George Mills (48 page)

“I want to see my mother.”

“Well, sweetheart, that wouldn’t be best just now. The doctors have to do certain things, the nurses do. And we’ve got to get ready to meet that plane. It was a darn good idea for Father Merchant to make arrangements to keep the room an extra few hours. You can change in there. You can use Mother’s shower.”

The old man nodded. “The
c
’s for
caliente. Caliente
means hot. Just turn it lightly. You don’t want to scald.”

“Scald?”

“Mexico is an oil-rich country. Its hot water is its pride.”

“Have I got time to freshen up?” the uncle asked.

“It isn’t a question of time,” Father Merchant said. “Flight 272 doesn’t arrive till six. It will still be rush hour. I’d give you a special map I’ve drawn up, I’d tell you directions, shortcuts, which lane to be in when you’re stopped at the border. You could leave at five-thirty and still meet the plane. But it isn’t a question of time. It’s a question of signs, what you look like to Sam when he gets off the plane, the signals he picks up. Go as you are. That’s my advice.”

Which, of course, he followed, looking, George thought, more the traveler than Sam, sending soiled semaphore, bereavement in the hang of his suit, the limp, creased cotton, got up like an actor in his tropical grief, his etched stubble. Merchant was right. Harry didn’t have to say a word to Sam or the little girl, Mrs. Glazer’s fate perfectly legible to them in Harry’s solemn, lingering handshake, his wordless hugs. It was Mary who spoke.

“I haven’t taken it all in, Daddy. I may be in shock. Feel my head. You think I have temperature? I was out in the sun. Maybe I burned. It
could
be a fever. It could be shock fever. They made me shower in Mommy’s bathroom ’cause I was still in my bathing suit and we had to meet your plane. It was creepy, Daddy. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shower again. I’ll take baths and I’ll douche but I won’t ever shower.”

There was no need to return to the hospital and on the way back to Harry’s hotel Mills heard the brother-in-law tell Sam that they would all be flying back again in the morning, that Father Merchant, who’d been very useful, had made the arrangements, first class for Harry, Sam and the two girls, Mills in tourist. The old man had even returned Harry’s rental car, since they were getting a rate, Merchant explained, on Mrs. Glazer’s. He’d given the Mexican, Harry said, a hundred dollars. They probably wouldn’t be needing the car that night but he didn’t think they ought to be stuck in a third world country without one. The girls were tired, Milly had had a long day. They all had. Would George mind getting back to his motel on his own? Harry’d be happy to pay for the taxi.

Father Merchant was waiting for Mills outside his motel room.

“I could have been mugged waiting for that cab,” George Mills said.

“No no,” Father Merchant said, “everyone knows you’re under my protection. Nothin’ could have happen to you.” Mills opened the door and Merchant followed him inside. “Did anythin’ happened to you when you was flashin’ the lady’s money an’ she was tryin’ to get you both killed?”

“Was that you?” Mills asked without interest.

“I put in a word,” Father Merchant said modestly.

George started to undress. “Aren’t you tired?” George asked Merchant who was seated in the room’s single chair. “All that running around you did today?”

“Yellow,” Merchant said, “
yellow?
Yellow is for fairies. A man like you wants a dark blue bathing costume. Why should I be tired? I’m used to it. Anyway, I pace myself.”

“He gave you a hundred dollars,” Mills said.

“I left it up to him. Usually, when they come down, they come with family. It’s rare to see a servant. What could I do? You were already here. I left a lot of it up to you. I let you assist me. We didn’t get in each other’s way. It should have been more, I suppose, but he, that Harry, only came down last night. He didn’t know what to give. My other clients are more generous, but maybe Harry isn’t cheap. Maybe he don’t really know.”

“How come you didn’t tell him?”

The old man shrugged. “A tout’s pride,” he said.

“Listen,” George said, “I’m pretty tired. I’m supposed to be over at their hotel tomorrow morning at seven o’clock to get their bags and check out for them.”

“Of course,” Merchant said. “I’m gone in a minute. There’s some things I want to tell you. Go on, get in bed. I’ll let myself out.”

“Could you get the light?” George said sleepily.

“Sure,” Father Merchant said, and turned off the overhead light. He drew the night curtains and spoke to Mills in the dark.

“Maria is courted by all the eligible ranchers in that country,” he said. “But she loves only one, the
patrone,
who is her father. She don’ know he is her father, but
he
knows. He suspects. It makes no difference, by this time he can’ help himself. She reminds him of her
madre.
Only this one is even
more
beautiful,
more
desirable. He tries to seduce her but she has too great honor. If he mean to sleep wit’ her he mus’ marry her. He arrange a fake pries’, a young fellow from the south to do it. The real pries’ is killed.
He
does this, the
patrone.
He knows he is damn to murder a
padre
but his passion has made him
loco.
The fake pries’ is brought in an’ they are married. They go away. He is a wonderful lover. Maria is sick with love, with sex. She has never experience nothin’ like this. All he has to do is touch her, she is on fire. She can’t get enough. But he’s a old man, the
patrone.
All this love is killin’ him, an’ now she is pregnan’. She is no longer so beautiful to him. She knows this but makes demands. To stop her he tell her all about the fake pries’, about himself. Now she is like her father, insane with passion. She don’ care she is pregnan’, she don’ care she’s his daughter. Maria is depraved. The old man is fearful about what he have done. He make a confession, first to a pries’, then to officials. The pries’ tell him God have forgive him if he is truly peniten’. He go to Maria. He fear for her soul. He tell her to confess. ‘Why?’ she says. ‘I am sorry for nothing. Only that you love God more than your daughter. That,
that
is the filth.’ They come for him, for the
patrone.
They take him away. They don’t know she knows, her father don’ tell them. He is hanged. For killin’ the pries’. No one know. Only the pries’ who hear his confession. He
can’t
tell. He is waitin’ for Maria to seek absolution. That how it end. We wait for the worse woman in the worl’ to ask for forgiveness. That how it end.

“You’re going back. These programs haven’t been broadcast yet. No one knows this in Mexico. Only the planners of the program. Only me. Only you.”

“Why are you tell——”

“I told Mrs. Glazer,” Father Merchant said. “I whispered in her ear before she died.”

“What are you talk——”

“A hundred dollars,” Merchant said contemptuously. “I just
see
that rich
gringo
bastard and
know
I won’t get more.”

“What do you——”

“A hundred dollars,” Merchant repeated. “I saved him
seventy
on the rate of exchange, on red tape even more. A hundred dollars!”

“
What do you want?
” Mills shouted. “
What do you want?
” He snapped on the bed lamp.

“How much would
you
say?” Father Merchant whispered. “You were here for a mont’. I kep’ you
both
alive that first week. I didn’t know there’d be a servant. There’s not usual a servant.”

“Do you want me to give you money? Is that what you want?”

“You?
You?
A go-between’s go-between?”

“What do you want?”

“How could I know there would be someone to do the errands? Someone so indifferent he could bathe her, wipe her nose, her ass, take her for treatments, out for a ride? Death is what I do, the errands of cancer. The tips, the advice, all that’s just sideline.”

“What do you
want?
” Mills demanded.

“To give you
your
half,” Father Merchant said, “these fifty dollars,” and threw the money down on the bed.

9

I
n St. Louis, Louise still counted her breasts when she went to bed, taking inventory, too, since her husband’s employer had died, of her glands, pressing her stomach and kidneys, examining her cervix and rectum, obtaining skintight latex gloves which George frequently found on the rug when he stepped out of bed. She was purchasing as well home urinalysis kits, checking for diabetes, excessive leukocytes, early warning signs of a dozen diseases. She had bought a thermometer which registered temperature electronically, a gadget which noted blood pressure, a full-size doctor’s scale.

“Are we refurnishing?” George asked.

“Do you begrudge me a little security? It didn’t cost you a penny. All the money for this stuff came from what was left over from my father’s insurance policy. He even paid for the dress I bought for Mrs. Glazer’s funeral.”

They were going to the funeral, George as one of the pallbearers, Louise because she was a fan and because she had not forgotten the dying woman’s condolence phone call on the occasion of her father’s death.

Indeed, there was to be a small contingent from South St. Louis. Before she had left for Mexico, Mrs. Glazer had written to invite all the people on her Meals-on-Wheels route and had organized two limousines to pick up all those who were strong enough to attend and take them to the Church of St. Michael and St. George in west county and then on to Bellefontaine Cemetery. The limousines would return them to their homes in the city after a stop for lunch at Stouffer’s Riverfront Inn. All this had been detailed in Judith Glazer’s letters to the guests themselves, as well as to Crane, the funeral director.

Only George and Louise had not been invited, George learning he had been asked to be a pallbearer when Harry approached from behind the curtains of first class on the flight to St. Louis. “My sister,” he said, “wanted you to serve as one of the pallbearers. She asked me to give you this.” He handed him a sheet of folded hospital stationery. All it said was “
Please,
Mills,” and had been written and signed with great effort. He examined the note closely. The signature would have been illegible had George not recognized it from some of the last traveler’s checks she had signed.

“Yes, well I know it probably wouldn’t stand up in court,” the brother said, “but you have my word it’s what she wanted. What do you say? They don’t like passengers to stand in the aisles.”

Mills’s mood ring blazed.

The funeral had been much on her mind. George himself had written down the names of specific ushers she wanted, nephews and nieces and the children of friends who she had determined would replace the regular lay functionaries of the church. It seemed she wanted as many people involved as possible. Even after she had been taken to the hospital she had had George place a call to the organist at St. Michael and St. George. When he handed her the telephone, she burst into tears.

“Oh, Matthew,” she said, “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can’t remember how Bach’s ‘St. Anne Fugue’ goes. It keeps getting mixed up in my head with Mozart’s ‘Ave Verum.’ ” She had him hum them.

“Yes. Oh yes,” she said. “I remember.” And had gone on to discuss and approve the names of various trumpeters they could get for the Purcell anthem she had decided on only the night before.

“Do you really think so, Matthew? Fred Turner? Do you trust his embouchure? Ask Willy Emerson for me, would you? And call me back. Mills will give you the number.”

In the hospital, even in the motel, she barely glanced at the dozens of letters and get well cards sent by her friends, but had Mills read the acceptance letters of her designated pallbearers over and over to her, listening for tone, searching out reluctancies. She would take them from Mills and make him listen as if for sour notes in music. When she was satisfied that they meant what they said she dictated formal acknowledgments of their receipt, as if she had formed some binding legal accommodation with them.

She had spoken to Bishop McKelvey long distance. She knew, she said, there could be no eulogy as such, only the authorized prayers, but since they’d already agreed that certain special friends and relatives would be permitted to read the responses, she thought,
wondered
really, if she mightn’t be granted one teeny dispensation. It was
awfully
important to her. Though it was the bishop’s decision.
She
would submit no matter
what
he decided. Well then, she said, could they set aside some time toward the end of the service, for Breel, her psychiatrist, to address the mourners? No, not a eulogy. Nothing
like
a
eulogy.
A clinical report on the state of her head, her symptomatology when she had been mad.

George had seen RSVP’s from all six pallbearers.

One was flying in from Europe, another had postponed his trip till after the funeral. “Friends,” she’d told George, “loyal friends.”

Had she indicated, Mills had asked the brother, which one was to be bumped? “Come on, Mills, she was dying. These were practically her last words, just before she called that Merchant chap to the bedside. Did you expect her to think of everything? I suppose we can do some things for ourselves.”

“She thought of everything,” George muttered.

“How’s that? Speak up. I can’t hear you over the jets.”

This was on Tuesday. The funeral was Thursday. It was too late for Mills to shop for a new suit, too late even to get the suit he had cleaned and pressed. But everyone, he thought, no matter his station, had a decent suit. She thought of everything. She even thought of that. She knew me, knew even I’d have one. She probably knew where it would be, anticipating the very closet, the yellowing plastic garment bag in which it would hang, protected from dust, moths, the wear and tear of poor men’s air. She thought of everything. How could he be her brother and not know that?

So he looked for their white gloves. (Knowing they would not come from the cut-down carton in the church vestibule, just as he knew that the Bibles and hymnals they brought would be their own, as he knew that some of them would somehow have managed beforehand to obtain printed copies of the order of the service—just as he knew they’d be printed rather than mimeographed—as he knew they would have anticipated, and in perfect accord with Mrs. Glazer’s wishes, the precise order of the seating arrangements, only himself and the contingent from the south side guided by the otherwise strictly ceremonial ushers.