Dying Wishes

by Judith K Ivie

  I had planned to fill him in on all the latest developments, but instead, we sat in companionable silence while he finished his dinner. Then I patted his whiskery cheek and took myself to bed, leaving him to his customary late-night television viewing. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  Thirteen

  Thursday morning dawned gray and dismal. The previous night’s wind had snatched most of the remaining leaves from the trees, and the denuded branches foretold the month of November, nobody’s favorite. No wonder most people looked forward to the holidays. They needed something cheerful to anticipate in the midst of this climactic gloom. At least ours was sporadic in New England. Why anyone voluntary lives in Seattle, where it rains so much, was a mystery to me.

  After his travels Armando had trouble getting out of bed, and I left him stumbling toward his shower with a mug of coffee in his hand. I was no more eager than he was to get to the office, and my mood didn’t improve when I pulled into the Law Barn’s small parking lot next to Margo’s Acura. I was surprised to see her still sitting behind the wheel with Rhett Butler beside her in the passenger seat. I assumed she was making a cell phone call, but when I drew up next to her, she just pointed.

  STAY OUT OF IT was painted in red across the double doors at the entrance to the converted barn. The color contrasted shockingly with the weathered gray of the wood. In my befuddled state I thought at first it was a warning not to enter the building, as if it had been condemned. Then my coffee kicked in, and I realized it was we who were being condemned, not the Law Barn. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was the most visible.

  Margo lowered her window, and Rhett woofed a greeting. “I preferred it when the crazies sent their messages through the mail,” she observed. “At least we didn’t have to hire someone to power wash them off the building.”

  “If we’re lucky and they used latex paint,” I added. “If it’s oil based, we’re talking about sandblasting.” We sat for another minute, contemplating the vandalism. “Why now? What’s happened in the last few days to whoop someone up to this extent?”

  I was more annoyed than frightened. At least this time no one was stalking me—that I knew of, at any rate. I peered into the shrubbery that separated the Law Barn from the neighboring structures.

  Margo drummed her fingers on her steering wheel. “Well, I can’t picture Janet and Bitsy, or either of those fastidious husbands of theirs, out here in the middle of the night with a can of paint.” She drummed some more.

  “Tommy Garcia?” I suggested weakly, although I knew what her reaction would be. I braced myself, but her response was mild.

  “Not Tommy, no. It has to be someone we don’t know about yet, someone connected to Margaret or the Grants or the MacRaes or the CCD …”

  “… or all of the above,” I finished for her. What she said made sense, but I wasn’t happy about it. Up until now I could tell myself that we had been sticking our noses into what was an incredibly delicate and private matter, and anyone with any sense or compassion would simply butt out. But this … this was personal.

  “Have you called John yet?”

  Margo looked uncomfortable. “No, not yet. It’s just a case of vandalism. I’m sure he has more pressin’ business to attend to.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t see you rushin’ to tell your hubby.”

  “Armando is not a member of the Wethersfield Police Department, so what would he be able to do about it?” I huffed. “Besides, he’s probably still in the shower.” Armando tended to stand under the spray until the hot water ran out.

  We exchanged complicit looks.

  “We’ll have to call the landlord, though,” Margo said finally.

  I volunteered to handle that particular unpleasantness. “He’ll probably be grateful that it doesn’t involve a fire and major renovations this time,” I sighed. That had happened before.

  On that note, we climbed out of our cars and trudged inside to begin our day.

  ~

  By noon the sun had reappeared, and I climbed back into my Jetta and headed for Asylum Hill in Hartford. The power washer was blasting away at the front doors, and it was impossible to concentrate on paperwork anyway, so I was glad to have an excuse to leave for a while. I was on my way to pick up Sister Marguerite, the CEO of Unified Christian Charities. She is one of the smartest women I know, as well as one of the most compassionate, and I trusted her judgment. Notwithstanding the fact that I haven’t seen the inside of a church in more than a decade, she and I have worked together on several charitable endeavors over the years and become firm friends in the process. She is unlike any other nun I have ever met, and her lack of sanctimony and earthy sense of humor have seen me through more than a few dreary fundraising dinners.

  I had helped the good sister out with a major fundraiser at Hartford’s Wadsworth Atheneum nearly a year ago, when her longtime assistant was expecting a baby, and we had bonded even more strongly despite my atheism. When I pulled up to the rear door of the UCC offices on Asylum Avenue, located conveniently in the shadow of The Cathedral of St. Joseph and a stone’s throw from three of the city’s oldest Protestant churches, just the sight of her coming out the door gave me pleasure.

  “Katie, my girl, it’s so good to see your face,” she exclaimed with genuine warmth as she settled herself in the passenger seat and pulled the door shut.

  “I was just thinking the very same thing about you,” I smiled, “but where’s Aloysius? Isn’t he joining us for our walk in the park?” Aloysius was Sister Marguerite’s fat, aged poodle and her constant companion. She even had a bed for him in her office.

  “Gone to meet his maker, I’m afraid,” she replied calmly as I turned left out of the lot and drove toward Elizabeth Park. “I know I should be happy for my old friend to be released from his pain. His arthritis had become that bad, you see. But speaking quite selfishly, I miss him very much, especially on my little walks.”

  Her news took me by surprise, and I fought back tears as I maneuvered the car into a tight parking space near the pond. We got out and walked the few paces to the grassy bank near the footbridge, where Sister gazed at the ducks on the water, the joggers thumping past on the road above, and a child throwing a Frisbee for a large, mixed-breed mutt who galloped happily in pursuit. “Aloysius would have enjoyed this, that he would.”

  “How long has he been gone?” I managed to ask.

  “I had to ask the vet to send him to his final rest just two weeks ago. It was a hard day.” She produced a snowy handkerchief from a capacious pocket and wiped her eyes.

  “I know all about that day. I’ve had to face it many times before, and now it’s looming again.” I explained about Jasmine’s advanced age and progressive kidney disease.

  She patted my arm consolingly. “’Tis a difficult decision, to be sure, but we can’t allow such good friends to suffer needlessly. It wouldn’t be kind.”

  The expression on my face must have conveyed the inner turmoil her innocent remarks had triggered. “What is it, Katie? What’s got my favorite nonbeliever so tied up in knots that she would seek out an old nun for comfort? Put yourself right here and tell me all about it.” She led the way to a nearby bench and lowered herself onto it carefully, patting the space beside her. Obediently, I sat.

  “I know you didn’t mean to, Sister, but you really hit a nerve with that needless suffering comment,” I told her. Warmed by her kindly attention, I blurted it all out—the deaths at Vista View, Ginny’s dark suspicions, our half-hearted investigation, and now a threat that, while intended to frighten us off, had only intensified our determination to discover whether something illegal or immoral was happening around us. I told her about the CCD and its controversial stand on a person’s right to end his or her suffering when confronted with a terminal illness. Then I told her about Ginny’s and my conflicting views.

  “It’s the illegal or immoral part that’s the sticking point, Sister. I’m willing to turn over evidence of illegal activity, if we find
any, but I’m not willing to make a moral judgment about suicide, assisted or not. To me that’s an intensely private matter between patients and their medical advisors, but Ginny doesn’t feel that way about it. She’s been a devout Catholic her whole life, and I need to understand where she’s coming from. Can you help me out here?”

  I finally wound down and slumped against the back of the bench. It was a relief to be able to share my quandary with someone who was both experienced and compassionate and who would not, I felt certain, judge me or my doubts harshly. She never had in the past.

  “We Catholics have our wishy-washy moments too, don’t you know,” she smiled, “though in this area the debate centers around sustaining life through artificial means, feeding tubes and the like. Until just a few years ago the doctrine of proportionality was our guideline. Were the benefits to the patient resulting from such artificial devices greater than the burdens they created? But then the late Pope John Paul II stated flatly that the removal of feeding tubes, even from patients who have been unconscious for more than a year, would be a mortal sin. He called it euthanasia by omission.”

  She paused to consider her next words, knowing how important they would be to me. “However, that’s not what you’re asking, is it, my dear? You want to know where the Church stands on suicide, assisted or unassisted, even when the intention is a good one, to end or prevent unbearable suffering. Is that about the size of it?”

  I nodded gratefully. “I need to know why my friend can’t let this go,” I confirmed, “not that I’m even certain that’s what happened here.”

  The look in her eyes was kindly, almost regretful, but she spoke without hesitation. “As I’ve said, prolonging life through artificial means is one thing, and that debate will continue long after I’m gone; but deliberately ending a life, even for the best of intentions, such as the merciful deliverance from suffering, is wrong in the eyes of the Church. It’s murder, a mortal sin. In very extreme circumstances, the Church has granted forgiveness for the taking of one’s own life, but to those assisting in such an act? Never.”

  I felt as rebellious as I had as a teenager when our Luteran pastor had delivered what I considered to be an arbitrary, unilateral pronouncement to me and the other members of our Saturday morning confirmation preparation class.

  “So it’s okay to help our pets out by ending their pain and suffering but not our fellow human beings,” I concluded sourly.

  “’Tis a matter of the immortal soul,” she said gently. “Our existence here is merely a passageway to a glorious afterlife, and only God may decide when the door between here and there shall open.”

  In other words, some things must be taken on blind faith, I thought but did not say, and that’s something I simply cannot do. If I have, in fact, been created by a supreme being, it has equipped me with the power of reason, which is not something I can suspend at will. Thanks to that power, along with pragmatic parents and a liberal arts education, I am capable of thinking things through to a logical conclusion, and that’s what I intend to do.

  I kept all of this to myself, however. “Thank you for your time, Sister,” I told her sincerely. “You have really helped me clarify my feelings about all this.”

  “Good gracious,” she responded. “Don’t tell me that after all this time, I’ve finally succeeded in bringing you over to our side.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I’m afraid not, Sister. Let’s just say that even people who disagree should make it a point to hear the other guy’s point of view.”

  ~

  Although we were more than a week from the end of the month, I could already feel the closing craziness building. The phones rang relentlessly, and Emma flew down the stairs to the copy machine and back up the stairs to her office like a woman possessed. Jimmy and Isabel, the two lawyers for whom she worked, seemed always to be behind the doors of the upstairs conference room or en route to an offsite closing.

  “Quick lunch tomorrow?” she threw over her shoulder as we passed in the lobby.

  “Can’t tomorrow, Vista View,” I tossed back over mine, intent on reaching the ringing phone in the Mack office.

  “See you Sunday, maybe,” she yelled, already at the top of the stairs, and that was the extent of our non-business-related conversation for the week.

  Margo was taking advantage of the afternoon’s clear skies to show an out-of-town buyer several listings, so Strutter and I handled the nervous first-time buyers and jumpy refinancers, fixated on every eighth-of-a-point rate fluctuation, as best we could.

  At five-thirty by mutual consent, we switched the phones over to the answering service and locked the newly power-washed front doors behind us. Strutter hurried to her car, running late to collect Olivia from the sitter. I thought about Emma, still toiling over endless closing packages at her desk, and wondered yet again how a baby could possibly fit into her hectic schedule.

  Since Armando had been traveling for half the week, and we had barely exchanged two words since his return on Wednesday evening, we planned to meet for dinner at Costa del Sol. Several of our other favorite restaurants had fallen victim to the down economy of the past few years, as well as Hartford’s changing demographics. Our favorite dinner-and-dancing place had turned hip hop and tacky under new management, and our Italian restaurant of choice had been replaced by a raucous sports bar with a never-ending happy hour. Apparently, young working people were as addicted to their evening cocktails and dinners out as they were to their four-dollar morning lattes.

  “I know they work hard and feel entitled to a little fun,” Margo put it succinctly, “but every night? Lord love ‘em, no wonder they’re always broke.”

  It was that false sense of prosperity that had put many young couples under water on their mortgages, having taken on more debt at the urging of irresponsible lenders than they could possibly sustain, especially when one or both partners subsequently lost a high-paying job.

  After my perplexing week immersed in the issues of aging and dying, it was a treat to sit across the table from my handsome husband and savor both our time together and the exquisite paella we had ordered. I gave him an edited version of the week’s events so far, carefully omitting mention of the painted message, and he was amused by my exchange with Sister Marguerite.

  “She sounds much more tolerant of diverse points of view than were the monjas of my youth but just as firm in her convictions,” he chuckled. “I cannot imagine SorEmelinda permitting such a conversation, let alone participating in it.

  I assumed he was referring to one of the teachers in the Colombian school he had attended as a child. “Were you a good little boy, or did she rap your knuckles with her ruler?” I teased.

  He looked confused. “Oh, no. SorEme was not one of my boyhood teachers. She was the, how do you call it, manager of the domestic services provided to the seminarians such as the laundry and cooking and so on.” I remembered that Armando had once planned to enter the priesthood. He had studied for two years before his attraction to the young women of his acquaintance persuaded him that a lifetime of celibacy wasn’t going to work out for him. Nobody was happier about that decision than I was.

  He sipped his wine and smiled, remembering. “If you were foolish enough to get on the wrong side of SorEme, she could make your life no longer worth living, believe me.”

  I laughed. “Did that happen often?”

  “It seems to me that I spent a good deal more time than the other students mopping floors and peeling potatoes. So Sister Marguerite believes it may be possible to save your soul? She must indeed have tenacity of spirit.”

  “Let’s just say she still hopes for a miracle,” I said.

  We ate in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the classical guitar music wafting in from the bar and the quiet conversation of other diners.

  “What did Margo learn about the young Colombian sex therapist?” he asked finally, pushing his empty plate aside.

  “Massage therapist,” I corrected him. �
��Ginny thinks the sex is a sideline for Tommy, but Margo swears he’s a perfect gentleman, or at least he was with her.” I recounted what she had told me about their encounter. “When she found out that Tommy had been orphaned as a teenager, she went all mother tiger, defending him against Ginny’s accusations.”

  “I imagine that your Margo would be formidable in such circumstances. She is definitely someone I would want on my side in an argument,” he agreed. He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Cara, does it not seem to you that you and your friends are spending a great deal of time defending many people from Senora Preston’s accusations? She appears to be a very negative individual, imagining goblins everywhere. Is it not possible that her suspicions about the Butler woman’s death are as unfounded as is her belief that Tomás is a gigolo?”

  He had no idea how much I longed to dismiss Ginny’s fears as easily as he seemed prepared to do, but too many people were going to great lengths to distract and divert me. Then there was the matter of the painted warning on the Law Barn.

  I shook my head stubbornly, and he sighed. “Then at least let us enjoy another glass of this excellent Pinot noir.”

  I was happy to agree.

  Fourteen

  On Friday morning Bert didn’t appear for coffee. I was a little worried about him until he showed up at the sales desk a few minutes before noon, his arms laden with shopping bags bearing the logo of a local party shop.

  “Halloween Social Committee meeting this afternoon,” he explained, sinking gratefully into a visitor’s chair. He piled the bags on the floor beside him.

  “Nice!” I congratulated him as he spread out a particularly gruesome selection of masks on my desk. I fingered a Freddy Krueger model fondly. “This takes me back to a Halloween party we threw for Emma and her friends when she was fifteen. We propped Freddy here up on a broom handle right outside the guest bathroom window and shined a flashlight on him. You didn’t notice anything until you washed your hands. Then the mirror over the sink reflected Fred in all his glory. Judging from the shrieks we heard all evening, those kids must have had nightmares for weeks,” I giggled unrepentantly, and Bert joined in.