy, care-worn face. “That’s all right, honey,” he managed. He finished buttoning the jacket of his police uniform before going for the broom in the closet down the hall. Might as well keep it propped up in the corner, he thought. Cleo was always dropping things and spilling things and making a general mess. But usually he didn’t get angry with her. She couldn’t help it. And Cleo was always so contrite after she made a mistake that Clay didn’t have the heart to make her feel any worse than she already did.

  As he swept up the cereal, Clay wondered why he never completely came to terms with the fact that his daughter was mentally disabled. He’d long since gotten over the fact that his wife, Cleo’s mother, had left them when Cleo was only six years old. He accepted that the last sixteen years had been spent raising Cleo by himself. He was all right with that and loved his child more than he would ever have thought possible. But every time he saw Cleo’s contemporaries doing things she would never be able to do, Clay was filled with sadness.

  Life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Cleo had been singled out to have the life she did. It wasn’t fair that she wouldn’t drive a car, or go to college, or have a big wedding with babies to follow.

  Clay had talked to Father Gehry about his feelings, and the priest had told him that Cleo was a gift from God. Clay didn’t disagree; Cleo was the most precious gift of his life. But what was her gift? In Clay’s opinion his child had been stiffed. Cleo hadn’t been given a fair shake. Not at all.

  “Get your jacket on, sweetie. The van will be coming soon.”

  He helped his daughter zip up her Windbreaker and handed her the bag lunch he’d prepared.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Bologna and cheese,” answered Clay. It was always bologna and cheese, day after day. That was the only thing she wanted.

  Cleo’s face broke into a big smile, delighted that she would be eating her favorite at her desk at the workshop today. Did she remember she’d had the same thing yesterday? For certain, he’d be making it for her again tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow was the funeral.

  Clay thought of Russell Wheelock, just two years younger than Cleo. When they were young, Valentina and Innis had insisted that the children get together to play. If you could call it play. Rusty would do all the playing. Cleo would just watch him.

  Now Rusty was without a father.

  But, in a way, it was a relief that Innis was dead. One less person alive who knew what had happened all those years ago.

  CHAPTER 34

  There was hot coffee waiting, and an empty cup on the table, but the kitchen was vacant. Valentina called out for Eunice but got no response as she searched through the rooms on the first floor.

  Maybe Eunice was upstairs cleaning or downstairs doing the laundry. Valentina didn’t have the energy to look further. She would turn up soon enough.

  Taking a deep, resolut
e breath, Valentina slid open the wooden pocket doors that led to the old smoking room, which had become Innis’s study. The room was dark and still, the only sound the clicking pendulum of the antique grandfather clock that stood solidly in the corner. She entered slowly, keenly feeling her husband’s presence.

  How many times had she watched him working at that desk or reading the leather-covered books that lined the walls? How many times had Innis paced the Oriental carpet that covered the floor? She could picture him now, his brow knitted in concentration.

  Innis was a worrier, and therefore Valentina had been spared. All during their lives together, Valentina had known that Innis would take care of things. What was she going to do now? Without Innis, who was going to worry for her?

  Valentina shook herself. No good could come from riding that train of thought. She walked to the window and drew back the drapes, letting the bright morning sun flood the room. Seating herself in Innis’s well-worn leather chair, Valentina sank into the indentation made by his repeated use. She reached down and pulled back the lower drawer of the desk and began flipping through the carefully organized files. The one marked “Cemetery” was near the front.

  She extracted the folder and opened it. The deed to the burial plot was right on top. Valentina was about to close the folder and put it back in the drawer when she saw the long white envelope with the word “Wishes” written across it in Innis’s scrawling script.

  Her hands trembled as she ripped open the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper inside, and began to read.

  AT THE TIME OF MY DEATH, I REQUEST THE FOLLOWING AT MY FUNERAL:

  ON MY COFFIN I WOULD LIKE AN ARRANGEMENT OF WILD NARCISSI AND THE RED POPPIES THAT ARE FOUND GROWING IN THE MEADOWS NEAR MY BELOVED ASSISI. IN LIEU OF OTHER FLOWERS, I WOULD LIKE DONATIONS TO BE MADE TO UNESCO FOR THE PRESERVATION OF ASSISI AND THE BASILICA OF ST. FRANCIS AS A WORLD HERITAGE SITE.

  I WOULD LIKE TWO SONGS WITH TEXTS BY ST. FRANCIS TO BE SUNG AT MY FUNERAL: “ALL CREATURES OF OUR GOD AND KING” AND “THE PRAYER OF ST. FRANCIS.”

  I WOULD ALSO LIKE SMALL PRAYER CARDS TO BE DISTRIBUTED TO EVERYONE WHO ATTENDS THE SERVICE. ON THE FRONT OF THE CARD SHOULD BE A PICTURE OF THE GIOTTO FRESCO OF ST. FRANCIS PREACHING TO THE BIRDS. ON THE BACK OF THE CARD, I WOULD LIKE THE FOLLOWING VERSES FROM ST. FRANCIS’S CANTICLE OF THE SUN:

  ALL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY LORD, THROUGH OUR SISTER MOTHER EARTH, OUR MOTHER, WHO FEEDS US IN HER SOVEREIGNTY AND RULES US, AND PRODUCES VARIOUS FRUITS AND COLORED FLOWERS AND HERBS.

  ALL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY LORD, THROUGH BROTHER FIRE, THROUGH WHOM YOU BRIGHTEN UP THE NIGHT. HOW BEAUTIFUL HE IS, HOW GAY! FULL OF POWER AND STRENGTH.

  ALL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY LORD, THROUGH SISTER WATER; SO USEFUL, LOWLY, PRECIOUS, AND PURE.

  ALL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY LORD, THROUGH BROTHERS WIND AND AIR, AND FAIR AND STORMY, AND ALL THE WEATHER’S MOODS, BY WHICH YOU CHERISH ALL THAT YOU HAVE MADE.

  Valentina reread the verses. Puzzled, she got up from the desk, went to the shelves, and quickly found the section Innis had reserved for the treasured volumes about his beloved saint. Pulling a random book from the collection, she consulted the index and found the page where the lyrics of St. Francis’s most famous song were written.

  Sure enough, Innis had edited the canticle, changing the order of the verses, leaving some of them out altogether. Why had he done that?

  Valentina put the book back in its place on the shelf. She folded Innis’s instructions and slipped them into the pocket of her skirt.

  All right, Innis, she thought, if that’s what you want, that’s what you shall have. After what I put you through, you deserve anything you ask for.

  CHAPTER 35

  Linus Nazareth strode right past Paige’s desk without acknowledging her and giving her no time to warn Eliza that the executive producer was coming. He rapped on the door frame with his knuckle but didn’t wait to be asked to enter. Linus looked annoyed when he saw that Eliza was on the phone.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Eliza was saying. “Why don’t you call Shaw’s Books in Westwood and see what he has? If Janie is interested, I think we should encourage it.”

  Eliza looked up and held up her index finger, signaling that Linus should wait. He took a seat, his bulging stomach spilling over his belt. He crossed his legs, and his foot began tapping up and down. Unable to ignore his impatience, Eliza wrapped up the call.

  “I’ll be leaving in a little while, Mrs. Garcia,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Before Eliza could put the receiver in the cradle, Linus began to speak.

  “I want you to cover the Wheelock funeral.”

  Eliza frowned. “I am going to the funeral, Linus,” she said. “But I’m going as a friend, not as a reporter.”

  “You can attend the funeral and still cover it,” said Linus. “Slip out toward the end and shoot a stand-up when the mourners come streaming out of the church.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Eliza, shaking her head.

  “I really don’t see the problem,” said Linus. Color rose in his pock-marked cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, but I do,” Eliza said firmly. “If you want a story done, this time somebody else is going to have to do it. I intend to concentrate on the funeral, and I don’t want to be distracted by the knowledge that I have a deadline to meet.”

  Eliza looked evenly at him while Linus glared back until he stood up and stalked out of the office without saying another word.

  CHAPTER 36

  Standing on her terrace in her cashmere robe, her short dark hair still disheveled, Susannah Lansing looked down at the cars coming in and going out the Pentimento driveway. She used her binoculars to get a clearer view of the faces of the people who got out of those cars, walked to the front door, and were admitted inside. She recognized most of them, and they would recognize her, too—though Susannah also knew from experience that they would act as if they didn’t. They were experts in looking straight ahead and pretending she didn’t exist.

  Susannah hated to admit it to herself, but she envied them and had wanted so much to be one of them. She wished that she were down there right now, with all the others paying their respects to Valentina Wheelock. Not that Susannah was sad that Innis was dead, but because she yearned to be with the people whose acceptance she craved.

  “Mrs. Lansing?”

  Jumping at the sound of her housekeeper’s voice, Susannah was embarrassed to be caught monitoring what was going on at the Wheelock home. She turned from the railing and walked back into the master bedroom.

  “Yes, Bonnie, what is it?” Her voice was husky.

  “We need some things at the store, Mrs. Lansing. Paper towels, detergent, furniture polish. I’m going to go out and get them now, if that’s okay with you.”

  “All right, thank you, Bonnie.”

  “Is there anything else you would like me to get while I’m out?”

  “Yes, if you think you can find someplace that sells peace of mind,” said Susannah.

  The housekeeper looked at Susannah with concern.

  “Don’t worry, Bonnie. I’m all right. Go ahead and go to the store.”

  “Maybe we could go together?” Bonnie suggested. “Maybe go for a ride? It’s such a pretty day out.”

  Susannah put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder. “Why are you so good to me?” she asked. “It must be misery working here, week after week, while I drag around and feel sorry for myself.”

  “No it isn’t, Mrs. Lansing,” Bonnie lied. “I just wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.”

  Susannah took her arm away and sat on the king-size bed. She looked up and said, “You know, Bonnie, you’re the only friend I have anymore.”

  “That’s not true, Mrs. Lansing. You have many friends.”

  Susannah shook her head and studied her fingers. “No, I don’t. The people in the park have nothing to do with me, and my old friends don’t bother calling to make plans anymore. I can’t say I blame them. I w
ouldn’t want to spend time with me either. I’ve become such a downer.”

  “Don’t say that, Mrs. Lansing,” Bonnie soothed. “You’re just having a bad day. Why don’t I run a hot bath for you? It will make you feel better. And I’ll bring up a nice cup of tea for you to drink while you soak.”

  But Susannah wasn’t listening. She lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Bonnie, did they have cliques when you were in high school?” she asked. “You know, ‘in’ crowds that excluded people because they weren’t cool enough or didn’t fit in with the others in the group for any reason at all?”

  Bonnie considered the question before answering. “Well, there were the popular kids and the not-very-popular ones. The popular people hung out together. Everybody else kind of watched them and wished they were in that group, I guess.”

  “You know, Bonnie, believe it or not, I used to be one of the popular ones,” said Susannah as she continued studying the ceiling. “When I think back at how I used to ignore some of the poor kids who my friends and I considered losers, I’m ashamed of myself, because now I know exactly how they must have felt. Do you think God is punishing me for what I did back then?” asked Susannah.

  “No, Mrs. Lansing. When I look around at this house and all the gorgeous furnishings and see your beautiful child and your handsome husband, I wouldn’t ever think that God is punishing you. I think God has been very, very good to you. You have everything anyone could ever want.”

  Susannah sat up and hugged her knees. “Then why can’t I feel satisfied, Bonnie? Why am I so obsessed with the fact that we weren’t admitted to the Black Tie Club? Why am I letting it get to me?”

  Bonnie’s tone was apologetic. “I don’t know, Mrs. Lansing. I don’t understand it, because if somebody didn’t want me to be part of their club—please excuse me for saying this, Mrs. Lansing—I’d say to hell with them.”

  CHAPTER 37