The Mangan Inheritance

by Brian Moore

  “She had an aunt in Tennessee,” said Weinberg, the mind reader. “But I believe there’s been no contact there for some years.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So the funeral arrangements are up to you. And you’re satisfied, are you?”

  “Yes, of course. And thanks very much for all your trouble, Sy.”

  “No trouble,” Weinberg said. “By the way, I’ll charge your disbursements to the estate. You realize, of course, that you’re her sole heir.”

  Shameful excitement filled him, but he had planned beforehand to make some token protest. Her sole heir! He said: “She’d probably have changed her will if she’d lived.”

  Weinberg shrugged. “The point is, she didn’t. And, as a matter of fact, only a few days before she died she was telling me she wanted to be generous with you about the divorce settlement. I’m sure she’d have wanted you to have the money. And as you know, there’s no one else.”

  The phone rang. “Sorry,” Weinberg said and picked it up. “Hello? Oh, Howard, I’m in a meeting right now. Let me get back to you in about fifteen minutes, okay? Thanks.”

  He replaced the receiver. “About the estate,” he said. “Beatrice told me you have about two hundred thousand in joint savings and C.D.’s and so on. Right?”

  “Yes. So I believe. She handled our money. As you know, it was mostly hers.”

  Weinberg ignored this. “And then there’s her father’s estate. That’s the major item.” He paused and looked at Mangan.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Mangan said. “Beatrice sort of looked after it.”

  “Well, it’s—let’s see—” Weinberg opened a file, consulted a note. “Well, I’d say the portfolio is worth somewhere in the region of three hundred thousand.”

  “Is it? That much.” Seventy-five thousand, she had given him to believe. Not more. He was shocked. Why had she lied to him? What else had she lied about?

  “Then there’s the apartment. And the house on the Island. And that’s about it.”

  Three hundred thousand, plus two hundred thousand, plus the beach house, which was worth, say, a hundred thousand in today’s market. And their equity in the apartment. He was rich.

  The phone again. Weinberg grimaced, then pressed a button, saying, “Sally, no calls. Not now. What? Well, tell him I’ll call him in a minute.”

  Rich. Mangan thought of the photograph in his pocket. He could go to Ireland. He could track down that forebear. Weinberg wanted to take a call, didn’t he? Mangan stood up. “Look, I’ll be running along now, Sy, I know you’re busy.”

  “That’s all right,” Weinberg said. “Damn phone. Is there anything else? Any other questions?” But as he said this, he rose, coming around the desk to shake hands again. “Well, in any case, we’ll be in touch. And I’ll see you at the service tomorrow.”

  “Yes, see you tomorrow. And thanks, Sy.”

  As he went into the corridor, he passed the office used by Weinberg’s secretaries. One of them, a middle-aged woman, nodded and smiled at him. As he passed, he heard her whispered voice.

  “That’s the husband.”

  Shortly after three o’clock on the day of the funeral service, Mangan, wearing his dark suit and a specially purchased black tie, put on his overcoat and left the apartment. His intention was to kill time by walking all the way to Eighty-first and Madison. He estimated that he would arrive at the funeral chapel about ten minutes before the service was scheduled to begin. When he set off, the weather was cold and blustery, with skies so dark it seemed like late afternoon. He walked up Second Avenue to Sixty-third Street, where he turned, going west. He was on Sixty-third between Lexington and Park Avenue when the skies broke, sending down a sleeting, freezing rain which cleansed the street of people. Mangan, hatless and without umbrella, ran for shelter under the awning of an apartment house halfway down the block. But as he stood huddling, pulling his overcoat collar up to his cheeks, the sleety rain attacked him, striking at an angle under the awning. A doorman, standing inside the double doors of the apartment, noticed his plight and opened the outer door. “Come on in, sir.”

  Mangan, grateful, nodded and said, “Thanks,” as the doorman, letting him in, went on to open the inner door, admitting him to an elegant lobby furnished with imitation Louis XIV furniture and lit by large shaded table lamps. An elderly man was waiting inside, dressed for the street in a black homburg hat and British Warm overcoat. He came forward as Mangan entered, moving past him, narrowing his eyes shortsightedly as he peered out at the street. Decided, he stepped back and drew off his leather gloves, stuffing them dandyishly into the breast pocket of his overcoat. “That’s going to last,” he said, and produced a tortoiseshell cigarette case and gold-plated lighter. “There’s no chance of a cab, I suppose.”

  “I could ring the rank, Mr. Halperin,” the doorman offered.

  “Yes, thanks. Will you? For all the good it will do,” the elderly man said. He lit his cigarette. The doorman went to a wall telephone and dialed a number. Mangan heard the elevator come to a stop behind him and, turning, saw an old lady, frail, wearing a fur coat, a corsage, and a plastic hat to protect her hair, being assisted carefully over the elevator step by a middle-aged black woman companion dressed in nurse’s cloak, white dress, stockings, and shoes. The old lady smiled vaguely in Mangan’s direction, then nodded to the elderly man in sudden recognition.

  “Hello, how are you today?”

  “It’s raining,” the elderly man said.

  “Oh, is it? Oh, dear. Did you hear that, Mary?” the old lady said, turning to her companion. “It’s raining.”

  “Well, maybe we wait a bit, Mrs. Kemp,” the black woman said. “Maybe you’d like to go back up?”

  “Oh, no,” the old lady said, pettishly. “I’m dressed now. I’m all ready.”

  The doorman, telephoning, turned to the elderly man. “No answer, sir.” He replaced the receiver. “Want me to go out and try?”

  “No, no,” the elderly man said. “Too wet. I’ll wait awhile.”

  The doorman nodded, then smiled at the old lady. “Hello there, Mrs. Kemp.”

  “Hello, Rudi. How are you today?”

  “Just fine, just fine.” The doorman bobbed his head deferentially, then went again to the glass doors, peering out. Mangan also stared at the street, seeing a sheeting rain which filmed and blurred all visibility. He looked at his watch. It was already three-thirty. He was aware of a small tension in the lobby: people kept inside against their will. He heard the nurse-companion murmur something insistent, indistinguishable. “All right,” the old lady said and allowed herself to be led to one of the lobby chairs. She seated herself. Her companion stood on her right, readjusting the ties of her cloak. “I usually know when it’s going to rain,” the old lady said. “I can feel it. I’m a barometer,” she said, and laughed nervously as though afraid that no one was paying any attention. And, indeed, the three men in the lobby, unsure of the particularity of her remarks, stared about them, avoiding her eye.

  Three-forty. Even if it weren’t raining, Mangan doubted if he would be able to get there on foot by four. “Any chance of a taxi on Park?” he asked the doorman.

  “Park’s the worst,” the doorman said. “Every one of the doormen there will be out on the street with a whistle.”

  Which was true.

  “Look at it,” the elderly man said, staring out through the doors. “Look at it come down.”

  Mangan looked at it. Anxiety gripped him. He saw himself coming in late, dripping wet, everybody staring as he was ushered up to those front seats reserved for next of kin. Imagine being late for your wife’s funeral. Maybe even coming in while E.P. read the poem or Leo Davoren said his few words. “What about Madison?” he asked the doorman. “Better chance there, I guess.”

  “You’ve got to get there first,” the doorman said. “You’d be soaking wet.”

  Which was true. Maybe he should stand outside in case a cab went by in front of th
e door. He looked again at his watch. It was a quarter to four. “Well, I’ll have to do something,” he said to the doorman. “Thanks.”

  The doorman obligingly opened both sets of doors for him and he found himself outside under the awning on Sixty-third Street. Two cars passed, sheeting up waves of water, forcing him to move back from the pavement’s edge. He fidgeted, dodging gusts of rain which squalled under the awning. Surely he would find a taxi within the next ten minutes. But after further minutes of hopeless waiting, he decided to strike out in the downpour and make for Madison Avenue. As he stepped from the awning’s protection, rain hosed him, soaking his hair, fanning waves of wetness against his knees and calves. He ran to the junction of Sixty-third and Park Avenue and, as the doorman had predicted, saw uniformed figures with huge umbrellas blowing piercing whistles, scanning the lurching wagon trail of traffic as it splashed uptown. Cabs passed, all taken. He stood under an awning until the light changed, then plunged across Park going toward Madison. He held the points of his overcoat collar pulled up about his face, but his shirt collar was already damp. His cheeks streamed water, his hair was plastered to his skull, his trousers from knee to ankle were soggy wet. When he reached Madison Avenue, he turned uptown, moving intermittently, stopping to check on the traffic. Occasionally he thought he saw a cab with its roof light lit and in excitement would run out among the oncoming cars. On one of these sorties he stepped into a large puddle, soaking his shoes and socks. This taxi hunt slowed his pace so much that it was nearly four by the time he reached Seventieth Street. There were still no cabs. He moved on toward Seventy-second, a two-way street, but there, at the traffic lights, entered into a hopeless contest with others and in a six-minute struggle lost three cabs to more ruseful strivers. Then, in sudden panic, he decided to forget about a taxi and push on, on foot. The rain seemed to acquiesce in this decision, for as he started off again, it slackened to a sleety drizzle. But, still walking, he kept turning around to look for taxis, although by the time he reached Seventy-ninth Street he had not seen one empty cab. Up to this point he had remained in a state of tension, but when he consulted his watch and saw that it was already past four o’clock, he trudged on, squelching water from his shoes with each step, his momentum slowed, his movements automatic. He would be late. He would refuse to let them put him at the front of the chapel. Other people would be late as well. It was not his fault. He would stand at the back of the chapel. He was late. Not his fault.

  However, as he approached Eighty-first Street, his anxiety quickened again. The funeral chapel was a four-story brownstone building on the northwest corner. Over the main entrance a huge, rain-draggled American flag flew at half mast, and as he came closer he noticed six or seven chauffeured limousines parked illegally on the block. No one was going inside. He looked at his watch and saw that it was four-fifteen. And so, out of breath, soaking wet from hair to shoes, he went into the entrance hall, its muted chandelier and warm lighted student lamps on adjacent side tables giving the visitor the impression of entering a private house. Two ushers, both in dark suits, turned to look at him. One of them came over, solicitously.

  “The Mangan funeral?” Mangan said.

  “Ah—is that—ah—Beatrice Abbot?” the usher asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This way, sir,” the usher said. “By the way, are you a relative? There are some special seats.”

  “I want to be at the back. The very last row.”

  “Yes, sir. This way, please. The service has just started.”

  He fell in behind the usher, his eyes on the usher’s back as though he were taking part in a school procession. The usher opened doors and music was heard. The usher turned to him and, beckoning, led him to the rear row of chairs, which were not occupied, then left, silently closing the doors again. Mangan sat, unbuttoning his overcoat, glancing at his soggy trouser legs. Timidly, as though afraid of what he might find, he lifted his gaze and looked at the room.

  There was no altar. Instead, he faced a sort of stage with banks of greenery and flame-red poinsettias in what looked to be a permanent arrangement. In front of these were many funeral wreaths and floral sprays, some with silk ribands and little white cards identifying the donors. The music came from behind the greenery. The musicians were not visible. At the right-hand side of the stage was a microphone and a small lectern. The chapel was not filled, although almost all the rows of chairs were at least three-quarters occupied. At the front, slightly set apart from the other chairs, were two rows, filled with people. In the very front row he identified Louise Polk in a black veil, with Weinberg beside her. In the front row also were three Broadway producers, four film stars, and two stage directors. In the second row he identified five of Broadway’s leading players. Less celebrated actors and actresses were sprinkled among the mourners in the mid-section of the chapel, and there were dozens of other people he knew, all of them Beatrice’s friends, some of them rich theatrical backers. There were also people he had not expected, a girl who had once acted as Beatrice’s understudy, a waiter from Sardi’s, two elderly women who owned a costume business, and a madwoman who had created a disturbance on the opening night of Beatrice’s last show.

  As he stared around, identifying these people, the musicians came to the end of their piece. When the music stopped, the mourners seemed to relax and moved their heads about, noticing and identifying some of their neighbors. At once Mangan ducked his head down and pulled up his overcoat collar to screen his face. Estranged or not, he was Beatrice’s husband and should not be at the rear of the chapel. But even as he ducked to avoid being seen, he became aware that the room’s attention had suddenly shifted and that heads were craning forward to someone who had got up from the front row and now approached the lectern. In a moment, Mangan saw E. P. Brittain’s handsome silvery head moving above the crowd. E.P. was wearing a beautifully cut, dark, double-breasted suit, and as he reached the lectern he laid a small sheaf of notes under the reading lamp. He could have been a banker, a leading surgeon, or a senior State Department official preparing to make an important announcement. Indeed, he had played all these roles successfully on stage and screen, and now as he lifted his great head to look out over the assembly, it was hard to credit that he was not acting but speaking as a private citizen at a real funeral service.

  “Friends,” said E.P. “And all of us were her friends. But we who are gathered here this afternoon are only a fraction. For Beatrice Abbot numbered her friends in the hundreds of thousands. People who never knew her, people she would never know. People who met her in a darkened theater and who in that moment became something more than those we speak of as admirers, as fans. People, ordinary people all over the world, who felt about this vibrant young woman as they would feel about their best friend. That was her gift, Bea’s special gift that transcended even her great skills as a performer. It was art, but it was something more than art. It was real. I am not here today to speak of Bea’s art. Others will tell you of that. I am here, as we all are, to remember Bea our friend. Some of you, many of you, will remember a few years ago when she played the part of Christina Rossetti in that moving and beautiful play, The Terrace in the Garden. She had a great, great admiration for the poetry of Christina Rossetti. You will remember the Rossetti poem which Bea spoke so beautifully just before the final curtain of the play. It happened to be her own favorite poem of Christina Rossetti’s. Perhaps, today, it can serve as her epitaph—that perfect epitaph she would have wished us to hear this afternoon.”

  E. P. Brittain paused and looked out at the house. All was silence, expectation. Some seemed near to tears. He glanced down at his notes, and then, lifting his great head, began to declaim.

  “When I am dead, my dearest,

  Sing no sad songs for me;

  Plant thou no roses at my head,

  Nor shady cypress tree:

  Be the green grass above me

  With showers and dewdrops wet;

  And if thou wilt, remember.

&nb
sp; And if thou wilt, forget.”

  The speaker paused. A woman directly in front of Mangan caught her breath as though stemming tears. But in the main the audience seemed uplifted, as by a great performance. And again, raising his head, E.P. spoke.

  “I shall not see the shadows,

  I shall not feel the rain;

  I shall not hear the nightingale

  Sing on, as if in pain;

  And dreaming through the twilight

  That doth not rise nor set,

  Haply I may remember,

  And haply may forget.”

  E.P. bowed his head as though he had come to the end of a prayer. Then, clear-eyed, he looked out at the room. “We will remember her,” he declared. “We will not forget her. And we will remember her as she would have wished us to remember her. With no sad songs.” He paused. “Thank you,” he said. He took up his small sheaf of notes and stepped down from the lectern. Mangan waited for applause. Applause seemed proper to this performance. But instead, as E.P. took his seat in the front row, the unseen musicians began to play, a violin and piano beginning a Mozart sonata. The audience shifted in its chairs as though waiting for the next item on the program.

  Mangan had not been to a funeral since his schooldays. The last time had been his grandfather’s in the Church of the Ascension in Montreal, a big, dignified funeral befitting a senior figure in the Canadian Pacific Railway hierarchy. His grandfather’s coffin, oak with brass fittings, lay on a high, draped catafalque athwart the center aisle of the church like the hull of a Viking ship. Loud organ tones pealed as old heavy men in dark suits came forward to view through the open panel the face of one they had known for forty years. The dead man’s widow, frail, in black muslin veil and deep mourning weeds, was led to the casket, looked at the dead face, then covered her eyes with black gloved hands as though to hide the sight. It was a solemn requiem, the Host raised in hushed solemnity, the tinkling Sanctus bell heard by all save his grandfather, who lay in the open coffin beneath the church’s vaulted ceiling, his dead face lit by a stained-glass window of his benefaction on the right-hand side of the nave. There in the church to which, long years ago, he had brought his children to be baptized, a parish priest climbed the winding pulpit stairs to speak of him in a way which brought his family, sitting in the front pew, unashamedly to tears.