In her room she dressed quickly in warm, wool slacks and a bright cherry-colored sweater with reindeer prancing across the neckline and shoulders. She felt cheerful as she marched down the steps to the first floor, where she consumed an enormous breakfast of griddle cakes, scrambled eggs, and succulent pink ham. While she sipped at her third cup of coffee and smoked her second cigarette, she took the time to look around the dining room. The furniture was warm, rich, and comfortable. The paintings on the wall were American. Over the buffet was a scene of Philadelphia in the early twenties. On the two small walls were pictures of the Cricket Club and the main street in Chestnut Hill. On the largest wall was a very small drawing that stood out starkly. Jory stared at it, certain one of Griffin Ballon’s children had done it and Justine had hung it out of respect to her banker friend.
It was a crude drawing, but handsomely matted and framed. Jory walked over to stare at the small picture. In pleasing script the word “Home” was centered over the picture. In the bottom right-hand corner were the initials E.P. E.P.? Ethel Pullet, of course. One didn’t need to be a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out what this was. Justine’s home when she was a child. Jory’s eyes burned as she stared at the run-down shanty with rags stuck in the broken window, with strips of wood nailed in between the slats. The front door wasn’t a front door at all, but more like a slab of wood. Jory found herself biting down on her knuckles to prevent herself from crying. She continued to stare at the shack through a misty haze, at a plume of smoke curling upward, at the arthritic tree in the middle of a scraggly yard full of old tires, rusty wheels, and empty wooden boxes. In small letters the word “toys” was printed. Jory bit down harder on her knuckles when she concentrated on a stick figure dressed in baggy clothes, walking in a crab crouch, a long-necked bottle in his hands, up the crooked, cracked walkway to the door that wasn’t a door. Justine’s father, a whiskey bottle in his hand.
Jory ran from the room, down the corridor to the room that held the Christmas tree, taking long, gasping breaths. She sat down, her legs trembling and threatening to go out from under her, on a sofa that was like her own at home and just as comfortable. She lit a cigarette with shaking hands, blowing a gusty plume of smoke toward the Christmas tree.
“I suppose you want an explanation of that picture,” Justine said fretfully as the houseman carefully lowered her into a deep, comfortable armchair with an attached ottoman.
“No, no, not at all,” Jory said quietly. “Justine, you don’t owe me any explanations about anything. How are you this morning? The maid said you didn’t come downstairs till noon. Are you up to this? I have this feeling my visit is going to tax your strength. I don’t want that, Justine. I can just as easily come upstairs and talk to you in your room.”
“I want to be here. I had the tree put up early so I could spend my time in this room just staring at it. My time is . . . uncertain, and I guess I want to soak up as much as I can before I . . . go to that other place.”
Jory was off the sofa faster than a shot and on her knees next to Justine’s chair. She was crying, openly, making no effort to stanch her flow of tears. “It’s not right. You should have many more years ahead of you. You . . . what will I do without you? You were always there for me . . . you were my support, my cushion. These past seven years were only possible because of you,” Jory wailed.
“I knew you were going to bawl. Now stop it before I start. I’m just going . . . somewhere else. I’ll be watching over you, and so will Griffin if you give him half a chance. Just because I’m . . . not here physically, doesn’t mean you’re going to fold up.” Justine’s voice weakened and then grew stronger when she asked for a cigarette. “When this is finished, light me another one,” Justine grumbled. “While I smoke them, tell me about the magazine. How’d you like your room?”
“Justine, it’s beautiful. It’s from the July issue two years ago, right?” Justine nodded proudly. “Should I be calling you Ethel or Mrs. Pullet?”
“Hell no,” Justine sputtered around the smoke coming out her mouth.
Jory hugged her knees, her eyes on Justine’s thin face. How bright her eyes were, how very curious. “Well, here goes. The first two years were a living nightmare. I screwed up things so badly I wanted to quit, but Clarence wouldn’t let me. I wasted money, dumped magazines, hired a few wrong people, believed other people when I shouldn’t have, got taken to court by several of our advertisers. Whatever could go wrong, went wrong. I didn’t really get my feet wet until the third year. Out of that year I put out four really good issues. I hired this all-female marketing firm to help me, and Justine, this group of gals was on the money. They were worth every penny I paid them.
“I couldn’t get credit, as you know. A woman asking for vast sums of money made me a joke in the bankers’ eyes. If you hadn’t kept pouring money into the magazine, I could never have stuck it out.”
“I set it all up for you, why did you even bother trying it on your own? I told you what would happen. I wanted to spare you the humiliation, the unfairness from all those damn, stuffy, holier-than-thou bankers,” Justine said in her fragile, raspy voice.
Jory shrugged. “I had to try it on my own, Justine. I tried to view it as a challenge, and it was, believe me.”
“What you did, Marjory, was to integrate pragmatism with inspiration, worldly toughness, hopefully garnered from me, and mixed it all with intellectual creativity. Then you took off the training wheels and went it alone. I wish I could say these are my words, but they aren’t. It’s Griffin’s summary of your progress. As I told you, he’s watched your career very carefully. Many times he itched to call you and tell you what you were doing wrong, but of course he couldn’t do that. Instead, he listened and believed me when I told him you’d correct your mistake in the next issue, and by God, I was right. For a while there I think both of us viewed ourselves as the ultimate in fairy godparents. I wish you could have seen Griffin’s face when he finally realized you had it all under control. We toasted you, Marjory, with the finest wine. Griffin said you’d reached a significant new level of personal advancement, where you can, possibly for the first time, set your own terms for your own life. We were so proud as we watched you seize that one moment and move boldly into new directions, directions that are important to you. He said you’d never rest on your laurels, and he was right.”
A tear slipped from Justine’s eye. “I feel like your accomplishments are mine. I know that’s silly, but in many ways you’re like me. The only difference is, you did things right, whereas I did it all wrong. I’ve lived with that, but I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“Justine, why me? Every time I asked you why you’ve been so good to me, you poo-pooed away my questions. You didn’t know me. Not really. During Ross’s and my brief marriage, I think we spoke, at the most, three times. Why?”
Justine puffed on her cigarette. “I hated what Ross did to you. Absolutely hated it. I saw Jasper in him all over again. What you did took guts, real guts. You went off on your own and you made a life for yourself, something I didn’t have the nerve to do. You didn’t whine and you didn’t cry. I admire that. In your own way, you were tougher than all of us. I knew you loved Ross, just the way I once loved Jasper, but it was all one-sided. Do you know, Marjory, the day I gave birth to Ross, Jasper had a golf date. I begged him to stay with me because I was scared out of my wits, but he said he couldn’t let his partners down. Ross was born at ten-thirty in the morning. Jasper showed up at the hospital, the one his parents endowed, at nine o’clock that night. He didn’t go to the nursery to see Ross. He said, and this is a direct quote, ‘It’s good you delivered a boy, Justine, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold up my head at the club.’ I was in the hospital for ten days. They kept you a long time in those days. He never came back, and none of his friends, supposedly our friends, came to see me. No one gave me a baby gift. I took Ross home in a taxi. In a taxi, Marjory. When it was time for him to be christened, I had to pay the gardener and cook to
be godparents. There was no celebration or anything like that. We went to the church and came home. I was so . . . ashamed. I don’t think I ever got over that.”
“Where was Jasper then?” Jory whispered.
“He said he was playing golf in some club tournament. I moved out of the bedroom, and that was the end of our marriage.”
“Justine, that’s so sad,” Jory said with a catch in her voice.
“Yes, at that time it was. I was your age, possibly a year older, with no one to talk to, no one to help me over the hurdles. Light me another cigarette, Marjory.”
“This is your third one, Justine,” Jory said, sticking the cigarette between her lips. “I bet . . . Griffin doesn’t do this for you.”
“Oh yes he does!” Justine sputtered. “Of course he gives me the same lectures about it not being good for me.” She snorted. “I’m at the end of the road, so it doesn’t matter what I do now. My damn fool doctor even lights them for me. Why are we talking about this? We should be talking about Griffin and sugar plums and stuff like that.”
“That’s fine with me, but before we do that, let’s talk about that picture in the dining room.”
“It was just like that. Maybe worse. When the realtor brought me out here to show me this property, I fell in love with it and bought it on the spot. For all the wrong reasons of course, but that was when I first got here. The lawn was as green as money. I liked that. The sky at night was speckled with stars that reminded me of diamonds. The trees shading the front and back of the house reminded me of canopies. Compared to that stick of a tree at the shanty, this was like paradise. The house is stone, no place to stuff rags or boards. The windows will last hundreds of years. This house was . . . is the end of the road for me. Of course I didn’t know that at the time. Gradually I came to view it differently, but not until I sketched that awful picture in the dining room. Grass wouldn’t grow back there by the shanty. When it snows here, it’s beautiful. Back there it was ugly and so very cold. I did my best to try and make it right before I left, but I was probably too late. I tell myself I tried and that’s the important thing. Would you like me to call Griffin so you can talk to him?”
“No!” The single word exploded from Jory’s mouth.
Justine smiled. “Talk to me about Pete and Ross,” she said, “but first ring for the cook and ask for tea. When she brings it, lace it with brandy.”
Jory did as ordered. When Justine was sipping at the tea and puffing on her fourth cigarette, Jory cleared her throat. “I rather thought . . . expected that Ross and Pete would fight over me. I wanted to . . . oh, hell, I don’t know what I wanted. They just accepted my decision. Both of them. Of course, with Pete . . . it was different, he rejected me to retain his friendship with Ross. I cried buckets over that. I didn’t care about his handicap, but he did, and that’s understandable. I met them in Wanamaker’s when I was doing some Christmas shopping. I turned around and there they were with their fiancees. They reminded me of two sets of Bobbsey twins. Everyone was embarrassed. Ross more or less looked through me, if that’s possible. Pete . . . Pete just stared at me. I thought I saw a spark of something, but then maybe that was just my imagination. I had this crazy urge to hug Pete and to berate Ross at the same time. I didn’t do it, but now I wish I had. I guess I had to go through all that to get to this place in time. The past is past and there’s no going back. It just seems so . . . untidy, like there are loose ends that will never be cut off or tied up.”
“If you had settled for one or the other of them, you wouldn’t be happy, Marjory. You need someone who will accept you for who and what you are, and what you can be down the road. You would have stagnated with Ross or Pete. You would have become a lawyer’s wife doing all the things that little circle of wives do. Charity work, ceramics classes, and making dinner parties and crap like that. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with charity work and ceramics, but there’s more to life. Each of us needs to be his or her own person. Both Pete and Ross, in the end, would have made you extensions of themselves, and I think in your heart you knew that. It’s done, Marjory, don’t look back.”
“The wedding—”
“Their wedding. It has nothing to do with you. You’re half a world away. Let’s view it as phase three of your life. Hmmm, this tea is good. Makes me feel warm all over. That’s what I hate the most, not being able to keep warm. I don’t have much time, Marjory.”
Jory set her cup on the end table. “How much time, Justine?” she whispered.
“I wish I could say months, but I can’t. Days, hours . . . whenever He decides He wants me. Why He wants me at all is beyond me. I . . . I thought . . . actually, I’m kind of ready, but there are . . . I guess I’m afraid. No one knows what it’s like up there or . . . down there. I remember my Sunday school teacher telling all us little children about hellfire and brimstone. I’m so afraid, Marjory. If there was someone to hold my hand, to take me there . . . What do you think it’s like?”
Jory reached for Justine’s hand, and clasped it tightly in her own. Her mind raced as she tried to remember an article she’d wanted to publish, but hadn’t because the editorial board said it was just too bizarre.
A young woman had walked into the office one day and had asked for her personally. She’d said she was in a car crash where three other people died. She herself had been taken to the hospital and operated on immediately. She swore she left her body, had hovered overhead watching the operating procedures, heard the doctors and the nurses say she was dead. She said she floated overhead for several seconds, felt hands all around her, and saw a beautiful white light with voices telling her it wasn’t time for her to come to them. Then the woman heard one of the doctors say, “She has a pulse. We aren’t losing her.” The next thing she knew, she was back in her body, but she could still see beautiful white light and all these gentle faces who were smiling, including her grandparents and a very dear aunt and uncle.
Jory chose her words carefully. “I believe there is a place we all go after death. I like to think of it as a paradise with beautiful gardens, warm sunshine. It’s a place that’s free of pain, hatred, and greed. It’s a place that’s peaceful, where all those who’ve gone before wait to welcome you. I . . . When you cross over to that place, your mother and father will be waiting for you, their hands outstretched to bring you forward. Think about how nice it will be when you finally get to see your parents again. Hold on to that thought, Justine. Imagine you can hear your mother calling your name, imagine her arms outstretched to take you in her arms. Imagine how warm and wonderful you’re going to feel. And then . . .”
“Yes, yes, then what?” Justine fretted.
“Then you begin your new life and prepare to . . . to welcome the rest of us when it’s our time. If you happen to . . . to see my mother, will you tell her you stepped in and, you know, kind of made things easier for me? Tell her I wouldn’t have screwed up my life if she was around. If you see Daddy, tell him I’m living in the house, and about the dogs and . . . everything. Oh Justine, I can’t . . . I don’t want you to . . .” She cried, her head against Justine’s thin chest. She felt herself being cradled and cuddled the way her mother must have held her when she was little.
Both women cried for the would haves, the could haves, the should haves.
A long time later Justine said, “What if I go to Hell, then what?”
She sounded so serious, Jory raised her head to blow her nose lustily into a wad of tissue. “Then you’re on your own, because I don’t know anything about Hell. Furthermore I don’t think there is such a place. I believe Hell is right here on earth, and we’re living in it until the day we die. God loves us, why would He send us to a place like Hell? God forgives, Justine.”
Justine sighed. “I feel better now that we’ve had this little talk. I think it’s time to move out of this smoke-filled room so the housekeeper can air it out. I think you should bundle up and go for a walk while I take a nap. This is Christmas Eve, Marjory. Maybe Grif
fin will call to wish us both a Merry Christmas.” She rang the bell for the houseman.
Jory leaned down to kiss Justine on the cheek. Justine reached for her. “I’m so very fond of you, Marjory. I feel like you’re my daughter in many ways. My only regret is I didn’t stand in for your mother sooner. Run along, child, and get some color in your cheeks. And if it’s all the same to you, Marjory, I’d like to forgo that discussion on Ethel Pullet. Do you mind? I think you have it all anyway.” Jory nodded.
Jory waited until Justine was settled in front of the fire in the large parlor before she dressed for the walk outdoors.
It was a winter wonderland, the evergreens graceful and feathery, with their tips crusted with sparkly white snow. Shoveled paths were everywhere, to the four-car garage, to the potting shed, to the utility shed, and a path that meandered into the field and beyond. She chose to follow it, careful of her footing. There was old snow and new snow piled along both sides of the path. The light snow that had fallen during the night had been swept to the side. She wondered why.
How clear the air was, how fresh and sharp. So sharp she felt like a knife was going down her throat every time she took a deep breath. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and walked with her head bent. When she saw it, she knew what it was immediately. Justine’s final resting place. If she’d had any doubts, the gravestone confirmed that this indeed was a grave, a rectangle devoid of snow, the frozen earth piled on the side. Panic rushed through her as she backed up a step and then another, her eyes on the simple stone. ETHEL PULLET. There were no dates and no other chiseled markings.
If there was such a thing as a perfect final resting place, then this plot beneath the aged tree was it. In the spring when the old tree was dressed in its finery, the huge limbs would cast just enough shade, just enough dappled sunshine. How like Justine to prepare this place. Who would make the final procession out here? The servants, Griffin Ballon and perhaps his children. Herself, if she was notified in time. Perhaps Clarence and his wife Tillie.
Serendipity Page 41
