by Anna Porter
While Judith copied the names and numbers, Alice made a half-hearted attempt to riffle through George’s papers. Then she sat in his chair and started to cry softly. She covered her eyes with one hand, lit another cigarette off the damp butt of the first.
“Are you finished?” she asked in a small voice.
Judith stroked Alice’s hair, swallowing her own tears. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
***
The next day Judith got up at 5:00 a.m., circled her typewriter for an hour or so, made two pots of coffee, rearranged her papers, re-read her notes twice, and finally when she had exhausted all plausible excuses, typed five reasonably clean pages of the George Harris story. At 9:00 she took a phone break and started on Harris’s list. The first number belonged to a local politician who recalled clearly that George had phoned at 10:45 a.m., because he was then late leaving for his 11:00 a.m. meeting. They were discussing whether the politician should start an autobiography now, while he was still in power, or wait until his planned retirement. George had been both very circumspect and very discouraging in either eventuality. Despite that, the politician deeply regretted George’s unfortunate death. Pompous bastard.
The second call was more difficult—an old woman in Smith’s Falls whose husband had known George’s father. She had written what sounded like a love story. She had not heard of George’s death and she was somewhat deaf. It took Judith at least five minutes to convince her that she was not calling to arrange for the pick-up of her manuscript. Judith tried to imagine George shouting to be heard by the old lady and her heart went out to him, even now. Ah—the glamour of publishing!
The next few calls were uneventful. One was George’s dentist—would a man about to kill himself make a dental appointment? Then there were two calls to printers about late deliveries of George’s books. The problem hadn’t been solved by the phone calls, which was bad news for George, but hardly bad enough to kill himself.
He had called a Toronto literary agent and made an offer for a new manuscript by a not-so-new author. It was not much of an offer, but the agent had not had a better one; she was running out of options and time, so she had accepted. Now she worried if the offer would hold, with George gone. That was around 5:30.
Between 2:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. George had called five of his authors. He arranged to have lunch with one, dinner with another, breakfast, separately, with two more and agreed to advance some urgently needed money to the last, even though the contract had already been paid up. At 3:00 he had talked to the editor of The Globe. Judith left messages for several more people on George’s list, made herself a salami and lettuce sandwich, brushed her hair, put on some make-up and returned to her typewriter.
By 3:00 when the phone started ringing, she had finished a first draft of ten more pages. She had decided not to use the word suicide. She would talk about “the mysterious death of George Harris.”
All of the people who returned her calls sounded shocked by his death, and slightly embarrassed. That meant the suicide theory was catching on.
There were two calls to bookstores who were cutting prices on George’s books (bad enough, but…) and one call to Winston’s confirming dinner reservations for Wednesday night.
There was a long-distance call to Max Grafstein, president of Axel Books in New York. Judith had met him once, when she was still working as an editor at Fitzgibbon & Harris. She had gone to New York to squire around one of George’s young authors who was looking for an American publisher. George had been particularly insistent on her going to Max, because George admired him. He believed Max was the archetypal American success story.
They had had drinks in a bar on 52nd Street, where in semidarkness, with the music blaring, Max had actually affected to read about a third of the manuscript, suggested a title change, some cuts, a new first chapter, and then explained with great warmth, gazing deeply into the young author’s eyes, why the book was not for Axel. It was a superb routine.
Marsha had later told Judith that Max had perfected it many years ago, and now used it only on newcomers because the act lost much of its pizazz the second time around.
Max, his secretary said, had already left for Toronto. He was going to attend Mr. Harris’s funeral. Yes, Mr. Harris had phoned Monday. At about 5:00. She thought it might have been about a manuscript Mr. Harris had sent them. Mr. Grafstein had seemed quite excited. She added the last bit as if to say that it was mighty unusual for Max to show any excitement over George’s manuscripts.
The branch manager at The Royal Bank could not divulge information about Mr. Harris or the nature of the conversation on the specified date, but he did not mind revealing that the call took place before noon.
Finally, there was a lawyer whom George had hired to defend Fitzgibbon & Harris in a recently launched libel action. He was confident they were going to win, though of course there was always the possibility…in any case, the amount involved would have been no more than three or four thousand dollars.
Judith slumped back exhausted. Then, impulsively, she picked up the phone again.
“May I speak to Detective Parr, please?”
“Just a moment.”
“Hello.”
“Hello. This is Judith Hayes. You remember, you came to see me yesterday morning? About George Harris’s death?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hayes…”
“Well, I was just wondering if you’ve made any progress on the case?”
“What case?”
“About how he died.”
“There is no case, Mrs. Hayes. The cause of death has been determined. There is no more for us to do.”
“Won’t there be an inquest?”
“No. Why would there be an inquest?”
“I thought…well, isn’t that normal?”
“Not in a situation like this. It would only add to the family’s grief. Were you going to tell me something?”
“I…no, I don’t suppose you’d be interested now. What about the coroner?”
“What about the coroner?”
“Did he find anything?”
“Nothing to find. Why are you asking these questions? You’re still working on your story?”
“I’m still looking for answers.”
“What are the questions?”
“Mainly: Why?”
“That, Mrs. Hayes, is rather outside my area of concern and I do have to deal with a few other pressing problems. Look, I am sorry about Mr. Harris, but…”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Judith slammed down the receiver a little more forcefully than she had intended. Certainly more forcefully than her parting line warranted. But she felt Parr had let a policeman’s natural dislike of journalists show. Stupid of him. Damned shame, too. He was really a good-looking guy. She cut that thought short. A policeman, yet. And probably married to his first wife with 2.5 lovely children. All in Don Mills. That would be standard for a policeman.
At 5:00 the kids came home. They both sniffed around the kitchen for treats, Anne turned on the downstairs TV, and Jimmy turned on his upstairs stereophonic tape deck. It seemed pointless to go on with the story, so Judith shoved the cheap Wednesday’s special roast into the oven and sliced up some onions and carrots… “Great for their eyes, Judith. When they’re studying they must have carrots every day. Even one carrot is better than no carrot.” “Mum, you don’t still believe that old wives’ tale about carrots giving you night vision…” “I know what I know. If you don’t care about how they grow up…(sigh)”
Both kids hated carrots, but they would eat a few stoically. It had become a habit. She had started the carrot routine shortly after their first day at school, and though she didn’t believe in it, some hidden guilt made her carry on. Maybe it was the same for the kids. They knew Granny was the power behind the carrots and that Judith was, once more, being squeezed. If eating a few of the tasteless things kept her together, what the hell?
Judith sat down next to Anne on the couch. Anne hadn’t ta
ken her Hudson’s Bay winter-down sports parka off yet. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees. Intent.
“How did it go today?” Judith asked.
“Hrumph.”
“School. How did it go?”
“Oh. OK.” Anne continued to stare at the TV set.
Anne did reasonably well at school, though she rarely seemed to work at it. Judith thought she took pride in appearing not to work. Before exams her light would stay on most of the night, but no one was allowed to notice, let alone remark on it.
Judith made one more stab at conversation.
“You want to hear about the story I’m writing?”
“About Harris?”
“About his death. ‘Mysterious,’ I am going to call it.”
Anne reluctantly tore her eyes away from the TV set.
“You mean he was murdered?” she asked matter-of-factly.
That’s what too much television does for you.
Five
JUDITH LIKED TO arrive early at funerals. If she came late, there was a good chance she would be caught standing just inside the door or, worse, in the center aisle where she might become a direct target of the minister’s attention. It was also useful to have a prayerbook or missal to hide behind, or to mouth the right words when the time came. Hangover from a regimented childhood: better to have all the “amens” ready when everyone else did.
George Harris’s funeral was held at the Chapel of St. James the Less, at 12:00 p.m. on Thursday, April 11. By a quarter of twelve the parking spaces were all taken and the black-suited man directing traffic for the funeral home was waving everybody on, up the path into the cemetery. There Judith had to make an excruciating U-turn on the narrow driveway among the ornate gravestones and squeeze her small Renault in behind a custom Rolls. The chauffeur watched anxiously in his rearview mirror. She smiled when she got out of the car and he tipped his blue cap as she went by. She knew his eyes were following her all the way down the path. Great legs. Still.
The entrance to the chapel was crowded and noisy. There were TV crews with hand-held cameras and newsmen with microphones. Judith wondered whether Jennifer Harris had issued an invitation or if the press felt it was fair game to accompany one of their own on his “final journey.” Bet anyone a wreathful of white azaleas, two out of the three Toronto papers would use that phrase in their write-ups tomorrow.
Inside the chapel it was quiet. The coffin, draped in blue velvet, surrounded by enormous vases of white lilies-of-the-valley, stood to the left of the minister’s wooden platform. The original architects had taken pains to work out where the coffin should be placed. Sunlight, turned yellow and intense blue by the stained-glass window, lit up the velvet and the flowers, moving them center-stage.
The front of the church was already packed. To the left there were two rows of honorary pallbearers, all Fitzgibbon & Harris authors. This was the closest they had ever sat to one another, an experience few of them would relish. Too many jealousies over who enjoyed the most attention and whose advertising budget had been canceled. Though most of them hated public speaking they fought for their right to a cross-country publicity tour every time a new book surfaced, each trying to outperform the others, each wanting to be asked back again.
Jennifer Harris, her small black pillbox hat and veil pushed forward, sat erect and uncompromising to the right of the pallbearers. Francis and his wife, their backs as rigid as hers, flanked her on either side.
Judith hoped to spot Max Grafstein early, so chose a pew not far from the door. It was already occupied by a Sun columnist and two fidgeting teenagers. Judith still remembered vividly the desperation children experience when they are hemmed in for a long, still time. For her father’s funeral she had taken the extra precaution of putting Heathcliff, Marsha’s pet gerbil, into her pocket for something soft and warm to run her fingers around. Midway he had escaped and scurried off under the seats, up the aisle, around the coffin, and disappeared from sight. Judith’s tears when she thought about telling Marsha afterward had been genuine. She had received a disapproving stare from her mother, who hadn’t known about Heathcliff and thought she was showing an improper amount of emotion in front of the other mourners. Such things should remain private.
The chapel filled quickly. A few whispered greetings were exchanged. Very low-key. The Premier of Ontario came, accompanied by his chief advisor and several members of his cabinet. Some MPs had flown in from Ottawa. There was an assortment of municipal politicians, the mayors of Toronto, East York and Mississauga. Judith recognized the publishers and editors of several daily papers, the Toronto-based magazines, the now under-employed Canadian bureau chief for Time, and a Reader’s Digest vice-president, on the creative side, from Pleasantville. Naturally, most of George’s rivals in the Canadian book trade showed up, from board chairmen to editorial directors, including two publishers from the West Coast. There was a smattering of literary agents, book manufacturers, booksellers, some of George’s old air force buddies, most of his staff, and enough authors to start a convention of the Writers’ Union of Canada.
The organist improvised a final cadence. The minister welcomed everybody and enjoined them to pray for George’s soul, while turning to page 12 in their hymnbooks. Clearly, no one knew the words or tunes for this or any of the other hymns that followed. The minister admitted defeat at the end of verse 3 of “God cares about you” and asked them all to bend their heads in prayer. Saved from the necessity to sing, everyone prayed vigorously, with a strong crescendo on “For Thine is the Kingdom…”
Max Grafstein, arriving late, was nonetheless ushered into a pew near the front. The minister cleared his throat and looked around the chapel.
“We have come here today to say good-bye to a very special person. This is a tragic day for all of us, indeed a deeply tragic day for Canada. For George Harris was a man much loved and venerated by all those whose lives he touched. We have lost one of our heroes, one of our great cultural figures.
“George Harris was a fortunate man. Fortunate in a long and rewarding public life, and, as well, in a long and rewarding private life: in his wife of nearly forty years, in a family that surrounded him with affection and understanding…”
Judith wondered how George would enjoy his own funeral eulogy. She thought what a pity it was that more people did not think of writing theirs in advance. George’s own version of his life would have been a damned sight less decorous.
Would he have thought of himself as fortunate? Probably. Though he complained frequently about the tribulations of the book business, there was little doubt that he had delighted in it. She thought of their last few hours together. George in his shirtsleeves, leaning far back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, heels propped up on his desk, relaxed and expansive. He had laughed when she asked whether he might consider selling the firm and retiring soon. It had been an incredulous laugh—the laugh of a man immersed in pursuing his goals, who had given no thought to abandoning them. He was leafing through a new manuscript when she left: perhaps another rabbit-out-of-the-hat trick, another piece of late Fall sleight of hand for the best-seller lists.
“His generosity,” the minister said, “was second to no man’s. You have come to bear witness to that today. He gave of himself to all of you. His judgment, his support, his unstinting, uncomplaining willingness to give of his time…”
Time was what he had most regretted. He had squandered too much of it in too many ways. His dream, he had told Judith, was to buy himself a house on a Georgian Bay island where he would spend a week every month. That would allow him the luxury of thinking about his problems before having to solve them—a luxury he had never been able to afford.
She didn’t join in the final words for George’s soul. He would have gagged at the thought of people praying over, of all things, his soul.
The organ began a sprightly Bach fugue. Jennifer Harris stood and floated, head up, back straight, down the center aisle and out the double doors.
&nbs
p; Judith joined the throng pushing toward the exit. She would wait for Max Grafstein outside. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation crew was still there, apparently interviewing some of the guests about George. The rest of the press had packed it in. The politicians were sliding into their chauffeur-driven limousines. The other mourners gathered in small groups, talking, as they waited to pass by the Harrises. Jennifer stood stiff and unyielding, at the foot of the steps, shaking hands with everyone and thanking them for coming.
Alice left a cluster of F & H employees, adjusted her brown felt hat and came over to Judith.
“George would have liked the turnout,” she smiled. “A man doesn’t know how many friends he’s got until it’s too late to do him any good. Any luck with the phone list?”
“Not so far. How is it at F & H?”
“Depressing. We’re trying to figure out whom he’ll sell to. If he merges with one of the big houses we’ll all be out of work. Economies of scale, it’s called.” She fingered her string of white pearls.
Judith saw Max coming through the doors. He was slimmer than she had remembered, and though he hunched forward slightly as he walked, he was inches taller than anyone around him. His dark hair was peppered with gray and cut perfectly, strand by minute strand. He squinted into the sunlight as he came outside. His eyebrows pulled together in a grimace that ended around the corners of his mouth, showing a glimpse of teeth. He was fishing for his glasses in the breast pocket of his black-and-gray pinstripe. When he put them on, he looked a little like Richard Nixon, with hints of Cary Grant in his prime. Striking combination.
Judith waited for him.
“Mr. Grafstein? Max? You remember…” she asked tentatively. “Why, sure. How are you?” He smiled uncertainly, and she now saw why his teeth had looked so white. He had a beige to golden tropical tan. No fifty-dollar sunlamp could give you all that glow.
“A lot of people here,” he said, and started to move on.
“Max, I was wondering…” Judith said hurriedly, “are you flying right back?”
