by Howard Fast
“Barbara, do you think all of this just happened?”
“No, not exactly. I believe in evolution. I’ve always believed that people were born good and then were spoiled. When I was in India in 1945, I witnessed a famine in which six million people died. They didn’t have to die. The British and the rice dealers cornered the market when they believed the Japanese might fight their way into Bengal, and that the Assamese and the Bengalese might go over to them. That shattered my last shreds of belief.”
“I remember how horrified I was when you told me about that. And six million Jews died in the Holocaust. It isn’t easy to put it together, any more than it was easy to live on when Josh died.”
“Philip wants desperately for me to believe,” Barbara said. “He reads books on this new microphysics, and he tells me that it’s well proven that we live in a world of energies and waves, that nothing truly exists, that it’s all an illusion, that we’re all a part of the Holy Spirit. I can’t buy that. The things that are eating up my insides are very real. He wants me to believe that we’ll never be parted, that my spirit will survive, and that we’ll be together. And what about Carson and Bernie—and Marcel? Will they be there? I ask him. Oh, Ellie, what a lot of nonsense I’m dumping on you! Forgive me.”
“For what, darling? Who else can you dump on? I love you. I think it’s wonderfully brave, the way you’re taking all this.”
“Brave? Oh no, Ellie. I’m not afraid anymore. We all die. They gave me sleeping pills, so I fall asleep easily. I never know whether I’ll wake up in the morning. Philip prays for me, but I don’t pray. I am what I am, and I can’t change that now. But I do have one great disappointment. I had planned for all of us, Philip and me and you and Adam, to go to Paris in April. It was to be an anniversary gift to you and Adam, and I bought tickets and made the reservations. Paris in April is the most wonderful place in all the world, and we would have gone to some of the great château vineyards, and I could just picture Adam tasting a wine and whispering to us that Highgate was just as good—Ellie, you must use the tickets and you must drag Philip along somehow.”
“What a precious gift! But to go without you—I couldn’t.”
“You could and you must. I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Tell me, when will the baby come?”
“Judith’s or May Ling’s? Judith is going into her sixth month. May Ling—that’s later. But Judith is still modeling—expectation clothes, they call them. Oh, Bobby, please live, please be here. And I’m weeping again. I must stop. But when I think of it—”
“I am here. Right beside you. And tomorrow we’ll try the hill again. I must give those dreadful painkillers a chance to work. It takes an hour or so. I feel better now.”
“Thank goodness,” Eloise said.
“You know, darling, John Drew—the great actor—was dying, and his friends gathered around him, and one of them said, ‘John, how does it feel to die?’ and he replied, ‘Dying is easy, comedy’s hard.’”
“Oh, Barbara, how could you?” Eloise exclaimed. “You have me laughing and crying at the same, time. How could you!”
“I’m wicked, but at least I made you laugh.”
“We’d better go in for lunch. They’ll wonder what became of us.”
THE EVENING OF THE FOLLOWING DAY, after he had helped Barbara into bed, Philip opened her manuscript book of poems. Drowsily, Barbara was speaking of how pleased she was to be here and how kind everyone was. Philip asked her whether he should read. “Or would you rather sleep?”
“One poem.”
“Here’s one dated 1925.”
“Oh no. I was eleven years old.”
“I like it.”
“Well, at least we’re alone.”
Philip read,
Helga’s baking a cake,
I don’t know how to bake,
so I sit and watch her take
eggs and sugar in the cake
she is trying hard to make,
all alone for Mama’s sake.
I love Mama, she can’t bake.
Barbara smiled sleepily. “I was only eleven. Maybe I was ten.”
“It was 1925. You were probably still ten.”
“It’s not too terrible, is it?”
“I like it. Who was Helga?”
“Our cook. And don’t read me another one. In fact, I’m sorry I ever mentioned the poems.”
Philip put aside the manuscript, went to Barbara, and kissed her.
“Come to bed,” Barbara said. “I want something to hold on to.”
He dropped his robe, turned off the light, and climbed into bed next to her, folding her into his arms; and she murmured sleepily, “You have strong arms for a skinny man.”
“Too tight?”
“No, as tight as you can hold me.”
“I love you, Barbara Lavette.”
“Barbara Carter, Mr. Carter, Barbara Carter, Philip Carter…”
She was asleep a moment later, and Philip asked himself what would happen next. Would she live through tomorrow—the next day? He would not allow himself to complain, even to himself, about his own agony. She was the one who faced the long journey from which no one returned. His own suffering was not to be compared with hers. Like most men who are older than their wives, he had expected to die first. That was the proper order of things, and out of his own experience as a minister, he knew that women were better than men at handling such things. How could he handle it? How could he go on—and did he want to go on?
He must have fallen asleep, because during the night she had rolled out of his arms, and now she was awake and nudging him. “Wake up, old man. Everyone here is up at dawn, and now it’s ten o’clock in the morning. What will they think of us?”
“How do you feel, baby?”
“I’m afraid the dope is wearing off. Would you bring me some fresh water and another dose? I’m groggy. I guess it’s the sleeping pills. You know, I could swig down the whole bottle, and that would be quick and easy.”
“Don’t you dare think about it.”
“Ah, the old priest in you has his dander up.” He brought her medicine and water, and she drank it down, but slowly.
“Shall we get you into the shower?” Philip asked. He pulled back the bedclothes, but she had difficulty getting her legs over the side of the bed. He helped her to a standing position and into the bathroom.
“What’s next, Philip? A wheelchair? I hate the thought of a wheelchair. But I don’t know how I’ll ever get to the kitchen.”
“Is there much pain?”
She nodded. “It gets worse. I suppose I had some pain during the last few days, but I just ignored it. That’s your Barbara.”
“We’ll try the morphine later if the pain persists. Joe said you can have it whenever you need it. I found a small metal stool for the shower, so you can sit down. I’ll help you.”
“How did I ever find you? All in a rainstorm, and if it hadn’t rained that day—oh, my God, Philip, what would I do without you?”
“I’m right here, always.”
Sitting in the shower under the warm water, she sighed and said that she could stay here all day.
“Except that we need breakfast. I’ll get you dressed, and then I’ll bring it to you.”
“One thing before I forget. I want you to call Harry and ask him to please come over today—if he can find the time.”
“I’m sure he’ll find the time.”
“I feel a little better. Let’s try for the kitchen. I’ll lean on you. I always do.”
Harry had been there two days ago, not long after Barbara had arrived at Highgate—but then he had come with May Ling and others and she had not had a chance to talk to him alone. Today he arrived early in the afternoon, and Barbara convinced Philip that she must talk to him alone and that they were not to be interrupted. She was seated in one of the armchairs when Philip opened the door for him, and then Philip left after the greetings had been exchanged.
Barbara asked him whether he ha
d brought a notebook.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Would you hand me my briefcase? I have a notebook in there, and everything else I need, including a copy of my will. I had Abner Berman draw it up before we left for Europe—a time when I thought, as I guess everyone does, that I would live forever.” She opened the briefcase and handed him a notebook, a pen, and the will. “I’m going to impose on you, Harry,” she said.
“You couldn’t impose on me, Barbara.”
“We’ll see. I want a new will, and I want it no later than tomorrow. It will be very simple. I would like to spell it out now. Have May Ling type it out, and I want no one to know about it until after I am gone. You and May Ling will be my witnesses. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Can you take notes while I speak?”
“I made a poor living with shorthand while in law school. It comes in very handy.”
“We’ll start with the house on Green Street. There’s no mortgage. I want Philip to have the house.”
“There’ll be a tax.”
“I know. Aside from the house and all it contains—all of which goes to Philip, with one exception, which I will get to—my estate is worth about three million dollars in cash and treasury notes and California bonds. It’s all detailed in the will that Abner Berman drew up, and which you have; all of it inherited. I have no stock. I want you to be my executor and to pay all costs and taxes out of the estate, and what is left goes to Philip. The one exception is my jewelry, with which you are well acquainted, and I want that, all of it, to go to Eloise—to do whatever she wishes with it, keep it or give it away as gifts, whatever she wishes. After the inheritance taxes are paid, there won’t be enough left to divide among the people I love, and none of them really need money. Philip does. His pay is merely a stipend.”
“Are you sure you want me to be your executor?”
“Absolutely sure, and I’m also sure that you can’t say no to a dying woman.”
“I wouldn’t dream of saying no.”
“Wait. There’s a codicil. When my grandfather Thomas Seldon died, he left me a fortune of close to fifteen million dollars, which I neither deserved nor wanted. My first impulse was to give it all away, but Sam Goldberg talked me into setting up a foundation with fourteen million, and he put the rest into bonds, whereby most of my personal fortune.”
Harry couldn’t keep from saying, “I wish he had put it into equities.”
“If he had, and that was in the thirties, I’d be as rich as a Morgan, and no happier than now. Anyway, the fund exists, and the foundation, with all it has dispensed to good causes, is twice as wealthy as it was when I began it. The board did put the money into equities. I’m the director, and the director has the right to approve all gifts; there’s a board of six women and men, and Eloise is on the board and so is Abner Berman and Freddie. After I die, I want you to become the director. I have the right to appoint you. And please, please, don’t argue with me.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Harry said. “You’re putting me on the spot, but why? Why not Philip? Why not Freddie?”
“Philip is a saint. I’m deadly serious about that. Philip is a saint, and saints can’t run a foundation. Freddie has both feet firmly planted in midair, and he doesn’t know a damn thing about anything except wine. I love him, but Freddie’s Freddie. May Ling has told me a great deal about you. You’re a good man, and your politics are like mine, and the affair of Robert Jones is very clear in my mind. I want you to do this for me. Will you?”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I can’t refuse you.”
“I know that, but I’m not going to apologize, Harry. I have too little time left and too much to get done.” She reached into her briefcase and took out several pamphlets. “These will give you a history of the foundation and its holdings, and there’s a summary of former gifts, which do sort of make a pattern. Now, once I’m gone, I want the foundation to make a gift of half a million dollars to Philip’s church. That will please him, and it will please me, if I’m anywhere to be pleased. Eloise knows about this gift, and she will support you, and I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the rest of the board. Now, I’m very tired, and it’s taxing to talk. Would you ask Philip to come back?”
FREDDIE BOUGHT HER A WHEELCHAIR. Freddie was not good with words, and there was no way he could tell her how he felt about her. He thought of saying something like, You ‘re not my aunt, you ’re my idol, my love, my everything, and of course he dismissed it as persiflage. When he took her in his arms after she came to Highgate, he could say nothing at all, only clutch her and kiss her. He put his feeling into the wheelchair. It was an electric motorized vehicle, with three speeds forward and a reverse, the absolute latest state-of-the-art wheelchair. “You can scoot all over the place with it,” he assured her. “You can even take it down to Harry’s place, if you can stand a lecture on wine. You know, Aunt Barbara, he has become the most obnoxious wine peddler that ever was. He’s signed up for my seminars at the university, but he’s already convinced that he knows more about wine than I do.”
“Freddie, thank you. It’s a wonderful wheelchair, as such things go. I always wanted a convertible but never dared to buy one. When you convert a rich young woman to social consciousness, it’s like converting a pagan to Christianity. No middle way.”
Judith had entered the room with Freddie. The still-slim, lovely woman who had married Freddie back in November had gone the way of all childbearers, and now she bulged and walked very tentatively and bent with difficulty to kiss Barbara.
“My dear, when?” Barbara asked her.
“I don’t know. I’ve lost track. I had some pains yesterday and I knew it wasn’t real, but Freddie—he bundled me into the car and we drove to Napa and woke up poor Joe, and it was just one of those false alarms, and Joe thinks it won’t happen for at least another couple of months. But I’m so big.”
“Because you’re a big woman,” Barbara reassured her. “It’s perfectly natural.”
“I don’t want a basketball player, I want the first black vintner.”
“Joe says it’s a girl,” Freddie put in.
“Oh, worse. She’ll be six feet tall, like her mother. Oh, Barbara, darling, why am I complaining? How are you?”
“A bit weak.”
“I know.” But Judith didn’t know what to say, and she struggled to keep back the tears.
Oh, God, no more tears, Barbara said to herself, and to Judith, quickly, “You’re not still modeling—I mean, the maternity clothes?”
“Oh no, no, I wouldn’t dare go into the City. I might do it on the way, and anyway, it’s too much maternity.”
“I want you to try the chair,” Freddie said. Philip and Freddie helped Barbara into the wheelchair. Freddie watched with small-boy approval as Barbara pressed buttons and navigated about the room.
“Dinner tonight,” Freddie said. “Just roll right up to the table.”
But she and Philip did not come to dinner that night. At about three o’clock, Eloise knocked at the door. Barbara was in bed, propped up on pillows, and her eyes were closed. Philip had been reading to her from a copy of Life on the Mississippi, which he’d found in the living room library. He put the book aside and opened the door for Eloise, who said, “She’s sleeping, isn’t she?”
“No, I’m not,” Barbara replied, her voice weak and low.
“Eloise is here,” he said.
Barbara propped herself on one elbow and asked, “Where? Where is she?”
“Right here, darling,” Eloise said, walking around the bed and facing Barbara.
“Where?” Barbara demanded.
“Barbara—,” Eloise began.
“You’re not Ellie. Who are you?”
Eloise looked helplessly at Philip, who went to Barbara and kissed her cheek. “It’s all right, baby.”
“Why did she say she’s Eloise?” And then, glancing at Philip, she said with sudden fear, “Am I sick? Ar
e you the doctor?”
Eloise dropped into a chair, covering her face and her tears with her hands. Philip sat on the bed, his arm around Barbara. She turned to stare at him, and then she smiled. “Philip. Thank God you’re here.”
“I’m always here.”
“Eloise,” Barbara said, her voice stronger, “will you please stop crying? You know what happens to me when someone I love weeps.”
“I’ll stop,” Eloise agreed.
“Did you see the wheelchair? Freddie bought it for me. Isn’t he a darling?”
“Yes. It’s very nice.”
“Come here and give me a kiss.”
Eloise went to the bed and kissed Barbara. Philip, standing to one side, shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “Don’t cry, please,” Barbara said.
“Promise. No more. How do you feel?”
“Morphine is wonderful. I have no pain at all. If Joe prescribes it for you, then it’s proper medicine. What is Cathrena cooking for dinner tonight?”
“Fish Vera Cruz.”
“That’s so good. Foolish of me to ask. I can’t eat anything. Philip makes me drink milk…” Her voice trailed away, and she closed her eyes.
“She drifts off like that,” Philip said softly. “You can stay if you wish, but she may sleep for an hour or so.”
“I’ll come back later.”
At the door, Philip said to Eloise, “I won’t try to bring her to dinner tonight. It’s too much for her, even with the wheelchair. You might send over a small dish of that fish she likes so much. Just a small portion, which she probably won’t be able to eat, but it would be nice for her to taste it.”
“I’ll bring it myself.”
“Good. She’s so fond of you—and I don’t know how ever to thank you enough.”
“God bless both of you for being here,” Eloise said.
THAT NIGHT BARBARA FELL ASLEEP in Philip’s arms. He could not sleep, and at about three o’clock in the morning, feeling his arm growing numb, he withdrew it from under Barbara. When he did that, she made no response, and when he kissed her cheek, lightly, it was cold. A spasm of sick terror wracked his body and he forced himself to feel for the vein in her wrist, but could find no pulse. He shook her. “Barbara, Barbara—wake up!”
