Gerry lay on his back, shielding his eyes against the late afternoon sun. Her shadow loomed above him. Quickly, she dropped to her knees. Pinning his shoulders down, she whispered fiercely, “You have to promise you’ll never tell on me again. You’re just a stupid little baby, so I’m going to forgive you—this time. But from now on, you have to do exactly what I say!” She sat on him hard, squeezing out his breath. “Understand?”
“Yes, Katie, I understand,” he had whined. “Please let me go!”
Assured of her victory, Katie smiled down on him indulgently. “I’m going to save you this time, Gerry. I’ll tell them the stupid cat did it.” Irrationally, a wave of relief swept over Gerry. Katherine reveled in the power. At eleven, she was master of the game, and Gerry was in her thrall.
Stretched out in the dental chair, Gerry released the button and the flow of nitrous oxide gas stopped. Nausea welled up from the pit of his stomach. The sense of lightness, which had expanded to the furthest extremities of his body, was now replaced with a crushing soddenness. The tingling in his extremities receded as he sat up. Katie never left him.
CHAPTER 14
Suzannah Deighton felt swallowed up by sleep. On the day after Marjorie’s death, she awoke, near noon, to a dull ache at the base of her skull. She fumbled for the bottle of pills at her bedside. It would take at least three of them to clear her head today.
Opening one eye, she desperately hoped to be in a different place and time. It was a game she had played as a small child. Katharine had always laughed at her. “Baby games,” she had called them. “Close your eyes tight. Hide way under the covers.” Imitating her childish whine, Katharine had taunted her: “Make it go away.” Katharine was so smart, and she always let you know it.
Suzannah stared at the lipstick-stained glass of water next to her. She tried to concentrate. What Marjorie had asked was too hard for her to do. It wasn’t fair, although Frank said it was no big deal. Struggling upward on the pillow, she tried to remember his words.
“You want to make Auntie suffer? Go ahead. But what about all she’s done for you? She can decide when she wants to go.”
Frank always made everything sound so easy and sensible.
She rose to the mirror and ran a brush through her long blonde hair. Pretty, once upon a time, she thought, as she struggled with the tangles.
Lighting a cigarette, she singed her fingers with the smoldering match. Thank God Frank had been too drunk for sex last night. Trying to climb onto her, he had simply rolled over with a groan. She toyed with the idea of going without the pills. Red for ups and yellow for downs.
Without thinking, Frank used up money like breathing air. The biggest fiasco was her dress boutique right on Yorkville Avenue, one of the highest-rent districts in Toronto. Ever since it failed, Suzannah could not plan for the day. If she stayed in bed, at least she might not sink further into debt.
“Think big, baby. Think big.” Frank grinned.
At first, she thrived on his support. The store seemed to be her very first success in life.
Frank set up her books and managed the money. He was so sweet. He talked Harry Jenkins and that trust officer, McCrea, into advancing one hundred thousand on her trust fund for start-up expenses.
Only recently had the accountant said, in baleful tones, “The bank deposits do not tally with the cash-register receipts.” Peering suspiciously over the rims of his glasses, he continued, “Ms Deighton, there’s at least a seventy‑five-thousand-dollar discrepancy. A lot of money has not been deposited. A tax auditor would have a field day.”
That’s why Grandpa’s trust shrank so much! Frank was siphoning off the money. After a whole week, she still didn’t have the guts to confront him.
The telephone rang.
“Hello?” she croaked, pushing a limp strand of hair from her face.
“Miss Deighton? Harold Jenkins here.”
Suzannah shook her head to clear the fog. “Yes?”
Suzannah had always reminded Harry of a faded flower child. He hated to break bad news to someone who appeared always on the verge of silent hysteria.
“I’m terribly sorry to call with bad news, Suzannah.” He softened his tone. “But your Aunt Marjorie passed away yesterday afternoon.”
At first, Harry heard only silence, and then a low groan. “No…please say it isn’t true.” Suzannah began rocking back and forth on the kitchen stool.
“I’m afraid so, Suzannah. I arrived at her house for an appointment and found her.” He hastened to add, “It appeared she had a very peaceful passing.”
“How did it happen?”
“Apparently, she just passed away in her sleep. I found her lying on her bed. The police and the coroner came.”
Alarm rose in Suzannah’s voice. “Police? Coroner?”
“It’s customary, Suzannah, to call them when someone’s death is unexplained.” He hesitated to continue. “They may do an autopsy—”
“Autopsy?” she gasped. “Was she murdered?”
“Oh, no! But when there is no obvious reason for the death—”
“Thank God!”
“Sorry?”
“There wasn’t a note?”
“A note? No.”
“Good,” she said quietly.
“Should we have looked for one?”
“No, of course not.” Suzannah’s voice returned to a normal tone. “Mr. Jenkins?” She hesitated. “There weren’t any bottles of pills lying around?”
“No.” Harry was becoming alarmed at the strange line of inquiry. Did Suzannah think her aunt had committed suicide?
“Good. I was worried she might have overdosed. She was taking so many medications and was quite depressed this past year. I was worried that her depression had come back.”
“You’re concerned about an accidental overdose, not suicide, right?”
“Yes, of course. Marjorie was far too strong to think of suicide. I mean, she seemed quite happy lately. At least until her birthday party…” Suzannah’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
Harry picked up his pen and began writing a note. “Gerry mentioned a birthday party.”
Suzannah sighed deeply. “Yes, Gerry and Katharine were very unpleasant that night.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, they were just their usual cold, unfeeling selves.” Suzannah felt her anger mount. “I mean, Gerry’s just waiting for the cash. I suppose he’ll be happy now. And Katharine never gave a damn about Auntie anyway.”
“What happened at the party?” Harry asked.
In an odd singsong voice, Suzannah told Harry about the evening. He took notes as best he could.
Coincidentally, all of them had arrived on Marjorie’s front porch at the same time. Staggering under a huge gift-wrapped package, Gerry had come up the walk. Beth, his wife, tripped along in high heels behind him. As usual, she was the first to speak.
“This is dreadful…I mean, really dreadful.” Beth’s voice was a stage whisper. “We should be taking Auntie out for dinner, not imposing like this.” Glancing about for support, but finding none, she pushed Gerry toward the front door.
Frank threw out his arms, nearly knocking Gerry’s gift to the ground. “I know, I know!” Frank’s laugh was ugly. “And we’re only coming to filch a little money from the old girl. Why not treat her to dinner, like decent folk would?”
“For God’s sake, shut up, Frank!” said Katharine. “Don’t be such a bloody idiot! You can be heard for blocks.”
“Truth hurts, eh?” Frank leered at Katharine, but stepped back. “Ballbuster,” he muttered.
Roughly, he grabbed Suzannah’s arm and pushed her forward. “Listen, babe,” he hissed in her ear. “No back‑talk from you tonight. I got a plan, and soon you’re gonna thank me.” Suzannah nodded. She was so easy to keep in place, he thought.
Rosie answered the single sharp rap of the knocker. Drawing back in the hall light, she beckoned them inward with a slow and distant smile. Her calm dignity made their ne
rvous and boisterous chatter sound foolish. In the foyer, the women shrugged out of their coats and the men tramped in behind them. They cleared their throats, tuning up for an evening of loud conversation, necessitated by Marjorie’s deteriorating hearing. Henry, the houseman, silently assisted with the coats. Because no one wanted to enter the parlor first, they all hung back, jockeying for last place.
No one saw Marjorie place a record on the old gramophone near the bookcase. Crammed into the foyer, all six of them startled in unison when the deep, resonant tones of “Pomp and Circumstance”’ shook the house and made the chandelier sway.
Oblivious to their presence, Marjorie Deighton paraded the length of the parlor, waving a baton to conduct an invisible orchestra. Carried by the passion of the music, she swept her arms upward in a crescendo of bliss.
Suzannah beamed. Never had she seen her composed aunt so engaged with life and so vulnerable. Marjorie was breaking free, Suzannah thought, as a momentary pang of envy flashed through her. Any joy she derived from Marjorie’s freedom was almost instantly extinguished by the identically pursed lips of her brother and sister. In their growing embarrassment, Katharine and Gerry looked to Rosie, as if for guidance. Rosie remained impassive.
On the upswing of the baton, Marjorie pivoted to face the unseen audience for the final orchestral crescendo. With her face suffused with joy and abandonment, her features were those of an unfettered child.
Suddenly conscious of her audience, she stiffened in mid-air. The deep pleasure on her face crinkled into horror. Suzannah’s heart constricted. Marjorie rushed to the gramophone and yanked the needle from the record. The house was filled with a deathly screech, as if some wild and free animal had been mortally wounded.
Marjorie’s shoulders shook and her hands trembled as she stared at the still spinning record. Suddenly, she burst into tears. Sniffling like a small child, she collapsed into a nearby chair and reached for a Kleenex in her pocket.
“You must think I’m just a foolish old woman who has taken leave of her senses and ought to be put away,” she choked. “But none of you can imagine what it’s like to be eighty-five.” Marjorie looked searchingly at her guests hovering in the doorway, then continued uncertainly, “You long for life and fun, but you’re so terribly weary.”
She continued to stare at her hands, folded in her lap. “I have these dreams,” she murmured. “I hear beautiful concert music in the distance beyond grand brass doors. I want, with all my heart, to run to it.” She sighed heavily. “But I cannot.” Moments later, she looked up, and with a brave smile said, “And so you see, I am stuck here.”
With brisk and efficient movements, Katharine poured a glass of water at the sideboard and held it out to Marjorie. “Please, Aunt Marjorie, pull yourself together and drink this.”
Smiling, Suzannah flew to her aunt, who remained oblivious to Katharine’s outstretched glass of water. Kneeling before her, she clasped Marjorie’s trembling hands and said, “Auntie, I just adore that piece! It’s so stirring, isn’t it?” Slowly, Marjorie raised her eyes to meet Suzannah’s.
“When I was a young girl, my father used to take me to the symphony,” Marjorie began, her voice faraway in recollection. “In those days, the women dressed in beautiful gowns, and the men in tuxedos, to go to the concert.” Marjorie waved dismissively. “Nowadays, Toronto has no style.”
With gleaming eyes, she continued, “Once, when the conductor finished that very piece, everyone in Massey Hall gave him a standing ovation. Such freedom and passion in the hall!” Her face was now wreathed in smiles. “The conductor was a very handsome man, and for weeks, the music went round in my head and I dreamt of him every night. What was his name?”
“It was Elgar…Edward Elgar! “Suzannah laughed, caught up in the moment.
“No, my dear,” Marjorie shook her head sadly, “that was the composer’s name.”
“Aunt Marjorie?” Katharine said wistfully, “I understand completely your wanting to break free. You lived in a very repressive time, especially for women.”
Marjorie Deighton looked sharply up at her. She said, “Yes, I did. But I wonder just how different it is today.”
Katharine nodded slowly. “True enough. Women can’t rise to the top without a battle.”
Marjorie frowned and said, “It’s more a matter of being allowed to be yourself.” Then she appeared to draw inward, collecting scattered childhood memories. The reserved Marjorie Deighton reappeared to celebrate her eighty-fifth birthday. Suzannah saw her face shrink with the ebbing of life and pleasure. Katharine was relieved.
Beth spoke first. “Auntie, we’ve brought you a birthday gift.”
Marjorie Deighton smiled with her usual reserved graciousness and nodded to Rosie to take the huge parcel.
Dinner was an awkward affair. Beth chattered incessantly, and Frank regaled the table with his exploits in the real estate market. Twice Suzannah excused herself and hid in the washroom. Staring at the prettily flowered wallpaper, she asked herself what Frank had done with her money. She still could not confront him.
After Henry, the houseman, removed the dessert plates, coffee was served in the parlor. Marjorie spoke “There may not be many more occasions when we are all together.”
The room fell silent.
“I haven’t been well for some time now.” Hesitating, Marjorie sipped her coffee, then set the cup down carefully. “I want you all to know, that I have made two wills.” She surveyed the puzzled expressions on her guests’ faces. “One disposes of my property. It is safe with my solicitor, Mr. Jenkins, and the other is here.” Marjorie reached for the sideboard and took an envelope from the drawer.
“Aunt Marjorie,” broke in Katharine, “I thought you could have just one will.”
“Well, this is a different kind of will. It’s called a living will,” Marjorie spoke stiffly.
“A living will? And what is that?” asked Katharine, struggling to attain a note of neutrality.
“A living will,” Marjorie continued, “is one that sets out the manner in which I wish to depart this world. I want to take whatever precautions I can to minimize suffering and preserve dignity. When the time comes, I just want everyone to let me go as peacefully as possible. And so I have signed this document, which is a clear expression of my wishes in the matter.” Marjorie sighed and sat back in her chair, closing her eyes, as though wearied by the effort of talking. Her guests nodded simultaneously.
Katharine reached out her hand for the envelope, “May we read it?”
Marjorie slowly lowered her glasses and peered at her niece.
“I want you, Suzannah, and Gerry to read it together. But not tonight.” She smiled weakly. “After all, this is a birthday party.” Then she handed the envelope to Suzannah.
Henry poured another round of coffee and took orders for liqueurs. Frank sat back, puffing on his cigar. Katharine drank down her liqueur in silence, while Gerry fussed with a stack of magazines.
At last, Marjorie said, “And now, my dears, I’m sure it’s late, and I know what busy schedules you all have.” She turned to Suzannah as everyone began to rise. “Suzannah, my pet, help me upstairs, would you? Your birthday is next, and I have something for you. You don’t mind waiting, do you Frank?”
Everyone set down their cups and glasses as Marjorie stood unsteadily. “Now, all the rest of you, it’s been lovely of you to come, but I know you want to get on your way.”
With Henry’s deft handling of doors and coats, they quickly found themselves at the front door, saying hasty good-byes.
***
Harry listened to Suzannah’s story, vividly picturing Marjorie strutting the length of her parlor. Energy must have surged through her with each crescendo of the march. No wonder she wanted to run toward the music, and away from the weariness of her life. He hoped she got exactly what she wanted.
Distracted, he finally said, “So you think Katharine and Gerry are only after Marjorie’s money?”
“No, Mr. Jenkins
. Only Gerry. But Katharine couldn’t care less about Auntie. She never did a thing for her.”
“Suzannah,” Harry began carefully, “would you know how to reach Marjorie’s housekeeper, Rosie?”
“I have her number somewhere,” she said vaguely. “I’d have to look and call you back.”
“If you would, please,” Harry concluded.
***
She hung up the phone abruptly and sat motionless on the kitchen stool. She bit into her knuckle and whispered, “God damn you, Frank!” She knew it was a mistake to tell him about the pills. She could not forget Marjorie’s plea.
After speaking with both Gerry and Suzannah, Harry called the police.
“Will there be an autopsy, Sergeant Welkom?” he asked. “I’d like to know when to make the funeral arrangements.”
Welkom sounded bored. “No. The coroner’s office isn’t requiring one. The body’s ready for pickup by your funeral parlor.”
Damn, he thought. Now he would never know for sure. He supposed the next of kin could demand an autopsy, but that was unlikely. He called the Tudbury Funeral Home.
Marjorie had organized every detail, from the hymns to the style of the mahogany casket. Some clients left their world in a mess when they died. She wanted a neat and tidy exodus. Perhaps she dreaded burdening her family.
Harry smiled. Some clients, driven by fear of exposing dark secrets, were meticulous in their planning of funerals and estates. Some simply loved control, dead or alive. In wills, the dead hand could rise from the grave, strangling countless generations with endless trusts—power from the beyond.
For Harry, the world of siblings was remote. His mind wandered off to his sister, Anna. She had been absent from his memory for years, existing only in a world long lost to him.
The summer when Anna died had been the worst year of Harry’s life. It was near the end of her eighth-grade school year, when they had the traditional class picnic at Tolmey’s Beach, just north of the city.
Mother had taken Anna on the stifling, hot bus downtown to Eaton’s and Simpson’s department stores to find a bathing suit. Anna had chosen a bright red suit with white piping on the edges and a flared skirt. That night, full of life, she had posed in front of the mirror, alternately smiling and frowning as she examined her thirteen-year-old body in the new bathing suit.
Conduct in Question Page 9
