A Family Trust

by Ward Just

  “And me,” she said quietly.

  They were interrupted by friends, and separated. At this service Marge Reilly preferred to sit with strangers, so she edged quietly away and sought one of the ushers. She was escorted down the aisle by a man she did not know. This one looked uncomfortable and when her hand inadvertently touched his, she knew he was a workingman, his fingers thick and ridged to the touch. His suit was electric blue and his shirt a dazzling, fuzzy white; obviously a new shirt, and he moved uneasily in it. He mumbled something to her as she sat in a pew in the middle of the church on the left side- He seemed to want her to sit elsewhere, he was so nervous and awkward in his movements. When she turned to thank him she saw he was sweating, and his eyes could not meet hers. Then she remembered: he would be one of the men from the plant, doubtless the superintendent of one of the mechanical departments. She smiled encouragingly at him and he fled down the aisle. She turned to greet the man on her left and saw it was Luther Roberts, Amos’s hired man. But Luther Roberts did not notice her, so intently was he staring at the coffin and its bank of flowers at the front of the church, under the plain cross.

  The coffin was open. The old man’s bullet head, white, fringed with wispy white hair, was barely visible against the polished bronze and white satin. She wished they hadn’t done that, there was no necessity for it. She felt the man beside her stiffen, and she wondered what it was that he stared at so. Then she saw the family, waiting in the wings. She listened to the rumble of the organ and watched the people file in. It was probably the biggest funeral that Dement had ever seen or ever would see. Everyone from the courthouse and Bake Street and some out-of-towners as well. There were representatives from many of the state’s largest newspapers. Kerrigan had told her to expect that, remarking that it was exactly similar to the death of a head of state. Other governments, those that were friendly as well as those that were not, always sent official mourners.

  The family filed in from an anteroom to the right. Mitch and his wife, first, then Tony and his wife, finally Charles and Lee. They stood awkwardly, pivoting; then Charles made a brusque motion with his hand and Dana and Jake filed in. There was confusion as they arranged themselves around their parents. Then they all sat, the heaveily veiled women instantly dipping their heads. The rumble of the ourgan sent shivers trough the quiet of the church, and the Reverend Horace Greismann moved slowly to the pulpit. Marge lapsed into reverie, lulled by the organ’s echo. She loved listening to her father and Amos, so secure with each other. Her father was not what anyone would call a conspicuous success; he’d read law and opened an office but mainly he managed the family farms. He’d done well enough, better than he might have, not so well as he could have. He and Amos, they were two of a kind. They liked to reminisce about the land, just that. How it had been, what it had. become. Who owned which parcels and how the parcels had come to be acquired, the reasons for the success of one family and the failure of another. Who was down on his luck and why and solutions—a job to be found for this man, a loan for that. Between them, they knew everyone who mattered. She could hear them now in the parlor, their heads almost touching, their voices low, a vibrating timbre, punctuated now and again by scornful laughter. Once, she’d been thrilled to hear them talking about her Amos leaning over in his chair and tapping her father on the knee. That’s a fine daughter you’re got. That Marge, she’s entirely reliable and aboveboard. Then a few words she could not hear and finally, You’re a lucky man, you rascal. When she’d come to him years ago to discuss a job in the courthouse he’d listened and arranged for her to work in the clerk’s office. Skeptical, he said he couldn’t understand why a fine girl would want to bury herself away in that marble zoo—but if that was what she wanted, he’d see what he could do. She was twenty-five, then and it was evident to her that she would not marry She was attached to her father, caring for him when he was ill, cooking for him, and managing the family homestead near the bog. She did not feel put-upon or cheated in any way. She was happy looking after him. It was not a perfect life but no lives were perfect and she was satisfied in other ways. She felt a tug when she saw children like Jake and Dana Rising but of course if she’d had a husband and children she could not have gone into politics, or devoted herself to her father. And she liked politics. She liked the courthouse milieu and she liked to campaign, not that there was ever any danger of her losing an election. When she was thirty indeed it was her thirtieth birthday, Amos called her into his office and suggested that she run for county clerk. She protested that she had no backing. The present clerk, everyone knew he had family problems, but he was an able clerk. No, Amos said, you’ll have all the backing you’ll need. “The incumbent will not be renominated.” So she ran and won and that was twenty-one years ago. Now she was a fixture in the courthouse, a familiar face in the building and on the ballot. If only she could keep her health; the job sustained her, the quadrennial victory at the polls a validation (in part) of the path she had chosen. And it was a path taken by choice, nothing had been forced upon her. Now Amos had brought her into the I itself, she and Elliott Townsend empowered to rule on any sale or transfer of stock. Her father would be pleased. He believed the Reillys had special responsibilities as a pioneer family ... She felt movement beside her; Luther Roberts was standing; they were all standing for the hymn. Horace Greismann was ascending the pulpit very slowly; he looked so frail and worn, his skin like parchment, his long face grim as death itself, his fingernails scraping the rail as he rose step by step.

  The family: Charles on the outside, then Mitch, then Tony. Their children and wives were between them, all squeezed into one long row. But it was the boys who commanded attention. Dana was between her father and mother, turning the pages of the hymnal, her head bowed. She joined the congregation as it sang, Pastor Greismann’s reedy voice leading the way. A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. Her voice was barely audible. The last time Dana had witnessed a funeral was two years ago, when they had brought her brother home from Korea in a pine box wrapped in an American flag, two soldiers as escort. The box was sealed and until last year her mother had held out hope that Frank was still alive, wandering somewhere in Korea, or in a prison camp. She remembered the slow cadence of the eulogy; everyone was weeping. The church was crowded then too, and she remembered her grandfather’s hard, ravaged face. Greismann had given Frank’s eulogy and it had seemed to her that he’d gotten everything wrong. She remembered listening to it, believing that she would go to pieces. “. . . a gallant soldier in our gallant army ...” Then some reference to MacArthur, then mercifully he was done. Her legs had begun to tremble uncontrollably and she had to lean against her grandfather for support. He’d held her tight at his side for the remainder of the service, none of which she remembered now. She had bawled without shame. There was just the coffin and the flag and the two soldiers on either side of it. It was a nightmare to her now, the memory of her legs shaking and out of control; her mind and body out of control. She had feared the same reaction today but it had not happened. She moved closer to her father, taking his arm.

  Then Horace Greismann was speaking. His slender voice carried to the center of the church and then died. Dana caught only a few words, “eternal rest . . . a triumphant life . . .” and one or two other words and phrases, heard and forgotten at once. She felt the tension inside her mother and father, particularly her father; she sensed the fire inside him. And behind her, a thousand eyes boring into the backs of their heads—the rifles of a firing squad. She realized then that she hated the public nature of this; it was as if they were all onstage. It was a public ceremony. She wished she were incognito in the back of the church. She would have liked to have sat with Marge Reilly, inconspicuous, anonymous among the mourners. They thought she didn’t understand it, this funeral; but she understood all of it, every single thing. It was as if Dement were a firmament, the sphere containing the fixed stars. The polestar was now extinguished and all navigation therefore chaotic. For forty years Am
os Rising had been the polestar, all other lights measured in relation to his. Now he was gone and the family would have to readjust no less than the town. There was already a subtle change in her father. His tone of voice was different, and his manner had become suddenly heavy.

  Her mother whispered to her, “A lovely eulogy.”

  She nodded. Yes. She had not heard a word, save those few which she had no use for, and did not believe. She gave her father’s arm a squeeze, but he did not respond.

  Her mother whispered, “It’s almost over.”

  She nodded again. “I know.”

  Now they were standing. The organ thundered and light suddenly burst into the church, painting the walls a vivid white. The family shuddered as if struck. From her seat Marge saw Charles put his hand to his cheek, his gaze never leaving the dead man; Tony swayed and was steadied by his wife. A few rows ahead she noticed Tom Kerrigan, one eyebrow raised in God knew what cynical speculation. He was seated with Elmer Tilberg, Judge Axelsen, and Aces Evans. As she sang her eyes wandered front again and she saw Elliott Townsend, both hands gripping the rail in front of him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, though his body did not move. He was still as stone. And ahead of him Dana, looking almost indecently lovely, her long auburn hair curling over her shoulders, her slender body bent slightly forward. Marge saw her hand touch her father’s elbow, and fall away.

  The hymn was ending. She shifted her feet and accidentally bumped the man on her left, Luther Roberts. When her arm touched his she felt him tremble. Looking left, she saw that he was crying and it shocked her; she’d not expected it, he seemed so impassive. Huge tears stood in the corners of his red eyes, and he had ceased singing. Her glance was swift and she immediately looked away, not wanting to interfere. She had a fierce desire to put her hand on his arm and say something comforting, but did not. Something about him discouraged that. He stood, massive and stooped, starting at the flower-laden coffin.

  The family wobbled down the aisle, Lee in the lead, then Charles and Dana. The sunlight was blinding and Lee walked straight into it, head high, though Marge could see she was unconfident; she was not comfortable leading this procession. Marge tried to catch Dana’s eye but the girl was avoiding all contact, her face grave and cast down. She smiled weakly as the other members of the family passed by, Mitch tight-lipped and Tony slack and worn-out. She heard Luther Roberts mutter amen as the pallbearers began their long walk, struggling with the bronze coffin. Desmond, the managing editor, and the man in the electric blue suit were in the lead, gripping the coffin rails with both hands. Elliott Townsend was the last man on the right side, his hand laid flat on the shoulder of the coffin, an escort providing safe conduct. Horace Greismann followed, clutching his Bible to his chest like a nosegay, his face gaunt as a mule’s and his eyes shining. He nodded to her as he strode stiffly by. Counting the house, she thought.

  Now they were all moving down the aisle and out of the church. Conversation began in a murmur and grew to a low roar. She stepped out of the pew, looking around to smile at the colored man behind her. He returned her smile, entirely composed now. Outside in the sunlight, pressed up against the others who’d gathered on the steps, she felt a hand at her elbow.

  Dana said shyly, “I wanted to say hello . . .”

  “Oh Dana.” Marge said, pleased, “I’—”

  “How are things at the courthouse?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Keeping you busy?”

  “About the same.”

  Dana looked around her. “They’re all present and accounted for, it looks like.”

  “Of course there’s terrible shock just now,” Marge said, keeping her voice low. “Your grandfather, you know, he was . . .” She said, “There was no one like him. Never will be.” Dana did not respond and she said, “Wasn’t it a lovely service?”

  Dana looked at her, her eyes narrowing. “They never tell the truth. They didn’t tell the truth about Frank, either.”

  Marge Reilly smiled sympathetically at Dana, this girl she’d watched grow up. Dana Rising had never been reluctant to speak her mind, ever. And she was Amos’s favorite, in the two years since her brother’s death. Marge said, “Well.” Horace Greismann was—Horace Greismann. You took him and you knew what you were getting. She said, “We’ll all miss him,” meaning Amos.

  “It was the same with Frank.”

  “I know, dear,” she said.

  “Grandpa didn’t think dying was a triumph. As a matter of fact, he hated it. That’s what he told me. He told me he was dying and he hated it. Why couldn’t the service’ve been private?”

  “Oh, Dana!” The older woman was truly shocked. “He had so many friends, he knew everyone in the county. There were so many people in the church, so many standing in the rear—”

  Dana said, “I saw them.”

  “They wanted a chance—”

  Dana smiled sadly at her, making words unnecessary.

  “—to pay their respects,” she ended lamely.

  “I wish it had been different,” Dana said. Then, “I’ve got to go now. At least the burial is private, or mostly private, and we’re through with the eulogies.” She smiled hesitantly and hurried down the steps, eyes lowered. Marge watched her go, watched the crowd in front of the church make a path for her as she hurried to the limousine at the curb. Dana’s manner bothered Marge Reilly. It was—superior. She thought Dana was too young to put herself at such a distance from people. She saw in Dana qualities that distressed her in other young people, a silent stubbornness and refusal to—what? Be “nice.” They were difficult to satisfy ... Marge turned to find Tom Kerrigan at her side, grinning.

  “Come over here,” Kerrigan whispered, steering her to a vacant place on the sidewalk. “I’ve got a bet with Axelsen. I’ll make the same bet with you, even odds on a fin.” He looked at her, suppressing laughter. “Even odds that Aces will be the first one over there. The first one to express his condolences and deepest regrets personally.” He pointed to the three black limousines idling at the curb, one car for each brother and his family. There was a problem with the coffin; the pallbearers were struggling to get it inside the hearse. Meanwhile, the families waited impatiently in the limousines, all of them staring straight ahead, silent. Those on the sidewalk were collected in small groups, talking quietly and maintaining a respectful distance from the cars. The eyes of the mourners darted to the cars and back again.

  “Oh, Tom,” she began, exasperated.

  “No, watch! There he is, look at him. He’s trying to make up his mind.”

  It was true. Harold (“Aces”) Evans was rocking back and forth on his heels, a sprinter in the blocks. He was talking fitfully with Judge Axelsen and a township supervisor. Suddenly he made up his mind and broke, lurching over to the first of the limousines, the one containing Charles Rising and his wife and daughter. Aces Evans tapped loudly on the window glass but Dana waited a moment before she pushed the button that brought it down.

  “Thank you, young lady.” He looked past her into the interior of the car.

  Dana stared at him blankly. “What do you want?” The question so took him aback that he was speechless, his mouth forming O’s like a fish. Very calmly the girl asked again, “What do you want here?” and gave a little toss of her head.

  “Dana!” Charles said sharply

  Aces Evans smiled warmly and looked past the girl to Charles and Lee. He knew she was still looking at him. “It was a beautiful service, simply beautiful,” he said, “and I want to take this opportunity to say how sorry I am—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans,” Lee said.

  Dana was staring at him. He moved away slowly, backing up, but not before he heard Dana ask her mother. “Can I roll the window up now?” It was the coldest voice he’d ever heard in his life.

  Kerrigan and Marge Reilly had heard none of this. Kerrigan said, “A fin, you owe me.”

  “Tom, you’re going to get in trouble one of these days.”

&nb
sp; “I’ve got an eye for it,” he said. “Look at Aces, he’s got the look of a kid who got away with the cookies. Got his hand in the jar and got it out again. Barely.” That was true, too. Aces Evans was sauntering back to the de Priest-Axelsen group, his demeanor signaling his concern for the bereaved—though if anyone had looked closely they would have seen something else in his face, too. He shook his head sadly, though confidently. He was confident they’d pull through, as he’d just spoken to the principal son; offered his condolences in person. He was in a position to say that they’d pull through all right, they were a tough family Now others moved up to the limousine. Marge saw that Lee Rising had a look of horror on her face; Charles was speaking sternly to Dana. Then to everyone’s surprise Charles got out of the car. The pallbearers were still struggling with the coffin. He shook hands with those near the car. Horace Greismann put his hand on Charles’s shoulder. The coffin was now inside the hearse and they were ready to go. Charles moved back to the car, then hesitated and turned and walked up the steps of the church.

  He took Marge Reilly’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. He shook hands with Kerrigan, accepting condolences. He said, “The burial is private. But I ought to be back in my office by five-thirty. Why don’t you and Tom come by for a drink and we’ll talk a little.”

  She nodded and said, “Of course,” without thinking. Tom Kerrigan just nodded.

  “There’ll be two or three others there,” he said, backing down the steps. The others on the sidewalk were looking at them.

  She said, “Fine, Charles.”

  “I’ll see you then,” he said, moving down the steps.

  She watched the first of the cars go, then something jogged her memory. She said to Kerrigan, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was sitting next to Luth Roberts—”

  “Who’s Luth Roberts?”

  “Worked for Amos,” she said. “For years. Sort of a gardener, though there weren’t many gardens to speak of around the house. Luth looked after things, mostly Amos, drove him around sometimes. He cared for Amos when the family wasn’t there, which they nearly always were.”