by Raj, Carol;
Stan and Natalie were arguing. Their voices rose and fell, loud, regular, and unrelenting. Two strong-willed people sharing one house. Two only children, both used to getting their own way.
A key turned in the front door.
Chloe entered with her fiancé. “Gram! I’m so glad you’re safe!” She bent down and gave Muriel a big hug. Chloe straightened up, putting one hand on either side of her stomach. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s in your father’s study. It seems I’ve sprained my ankle. Could you tell me where I can find something to put my foot up on? I don’t want you to carry anything heavy in your condition. But the nurse was rather insistent about my foot.”
“Well, Gram, I’m kind of in a rush. Maybe Phillip could get something for you?” Chloe batted her eyelashes at her fiancé.
“Sure, Pumpkin,” Phillip said. “I can do that for you.” But he made no move.
The phone rang, an insistent interruption.
Chloe cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. “Mom! Phone! Oh, shoot. I suppose I’ll have to get it, won’t I?”
“You could let the machine pick up.”
“Mom hates when I do that.” Chloe picked up the phone, said hello, and then listened.
A deep male voice sounded on the other end, crisp and curt.
“Dad!” Chloe shouted. “Dad!! Phone! Something about your business.”
Stan’s study door remained closed. There was no sign anyone even heard Chloe.
Stan and Natalie’s voices continued undulating, the pitch rising again.
“Oh, shoot,” Chloe said again. She went down the hallway and banged on the study door. “Mom! Dad! Phillip’s here. Can’t you keep your voices down? And Dad, somebody’s on the phone. Some government guy. Pick up the extension, will you? I’m expecting a call myself.”
Some government guy? Calling about Stan’s business?
The study door opened with a click and Stan stuck his head out. “You can’t give people your cell phone number? We pay a fortune every single month for that blasted contraption, Chloe.”
“Well, I can’t give my personal number out to just anybody, Dad. Geez. Pick up. I’ll hang up the receiver in the living room.”
On her way back to the phone, Chloe stopped to leaf through the pile of mail that was on an antique table near the door, stopped to interlock her fingers with Phillip’s, then stopped to give Muriel a pat on her shoulder. By the time Chloe finally hung up the receiver, Muriel had heard enough of the on-going conversation to know something was very wrong. Whoever had called was angry, Stan himself conciliatory. That seemed a contradiction in terms.
“Well,” said Natalie as she came into the room. “Anybody for a nice, hot cup of tea?” Natalie’s lips were freshly painted, perhaps to draw attention away from the dark circles under her eyes. Her meticulously rouged cheekbones twitched ever so slightly. As if a floodlight had been turned on in a dark room, Muriel suddenly saw that forty-five-year-old Natalie was a woman, who, in spite of her ostentatious wealth, was afraid.
Superimposed on Natalie’s middle-aged face was the face of the four-year-old who had brought her mother bunches of dandelions from the vacant lot across the street. And the six-year-old who had trotted off to the school bus for the first time all by herself. And the eight-year-old who had spent all her money on that gaudy mirror at a neighborhood garage sale. Each of those Natalies was as real to Muriel as the others.
“I’ll have a cup of tea. That sounds wonderful.” Muriel looked around the room. ”Doesn’t tea sound wonderful, everyone?”
Making tea would give Natalie something to do so she needn’t sit and make polite small talk and pretend everything was OK.
“Maybe you could use your nice silver tea set, dear.”
“Honestly, Mother. I know what to serve tea on. Some of us do have a social life, you know.” Natalie marched through the swinging door that led into the kitchen and let it slam behind her. China clattered. Water ran from the faucet. Cupboard doors squeaked open and banged closed. But just as Muriel was about to put her foot up on the coffee table, Pickles or no, there was a deafening silence in the kitchen.
If she went into the kitchen, Natalie would yell at her: “Why couldn’t you just wait, Mom? Don’t you know I don’t like to be bothered when I’m working?”
If Muriel stayed in the living room, Natalie would complain that her own mother hadn’t even come out to see if everything was OK.
Roxanne was leaning toward the television set now as if to hear better.
Chloe and Phillip were sitting as close as two people could possibly sit, touching each other’s lips with their forefingers, oblivious to the world. There was no sign of Stan.
Natalie’s silence was lasting far too long.
Muriel rose from the wing chair and pushed open the swinging door.
China shattered.
Oh, my.
She peered through.
Natalie’s beautiful bone china tea set, the one with the red rosebuds and the gilt edging, was scattered in a hundred pieces all over the kitchen floor. The largest intact piece was the handle of the teapot soaking in a spreading puddle of tea.
Natalie had dropped to her knees in the middle of the mess, head in her hands, oblivious to the tan fluid spreading up her skirt. Natalie glanced up. “Mother! Look what you made me do!”
“I’m sorry. I was just coming to see if you could use some help.”
“Well, honestly. If your idea of help is making me…”
A sound like a car backfiring came from the direction of Stan’s study.
Muriel gasped. “What was that?”
Natalie’s voice was just above a whisper. “Oh, my God.”
How many times had Muriel asked Natalie not to say those particular words? Natalie used them for everything from a broken stiletto heel to Chloe’s first “needs improvement” on her kindergarten report card. This was the only time the words actually seemed appropriate.
Muriel pushed through the swinging door and entered the living room.
Everyone had risen. Even Pickles was standing at attention, her front two feet planted on Roxanne’s left sneaker. Everyone was staring down the hall in the direction of Stan’s study. No one made a move.
Muriel should go down the hallway to peek through the study door. She should make sure Stan was all right. She was the mother, after all. But she could not get her legs to move. Her sprained ankle was beginning to throb. And suddenly it seemed even more logical for her to sit down before her leg buckled. She hobbled back to the wing chair and sat.
Everybody else continued standing in place, eyes unblinking, trapped in an unending moment of time.
Natalie came through the kitchen door, the back of her skirt discolored and sopping wet. Tiny fragments of broken china clung to the textured fabric. Natalie opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it again. She walked down the hallway toward the study, her back ramrod straight, her head high. She paused halfway to the study and turned just a little to the side, as if she were tempted to retreat. Then she resumed her walk, more slowly this time, each step an apparent triumph of will power over fear.
Muriel’s heart broke. Oh, how she loved Natalie. Sometimes they got mad at each other. It didn’t mean their relationship no longer mattered. Lord, help my daughter.
For a minute, maybe two, maybe forever, Natalie stood outside the study door. Finally, she reached one hand out to the doorknob, paused, then turned the knob and pushed the door open. She peeked in. Then she collapsed on the carpet.
Muriel raced down the hallway and sank down beside Natalie. She didn’t need to look into the study. There were so many things Muriel wanted to say. But only two words came out. “Oh, Natalie.” Muriel reached an arm around her daughter and drew her close.
For the first time since she was sixteen, Natalie leaned against Muriel and sobbed.
Muriel rocked her back and forth as if she were a small child. Tears ran down Muriel’s cheeks, too. Minutes later, Nat
alie, with Muriel still holding her, struggled to her feet.
A proper suicide note in Stan’s own handwriting lay on his desk. Splatters of blood smeared the ink on the engraved vellum stationery, but every word was legible.
Muriel glanced at the page. Something about borrowing money from his clients’ accounts and needing more assets to pay them back. No wonder Stan never wanted to give her any of her money. He had already spent it. To think Howard was right all along.
“I’ll call 9-1-1.” Muriel’s voice didn’t even sound like her own. It wasn’t like her to take control, especially in Natalie’s house. But her daughter was hurting.
The police came and interviewed everyone. Two men came in a hearse and took Stan’s body away. Then there was silence.
Natalie walked to the kitchen then came back to the study with a bucket of water and two sponges. She handed one sponge to Muriel without saying a word. Natalie got down on her hands and knees, and started to scrub Stan’s blood off the once pristine white carpet. Muriel knelt beside her, sponge in hand, her salt tears mingling with the now pink water.
Chloe left, half hysterical, mumbling that Phillip would drive her to a friend’s house.
No one was listening.
They were all enveloped in a cocoon of shock and disbelief.
Even Roxanne.
16
What a nice big funeral Stan was going to have. Muriel was glad to see Pastor Jorgensen officiating. He had been such a blessing to her after Howard died.
Muriel stood a foot away from Natalie and looked out over the rest of the crowd. Members of the local financial community mingled on the other side of the casket. Muriel recognized the manager of her bank and a stockbroker who had given a presentation at one of those free lunch seminars. In their black suits and striped ties, they looked like an ad for a business convention. Their expressions were grim. Well, of course they were. It wasn’t every day a Ponzi scheme rocked the local financial world. The front-page news had crowded out the fact of Muriel’s kidnapping being resolved.
Chloe was standing with Phillip a few steps to the rear. They were discussing something heatedly when they’d emerged from Phillip’s Mercedes. Now they stood feet apart as a light drizzle turned into a heavier shower. Chloe’s hair and dress were getting soaked. The fabric clung to her bulging stomach. But she didn’t move under the umbrella Phillip held. And he didn’t reach it over her.
How odd.
Muriel looked around. There was no sign of Phillip’s father or mother. They should have come. Chloe was carrying their grandchild. She was their future daughter-in-law. Why weren’t they here to support her? Something was not right.
Muriel dug past her house keys and Natalie’s mirror to get to the tissues at the bottom of her purse. She was glad she had the distraction of searching for something. She felt such sorrow for her daughter standing there so stiff, so still. Natalie’s eyes were hidden behind the darkest wraparound sunglasses. In the midst of such a large crowd, she seemed so alone.
It was hard to become a widow at any age. But Natalie had her entire life ahead of her. She could go back to school. Start a lucrative career. Maybe travel. Perhaps she’d even find somebody else to marry. She had so many options. Women who were widowed later in life didn’t have any options at all. Not poor women. Not women like Muriel.
Stan’s casket looked expensive. Well, of course it was expensive. Natalie wouldn’t have it any other way.
Muriel had been forced to buy a pine casket for Howard. From his bed in the hospice house, he had grasped her wrist with the little strength he had left and made her promise. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. No point in putting dust and ashes into an expensive box that will be buried six feet underground. Who’s going to see it? Keep the money you save. Use it to make your life easier after I’m gone. Those are my last wishes. Now don’t you go disobeying me.”
Muriel would have promised him anything at that point. But keeping her promise broke her heart. Ten years later her choice of a plain pine casket still haunted her. Howard had scrimped and saved all his life, buying used shirts at a Salvation Army store, borrowing last year’s best sellers from the public library, doing his own household repairs in his free time on the weekends. Yet he never once complained about the little luxuries his wife and daughter brought home from their shopping sprees. He hovered over their tote bags, eager to see their purchases, beaming in delight as they paraded their treasures in front of him.
Muriel would have liked Howard to have one last quality item to call his own. He deserved it.
She wondered what kind of lining Natalie had chosen. Something expensive, for sure. It would be silly to put a cheap lining in an expensive casket. Too bad nobody would ever see it. The casket was closed throughout the wake. It remained closed now. What with the wound to the head, there was only so much the funeral home employees could do to make Stan look presentable.
Oh, Natalie. I’m here for you. Just tell me how I can help.
Muriel dared not reach out. Whether Natalie took her hand or shook it off, Muriel would have burst into tears.
Muriel remembered how alone she felt after Howard died. Even with Natalie and Stan and Chloe and Roxanne standing by her side. Howard’s funeral had been so small. The funeral home employees had straightened up and paused as another car drove into the cemetery, hopeful it might be one more loved one joining the short service. But it was only a stranger with a little boy bearing flowers to another grave.
Ten years was so long ago. Muriel couldn’t remember the words anybody spoke at Howard’s funeral. Perhaps she was too stunned to really listen. All she remembered was how the sky turned the color gray that predicted rain and the wind came up, blowing through the light outer wraps everyone had optimistically worn. Did the weather always turn dismal for funerals? Sometimes it seemed that way. As if the whole universe were in mourning.
“I just buried my husband,” Muriel had whispered to Natalie. “I don’t want to be all alone.”
“Well, you have to get used to being alone sooner or later.” Natalie had left then, dragging eleven-year-old Chloe behind her as if she were a rag doll. Natalie hadn’t even glanced back.
And now, it was Natalie’s turn.
Muriel stuffed her half-used tissue back into her purse. She glanced again at Natalie, standing tall and stern, looking as unmoved as a marble statue. Muriel wanted to tell her that everything would be OK. That the sharp edges of sorrow would become blunter with time, smooth like driftwood. But she knew Natalie wouldn’t believe it. Not now.
Pastor Jorgensen cleared his throat before he started to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered together today to say good-bye to our friend, Stan. Please bow your heads as we open in prayer.”
17
The over-sized sofas in the lawyer’s reception area seemed chosen to dwarf the clients. Even the upscale magazines on the polished tables were intimidating. Muriel felt seriously underdressed in her Capri pants. If only Natalie had given her a little more warning. It wasn’t like Natalie to ask anyone for help. Especially her mother. This morning she’d sounded so desperate when she’d called. Accompanying her seemed the right thing to do.
“Natalie, this is scary. Nothing like the lawyer’s office where your father and I had our wills done. That was two rooms above an Italian restaurant. You could smell the tomato sauce.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Stan and this lawyer were friends. It’ll be OK. I’m just not used to being here alone.”
Muriel’s feet sank into plush carpeting as a secretary in a business suit and three-inch heels led the two of them back to the lawyer’s office. It was bigger than Muriel’s bedroom. Law books with gold lettering on the spines filled wall-to-wall shelves. The lawyer wore what looked like an expensive watch and a diamond tie tack. Muriel wondered how much he got paid per hour. Probably more than Social Security deposited every month into her checking account.
Muriel could feel the palms of her hands sweating. She looked over at Nat
alie, who seemed totally relaxed.
Until the lawyer started talking.
How could he have gotten everything so wrong? Muriel rubbed her right ear as if the problem might be her hearing.
Natalie sat up straighter in her chair. “What do you mean there’s no life insurance? I know Stan had life insurance. You can’t tell me he didn’t. He wanted me to be taken care of. He complained about the premiums all the time. You’d better check your records again.”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “Your husband took out a loan on his policy a few months ago. He said he needed the money. Temporarily. He was quite adamant about it being only temporary. I’m sure he meant to pay the loan back.” He interlaced his fingers over the vest of his three-piece suit. A diamond ring flickered from his right hand. “Natalie, I know this is all very hard to hear. Especially under these circumstances. But I have to tell you the truth. To sugar coat it would not work in your best interests in the long run.”
Natalie sighed. “What about the life insurance policy from Stan’s work? I know it wasn’t much, but at least it was something.”
The lawyer looked down at his gold-plated pen then back up. “I’m sorry. That policy had a provision that there would be no payout in the event of a suicide.”
“And the equity in the house?” Natalie’s voice was rising like a hot air balloon straining against its ropes.
Muriel reached her hand over to pat Natalie’s. Natalie gripped it the way survivors from the Titanic must have held on to floating pieces of board.
Natalie’s desperation had to be evident to the lawyer. It was certainly evident to Muriel.
“There must be equity in the house,” Natalie continued. “Stan was a financial planner. He took care of all those things.”
The lawyer shook his head. “You had an interest-only mortgage. You signed the papers right here in my office. Don’t you remember? Housing prices have gone down in this area. If you sell your house, you won’t get what you paid for it. There’s no equity. I’m sorry.”
