Final Arrangements (20 page)

The river of life was flowing strongly in
her. As though the recent events and this morning's plunge into the
whirling waters of the tub had been a sort of baptism, or
confirmation of her true self. And it went against everything she'd
worked to accomplish. She had been changed by the sight of Stretch
Murphy. From the first moment she laid eyes on the man, her life
had been different.

"Lord," she said. "It's all so clear to me
now. You've stricken me with love at first sight. You've outplayed
me. When I thought I had all the pieces in place, you sent Stretch
Murphy in to capture my heart. And you've been setting the whole
thing up for months. Lord, I've got to learn to trust you and then
begin trusting Stretch Murphy. With my life."

She realized with a shock that her old life
was dead. The life of lonely Sundays in Golden Gate Park, whiling
away the hours playing chess with General Kremsky was now
unthinkable, consigned to the ash heap of a former domain. The life
ahead was uncertain, but the goals were clear. Get married and have
children. She laughed out loud.

It was all so simple. The purpose of life was
to beget more life. The vehicle used was Christian marriage. Which
was now right in front of her. It had nothing to do with romantic
love, but rather a sense of duty and Christian commitment. The
romantic love would come from the soil of that commitment. God
would certainly not withhold it.

She would call Stretch and tell him the good
news. They would be married and raise a family and go sailing on
Ike's boat and grow fat on Cece's Irish dumplings. Phil, sober
again, and Minda, both experts on having children, would coach them
through the birth of their first child. There would be smelly
diapers to change, and unspeakable joy at their first child's smile
of recognition. There would be infant baptism, to dedicate the
child into God's family. It would be a life of suffering and
sacrifice. Stretch would attend Seminary and pastor troubled youths
through the stormy times of their life. Their living room would be
filled on Wednesday nights with questioning young people, singing
songs to poorly tuned 12-string guitars and devouring pizzas and
learning of God's plan for them through His Word. Perhaps even
General Kremsky would consent to be a godparent of their first
born. His name shall be John.

The hotel phone, on the wall beside the tub,
rang.

"Yes?"

"Don't forget the promise you made me."
Stretch.

"What promise?"

"Church tonight? Remember? You promised to go
with me. That is, unless, you're through with me. And discarding me
like an old shoe for something newer and more fashionable. Like a
million dollars and Nob Hill."

"Stop resenting my success."

"Only because it threatens to take you away
from me. Only because your intense sophistication is an interesting
subversion for your fear. But I am not fooled. I know the real
you."

"You don't have me. Not yet."

"Do I have a chance?"

"Are you still here in the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Then you can meet me downstairs for
breakfast in an hour. I decided just a minute ago not to discard
you, although I probably should. After consulting with my new
friend Tedricka, I've decided to marry you after all. But before
that, we've got a lot of work to do."

"I'll be waiting."

"And don't order anything for me. The first
thing you better learn about me is that I order my own food. I'm
going to have to totally retrain you in the basics of how to treat
me. Your first lesson is never order for me."

"Right. Me no get food for Shannon. Got it.
Me go now."

"You have it, Tarzan. Or you're going to get
it."

Laughing, she hung up, wondering what she had
just done, where it had come from, and realized it was from
somewhere inside herself she had no control over, a place where any
attempt to get a grip on it met with nothing but flailing at the
air.

It came from her soul. The thing God created
and apparently controlled. Which was why Solomon had lamented that
all human endeavor was nothing more than chasing the wind. Because
in the end, only God had the final say. Because God controlled the
soul, and the invisible soul, ultimately, controlled all things
physical.

She was marrying Stretch because her father
had looked into Stretch's soul and seen it a fit mate for her own.
Her father's decision flew in the face of the conventional wisdom,
which shouted loudly that women must make all their own choices,
free from the intimidating domination of the male of the species,
be that father, brother, friend, or foe.

"I'm getting married," she said aloud to the
empty room, empty but for herself and a stuffed animal. And smiled.
Because the idea seemed good. She had made the pronouncement and it
felt right. Illogical and unpredictable ... but somehow right.

God has spoken to my soul. Trust Stretch
Murphy.

The phone rang again.

"Ms. Ireland?" She knew the voice from it's
instinctive, servile whine. Markham, from Forest Lawn.

"What is it, Markham?"

"Your father has been released from the
County Coroner. It's most unusual that they should do this,
I--"

"--Markham, I want you to step on it," she
said. "How soon can we have the funeral? And I mean how soon, as in
how fast?"

"We can have everything ready by tomorrow
morning," he said.

"Negative. I want it handled by this
afternoon. I've got a lot of other things to do besides plan
funerals. I'm getting married, and I'm running out of time. I am
giving up my former life and starting a new one."

There was a silence on the other end,
followed by what sounded like fingers tapping on a computer
keyboard.

"Markham? Did you hear me?"

"I just checked our schedule, and it's a
tight fit, but we can do it," he said, "but we won't be able to use
the Church of the Hills. I can get you The Old North Church at 3
p.m."

"The one that looks like the one Paul Revere
rode by? The brick one?"

"That's the one. It's available. It's a nice
church. Has a wineglass pulpit, just like in the old days."

"Pastor Coughlan is too old to climb up into
any wineglass pulpit. Just hang a spray of flowers on it."

"Will do. Although this doesn't leave much
time for anyone who might be coming from out of state."

"There won't be anybody doing that," she
said.

It was true. Dad hadn't kept his connections
tight with the relatives on the Eastern seaboard. There'd be nobody
all that interested in his funeral in California. None interested
enough to fly out for the occasion. The truth was, it was going to
be a dismally small funeral. Just a few friends from his church and
maybe some of the guys from his work where he'd continued on the
past couple of years in a consulting capacity.

"Make it for four o'clock today," she
said.

"I'll have to employ our concierge service to
make the phone calls and arrange transportation for some of those
in your party who require it."

"Do it. Send limousines to pick up anybody
who wants to attend from Dad's workplace or his church. Especially
Pastor Coughlan. Markham, there won't be any problem transporting
the coffin from The Old North Church to his final rest in the
Sheltering Hills, will there?"

"Not at all. I'll call you if there are any
problems," Markham replied. "Not that I'm expecting any. We'll have
the family viewing at three."

"Call General Kremsky in San Diego first and
invite him to the funeral. And make sure there's some kind of cross
on the wall. I'll see you then. And Markham?"

"Yes?"

"Don't cremate Dad. I want him buried
instead. With his feet facing east, so he can rise and greet the
Lord when He comes again. And thank you for your help. I sincerely
mean that." She hung up.

General Kremsky had made his call to the
higher ups in the L.A. corridors of power. Somebody had leaned on
the County Coroner and gotten Dad's body released against the usual
protocols. The thought reminded her of the world to which she'd
soon be returning. Not a world of powerlessness over death, or
indecision about marriage vows, but a world of power over people,
places and things, a world where money was the lifeblood of the
corporate soul which controlled everything and everybody. A world
in which she'd recently risen to a higher standing. A world she was
planning on leaving abruptly.

The phone rang again. David Bergstrom, her
intern at Brunstetter and Griffen, his crisp baritone seeming to
form a presence in and of itself wholly apart from the body which
spoke it.

"You should be a radio announcer," she
said.

"I've thought about it," he said, laughing.
"But you have to start out someplace like Fresno, where it's so hot
in the summer your shoes stick to the sidewalk, and they make you
do promo gigs out of a van in front of the Wal-Mart."

"What is it, David?"

"Two things. One, check your bank account.
Number two, I sent you the preliminary information on John Murphy.
We got lucky with a contact at his bank. He supplied us very
detailed information, including all of the accountant's statements.
There's complete financials going back three years. I even got
their appraisal of his residence. And I should have a great deal
more personal type stuff this afternoon when the field agents file
their reports."

"David, did you lie to the bank to get that
information?"

"No. You know how it is. Our firm's name
carries a lot of weight. Hey, we saved a major South American
country."

"You lied."

"Only a little fib."

"Don't do that anymore."

"Sorry."

"David, cancel the investigation on John
Murphy."

"What?"

"Cancel it. I have decided to trust the man I
am going to marry."

"Shannon, may I say this doesn't sound like
you. Aren't you the lady who personally visits the companies whose
stock she recommends to her clients? Who bribes ground floor
employees who work at prospective picks to tell her what's really
going on at the nuts and bolts level? Shannon, is this you?"

"It's a matter of the soul, David."

"The soul?"

"Yes. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's that
thing inside you that lives on forever after your body dies. Or is
this a new concept for you?"

"Well, I--"

"--because it was for me. And I can tell you,
it's a concept that enlightens. David, do you realize that one day
you will be laid out on an embalming table? That everything you've
done, everything you stand for will be gone forever? Except for the
kindness you've shown to others?"

"Shannon, what are you saying?"

"What religion are you, David?"

"I ... Episcopalian. What else can a blond,
good-looking guy from Connecticut who went to Boston College be? My
dad even has a seat on the stock exchange."

"Right. Look, you can't let the process take
over. Do you hear what I'm saying, David? You've got to let people
take over the process. Otherwise, after awhile, the process keeps
people from going anywhere or getting anything done. Do you
understand where I'm going with this?"

"Shannon, I think I understand. You've been
up all night drinking with this Pool Guy, right? Okay, I can
understand where you're coming from. But take my advice. Breathe in
and breathe out a few times. Don't get married in Las Vegas or
anything. Give yourself a few days to come back down to earth."

She thought about it. What was she saying?
And to whom?

"You need to go out and buy yourself a
stuffed animal. Life is short, David. Don't blow it."

She hung up, threw on a robe, fired up the
laptop and pulled up her bank account. The recent deposit caused
her to suck in her breath. Twice. An astonishing figure. Which must
have included not only her percentage of the billion dollars
investment, but a substantial bonus on top. A bonus doubling the
amount she thought she'd receive from the straight commission. From
Griffen. The man knew how to buy loyalty. How could she leave the
firm now?

She spent another half hour reviewing the
financial information on Stretch, making notes to herself on the
hotel stationery, computing some percentages and drawing some
seasoned conclusions. One conclusion--Stretch did indeed have a
huge pool business, albeit in dire need of expert financial
assistance regarding the running of it. This bit of analysis done,
she called Stretch.

"There's enough money in my bank account
right now for us to be set for life," she said. "Yesterday, you
mentioned something about a dowry."

"Yes, I did," he said. "Your Dad specified
what it should be in a letter to my parents."

"How much?"

"It might shock you. Because it's not really
a matter of how much, but what."

"Don't play games. How much?"

"It's not what you think. It's not money.
Your Dad said he wanted you to paint a large floral still life for
your dowry. Something which we could hang over our couch in the
living room. But there's a catch. He said it had to have a purple
elephant."

Shannon felt a strong emotional blow at his
words. As a child, she'd wanted more than anything else to be an
artist. She'd painted and painted. But as time passed, it became
apparent she had absolutely no talent.

In High School, she'd changed her major from
Art to Business Prep, a move which rewarded her with high grades,
but had left an emptiness deep inside. The bitterness she'd felt
over her artistic shortcomings had caused her to never paint again.
But one painting in particular she'd done as a child had been
framed and hung over Dad's desk at home for years. A
finger-painting featuring a purple elephant sitting in a bed of
flowers. The painting was etched forever on her soul. It had been a
child's effort, free from the binding constraints of the world of
people's opinions. She'd poured everything she had into that purple
elephant. It was a fantastic-looking thing, radiating a joy she'd
never been able to capture since.