Wake Up With a Stranger

by Flora, Fletcher

  He returned to his vault after an hour and read an Agatha Christie murder mystery for something over another hour. Finally, the time past, he extracted Mr. Fairstead’s three percent, and extracted with a magnet from the three percent a number of long screws. All screws removed, he put the three percent in a temporary receptacle and sealed it. On the outside of the receptacle, he stuck a gummed label on which he had previously printed in clear block letters: BURNS, AARON — SPLENDID IN ASHES.

  He was actually required to print only the name. The added little epitaph, a phrase lifted from Browne’s Hydriotaphia, was Sharkey’s own idea.

  2.

  The residue of Aaron Burns, the three percent that Mr. Fairstead facetiously claimed and Sharkey Mulloy carefully preserved, really belonged, of course, to Shirley Smith Burns, his widow, who did not linger to claim her property. Arrangements with Mr. Fairstead for a suitable urn and a perpetual-care niche in the chapel of the crematorium had been completed, and there seemed nothing left for her to do. Besides, she was feeling quite ghastly, and she had this odd sensation of her skull’s being packed loosely with sawdust which shifted about in the most peculiar manner every time she moved her head. She was being driven home by Earl Joslin, Aaron’s lawyer, and she thought with resignation, looking out the car window at the remnants of snow, that it was unfortunate that she had been compelled to hurry all the way back from Florida at such an inconvenient time.

  Many things in the life of Shirley Smith Burns had been, and were still, unfortunate. Perhaps the single most unfortunate thing — though it is actually impossible ever to pinpoint this — was the diphtheria which she had as a child. This was the only genuinely organic illness she ever had in her life, and she very nearly died of it, but all in all, in the final stages of recovery, she enjoyed it immensely. She was extravagantly loved and coddled and waited upon. She was the significant center of her universe. The romance of the experience, as well as the attention, was not lost upon her, for there is something poetic in the mortality of a child, and no one is more aware of it than children.

  For a long time she amused herself by playing imaginative variations on the theme of her death, and it was too bad, in a way, that she could not actually have died. The only reservations she felt in this childish death wish were the knowledge that she would be unable to attend the funeral. She recovered from the diphtheria, but she never recovered from the convalescence. Moreover and worse, neither did her mother. She, having seen her only child imperiled, waged thereafter a continuing terrified battle against all the shadows of death. And Shirley grew up in the shadows. Later, when she was grown, when impatience and indifference succeeded concern, it was too late to come out from these shadows.

  This change did not occur until she lost her mother. That intrepid woman, constantly alert to the designs of Death upon her daughter, was careless of his designs upon herself, and she let him steal up on her. She died suddenly one spring, and the following winter her husband died of a bronchial pneumonia he might have survived if he had not learned from his family to despise and avoid doctors.

  Shirley was left with a modest income from investments and an endless repertoire of psychosomatic ills, and eventually, by chance or fate or the caprice of the devil, she met and married Aaron Burns. She married him for several reasons, and none of them was love. Most compelling of the reasons was that he was gentle enough to be imposed upon and clever enough to make lots of money. But what she was never capable of learning was that he needed most of all, because of his spiritual desolation, a simple carnal acceptance in the broad meaning of the terms. Unable to give him this in even a narrow sense, let alone a broad one, she left it to someone else.

  She was a selfish woman, but she was no fool. She was certainly aware, after she began denying him herself, that he was getting satisfaction elsewhere. She never suspected, however, his actual method before Donna, and it would have been better for her if she had. She thought that he probably kept a mistress, despising him for it as a man too weak for pure devotion, but she never despised herself for her part in it. The irrational thing about her reaction was the really virulent hatred she developed for the woman who was giving and getting what she herself did not care to give or accept, and there was a time when she felt that it was absolutely necessary, if she was to retain her sanity, to know who the woman was. She hired a detective to follow Aaron for one month, but the detective, a reasonable fellow who did not consider a whorehouse and a mistress synonomous, submitted a negative report. After that she did not try to discover the identity of the woman, but she remained convinced that she existed, certain in her own mind that the detective was an incompetent and Aaron a monster of deception. She found solace in suffering, and began going frequently to Florida.

  They turned into the drive and stopped beside the house, and Joslin came around to open the door on her side of the car. With one hand lightly on her elbow, he assisted her into the house and upstairs, and waited in the hall outside her room until she called to him to enter. When he went in, she was reclining on a chaise longue, wearing a pale negligee that emphasized the pallor of her skin and the shadows under her eyes. She incited in him a kind of delicate crawling revulsion, a faint unpleasant tickling below the diaphragm. He was here because he was Aaron’s lawyer and because of a genuine liking and regret for Aaron himself. But as soon as he had settled Aaron’s affairs, he never again wanted to see Aaron’s widow.

  “You look exhausted,” he said courteously. “Don’t you think we had better postpone everything for a few days?”

  “No. I’m feeling better now, and I want your advice about several things. Tell me again the terms of the will.”

  “They’re quite simple. Everything comes to you except the two bequests to Miss Ingram and Miss Buchanan.”

  “One thousand to Miss Ingram and ten to Miss Buchanan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s quite a substantial difference. I wonder why.”

  “As I told you, Miss Buchanan is quite a talented young woman. Her original designs have contributed a great deal to the reputation of the shop, and you may remember that she managed the business very competently when Aaron was laid up with his second heart attack. I’m sure the ten thousand is only a kind of bonus in recognition of these services.”

  “Which one was she?”

  “At the chapel?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The one with glasses. Quite a striking young woman, I think.”

  He paid the compliment in malice, but he paid it deftly with the intent and without the appearance. “Can the will be broken?” she asked. “Just the two bequests, you mean?”

  “Naturally.”

  “No. I can see no possibility at all. Even if there were, I’d hardly advise it. After all, the amount involved is insignificant compared to the total estate. The action would cost too much for so little. Moreover, if you’ll excuse my saying so, I feel that Aaron’s last wishes should be respected.”

  “It’s the principle. You know perfectly well what everyone will think when this woman receives such a large amount.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I’m sure no one will think anything of the sort. Besides, a court action would certainly be a poor way of detracting attention.”

  “All right, I won’t make an issue of it if you think I shouldn’t. I want your opinion on the shop.”

  “What about the shop?”

  “What would you estimate it is worth?”

  “Off hand, it’s impossible to be accurate. I’d guess not less than two hundred thousand dollars as it now stands.”

  “Will it be difficult to find a buyer?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Its reputation is superb. Probably has the most desirable patronage in town. However, if you really want my opinion, I advise you not to sell.”

  “Why not?”

  “The shop is a highly successful enterprise. Nowhere else could you invest your money to receive such large returns.”

  “I’m not
a business woman. Besides, I am not well. I couldn’t possibly run it.”

  “Of course not. You would have to employ a manager who is skilled in that type of business.”

  “I wouldn’t even be able to judge the efficiency of a manager. I’d be vulnerable to all sorts of errors and impositions.”

  “Do you still want my advice?”

  “Certainly. That’s why I asked you to stay.”

  “Very well, then. I advise you to keep the shop and to keep Miss Buchanan as its manager.”

  “The woman who gets the bequest?”

  “That’s right. Donna Buchanan. I know that Aaron had the highest regard for her, and I know from other sources that she’s truly a fine designer. The line of originals she’s initiated compares favorably, I’m told, with the best anywhere, and it’s gaining recognition from women who are willing and able to pay very fancy prices for their original gowns. There’s simply no way to estimate the potential of this kind of enterprise.”

  “No. I don’t wish to be encumbered with it. I wish to liquidate all assets and leave this city as soon as possible.”

  “Just as you say, of course.”

  “Will you handle it for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “You understand, I hope, that the final settlement of an estate requires time.”

  “Oh, yes. Naturally. Just expedite it as much as you can.” She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers upon the lids. “Now I think I had better rest. It has been a difficult day, and I’m really feeling quite ill. Please excuse me for not seeing you out.”

  “It’s perfectly all right.”

  He stood up. Screened by her lowered lids, he permitted his revulsion to show for a moment in his face. Turning, he walked silently out of the room and downstairs and out of the house.

  Behind him, on the lounge in the room where Donna had lately walked with pride in herself and contempt for the room’s owner, Shirley Burns lay quietly with her eyes still closed. She had told for once the truth about herself. She was really quite ill with a functional illness, and the illness was fury and hate.

  Her lips moved soundlessly in the shape of an epithet.

  3.

  From the crematorium chapel, Donna and Gussie walked together to a stop where they caught, after a few minutes, a bus downtown. They got off near the shop and walked from there to a nearby cocktail lounge. Entering it, they sat at a tiny table in a corner. Soft light was admitted through perforations in the patterns of constellations, and on three walls, at intervals, were tapestries of Persian design. They ordered two Martinis. Gussie lifted her fragile glass at once and took a generous swallow. Then she sat for thirty seconds and looked at the olive.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s that.”

  “Yes, it is,” Donna said, “isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad he wasn’t buried,” Gussie said. “What a filthy dismal day it would be to be buried! Do you mind if I’m morbid, darling?”

  “Not at all. I’m feeling rather morbid myself.”

  “I may even get slightly drunk as well, which would only have the effect of making me more morbid. Would you object to that?”

  “Whatever you want to do is all right with me, Gussie.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mistress Mary. That’s from a nursery rhyme, you know. That Mistress Mary bit. Do you know why I am thinking of that particular nursery rhyme at this moment? It’s because Mary had a garden, and we have a garden, and the question was and is, how the hell does it grow? Well, not so well, I guess. Ours, that is. The garden surely looks like it’s going to hell, doesn’t it, darling?”

  “Maybe not, Gussie.”

  “Anyhow, never mind. I’m just a filthy morbid woman, and I wish I were dead instead of Aaron, and that’s the truth. It’s the truth at this time, at any rate, but I admit it may no longer be true tomorrow, or even an hour from now.”

  She finished her Martini and signified to the waitress that she wanted a second, but after it was brought she sat looking at it sourly, as if she were not sure that she wanted it after all. It was her second at this sitting, but it was far past her second for the day, and she had gone to the chapel with gin on her breath. Not drunk, nor on the other hand quite sober. Just quietly and bitterly fortified by gin.

  “I’m glad he wasn’t buried,” she said again. “It’s much too cold and wet a day to be buried.”

  “Why don’t you quit thinking about it?”

  “I’d be glad to quit thinking about it if I could, but I can’t. It seems to be something I can’t control at present. Do you know why that is? It’s because I am reminded by association of another person who was put into a hole in a soggy cemetery when I was there, but that was a long time ago, and I was a young girl at the time. This person they put into the hole was a person I was going to marry, but of course after they put him into the hole, it was impossible. His name was Aloysius, which is a name I can’t imagine any mother giving to a child. But I called him Al, and I loved him, and what is truly remarkable is that he loved me too.”

  “Don’t say things like that, Gussie. Surely lots of people have loved you.”

  “I don’t think so. At least not in the same way as Al. He was a crazy little son-of-a-bitch, to tell the truth, and he insisted on riding a goddamn motorcycle all over the place at simply incredible speeds. I don’t know why he did this, but it seemed as if he had to. Maybe it’s the sort of thing a kid has to do if he’s named Aloysius. Anyhow, he went too fast around a curve on a gravel road, and he hit too much loose gravel or something, and that was the end of him. At least that’s what they figured afterward had happened, and he broke a number of bones, including his neck. It was impossible to patch him up properly for display, so I was unable to see him after it happened, but what I remember most about it now is putting him into a wet hole on a day very much like this one.”

  Donna looked across the tiny table at the ugly, emaciated woman staring sourly at a Martini as if it were the total distillation of her life in a brittle glass bulb, and she thought that Aaron Burns had surely been in Gussie’s life a late and rather distorted recapitulation of this boy who had insisted on riding a motorcycle until he broke his neck at it. For this reason, because Aaron had turned to her and not to Gussie, Donna felt as if she had cheated and betrayed a friend. She knew that this feeling was ridiculous, but it disturbed her just the same, and she didn’t know what to say.

  “What a rotten thing to happen,” she said. “I’m sorry, Gussie.”

  “Well, it hardly matters any more, and I only mentioned it because of circumstances. It had very little effect on me, except to make me hate motorcycles and wet holes in the ground and sometimes myself and everything in general, and now I think we’d better talk about what is likely to happen to the shop. Do you think it will open again?”

  “I don’t know. Surely it will open, if only until it’s finally disposed of. That will probably be quite a long time off, for there are sure to be a lot of legal things to be settled. I don’t know much about such matters.”

  “Neither do I, and I guess there isn’t much use in discussing it at all, so far as that goes. We’re sure to be notified of what is expected of us.”

  “For the present, I should think it is in the hands of Aaron’s lawyer, Mr. Joslin. Do you think I should contact him?”

  “I doubt it. If he wants to talk with you about anything, he’ll let you know. Do you know him?”

  “Not well. I’ve met him a couple of times when I was with Aaron.”

  “He’s a nice guy. He was Aaron’s friend, as well as his lawyer, and once I spent a weekend with him at a place that doesn’t matter. I thought it would be pretty dull because he’s so dry and reserved, but on the weekend he was altogether different, quite gay and charming, and I had a very pleasant time.”

  Suddenly Gussie picked up her glass and drained it of the second Martini, as if it were something she had decided to get down quickly after considering
it all this time. After setting her glass down empty, she stood up.

  “I don’t believe I’ll stay and get slightly drunk after all,” she said. “I believe that I’ll go home and get thoroughly drunk instead. Would you care to come along and join me in the project?”

  “I don’t think so, Gussie. Thanks, anyhow. I’ll stay and have another Martini, if you don’t mind, and then I may go to the shop and try to work. I guess there would be no objection to my going to the shop now.”

  “Why should there be? You still have your key, and no one’s fired you yet. Call me if you learn anything, will you, darling?”

  “All right, Gussie. I’ll call.”

  Gussie left, and Donna ordered another Martini and drank it slowly. She didn’t actually feel like working, and did not, moreover, want to be alone in the shop where she had been so much. On the other hand, she did not want to go alone to her apartment, which was the only other alternative. So she continued to sit at the tiny table and nurse her drink, and when it was finally gone, she ordered and nursed another. This one, too, was gone after a while, and she was left with the choice of ordering still another or leaving. She would have preferred to stay, but she decided that she had better not. So she got up and went outside on the street and waited for a taxi to come along. While she waited, she still hesitated between the shop and her apartment, but once in a taxi she decided abruptly to go home.

  In the apartment, looking at herself in the long mirror of the dressing table, she thought that the dress she was wearing was one that Aaron would have liked. When she had passed by his casket, he had looked remote and unreal and utterly unlike anyone who had ever happened in her life, but now, thinking of him without seeing his gray husk, he was credible again and completely believable. She wondered where he really was, where he had gone off to so precipitately from the hall of his house, or if he had simply ceased to function or to exist in any conscious way. She had a feeling that she could at that moment, by making herself inwardly and outwardly utterly still, establish contact of some kind with him. She tried intensely to accomplish this, standing immobile before the glass that no longer reflected her image in the black dress, but there was only silence and stillness. After a while there was a stir and a sigh, and sound and motion resumed: nothing now was clear that had been obscure, nothing now was known that was not known before. Her mirror image returned, and she considered changing into something else, but at that moment the telephone rang in the living room.