Around five, Doctor Leigh and Peter Leigh arrived. Doctor Leigh was dry-eyed. “If it had to be,” he said, “at least thank God it was fast.” Dry-eyed, but his usually ruddy face was drained of color and he moved slowly, his vigor all gone. He said he must have a word with Lillie Ruth, and left the room. Peter Leigh asked: “Is there anything I can do for you, Morgan?” “Come for a quick walk with me,” Morgan said: “I’ve got to have a breath of fresh air.”
Julia and Caroline and Lucy arrived about seven-thirty. Lucy and Ansel Shurtliff joined Doctor Leigh and Peter Leigh in the library. Morgan took Julia and Caroline into Maud’s sitting room. There, Caroline slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands and began to sob. Julia, in his arms, still in her coat, asked him: “What will we do, Morgan? What will we do without her?” He held her, praying: praying that an answer to her question be given him—some word or celestial sign: something they could cling to in the void. None came.
In a bit, Julia said she wanted to see Lillie Ruth and Tessa. Caroline said: “Wait for me.” She stood up and wiped her eyes and took Julia’s hand and they left the room, together like that, holding hands. Morgan called out after them, “Ask Lucy to come here, please.”
Lucy’s face, when she entered the room, had heartbreak written all over it. “Morgan.” “Lucy.” There was a period at the end of their spoken names. “Lucy,” he said, swallowing, this time with a comma after her name: “I don’t know how to start to thank you.” Lucy cut him off: “You can start by shutting up,” she flared, bright and desperate. Then, standing there before him, her hands trembling, she began a bit to rant: “Keep me busy. That’s all I ask. I’ll do anything, anything to make time pass.” She looked wild; her voice was low; furious: “Why Maud? Maudie, of all people, with the world full of creeps and fools no one would miss.” She ranted on: “I don’t believe in anything anymore. Just in effort. That’s all I believe in. Effort. All I ask of you is to keep me busy. Use me.” She was in a thousand pieces. “Lucy—” They stood there, clasped together, holding each other up. “Lucy.” “Morgan.” Period. Period.
In a few minutes, all of them came together again. They ate, a sort of buffet supper, plates in their laps, sitting in a circle: Morgan, Julia, Ansel Shurtliff, Lucy, Peter Leigh, Caroline (the fingers of her left hand lost in the thick of Ralph’s fur), Doctor Leigh—all of them engaged in a conspiracy of cheerfulness. They talked, non-stop, about anything other than what they were all thinking about. They didn’t look at each other—that would have been too risky—just past each other, at a painting or at an object, or out the bank of windows, into the night. At about ten o’clock, Doctor Leigh told Peter that they must go: the drive into Cleveland could take longer than usual, he said: there would likely be February fog. He kissed Julia and Caroline; shook Ansel Shurtliff’s hand. “Remember me to your mother,” he said to Lucy. In the front hall, as if he was concluding a doctoral house call, he handed Morgan an envelope: “Sleeping pills,” he said: “Nembutal. Take two before you go to bed. I’ll come back tomorrow.” All in a dry-as-dust voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow too, Morgan,” Peter said, trailing Doctor Leigh out the door.
It had been arranged that Dennis would drive Lucy into Hatherton to her mother’s house. Dennis was waiting in the car at the front portico. Lucy kissed Julia and Caroline, then Ansel Shurtliff and Morgan. “You’re my family,” she told them. She was calm now; sweet. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” Then she turned and left them.
SHURTLIFF—Maud (née Leigh). Suddenly, at age 43, on Thursday, February 20, 1958. She is survived by her husband, Morgan, by her daughters, Caroline and Julia, by her father, Dr. Douglas Leigh, by her father-in-law, Ansel Shurtliff, and by a host of friends. Funeral service and interment Monday, February 24 at 3:00 P.M., First Presbyterian Church, Hatherton, Ohio.
(The above, as printed in the obituary pages of The Cleveland Plain Dealer, The New York Times, The Cincinnati Enquirer, The Pittsburgh Press, The Hatherton Record, Friday, February 21, 1958)
SHURTLIFF—Maud. The Headmaster, the Board of Trustees and the Faculty of Hollis Academy acknowledge with deep sadness the death of Maud Shurtliff, one of Hollis’s most valued and generous Trustees. To her husband, Morgan Shurtliff, and her daughters, Caroline and Julia Shurtliff, and to her many friends, we offer our most sincere sympathies.
Gerald Lamont
Headmaster, Hollis Academy
(From The Cleveland Plain Dealer, Saturday, February 22, 1958)
SHURTLIFF—Maud (Leigh). The Members of the Medical Board of the Hatherton Hospital note with sorrow the sudden passing of Maud Leigh Shurtliff, dedicated patron of the Hatherton Hospital and daughter of our esteemed colleague, Dr. Douglas Leigh. To the members of the Shurtliff family and to Dr. Leigh we offer our heartfelt condolences.
Albert Brooke, M.D.
President, Medical Board
Hatherton Hospital
(From The Hatherton Record, Saturday, February 22, 1958)
SHURTLIFF—Maud. The Board of Trustees and Staff of the Hatherton Library mourn the sudden death of our past president, fellow Trustee, patron and friend, Maud Leigh Shurtliff. She was much loved and much admired to the last. Her service to the Library and the Community at large will be sorely missed. We extend to her family and many friends our deepest sympathy.
Rufus K. Lyster, President
Hatherton Library
(From The Hatherton Record, Saturday, February 22, 1958)
In one of the Cleveland papers there was a long obituary, part fact, part blown-up fairy tale. It gave the cause of her sudden death: “a cerebral hemorrhage.” It stated that she died—“at home.” It told whose daughter she was. It informed that in June of 1937, she married Morgan Cunningham Shurtliff. (It coupled the Shurtliff name with the Taft name—the coupling expanded upon in a skewed statement to the effect that in Ohio civic, cultural, political, and industrial circles, both names were “synonymous with leadership” Morgan was described as “a lawyer of national repute.”) It listed those “institutions” which had most “gained” from Maud Shurtliff’s “devoted interest and support.” It said she had “two college-age daughters, Caroline and Julia.” There was a picture, culled from the paper’s files. Below the picture was the caption: “Mrs. Morgan Shurtliff at the March 1956 gala benefit for the Cleveland Orchestra.”
Some society reporter who didn’t know the first thing about her had written the article.
On Saturday afternoon, Geoff and Alan arrived. With Geoff, when they were alone, Morgan finally broke down. What freed him to weep was Geoff’s calling him—“Morgie.” The tender way Geoff said it had the surprise of rediscovery—as of something tangible—an object, refound in the drawer of an old bureau or closer, in an old coat pocket—a mislaid object, all but forgotten, not particularly missed until refound, then instantly radiant because it had lasted and was uncomplicated and was again in hand. “Morgie.”
On Sunday, in the early evening, Sidney and Linda and Lawrence arrived. Now, everyone was there. (Even Pamela, who wasn’t. She had written a note to Morgan; Lawrence gave it to him. “Dear Morgan, Forgive me for not coming. Funerals aren’t my thing. Something about them makes me misbehave. About Maud’s slipping out of our lives, I don’t know what to say. No words of mine can cover the loss. Love, Pam.” Her note, so typical of her, made her seem to be there. He re-read it the next morning. Its very toughness, like a cane handed to a cripple, helped support him.)
You can imagine for yourself the funeral, the filled church, the collected grief, the long line of people who walked behind the shoulder-born coffin to the cemetery and who stood, heads bowed, as the last words were said, graveside. And you can imagine for yourself the large gathering at the house afterwards, after the funeral: who was there and some of what was said. You don’t have to be told. In your own way, from your own experience, you know all about endings.
Of course, about Endings, as a Theme—the possible variations are infinite in number. But you know tha
t, too.
On Tuesday, Geoff and Alan and Lawrence and Linda and Sidney returned to New York. Sidney, especially hard to part from. Of them all, of everyone, only Sidney had talked with him about death. They had sat down on a couch, no one else in the room, and Sidney, in his impulsive, uninhibited way, looking up as if toward it, had said the slab word—death—squinting (he wasn’t wearing his glasses), the thick brows of his heavily lidded eyes nearly touching as he peered forward, trying for himself in the immediate dimly lit circumstance to—beyond feeling it—see it. Finally, as if by the aid of some light cast unexpectedly upon it, sighing, he spoke of it as: “Beyond immensity, immense…impossible to do battle with…one of Nature’s unreckonable surprises…retaliation of any kind out of the question.” Then he had quoted those ancient words of Sallust’s—“These things never happened, but are always”—then had put a hand on Morgan’s arm and let it stay there, resting. As in surrender.
On Wednesday, Lucy too returned to New York.
On Thursday, Julia and Caroline went back to college. Last Tuesday, the day after the funeral, he had asked them if they wanted to go back, if they felt equal to going back. Might they want to take the rest of the semester off? A sort of leave of absence…He had thought he must ask them. But they were ahead of him. Between themselves they had already considered the question; had already decided they would go back. “We’ll be all right,” Caroline said. “We have each other.” Julia said: “We’re sure it’s what Mother would want us to do.” And too (they reminded him), it was only a month or so before their spring vacation would begin: they would be home again that soon. Morgan said: “And between now and then, I’ll go to New York. We’ll have a weekend together in New York.”…Oh, they were light-years ahead of him. It was their youth and energy and curiosity that made them brave…. What his experience couldn’t keep him from doing was seeing them, at moments, as a pair of naive possums attempting to cross a high-speed parkway at evening rush hour. Julia especially. On her own, she might have decided to remain at home, might have—in the spirit of one of those young women in a dark Brontë novel whose tribute to the dead was to withdraw for a while from the world…. But no: about Julia that was a wrong idea, wrong because it was only one aspect of the whole picture—the one that showed at unbidden moments when awe and fright at what had happened could be seen on her face and in her eyes—moments he read into and saw as a reflection of his own awe and fright, as warnings of his own possible collapse. He admonished himself not to sell Julia short: even were she on her own, he must believe, must trust, that she would have correctly decided to go back to college…. He was the one frantic; the one who had to invent for himself the semblance of a reason to go on. “In June,” he said to Julia and Caroline, “we’ll go to Europe. The three of us. We’ll plan the trip over your spring break. Will you,” he asked, desperate, “will you go to Europe with me in June?” They nodded, tears in their eyes, sitting solemnly, very still, giving their silent answer: Yes…. Oh, in pure courage, however come by, they were light-years ahead of him.'
On Friday, Ansel Shurtliff went home.
These departures were like a Ten Little Indians countdown: now, he was the only one left.
What he couldn’t get over was how—with Maud’s heart stopped—his own kept on beating, insisting that he pay attention to the fact that it was. Going on. Beating.
On Saturday, in the morning, after a terrible night (heavy, sweaty, drugged sleep), he telephoned Miss Sly. It was the first time he had ever called her at home; the first time he had ever spoken with her on a week-end day; the first time he would propose to her that they meet not at noon-time for lunch, but in the evening, for dinner.
“Every time the phone has rung, I’ve hoped it would be you,” she said.
He put to her his thought that if, if by chance she was free—tonight—he would drive into Cleveland and: would she have an early dinner with him?
“I would like very much to, Mr. Shurtliff.”
He named a restaurant, one they had never been to before. “We can meet there, or I’ll pick you up at your house, whichever—”
“I know exactly where the restaurant is. It’s an easy hop from my house. I’ll meet you there.”
“At seven,” he said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
In his heart, he instantly felt that this was the start of something altogether new between him and Miss Sly—some indescribable nearer connection (even) more exceptional than had existed between them, before. Why was he so certain that if he had a future at all, Miss Sly, better than anyone else, could reveal it to him?
11 Eclipse
Eclipse: from the Greek word ekleipsis. Literal meaning: abandonment; cessation.
E—clipse (i-’klips): n 1.a. The partial or complete obscuring, relative to a designated observer, of one celestial body by another. b. The period of time during which such an obscuring occurs.
2. Any temporary or permanent dimming or cutting off of light. (Definition as given in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language)
The eclipse of Maud’s death—which is to say its darkness—lasted about a year.
One of that year’s worst moments occurred a couple of weeks after she died. Worst, as in inane; as in ignominious. He struck a man. A fool named Bryce Richardson. One is supposed to ignore fools, especially fools one barely knows; fools of the merest acquaintanceship. It happened at the Union Club, in the washroom, midafternoon of a Thursday. He was alone in the washroom, standing before a mirror that ran the length of the wall above the wash-basins—re-knotting his tie—when Bryce Richardson walked in. “Why, hello there, Morgan,” Bryce Richardson greeted him, sounding—familiar. “Hello, Bryce,” Morgan returned. That should have been all. But Bryce Richardson said: “I’ve been in Florida for a month. Only got back yesterday. I ran into Jack Thorpe this morning—you know Jack Thorpe, don’t you?—and he told me about your wife’s death.” Period. Bryce Richardson took up a position two wash-basins down from Morgan’s, turned on the water faucet, ran his hands through the flow, turned off the faucet and began to dry his hands. Then, in the mirror, he looked at Morgan. “You never know,” he said. In the mirror, Morgan met Bryce Richardson’s eyes. A glance. Then Bryce Richardson, with his Florida tan, still gazing at Morgan in the mirror, smug in his pin-striped suit and crested gold cuff-links, in a rubbing, clubby voice, said: “It’s a rough deal…. But the way I look at it, when a guy’s rich, he can stand anything. Right?” Morgan took the two steps toward him and swung at him. Struck him on the chin. Then drew back, appalled by what he had done, but wordless of apology. Bryce Richardson—his tanned face doused a sudden crimson—drew back too, and all in a second, feigning a Christ-like restraint, squared his shoulders: “I ought to report you to the membership committee,” he said. Morgan turned from him, loathing him, and went away, down the corridor to the cloak-room, where he retrieved his overcoat and briefcase and continued on through the club’s lobby, out its front door, onto the city street, into the cold daylight of the March afternoon that was for him then a gathered darkness, walking along, thinking maybe he was slipping into madness, striking a fool like Richardson, feeling as he walked on more and more at odds with the world, more hopeless, more desperate, walking now faster in the daylit darkness, stumbling: no clarity in sight.
In the first days after her death, a lot of people offered him a lot of advice about how to “handle” his “loss.” These offerings didn’t come from his family or from close friends, but from such well-meaning folk as comprised the benign, limited, contactual relationships of his ordinary, everyday life—older, open-eyed men and women whose own experiences with death emboldened them to speak: Dave, the local garage mechanic (himself a widower); Miss Kenny, the postmistress; Mr. Eldon, the pharmacist; Mrs. Dawson, his dentist’s nurse; Felix, his Cleveland barber; Joe, who shined his shoes; on and on. “Take my advice” was the standard opener. Sometimes when he felt terribly tired (he often did) he would jiggle the loose change
in his pocket, would pretend to be in a hurry, but they would hold him: “Take my advice,” they would repeat, madly, humanly compelled to give it.
—“Socialize. Don’t be by yourself.”
—“Get a pair of kittens. They’ll divert you, the way they play.”
—“Learn something new, like a language. Do you know French? Well, then Spanish maybe. What’s important is the mental effort.”
—“Fix a routine for yourself and force yourself to stick to it.”
—“My brother took up crocheting after his wife passed away. He says it calmed him. He made a lap-throw for our sister. It’s a show-piece, it’s so fine. I don’t see you crocheting, Mr. Shurtliff, but there’s other kinds of hand-work you could do, like wood carving. Anything of a soothing nature to pick up at bad times.”
Foolish advice. In the extreme, foolish. Yet often, the eyes of the person giving the foolish advice would be aglisten with tears. Or was it, often, through the sprung watery veiling in his own eyes that he imagined their tears? No. Because he so often felt the presence of their tears. Like ghosts, tears don’t always have to be seen to be believed.
All through March and April, Ralph looked for Maud to return from wherever she’d gone to do whatever it was she did when she wasn’t at home. This was the longest she had ever stayed away. But she would be back. He maintained a faith that she would return. Every time he heard a car come down the lane, he rose to his feet, ears cocked, tail up. This time, surely. At such moments of hope, his eyes would appear to widen and fill with a mix of remonstrance (Where the Hell had she been?) and joy that she was anyhow back, so he would forgive her. But then, when he was again disappointed, he would lower his tail and ears and sink again back down onto the rug; settle down, sighing, to more waiting. His arthritis had worsened since she’d absented herself. He couldn’t hustle about as he used to; couldn’t, anymore, run. His knee joints were swollen; his legs were shaky. Sometimes he ate lying down. He went outdoors only when he had to, to do those two things decent dogs don’t do in the house. He had his pride.
Matters of Chance Page 35
