offices on the second.
Joanna parked on the dirt lot in back, then had to walk around to the building's front. The back entrance had been nailed over with plywood. --The reason, the door's broken glass, still lay scattered on the steps.
She went in the front entrance, and through a heavy odor of chemicals from the beauty shop. Permanents being done. ... She climbed narrow creaking wooden stairs to the first landing, turned and climbed again. It was always a little surprising to notice how high the ceilings were in these old buildings. Even small rooms had ceilings twelve feet and higher, as if the nineteenth century had expected its children and grandchildren to become giants.
On the second floor, there was no sound, no sign of activity behind the first office doors--they had the sleepy look of locked. The last office, at the end of the short hall and overlooking the street, had W. Dufour--Attorney at Law in gilt paint on its door's frosted glass.
Sleigh bells jangled as Joanna walked in, and a stocky young woman in a white sleeveless blouse looked up from a desk. She was smiling, seemed happy to have company.
"Hi.--Can I help you?" She was a little too plump for the sleeveless blouse.
"I called. Joanna Reed."
"Oh, right. I'm Bobbie Munn; I was the one who talked with you. Ms. Dufour is in her office and you can go right up."
"Up?" Then Joanna saw three shallow steps leading to another level, and door, across the office. "Oh ... thanks."
... Wanda Dufour was bent behind her desk, searching for something in a side drawer. Only a thinning French knot of yellow-white hair was visible, and a small rounded hump high on her narrow back. Despite summer, she was wearing a black Chanel suit--an original, by the worn slate its black had faded to--and now too big for her.
"Joanna?" A reedy voice from behind the desk. There was a minor liquid sound.
"Yes."
"Sit down, dear." There was no aging quaver to Wanda Dufour's voice. It stayed on its notes, but as very thin sound with a whistle to it. Something, Joanna thought, to do with her teeth. False teeth.
Wanda shut the drawer and sat suddenly up with a glass in her hand that seemed to hold scotch or bourbon. She stared as if Joanna might have changed--as Wanda had certainly changed. Joanna hadn't seen her in five or six years, and those must have been harsh years into Wanda's late seventies. Her face, that in her youth had been big-eyed, blue-eyed, soft and neat, retroussee as a Persian kitten's --and that had, even when Joanna last saw her, remained a worn, softer, but acceptable version-had now collapsed. It was a sick old Persian now, its face fallen, blotched and crumpled. The blue eyes, watery, squinted out.
"I know," Wanda said. "Don't say it.--But you, thanks to that Indian blood, are still looking very good. You'll look good when you're sixty."
"Oh, I'll probably get fat. ..." Joanna sat in the only chair facing the desk
--an elderly straw-bottom bentwood. "Wanda, I'm sorry I didn't get your phone call. Sorry you had to go through the college and so forth."
"Well, your father was a reluctantly aging man. He hated it, took it very personally. He could have made sure his attorney had his daughter's vacation phone number in case of an emergency--but he didn't."
"I went out to look at the cabin--"
"Funeral pyre," Wanda said, as if she were correcting her. "It looked like that, and it smelled like that, and that's what I call it." She took a careful sip of her drink.
"Yes. ..."
"You know, Joanna, children never understand their parents at all--never know the real people they were. It's all Mommy-Daddy stuff, and believe me that's not the real person."
"I suppose that's true."
"For example--if you don't mind a little digression, a slight delay in our doing legal business--if you don't mind a little digression, I can tell you you never knew your father. ... Hell, your mother didn't know him. She thought your father was exactly what he seemed, a local lawyer with a local practice and two terms, a long time ago, as district attorney." Wanda swayed very slightly in her chair.
"--Well, let me correct that incorrect impression. Louis was a deeply unhappy man all his life; that's why he was so snotty to everybody but you--and me, because I knew the man. Louis Bernard did not like being a lawyer--which I always have liked, by the way. He absolutely hated it; he started hating it in law school. You'll notice he didn't care to do even his own legal work. ...
Speaking of which, I suppose we better talk a little will-and-testament business." Wanda lifted her glass, but didn't drink from it.
"--By the way, did you know your father wanted a career in the military? Does that surprise you? He wanted to be an officer in the artillery, of all things.
He had a book about a young man named Pelham. He had books on firing tables, for God's sake--you know, how to time explosive shells and drop them right on some poor dopes thirty miles away? Called a "guy thing," these days."
"I think I've heard of firing tables, but don't computers do that now?"
"Honey, how the hell do I know? All I know is, he wanted to be an officer in the artillery--and the man couldn't even get into the Korean thing when he was a kid. Not with that hockey knee."
"That's so strange. That's ... that sounds so odd."
"Oh, I know how bizarre it sounds, because I laughed at him when he mentioned it. ... That was thirty-four years ago, and he never mentioned it to me again.
That's how smart I was. Oh, I was very smart with Louis Bernard. It's called throwing your life away with both hands." Wanda sipped. "Okay, and so to business. ..."
"Daddy never said anything about it. He never mentioned it. Never ever mentioned going into the Army, or anything. ..."
"Joanna, let me give you some advice about men--well, it's a little late for either of us to be giving or taking that particular advice, I suppose. Still, let me give you some advice about men, which you may not be too old to take advantage of, once you're over these catastrophes." Wanda paused to sip again
... appeared to lose her thought, and sat looking at Joanna as if wondering what she was doing there. A few moments almost restful.
Then, as if her worn machinery had slipped back into gear, Wanda blinked, and said, "My advice is, pay attention to what men don't mention. And what I mean by that is, no man is ever really satisfied with what he's doing. There's always something else he has wanted to do, so there is always some sadness and unhappiness there, and of course we assume it's a love problem and we're the centerpiece and it's all about us or some other woman.--Wrong." She put her glass firmly down on the desk blotter.
"Frank loved to sail. I suppose that's what he would really have liked--something to do with the sea."
"Well, there you are. Frank was in that gymnasium or whatever down at your college, or out on the fields blowing his whistle at some muscular young idiots. Now, do you really think that is what he dreamed offor his life?"
"I suppose not. But he seemed happy, Wanda." Joanna wished the old lady would stop drinking while they talked ... at least change the subject from men's questionable happiness.
"Don't be silly--and we do have some business to do here, and we need to get to it--but don't be silly. Men usually seem happy. They're not like us, at least the good ones aren't. They may betray, they may beat us, they may leave.
But they don't whine. Your father was not a whiner. ..." Having said so much, Wanda seemed to need to catch her breath, and sat softly panting, very much an elderly cat, and ill.
"Are you all right?"
"Oh, don't be an ass, Joanna. How could I be all right? I'm an elderly woman and I'm alone and Louis is dead and I've been drinking ... I am drinking. You are such a talent--and by the way, I read your last book and I was enormously impressed with those plant poems; I suppose you have to call them plant poems--"
""Xylem.""
"Yes. You could have had a better title, not something so botanical, but still those poems were beautiful. "Stems never knot, pause only to push out thorns along their way, then keep
right on to break in blossoms. After that splitting, spraddling for bees, only their death surprises them. And not much.""
""And that not much.""
"Right--that's right. "And that not much." ... All too apropos. Anyway, those poems made me want to garden, which I have never done and have no wish to do--but a poet ought to know better than to ask me if I'm all right.
Okay?--Now, regarding Louis's will. ..."
"Wanda, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that you and Father were even seeing each other anymore."
"We weren't. I suppose he finally just couldn't stand me--maybe didn't care for the aging alcoholic routine, the physical wreckage I represented for him.
He wouldn't even nod to me on the street, and we only met for our very minor business, since I'm his attorney.-Was his attorney, though he used other lawyers, too. ... But let me tell you--as I'm sure you're discovering for yourself--they don't have to be with you, to be with you."
Joanna, struck as if she'd never considered that, was embarrassed to find herself putting her hands up to her face to cry.
"Oh, honey," Wanda said, piped in her old lady's voice ... and Joanna forced her hands back down into her lap. Her eyes ached with tears that would not fall.
"Cried out?" Wanda said. "Me too." She picked up the glass, finished her drink, then reached down to pull out the side desk drawer and put the glass away. "... I just miss that old son of a bitch terribly. It just seems--I'll tell you this and then I'll shut up except for business. I'll just tell you this: Louis would have left your mother anyway. Your mother bored him stiff.
She was a nice woman and that's all she was. It's all I was, too, but I could tell that Louis didn't want a nice woman. He wanted a troublesome woman to keep his mind off how wrong his life had gone." Wanda puffed her cheeks, blew gently in and out. Joanna smelled scotch's smoky odor.
"--So, I gave him trouble. It was very funny, in a way. There I was--and what I really wanted was for your father to marry me and give me a child and a pretty house to live in ... and wait for him to come home and cook for him and all the common rest of it. Isn't that funny? ... And I suppose one of the reasons he finally got sick of me was he realized I'd been faking being the bad girl for all those years. ... Oh, I gave him hell. Scenes, and then I wouldn't talk to him for weeks at a time, and I'd go out with some fool so he'd see us in town. And then, if you'll pardon me for saying it, Joanna, I'd go back to him and screw his socks off."
Wanda sat for a moment with her eyes closed, resting, or remembering. "I suppose there was some anger there too, for his making me go through all that when I didn't want to. Because I didn't want to play that game at all.--But I was absolutely crazy about the man. He was the coldest, most unpleasant person--then he'd do something so sweet. So sweet. ... Just open himself up like a book, and then he was helpless, helpless and at my mercy. It just killed me."
"I'm sorry, Wanda."
"You're sorry. ..." Wanda sighed in her voice's high pitch. "--Well, that's enough travel down memory lane. And we do have some legal business to conduct." She opened a manila folder, took out a four-page document, and held it away to focus on. "Your father's will was in order, and I do not anticipate any problem with probate. No problem. As the only child, only surviving relative, you receive his real property, which is the cabin--now, the lake lot the cabin stood on. You will also receive, after probate and my fee, approximately thirty-three thousand dollars in cash, and a small portfolio of extremely mediocre stocks-Louis didn't believe in stock funds--and dubious corporate bonds."
"I see."
"Your father was not interested in investment strategy, and would not take advice." Wanda was sitting up straight now, alert while she dealt with business, professional matters.
"No surprise."
"No. ... Your father did have some expenses that lowered his estate's value.
There was a trust arrangement he undertook, and other expenses that are no part of his will--and legally speaking, are now none of our business."
"Trust arrangement. ..."
"Through another attorney in town--a man. From what I understand, your father decided to give some anonymous support to an individual in need of it. Which support, not a lot of money, ended two years ago when the trust arrangement wound up. And--so that attorney assured me--involved nothing discreditable. In fact, apparently a generous thing to have done."
"And nothing I should know?"
"No, nothing you need to know, and nothing I know details about. Your father's business, old business, and over with."
"All right. ... Is there anything I need to do?"
"Other than wait for probate--which shouldn't be delayed, at least not more than usual in this state --and to pay my fee when I bill you, no. As to taxes due on the estate--and they shouldn't be much --I'll let you know."
"Do I need to come up again?"
"No. I'll call you when it's through probate, and I'll send the papers down to White River."
"I'm out at Asconsett for the summer."
"You're staying out there?"
"Yes. For the summer. Forty-seven Slope Street."
"I have that address. College called back and gave it to me." Wanda picked up a three-by-five card, examined it, and put it down. "--Do you mind if I ask if you need money, Joanna? I mean, with Frank gone. If you need money, I could advance you a sum, personally."
"That's very nice of you, Wanda. No ... no, I don't need money."
"You get a portion of Rebecca's tuition off as a faculty member?"
"Yes, a percentage. Which is why she's going to White River instead of over to Dartmouth--where she was accepted and where she'd dearly love to be going, because it's a campus where her mother, for God's sake, doesn't teach."
"I don't blame her. I would have considered it a nightmare to have my mother at my school."
"I don't blame her, either. But frankly, Wanda, she's a very young nineteen.
Dartmouth is pretty fast-paced."
"Party school."
"That, too."
"And how is she handling Frank's death--do you mind if I ask?"
"No, I don't mind. It hit her very hard. I don't think even the possibility of such a loss had occurred to her, and it's ... hit her very hard. We babied her. She was always carefully protected, and she loved Frank. Loved him even more than horses."
"Oh, dear."
"Yes. ... I've been very worried about her. She couldn't wait--we couldn't wait to get away from each other."
"Reminders."
"Exactly right. Wanda, we remind each other about Frank. We see each other and say, "Where is he?"
"Of course.--What happened to your hands?"
"What? Oh ... I've done some caving."
"They're cut."
"Some little cuts." Joanna got up to go, picked up her purse. "Thank you very much, Wanda, for being so helpful. ... And if it makes any difference at all--though I hated you when I was a little girl, and wished you were dead--now I think my father was a fool not to have grabbed you and held on."
"That's sweet. ... Oh, hell, who knows." Wanda stood up behind her desk, slightly unsteady, and supported herself with a hand on the desktop. "Probably wouldn't have worked out at all. And you've been very patient, listening to my boozy nonsense. ..." She came around the desk, small and very thin, and stood tall to peck Joanna dryly on the cheek, leave a hint of scotch. "This getting-old thing is just sickening ... sickening. It means there's no God; that's what makes it so sickening."
At the office door, the door already open, Joanna paused and closed it again.
"Wanda, I don't ... I don't really believe that Frank's death was an accident.
I want you to know that. I want somebody to know that.--I don't believe it was an accident at all, because an accident out there required two things that Frank just didn't do. He always wore his life jacket-always. And he did not fall out of boats-particularly in calm seas and good weather. I just want you--"
"Honey ... honey." Wanda stared up at her, a
n elderly cat, startled. "--But that's why they call them accidents."
"I know ... I know. I've already been given that line."
"Well ... God. Well, let me ask you, Joanna, aside from the pain of it, the loss just because of something stupid, what reason would there be for anyone to do such a thing? Who would benefit ...?"
"I don't know."
"Did you go to the police?"
"Yes."
"And they said ...?"
"They said they see odd accidents at sea all the time--and no one would benefit in Frank's case, and besides, they checked it out."
"And nothing?"
"And nothing."
"Honey, it's easy for me to say, but I'll say it anyway. A loss is a loss."
Wanda, unsteady, went back to her desk and sat down. "You don't want to be imagining it even worse than it was."
"Wanda, I have to tell you I think exactly the same about Louis's death.--I don't believe he ever in his life went to bed and left a stove door open with a fire burning in it. That is the last thing my father would ever have done."
"Louis was almost eighty, Joanna." Wanda seemed weary, shrunken behind her desk.
"I don't give a damn! Do you believe it?"
"I have to believe it, honey, because it happened."
"--And did you know that the firemen found a stain burned into the floorboards? They thought maybe Daddy put kerosene on the fire to restart it."
"Never."
"That's right.--Never. Then they said it wasn't an accelerant, at least not kerosene or gas. It was something that disappeared in the heat. They think he may have thrown some water on the fire."
"Oh, dear. ..."
"I'm sorry, Wanda; I shouldn't even have mentioned this to you. I know it sounds ridiculous."
"No, it's just one more thing. ... But Joanna, you know there's nothing to it.
Because of just what the police told you. No one benefited from Frank's death--and sure as heck no one benefits from Louis's. You're the only beneficiary in each case, and for peanuts. So why? Why would anyone do such a thing?"
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