by Ann Birch
7.
JAMES’S FUNERAL TAKES PLACE in Trinity Chapel, a few steps from where he had his office. Roberta stands at the open door at the back with Ed and Charlie and her mother Sylvia, who has driven in from Summerton. She looks at the huge stained-glass window at the front through which the sunlight streams. There is a splendid pipe organ, and the organist is playing Stravinsky’s fisherman’s song from The Nightingale. It’s the music James listened to on his last afternoon. The air is heavy with the scent of lilies.
Provost Witherspoon greets them. Roberta has asked him to conduct the service, and he’s resplendent in a spotless surplice and a green stole. He holds a large prayer book open in his hand. They follow him and the casket down the long aisle to the front of the chapel and hear the familiar words: “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord….”
The huge space is packed with students, colleagues, and friends. Roberta and her family seat themselves in one of the polished maple pews at the front of the chapel, and the pallbearers place the casket at the bottom of the steps leading up to the chancel. Roberta has chosen The Book of Common Prayer because she likes the liturgy. She is not a believer. Immersed as she is in the Greek pantheon, she loves a good story, and she looks on the Christian narratives as good stories, some of them amazingly like the Greek myths. As she listens now to the words of the time-honoured service, she wishes that she could believe: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” Beautiful. But meaningless. James’s self-inflicted death has left a leaking fissure inside her that will never heal. And his resting place in the family plot in the churchyard at St. George’s, in Summerton, will mark the end of his journey. Oh yes, Death is the victor.
The eulogies are given by two of James’s colleagues and one of his favourite students, and the service is almost over when Roberta hears footsteps on the carpeted aisle and turns around to see Carl Talbot making his way to the lectern. Without apology and without notes, he recites “Crossing the Bar,” one of the favourite old chestnuts from the Victorian Lit course that James taught for more than a decade. Carl has a pleasant bass voice, and years in the classroom have honed his delivery. Roberta listens, trying to be stoic, and she succeeds until the third stanza:
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that, the dark;
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
She thinks of James’s decision to embark, carried out in the twilight hours as he biked along Bloor Street, and of her ride in the cruiser through the dark city to the morgue on Grenville Street. There should have been some “sadness of farewell,” surely everyone deserves that, but James effectively shut her and the boys out. She struggles against the anger that invades her sorrow. Betrayal, that’s what it was. She realizes that she is crying when Charlie hands her a crumpled tissue, and he and Ed move closer to her. She notices that the Provost, who is seated facing the congregation, is crying too.
Afterwards, the crowd goes down the corridor and up four steps into Strachan Hall for the reception. Roberta has ordered plenty of wine and food, and dark-suited servers are ready with trays of filled glasses and canapés. James would have been impatient with all the schmoozing, as he called it. But she hopes a convivial atmosphere will deflect uncomfortable questions about his sudden death and keep speculation at bay.
People crowd around her. Her throat is dry and her head aches and she feels bruised. She does not really hear what they are saying. The clichés slide in and out of her consciousness.
There’s a brief moment when she finds herself alone with her mother under the portrait of Bishop Strachan, and that’s when Carl Talbot joins her.
He does not close in on her, as so many others have done, suffocating her in their embraces. He stands in front of her, shakes her hand, and holds it for a moment in a warm grasp. His solid presence is a comfort. “Rob,” he says, “you’ll be able to manage?” She’s thankful he doesn’t mention the words “unfortunate tragedy,” which she’s probably heard a hundred times in the past half-hour.
“Yes.” She introduces Sylvia. “Mother has asked me to stay with her in Summerton for a few days next week, and then I hope I’ll be able to pick up the pieces and start again. Is Claire here today? I haven’t seen her.”
“She’s too sick, I’m afraid. The last bout of chemo did her in. But my father came.” He turns around to the tall, stooped man hovering behind him. “Let me introduce you.”
Carl’s father extends a brown-spotted hand and offers condolences. As he speaks, Roberta notices his flushed face and realizes he has probably had too much to drink. Even so, she is not quite prepared for his next words, which seem to be a weird echo of her conversation with her mother on the day of James’s death. “It must have been difficult when you didn’t have a chance to care for your husband in his last moments and say goodbye to him properly.”
“Dad,” Carl says, “I don’t think Roberta needs to hear that. Let it be.”
Perhaps the old man is hard of hearing. At any rate, he continues to speak. “I have a beautiful daughter-in-law whom cancer has ravaged. She has lost her breasts.”
“Dad, please––”
“Her face is bloated from the poisons they pump through her system. Her hair has fallen out. Yet my son loves his wife as much now as he did when she was whole and perfect. I have always loved Carl” –– here he pauses and his voice breaks –– “but I love him most of all when I see him wiping Claire’s forehead and cleaning up her puke.”
Carl turns red, but he puts his arm around his father’s shoulders. “Thank you, Dad. I don’t think Roberta needs to know all this now, though. Shall I get your coat and we’ll go home?”
“Let me make my point, son.” Mr. Talbot’s voice is loud now. It attracts the attention of the groups nearby who stop their chattering to listen. But he goes on, heedless. “You will have guilt, my dear, because you were not there in your husband’s last moments. It’s a blessing when we can ease someone into death with love and care, as Carl has done for Claire. But it’s not always possible. Remember to put guilt aside, and go forward.” He turns to Carl. “I’ll just speak to Dr. Greaves’s sons, and then we’ll go home.”
“Sorry about that, Rob,” Carl says, as his father moves off. “He makes me into a saint, and some day — when it’s all over for Claire — I’ll tell you…” He breaks off, wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. “And if you ever have anything to tell me, I’m here, you know. You have my phone number.” He leans over, kisses her cheek, and turns in the direction of where his father is talking to Ed and Charlie.
“Silly old man,” Roberta’s mother says, a frown disturbing the perfection of her carefully applied makeup. “I need another drink after that little spiel.” She takes a glass of wine from the server who is hovering nearby.
John Schubert comes up to Roberta next. He is dressed in an impeccable grey suit, and as usual, he gives her his appraising stare. For a moment, she thinks he is actually going to comment on her black suit. Fortunately, he does not. “Roberta dear, so sorry. It was so sudden, wasn’t it? You know, I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that a man like James, used to cycling all over Toronto, would have such a terrible accident. So strange. How are you holding up?”
“Fine, thank you. It’s kind of you to come.” She tries to turn away, but he’s still talking.
“Did you like my review of The Cretan Manuscripts?”
She’s forgotten all about it, and the fact must show on her face, for he says, “Well, I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, dear. I said I liked the book, except for Euripida’s take on the Pygmalion story, which I’ve always found perfect in its original form. I thought––”
“I’m sorry, John. At the moment, I’m simply not up to holding a literary discussion with you. Perhaps when things settle down we can talk.”
“Of course. So I�
�ll say bye-bye now and let you get on with it.” He moves off in the direction of a server who is passing canapés on a silver tray.
“Your tone was a trifle rude, wasn’t it, Roberta?” her mother says. “He seemed to me to be a pleasant man. I think he was just trying to offer a diversion with that mention of his review.”
“Maybe, but I can’t listen to his blather just now.” Roberta hears her voice breaking. “Oh God, Mother, I’m cracking up.” She looks over to the exit sign. “Just hold the fort, will you, while I go to the washroom?”
As she heads up the three steps that lead to the back corridor and the toilets, she sees Ed and Charlie just behind her. “We’ll wait here for you, Mom,” Charlie says. “And when you come out, I think we should head home. We’ve all had enough for one day.”
It is past five o’clock when Roberta, Charlie, and Ed get back home. As they open the front door, they have to step around the pile of mail left on the vestibule floor. Ed picks it up and turns the envelopes over rapidly. “Quite a few condolence letters here, Ma, and a couple of business envelopes, bills by the look of them, that you’ll have to contend with,” he says. “But let’s forget about it for now. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
“I hope you haven’t got religion, bro,” Charlie says. “I don’t think I could handle a born-again right now.”
“What’s up, Ed? What do you mean by ‘evil’? Is there something in that pile I should know about?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But right now? Do you want to delve into all this right now?”
“No. I’ll go through it all tomorrow.” She needs space. When the boys have gone off to work and school in the morning, she’ll have a look at what’s there. She has arranged for a leave from Trinity for the rest of the fall semester. A retired prof who once taught her Classics in Translation course has agreed to take over the classes. That should be enough time to deal with the basics of whatever she has to confront.
Right now, two aspirins, a scalding bath, her flannelette pyjamas, and a hot water bottle are what she needs. Then into the arms of Morpheus. But Morpheus can take human form. If she falls into sleep, will James return in her dreams? What will he say to her? And how will she reply?
She stumbles up the stairs.
8.
IN THE MORNING, after a sleepless night, Roberta takes the mail to her study and spends several hours answering letters from friends who have sent condolences. She pushes herself at the task, tries to avoid the clichés that inevitably surface. But at the back of her mind, she thinks about the three business envelopes at the bottom of the pile and the way Ed spoke of them. Finally, they confront her. Probably only receipts, but she pours herself a glass of white wine, and settles in to deal with them — if any “dealing” is necessary.
The first envelope she opens is the contractor’s bill for the eavestroughs and kitchen cabinets: fifteen thousand dollars. The invoice says, “Final Notice.” How could that be? James paid for these two months ago. It had been his turn to take care of expenses. She opens the second envelope. “Takedown and clean-up of diseased mature Norway maple, including city arborist’s report,” and an invoice for just under five thousand dollars. And the third bill is for the new roof, another five thousand. But she has a distinct memory of writing a cheque to James for ten thousand dollars on the night that Carl and Claire came to dinner. That would have covered the tree and the roof. What has happened?
Three phone calls convince her that all these bills have, in fact, not been paid. Now she’s ripping mad. Then she remembers the house taxes. She makes a call to the municipal office and finds out about the tax arrears of four thousand dollars.
“You must have received our notices,” the male voice says.
Undoubtedly. But would she necessarily know? She lectures at Trinity every morning, and the postman comes at eleven. Which means that James could have picked the bills out of the mail before she got home. That is, if he was up to something, as Ed hinted at a few days ago.
She makes an appointment with the young man at the bank who is James’s so-called “financial planner.” Then she remembers that they probably will not tell her a thing without the death certificate. So, she makes a quick stop at the funeral home to pick it up, and then sets off in the direction of the bank. The two-kilometre walk takes her a quarter of an hour. She is so revved up by the time she arrives that when she looks into the mirror on the bank wall, she sees that her face is red from the wind and her long curly hair looks a bit like Medusa’s snakes.
“Justin” has a name-tag around his neck. He wears round glasses on his round face, and his tiny office is papered with certificates testifying to his prowess. His desk and computer are the main pieces of furniture. After shaking her hand, he gestures to a chair and sits down facing her across an expanse of cheap veneer.
“So sorry to hear of your husband’s passing,” he says. “I read about it in the paper. We do need the formal certificate of passing, though, and a copy of the will before I can give out any information.” She hands over the death certificate, and waits an interminable time for a teller to process her request to open her safety deposit box. By the time she has signed the register and retrieved the will from the box, she is ready to bite everyone within range.
Justin makes copies of the documents. “I see you’re the beneficiary and the executor,” he says, glancing at the will. “So we can probably go ahead without a probate. Now, how can I help you?”
Roberta smooths back the bangs that have fallen into her eyes. “I’ve received a number of unexpected bills today, and I need to know generally about my husband’s investments, though I’m aware you may not be able to tell me the whole story right now.”
Justin turns to one side to look at his computer and taps away for a minute. But he does not seem really focused. Roberta has the feeling all this is just a formality, that he knows what’s what without these manoeuvres. Long pause while he stares at the screen. Then he turns to face her. There are beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Your husband sold all his investments within the last two months.”
She can feel her heart thumping against her chest. The room becomes a small box, and she is trapped inside, like a guinea pig in a pet shop cage. “So the proceeds went into his bank account?” Even as she says this, she knows how ridiculous she sounds.
“No.”
“So, where…?”
“There’s nothing left. Worse, I’m afraid. He took out a loan for fifty thousand dollars just two weeks ago.” Justin pushes a box of tissues in her direction.
“You’re his financial planner, I believe. Why didn’t you…?” But she stops herself, realizing that it is wrong to blame this young man. “Never mind. Sorry. Just tell me, do you have any idea what he did with it all?”
“I only know that he told me he needed it for a new car.”
“A new car? Did he give you any details?”
“Just that he’d always wanted to drive a Jaguar XJL, and he’d found one he really liked. Believe me, I did try to talk to him about GICs and conservative mutual funds, and I even mentioned Toyota Corollas, but it was his money, and I had no right to withhold it from him. And face it, I’ve always wanted a Jag myself, not that I’ll ever be able to afford one. But I did understand his longing. We’d often talked about Jags before. ”
“Idiot!” For a moment, Roberta has no idea whether she means James or Justin. Then she sees Justin’s stricken face. “Sorry, sorry, I’m upset, but that’s no excuse.”
“I failed, I guess….” Justin’s voice trails off, and he takes back the Kleenex box and wipes his forehead with one of the tissues.
“Well, for sure he didn’t buy a car — Toyota or Jaguar — with that money. So what do you think happened to it?”
Justin shakes his head.
Roberta gets up. Justin rushes to open the door for her.
&nb
sp; “I think you walked here?” he asks. “Let me call you a cab now.”
But all she wants is the wind in her face again. A ride in the back seat of a smelly cab would extinguish her.
Back at home, she pours another glass of wine, tries to take a sip or two, and finds there is such a pain in her upper chest that she can scarcely swallow. She spits into the sink and throws the rest down the drain. She paces, waiting for her sons to arrive home. She’ll go mad if she has to keep the afternoon’s debacle to herself for much longer. Each time she goes to the front door to look out to see if they’re coming, she passes the family photo gallery on the wall in the hallway. There’s a framed photo of James. It shows him — tall, slender, smiling — in his riding gear, his hand on Bucephalus’s bridle.
The photo used to remind her of one of those old pictures of a gallant World War I pilot in his leather bomber jacket and jodhpurs, his long silk scarf trailing, standing by his Sopwith. But at this moment, at the end of this day of horrors, it seems phony, like a movie star’s publicity still. She rips it from the wall and throws it into a green plastic bag that she hides in the back of the downstairs closet.
She’s in the downstairs bathroom taking an aspirin when Charlie gets home from George Brown. “Hi, Mom,” he calls. “How’s it going? You okay?”
She hears him head for the kitchen. The fridge door opens, then shuts.
He is throwing his jacket over the hall banister as she emerges from the bathroom. “I had a pretty good day for a change,” he tells her, “considering this past week.” He launches into his account of cooking bannock in the open hearth at a local historic inn. It’s all part of his Applied Food History course, and he loves it.
“Why don’t I make us some? I’ll use the oven, since we don’t really need the hearth. Got any bear grease?” Not getting a response, he adds, “No lard, either, as far as I can tell. But not to worry, I’ll just run down to Rabba and get some.”
Finally, he notices her silence. “Why are we standing here? Something wrong?”
