Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  I doubled back though the airport and called Dirk on his mobile to say we should meet near the coach drop. By the time I spotted his Volvo he’d been shouted at for parking in a non-designated area and wasn’t very impressed with my plan, until I slid into the back of the car, lay flat across the rear seat and told him to drive.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m being followed.”

  Dirk checked his rear-view.

  “Who by?”

  “By whom.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. There’s some fruitcake who got talking to me on the flight. He seems to think I want to strike up a relationship.”

  “Cookie! How do you do it?”

  I straightened up as soon as we were on the Interstate and leaned over to talk. It was the same weather in Chicago as it had been in London. Grey, cold, raining; just right for a funeral.

  “Don’t know. It’s a knack I have, attracting weirdos and losers.”

  The wipers swished back and forth in the sleet.

  “I hope you didn’t tell him where you’re staying.”

  “Yup. He’s on his way to the Peninsula now.”

  Dirk glanced at me to see if I was joking and let out a sort of huffing noise. I don’t think he was concerned for my safety: probably more annoyed that I was playing games on the way to dear Mamma’s last social.

  “I’ll drop you at the hotel so you can freshen up. Pick you up around six-thirty?”

  “Sounds good. You booked a table?”

  “Yeah: place called Boka. It’s good, you’ll like it.”

  “Popular?”

  “Bit hip for your mother’s friends.”

  “I don’t want to bump into anyone, Dirk.”

  He glanced at me again.

  “It’s okay. I got a corner table: you can sit with your back to the restaurant.”

  “You think of everything.”

  He dropped me at the Hilton and offered to come in, but I waved him off. The concierge seemed profoundly uninterested in me, my luggage or indeed anything at all, and escorted me unceremoniously up to the fifteenth floor where he did the usual tour of the room, pointing out stuff only a blind guest could fail to notice and then hovered blatantly in the doorway for a tip.

  I gave him an appropriate amount and, with a wave of the dollar wand, he turned into Prince Charming and went round closing curtains and switching on the TV.

  I showered and changed and was sitting in the bar half-way through a gin martini when Dirk arrived. He gave me the once-over and a self-conscious peck on both cheeks.

  “You look thin.”

  “I am thin.”

  Sensing that Dirk wasn’t comfortable in the bar, I finished my drink and followed him out to the taxi rank. As we crawled across town to Boka, the driver swearing softly to himself at the snow, the lights, the other drivers and the life of a cab driver in general, Dirk and I sat leaning together for warmth on the back seat.

  “It’s freezing. Why didn’t you warn me? I’d have brought something fur-lined.”

  “You know what the weather’s like in Chicago in November.”

  “I’d tried to forget about it.”

  Awkwardly, Dirk put his arm around me and drew me into the soft grey fabric of his overcoat. He smelt of something very nice indeed, spicy and deep. I snuggled up like I used to when I was a kid.

  “That guy, the one on the plane. He didn’t follow you to the hotel, did he?”

  “I hope not. No, he’d have to be pretty smart to find me at the Hilton. I checked in under a different name.”

  “I don’t get it. Why is he following you?”

  Well, that was a very good question, and I turned it over in my mind for a few minutes until Dirk must have thought I’d not heard him.

  “Cookie?”

  “I suppose it’s because someone’s paying him to.”

  Dirk looked down at me, astonished.

  “Paying him? Why?”

  I sighed.

  “Because, my dear Dirk, I very much doubt he’d be doing it for nothing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday 21st/Saturday 22nd November

  The Goodbye Girl

  Over dinner, Dirk filled me in on the funeral arrangements. Not exactly a normal topic of conversation to go with a ‘fine dining experience,’ as the menu had it, but some things can’t wait.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “the car will pick you up at ten fifteen from the house. Dora’s going to travel with you in the limo. All the other staff have a minibus to St Michael’s. I’ll go on ahead and meet you at the church with Father Hennessey and Rudy Bannerman. You remember Rudy?”

  I nodded. “What’s he coming for?”

  Dirk shifted uneasily in his seat and took a slug of wine.

  “Your mother wanted...”

  “Oh, right. That makes it okay, then.”

  Rudy Bannerman was my mother’s psychotherapist, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about how good he was at his job. Dirk put down his napkin.

  “Cookie, I hope you’re not going to make a scene.”

  “Of course not. I promised, didn’t I? Show respect, that’s what you said.”

  He sighed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

  “And as for that request for Psalm 79: Father Hennessey nearly choked. You could have got me into a lot of trouble there.”

  He was smiling, so I guessed he’d managed to charm his way out of it by saying it was a mistake.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

  “No. That seems not to be one of your strong points.”

  Ouch. Dirk leaned towards me across the damask and silverware.

  “You and Jack. You have no idea how much damage that’s caused.”

  I put down my knife.

  “Dirk, what makes you think… I mean, why does everyone seem to think that I’m the one who started that? Is it because I’m older than him? Is that all? Just because a brother and sister are screwing each other—”

  “Sshh.”

  The couple at the next table re-started their conversation.

  I went on, “It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m responsible for leading Jack astray.”

  “No. I accept it doesn’t necessarily mean that.”

  Dirk was looking at me hard. We both knew what he was thinking and it wasn’t flattering. He went on.

  “And, as we know, Jack is not always very logical, very secure in his decision-making.”

  I’d like to say I’d stood up for Jack at this point, but Dirk was right.

  “Yeah, he gets his irrationality from his mother’s side.”

  “And what about you, Cookie? What do you get from your mother’s side?”

  I smiled.

  “Well, it won’t be her money, that’s for sure. Not unless she’s put something exciting in this codicil thingy.”

  Dirk shuffled uncomfortably again.

  “I don’t know what’s in it,” he said, quietly.

  “Why would you?”

  The waiter came and cleared the plates. We sat in silence while he brushed the cloth with his little silver brush and tray. He repositioned the dessert setting. All the while we watched each other over the glassware. I felt sorry we’d been having the conversation at all. I was pained that Dirk knew about Jack and me. It hurt more than anyone else knowing – even Sullivan. I felt I’d let him down, though that was ridiculous because Dirk wasn’t even family, although there had been times he’d seemed like the closest thing to family I’d ever had. The waiter returned with the dessert menus and we pretended to study them for a couple of minutes.

  “Dirk?”

  “Probably the passion fruit and Earl Grey sorbet.”

  His head bobbed up enquiringly. “What are you having?”

  Then, surprised, he blinked, dipped into his pocket and held out his handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to smear mascara everywhere.

  Dirk reached over and place
d his hand on top of mine.

  “Don’t be upset. It’s not too late to put things right.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  He looked puzzled. But then he was, clearly, thinking about Jack and me, and not the other thing.

  The next morning, the car picked us up as arranged. I’d not gone into the house, but waited on the front steps while Dora pulled on her gloves and levelled her hat. As she emerged from the lobby she drew a deep breath, a lungful of cold air, and exhaled it slowly. I followed her down to the car where the driver waited to open the door. I could tell that Dora was grieving: she climbed in ahead of me, forgetting for once, not before time, who was the employer.

  On the way to St Michael’s she sat immobile, hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead. I’d been expecting something else from her, but she hadn’t even spoken to me. I wasn’t sure if this was a hostile silence or just Dora’s way of coping.

  It was a damp day, foggy from the start. The car headed sedately towards the church, slowing only for the four sets of lights on the short route. When we arrived, Dirk was waiting for us as promised. The others had gone inside to get out of the sub-zero temperature. He put his arm round Dora’s shoulders and ushered her in ahead, and I followed.

  I was genuinely taken aback at the number of people who’d turned up. Some of them I recognised: Ivor Wolfson, another of my father’s former colleagues; our neighbours the Schafers; Mrs Ellis, my mother’s bridge partner. I spotted Rudy Bannerman in the front pew, eyes fixed ahead like he was at the movies waiting for the main feature. Most of them I didn’t know, and I hoped they didn’t know me. Needless to say, Psalm 79 didn’t feature in the service, which was something of a missed opportunity to my mind, but Hennessey always was a stick-in-the-mud. Still, I did as I’d promised and showed my fair share of respect. I tried to summon up some feeling of sorrow, a sense of loss, but all I could muster was relief that an unpleasant old woman, who just happened to be my mother, had finally done the decent thing. I wondered what Jack would have made of it, especially the extravagant eulogy. I think it was maybe Groucho Marx who said you can always judge a person by the friends they buy. Him or Woody Allen.

  Outside St Michael’s I stood with Mort Whitton, my mother’s widowed brother-in-law, waiting while the others climbed into their cars and headed back to the house. He was looking old these days. We’d never had much to say to each other: even less after he’d found out about Jack and me. We were side by side on the steps, breathing cloudy air.

  “I see cousin Gray’s still shovelling money into the family coffers.”

  He wrinkled his nose at me. “Gray works hard. Y’all should come down to Knoxville, see what he’s doing.”

  “Yes, I probably should.”

  “How long since you been down?”

  “Years.”

  “It’s a big city now: lots of construction going on. Heck, it’s a real boom town. Wouldn’t be half the place it is though without the kick up the ass your grand-daddy gave it.”

  The last car pulled up and the driver opened the door for us.

  “I’ll plan a tour of inspection.”

  Mort cocked his head sceptically.

  “Gray’ll be glad to see y’all. His wife’s expecting their third child come January. Hopin’ for a boy this time round. If it’s a boy I said they should call him after Papa. Time to get a new Houlihan into the business.” He let out a dry laugh, and I guessed he already knew it was another girl on the way.

  When we got back to West Webster, where a firm of hired caterers had been installed, the other mourners were already a couple of drinks down. I ventured upstairs to my old bedroom, and was insulted to find it had been completely emptied of furniture. Even the paintings had been taken away, with just their hooks left behind: little signifiers of happier times. There were four hollows impressed into the carpet where the bed had been: evidently a fairly recent removal. Only the curtains remained, so that everything would appear normal from the outside. The message was plain enough. I wasn’t coming back. Dirk startled me by appearing in the open doorway.

  “Are you surprised?”

  He came over and put his arm around me.

  “I shouldn’t be.”

  “Cookie, there are people downstairs. You ought to go talk to them.”

  “About what?”

  He looked at his shoes.

  “I know it’s difficult. Just for a few minutes. Then I’ll take you in a taxi back to the hotel. You can go relax in the spa or something; get your hair done.”

  “Does it look that bad?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I just meant...”

  “I know what you meant. Thank you. Thank you for everything, Dirk. I do appreciate it, really.”

  We stood facing each other across the dusty blue carpet.

  “We need to be at the lawyer’s office at eleven tomorrow morning, for the reading of the will.”

  “And the codicil, or whatever it is.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  But of course, there are some things you can never be ready for.

  At the appointed hour, shortly before lunchtime on Saturday, we sat in a neat line facing my late mother’s attorney, a nondescript individual from Ohio whose main qualification for the job always seemed to me to be his ludicrous name: Mr Pious Pinckney. He’d come in especially on a weekend, he’d said, stressing every syllable in the word especially, although I’d have been able to work that one out from the size of his account, submitted with undue haste first thing on Monday morning. No doubt his clerk had had to go in especially early to draw it up.

  Pinckney looked at each of us gravely in turn; Dora, Uncle Mort, Rudy Bannerman, Dirk and me. The will was short. She’d left a miserable fifty thousand dollars to Dora, along with a painting I couldn’t recall but Dora apparently had always admired; a diamond and sapphire brooch in the shape of French poodle, and the contents of the ‘everyday’ jewellery box which had always sat on my mother’s dressing table. There was an overly-generous eighty thousand to Bannerman, who had the gall to look disappointed; Uncle Mort got the house in New Mexico, and Dirk received a handful of things of my father’s: a watch, some books, a tiny charcoal sketch by Picasso, and the Mondrian. He seemed very touched, especially by the watch.

  “Now,” said Pinckney, “we come to Jack Garrity, who unfortunately cannot be here today.”

  I wanted to laugh, because that was the exact same expression Hennessey had used at the funeral. If I hadn’t been keeping my promise to Dirk not to make a scene, I’d have stood up and announced his present whereabouts to the lot of them. That’s Wandsworth, London, England. And I swear, there were some of them at the funeral who would have been impressed. Anyway, Dirk reached over and squeezed my hand. We both knew that if Jack was next up, I wasn’t anywhere on the running order. “To my son, John Aspen Garrity, I hereby leave, endow and bequeath the remainder of my estate in its entirety.”

  Pinckney looked up from the page and stared at us all, as if to say, well, that’s all folks.

  “Is that it?”

  Dora rose to her feet and turned to face me.

  “It’s not right, Miss Charlotte.”

  Then, to Pinckney, “You’ve made a mistake, sir. What about Miss Charlotte?”

  He began to redden, and shuffled his papers together. Nobody said anything. Dora turned to me again.

  “Miss Charlotte? Aren’t you going to say there’s something wrong?”

  I felt Dirk press my hand again, and I knew I had to speak up.

  “It’s fine, Dora. There’s more to come, isn’t there, Mr Pinckney? Some sort of a codicil, I believe?”

  Dora sat down again.

  “There is, indeed.” With a flourish, Pinckney extracted a long brown envelope from a file on the desk. He licked his lips, and slid the point of his silver letter-opener expertly across the sealed edge. He withdrew a single sheet of folded paper, which I recognised as my mot
her’s cream wove letterhead. He cleared his throat and went off in full circus ringmaster mode.

  “I should say, ladies and gentlemen, that this letter is not, in the true sense of the word, a codicil, in that it does not materially affect the content of Mrs Garrity's will. Nor is it, strictly speaking, an expression of wishes, as it has no bearing on arrangements pertaining to the late Mrs Garrity, although it was her instruction to have it read out on this occasion, and in front of the parties now present. This letter, handwritten by her, was witnessed, sealed, and placed into the safe by me personally, in Mrs Garrity’s presence.”

  I felt Dirk’s grip tighten. My heart was pounding. I was scarcely breathing. Maybe no-one in the room was breathing, it was so quiet. So Dirk hadn’t lied: he really didn’t know what my mother’s last message contained. Pinckney had the advantage of us. His eyes flicked over what I could just make out as a couple of lines angled across the page. His face changed, embarrassed scarlet seeping upwards from his shirt collar. He cleared his throat again and began to read.

  “I wish to make it known to my daughter, Charlotte, that my dear husband, the late Hayden Garrity, was not her father.”

  I wondered who was turning out the light, but all I remember next is the look on Pinckney’s face as Dirk caught me.

  When I came to, it was in a small anteroom adjoining Pinckney’s office. Dirk and Dora were looking concerned. Dirk was sitting next to me on the sofa and had put his arm round me. Dora handed me a glass of water.

  “That was a shock,” said Dirk.

  I didn’t know if he meant just for me: he was the palest I’d ever seen him. Dora felt my pulse.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Not like me to pass out.”

  Dirk was scrutinising my face to the point where I started to think there was something unpleasant stuck to it. I put a hand up to feel.