by Steven Clark
I visited three women. Mrs. Prackel had fallen down four times, finally giving up her walker. I helped her look at new photos of her grandchildren, helped her remember who they are. I checked for infection from her pneumonia. Because her lungs are too fragile to keep steady, Mrs. Prackel’s breath trudges along, in and out, like she’s climbing the side of a mountain.
Mrs. Jankowski is more coherent, at least as much as her second stroke allows. I made sure she’d been eating, and that she is moved from one side of the bed to the other so bedsores don’t start. I cleaned the dribble from her mouth as her jaw opens but doesn’t shut the way it’s supposed to. Her body is in a holding pattern, waiting for final descent.
Mrs. Fraser has emphysema. It’s a lousy way to go. The lungs seem to shrink to a thin pouch, making you suck in air, mouth pursed like a fish. Now she’s on morphine and fades in and out. I cleaned her bowels because she can’t strain anymore.
As I finished dressing Mrs. Fraser in a clean gown, Sister Ursula poked her head around Mrs. Fraser’s door and we chatted. She was making her weekly rounds for residents transferred from nearby DePaul Hospital. Her modified veil scarcely hides the wispy iron-gray hairs on her head. We catch up on who’s holding on, who surprises us by surviving. Life does surprise. Even after the mind clocks out and medications fail, the body keeps fighting. I thought of this as I bid Sister Ursula goodbye, having finished attending to my patients. The stink of cabbage and Tater Tots crept through the halls, and the clatter of trays and metal racks reminds me half of these meals will be uneaten.
Margot Desouche will be like this. I will watch her progress from a strong, determined matriarch to a faded whisper of life lived. I prepare myself for this, as I do for all my patients. I have met some wonderful people in my line of work, people who had once been full of vigor and purpose. I learned something from each one of them and did my best to be a caring shepherd for their last months and weeks. For their last days and hours. But Margot was getting under my skin in ways I couldn’t define. When I walked past the line of wheelchairs and their frail passengers inching to the dining room like a gerontological traffic jam, my cell phone rang.
“Hey,” Saul said, “hope I didn’t freak you out last night. I was, I admit, a little freaked out myself.”
“Understandable. Sonia Sauvage has a real Transylvanian charm. Anything more on our missing heir?”
“No. Cold case right now. Just want to wish you good luck for your dinner at Margot’s. Pierre and Terri might go all Borgia on you.”
“I’ll sharpen my fork.”
8
And a Side Order of Hate
That evening, lights from the Desouche mansion glittered like tips of electric frosting as I walked to the front door. Before it was parked a Mercedes and Hyundai, the Mercedes chauffeur shooting the breeze with the security guard assigned to the block. A wisp of rustling wind swayed the bushes and made me pull my cape tighter to my throat. When I rang the bell, the door opened. Rainer’s gaze meant he’d already taken his snoot pill. Maybe a double dose.
I offered him my cape. “How is she?”
“The best of spirits.” He gave an approving nod to my dress and necklace. “She’s ready for the fireworks. Come.”
Conversation in the dining room was inaudible but peaking into shrillness like a jet piercing the sky.
Rainer’s eyes glazed like barbed wire. A woman’s raised voice caught our attention and we looked toward the dining room. “You see, Mrs. Bridger. The attack begins.” He leaned closer. “Go to your patient.”
I nodded at him and entered the dining room.
The silver service on the table glinted like sparks ready to ignite the table. Margot sat at the head, and of the three others seated, I recognized Pierre and Terri from high society TV and newspaper coverage.
Pierre Desouche was slender with silver hair combed in neat layers. He looked like an older actor stuck doing soaps, and his impatient grimace showed he wasn’t fond of playing Margot’s son, dutiful or otherwise.
Terri Praxos, just finished with her third marriage, the most recent being to a Greek financier, was a younger if distorted mirror image of Margot, her hair a matron’s shag with glittering jewelry and a frame just shy of buxom. Well, she did like her booze. Her eyes glanced between Pierre and Margot like a wrestler on the sideline of a tag team match. Pierre, in the middle, continued the argument I’d walked in on.
“Mother, this is idiocy. You need a second opinion. I have a doctor in L.A. who has done wonders with cancer.”
Margot’s riposte was swift. “He’s got autographed pictures on his wall of all the celebrities he’s treated and misdiagnosed. I’ve done my own research. I trust Dr. Kemper completely.” She looked in my direction, lowered the drawbridge with her wide smile.
“Ah, Lee. Here you are.”
Terri turned and narrowed her eyes. “The specter at the feast,” she muttered, then swallowed her drink. A young woman next to her could have been Eurotrash, but it was probably Phoebe, Terri’s daughter. Phoebe’s eyeliner attempted Cleopatra but widened into raccoon eyes. Her dress was fashionably slutty. I politely smiled to Margot, waiting for it to happen. It did. Before there was even a hello.
“Mom,” ruffled Terri, “that woman’s wearing your necklace.”
She exchanged a sympathetic glance from Pierre. Margot ignored this as she indicated I sit next to her.
“Thank you for not disappointing me.” She turned to her family. “This is Lee, my nurse. Just to remind you she has a name. Lee, you probably recognize Pierre and Terri.” Her slender fingers raised to the girl. “This is my granddaughter, Phoebe.”
Phoebe stared at me as if I was a particularly strange looking attraction at the zoo. I sat, knowing I was a thorn in the kid’s side. Rainer stared dead ahead, a ship’s captain unable to change the direction of the vessel even as it plowed into dangerous waters. Terri frowned at Pierre’s pained indifference.
“Tell me,” Terri said, “was the necklace for services rendered?”
Margot smiled a serene and patient smile. “For kindness given. Terri, where are your manners? You’re as rude as when you were a girl.” Her eyes softened when she turned to me. “Are you hungry? We’re having medallions of venison with a mushroom sauce au perpignan.”
Pierre raised his finger and sighed. “Mother, nothing vegetarian?”
Margot chuckled and patted Pierre’s hand. “Don’t worry. There’s a broccoli lasagna. Anya always takes care of you.”
Pierre’s vegetarianism, so I was told, was part of a commitment to spiritual peace, which certainly wasn’t on this evening’s menu. A chagrined Phoebe thought to speak, then whispered to Terri and returned to her Dubonnet on the Rocks. I drank deeply of the burgundy Ranier poured for me, deciding it would be a good anesthetic for the evening.
Much to everyone’s relief, Rainer brought in dinner as soon as I was seated.
We supped in genteel caution like different species at the waterhole.
The venison was excellent, with a spinach soufflé that thrilled, the potatoes boiled and garnished with oregano and a glistening skin of butter. They ceased being vegetable proles and became cuisinary aristos. Talk was polite and guarded. We did the weather ad nauseum. Everyone’s weather.
After Rainer scooped up plates, he brought in dessert, a walnut cheesecake whose nut aroma tingled my nostrils. If we’d had a flambé, the tension alone would have triggered it. Phoebe reached for a cigarette, but Terri’s glance forced the pack back into the girl’s sequined purse. Margot cleared her throat.
“Now that we’ve eaten in peace, we can discuss why I asked you here. All of you.” For a moment I thought to leave the table, but Rainer’s Gothic stare made it clear if I made a dash for the American sector, I’d be gunned down before I got to the wall.
Pierre spoke. “It’s about the estate. You’ve said—”
“Threatened, more like,” said Terri with a snarl.
Pierre’s glance warned his sister ba
ck. “So tell us, Mother, why did you destroy the will?”
“Because neither of you deserve it.” Margot was plain. “Neither of you have worked or even attempted to make a living for yourselves, to contribute to society, to leave the world a better place. You’ve siphoned off money year after year, and with my death, you’ll eat it up and give nothing back. Enough is enough.”
Phoebe’s voice was high and bored. “Please, Grandma. Don’t be this way. We … like know you’re sad—”
“Yes, Phoebe, because of all the money spent on clinics putting you in rehab. And I know you’re still doing dope.”
“I’m not. I’ve been clean—”
“Don’t lie to me. Lying’s something you’re very bad at.”
Phoebe rolled delicate shoulders. “Grandma, I’m not lying, okay. I’m clean. I did counseling, boot camp, and I’m—” she heaved. “Clean.” Terri nudged her. “For you.”
I was familiar, but uncomfortable with Margot’s dark stare at her granddaughter. God knows, it reminded me of my bouts with Jama. Terri spoke.
“Mother, you’re not well. You’re frightened, and making irrational decisions. Work with us. We want to help.”
Pierre leaned forward. “You need us now more than ever.”
This gave Margot an excuse to narrow her eyes in lofty disdain.
“Yes, Pierre. Even though you ran off time and time again to find your ‘inner peace,’ you’ve been gracious enough to return and spend everything in sight. All of this Buddhist nonsense.” She glared. “You have the church.”
“Mother, this isn’t the time—”
“And you want to destroy the mansion.”
Terri was exasperated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s a white elephant.”
“Yes,” Margot took a forkful of cheesecake. She chewed. “Rainer, this is very good. Give my compliments to Anya.”
Rainer nodded.
“Mother,” sighed Pierre, “you invited us here, now don’t ignore us.”
Margot’s voice deepened into a Margot I hadn’t met. “When your father and I needed you … when Lucas …”
Lucas. I tensed. The dead son. Now the butter knives were dropped and scalpels unsheathed.
Pierre stiffened as if slapped. “Stop it, Mom. I won’t take the blame for that.”
I didn’t like the glint of triumph in Margot’s eyes. She’d waited for the waters to grow darker, the ride more dangerous. “Margot,” I said gently, “everyone. Why don’t we calm down?”
Terri scowled. “Oh, shut up and stay out of this.” Phoebe angrily nodded.
Pierre nodded as if I was a cat begging for scraps. “It’s not your concern, Ms. Bridger.”
Margot took to the offense. “Terri, never insult Lee. She’s helping me die.” Margot let that sink in. “To die with dignity, something neither of you—”
Terri shot up. “We didn’t come all this way to be put on a guilt trip, nor to be compared to this …” She angrily gesture to me. “This …”
“Nurse.” I aimed for the helpful, bit it only inflamed.
“Yeah” glimmered Phoebe, her eyes aimed at me. Margot stopped Pierre and Terri’s attacks with a lofty stare.
“Both of you want the estate so you can loot it. Both of you want to destroy the mansion. But you see, children, that won’t happen. We now have another player.”
“Let me guess,” said Terri, “the missing child. Your first, and you want to hold it over us.”
Ah, I inwardly sighed, their detective’s labors. The revelation made Margot rise and assume a triumphant pose, her cold gaze and disconcerting smile showed she’d been waiting for this moment. Rainer snapped to attention.
“Yes, Terri,” said Margot. “Very clever of you to snoop. But you were always one to pry into drawers and closets. And bank accounts.”
“Like you did my diary.”
Rainer concentrated on the portrait across the hall.
Pierre broke in. “Mom, this person … your first child … was before Dad.”
“This person was a ‘her,’ Terri, not an ‘it’. Neither of you have any idea what it was like back then, how terrible it was to give up my first baby. How much I missed her over the years, how much I dreamed of being reunited with her.” Margot’s voice was bitter. “But no more.” Her voice changed into that serene, reassured way mediums speak at séances “She is with us.”
Now I knew the child was a girl. Then Margot surprised me and took my hand, raising it to the staring relatives.
“Lee, you’ve finally come home. My baby. My firstborn. This,” she said imperiously, “is your eldest sister. The fortune, the mansion … Lee gets it all.”
Stunned, I almost spilled my water glass. “Margot?”
“No.” She smiled, eyes moist. “Mother.”
Her hand gripped tighter. Pierre and Terri stammered, astonishment and murder painted across their faces. Rainer bowed to me, no doubt pleased with my open mouth, and spoke.
“Would you like to take your cheesecake home with you?”
9
Everything Here is Written in Stone
Leaves floated, a curtain of bleeding color from trees clustered around the tombstones and angels.
Many angels.
Saul pointed to a slender limestone angel on top of an obelisk. “Is that your favorite?”
“It’s okay, but the good ones are up here.” Our feet swished leaves away like icebreakers cutting through floes. Up ahead was the Hilts monument. The angel leaned against the tomb, its wings closed like an arch, its arms folded, chin resting on top of its right hand. Bronze bled down the steps, and the angel seemed to be nodding off. But of course angels of death don’t sleep. They wait. Its downcast eyes completed a pensive face, the left hand gripping an out-of-sight slender trumpet. The sky matched the bronze. Clouds a fluffy cumulus, like celestial pastry.
We walked past one of the many circular family sites, tombstones arranged like spokes in a somber wheel whose hub was usually a cenotaph. Saul breathed in crisp air.
“Then what happened?”
“I was astounded. The kids were outraged. Margot was content. Rainer offered shots of cognac. We drained the bottle, and a good time was had by all.” My fingers ran through moderately tousled hair. “I lied about the last. It was pretty bumptious.”
Saul nodded. “Yeah, I’d say bumptious about covers it. You never knew?”
“That I’m a Desouche? Or since I’m illegitimate, a half of one? Never. Not a clue.”
“How does it feel?”
“No elation whatsoever. It’s so odd.” I looked off, frowning. “My father and Margot slept together.”
“But she’s happy?”
“Yes,” I sighed as we approached my favorite grave. “Contented and serene.” At the grave site, the granite inscription was simple:
AMERICAN POET SARA TEASDALE
I’m still awed to approach Sara. Sara, oh Sara: why did you kill yourself? Why couldn’t Clio have penciled me in eighty years ago, so I could be your nurse, and we could have had a nice, long talk?
Saul patted my shoulder. “Go on,” he said with a smile as leaves cracked and swished, “do the bard thing.”
I slowly recited a verse:
This is the spot where I will lie
When life has had enough of me,
These are the grasses that will blow
Above me like a living sea.
Sara, you had seventeen years to go before you did yourself in, but it was on your mind. Not morbidly, like Poe, but you were already considering the options. Or was it seeing past yourself? “Let’s go to my angel,” I said.
We strolled past the Wainwright tomb, the most beautiful one in the cemetery, and paused. The limestone mausoleum is classical simplicity, its domed roof a Taj Mahal in miniature. It was designed by Louis Sullivan, the man who created the Wainwright Building downtown, one of the first skyscrapers.
“From the heavens to earth,” Saul said. Always says.
Bellefonta
ine opened in 1849 because the city boneyards were in the way of urban expansion. Its gates and graves yawned just in time for the cholera epidemic, one so severe church bells were forbidden to toll because of the “injurious effect on the imagination of those touched by the disease, as well as those in sound health.” Losing 145 people in one day would make anyone’s imagination injurious. The epidemic claimed three Desouches.
Our shoes crunched leaves as we approached the Francis tomb, and my angel.
Ahhh.
Another sky blue bronze angel, it offered a slender arm resting on the tomb, hands wrapped around the latch, a calm expression waiting for a cosmic fanfare to open it. The angel’s right wing curved against the side as, behind it, another stone needle aims for heaven.
Saul rubbed my shoulder. “Are you happy now?”
“I’m happy, now.”
Before us beckoned the Mississippi. Years ago, the view was clear and serene, but factories and plants have crept along the shore like industrial kudzu. Still, the river’s there; she’s flowing, and I’m sure the ghosts appreciate it.
“Lee,” said Saul, looking out with me, “Margot’s going to leave you the estate.”
“No.”
His frown was dark and immediate. “You’re not taking the money?”
“Of course not. It would only embitter the family. I’m here to heal.”
“You’re her daughter.”
“In actuality, I’m a daughter on loan. Again.”
“You mean like with Aunt Mary? No. If you don’t take it, they’ll milk the estate and gut the mansion.”
“You want me to take the money so you can save the mansion?”
Saul shrugged. “Does it sound that bad?”