Beacon Street Mourning (19 page)

"Let me ask you a question first: I know there is seldom
something so formal as a reading of the will, with all the heirs gathered in one room. But once you've shared the contents of the will with me, aren't you then obliged to inform everyone else who is mentioned for bequests?"

"Within a reasonable amount of time, yes."

"And what would be reasonable."

"In the case of everyone concerned living in the same general proximity, I should say a night and a day. If some heirs have to be located, then it would vary."

"Do you recall if there was a bequest to Ralph and Myra Porter? They are a couple who worked for my family for many years. I was distressed to find they are no longer employed at the house, but I never said anything to Father about it because I didn't want to upset him."

"I'm sorry, I can't say that I recall. But let me get the key—"

He pushed his chair back and bent down to open a drawer near the bottom of his desk.

I interrupted his rummaging. "No, please, don't do that. Not right now. I would much prefer to leave this matter until after the funeral."

Sefton returned to his upright position with key in hand. "As you wish. However, since you're here—"

"I'm thinking of Augusta. She will more than likely be upset to find most of the ..." I hesitated over the unfamiliar word, "estate will go to me."

"Hm. She might, yes. She might. I do see your point. Well then, when is the funeral to be?"

"I don't know. She went out to make arrangements this morning, but she hasn't told me what they are specifically. I know Father has a plot in Mount Auburn Cemetery next to Mother, and I know he would not have wanted very much in the way of a religious ceremony, because he wasn't a religious man. He felt we are all a part of Nature, and at the end of our
lives our bodies will go back to the earth, and that is as it should be—

"Oh!" One hand flew involuntarily to my mouth. "I wonder if Augusta knows about the wooden coffin?"

Sefton frowned. "I'm not following you."

"When Mother died, Father had her buried in a coffin made of wood, even though it's no longer the . . . the usual thing. I recall the undertaker's being quite upset about it, shaking his head, much mumbling in the library and so on. Father chose wood because of his belief that for our bodies to decay after death and mix with the soil is the natural way of things."

"You've just jarred my memory, Miss Jones. I'm afraid your wish to wait until after the funeral to begin dealing with these legal matters won't do. Leonard put his wishes for his own funeral into writing, and included them as part of the will. As soon as I'd heard of his death, I should have had to contact both you and Augusta Simmons. Indeed I'm somewhat surprised she hasn't already been in. But in any event, the usual thing is for a death announcement to be placed in the newspaper. When I read that, I'd have called right away. It's only that you got here before I received notice, don't you see."

"Oh dear," I sighed.

"In fact, I don't understand why she hasn't been in contact with the bank already."

"I expect Augusta is assuming some earlier copy of the will is still in effect. It will be your unfortunate duty to tell her otherwise, Mr. Sefton."

"Unfortunate, yes. But necessary. Now"—he once more held up the key to the safety-deposit box—"shall we go down?"

ON MY WAY OUT of the bank I stopped to thank William Barrett for having called at the house. His clerk, another of the guardians at the rail, told me William was in a meeting; I left a message.

Actually I felt fortunate that William was unavailable, because the whole business with Elwood Sefton had taken longer than I'd thought it would. He had insisted on going over every paragraph of Father's will with me. There had been no surprises, but I'm sure it was something that had to be done and therefore it was just as well to have it behind me. Nevertheless, it had taken a long while and had been more than a little draining.

On exit I raised my arm to catch my carriage driver's eye. While waiting for him to disentangle himself from his carriage post and get the horse in gear, as it were, I reached into the pocket of my long coat and found the slip of paper upon which Nurse Bates had written the address of the nurse, Sarah Kirk. The name of her street was unfamiliar to me, but the driver knew it well enough, for he nodded and, as soon as he had assisted me inside, got us underway without a word. No questions, no comment. He did not even cluck at his horse.

I wondered if I were being hypersensitive due to—well, really, due to more things than I cared to think about; or if I were correct in my observation that the inhabitants of Boston did not, in general, converse as openly and casually as do the inhabitants of San Francisco. This carriage driver provided a good example: I knew if I were to ask him a direct question he would reply, but otherwise he would have no more to say to me on our way to Sarah Kirk's house than he'd said on the way to the bank, which amounted to sum zero. How was it that I, a native Bostonian, had never before noticed how much people kept to themselves?

And further, was this self-containment a good thing, a desirable trait? Were San Franciscans by contrast boisterous and even boorish? Or simply friendly and more relaxed? For a moment I wished Michael were with me. I would have liked his opinion.

However, it was a short moment, for in truth I could not have Michael with me on this visit to Sarah Kirk. This, and probably more, I must do on my own. Lamentably, uneasily on my own.

Michael did not share my suspicious of Augusta. He had outright accused me of having an unreasoning dislike for her. While I could not quite defend myself against that statement, I could say that my dislike was not unreasoning, but reasonable in the circumstances. Yet even that much he would not acknowledge.

His attitude wounded me. I did not want to—no, more than that—I
could
not hear anything more from Michael right now. I was so afraid he, or I, or the both of us, would say something that would then stand between us forever, would be impossible for us later to forgive and forget. We had come dangerously close to that point already.

The carriage rumbled on, into a poorer section of town. Streets grew narrower, dirtier, and bumpier; I had not seen an automobile for blocks. I had a sense that we were working our
way gradually toward Boston Harbor, but due to the density of structures leaning close in over the street I could barely see the sky, much less a patch of water.

On reflection, considering these surroundings, I was glad to be taking this trip in a hired carriage. That did not mean, however, I'd be wrong to consider the purchase of my own automobile.

I mulled over this idea, glad it had come to mind. Given my inheritance, I could well afford my own car, and having one would greatly increase my ability to get around without having to depend on Michael or on anyone. That was an exceedingly attractive thought. On the unattractive side was the idea of spending so much money on any one thing. For most of the past four years I'd had very little money—the year after the earthquake, desperately little—and that experience had changed my attitude toward money forever.

In case I should need to return to this neighborhood again without someone else to drive me, I began to pay closer attention to the route. I recalled having passed Fanueil Hall some time back, after which the carriage had made a sharp turn to the right. Since then the driver had been moving forward in a sort of zigzagging progression, like tacking a sailboat—that image may have come to mind because I could smell salt water, but it was nevertheless apt. Not to mention confusing.

Hmm. Chances were slim to none that I would ever find my way alone through this warren of streets. There must be another way to go about it, if only one had a map. And if only all these streets were on the map. Sometimes streets, whole towns even, were left off maps; that was something I had learned last year in Utah.

Just when I was beginning to feel so hopelessly lost as to become a tad uneasy, the carriage emerged onto Hanover Street, which I recognized, and then I knew we were in the North End. Soon I saw the spire of Old North Church upon its hill. Then,
with a jerk that almost upset the carriage, the driver made an abrupt turn into a street so narrow we were barely able to pass.

It was dark and noisy, full of the smells that build up when too many people have lived too close together for too long. Dogs barked and babies cried. A cat streaked across our path. Curious heads leaned out of windows—the carriage was a novelty and a disruption.

Slower and slower the carriage wheels turned. I had the presence of mind to snatch the fur hat off my head, likewise the scarf from around my neck, and to stash them and the fur muff too under the lap robe.

"Do not let anyone into the carriage while I am gone," I admonished the driver, "not even curious children." It wasn't that I minded if these things were stolen, but rather that I did not want to be any more set apart from the people of this neighborhood than I had been already, just by arriving in a hired carriage.

The driver allowed as how he wouldn't think of it, then in a surprising outburst of garrulity added, pointing, "There's the house you're wanting, miss. If anybody comes along and makes me move the carriage, don't you worry, I'll go round the block and come on back. But I don't think that'll happen. It's mostly foot traffic in these parts."

I thanked the man, gathered my skirt close in to my body with one hand, and with the cane in the other approached the door the driver had indicated. Along the way I stepped over some potato peelings and other assorted debris that was probably best left unidentified.

These houses were very old, and had never been the least bit grand even when they were new. Now they seemed to be doing all that could be expected of them if their four walls simply did not fall down. The stoop was a cracked, irregularly shaped piece of stone. I stepped up onto it and rapped on a door so old the wood had turned almost black. In some places it had cracked clear through and I could see light from the other side.

Light and movement: With what felt like a hundred curious eyes on my back, I stood waiting as the door opened and there stood Sarah Kirk.

"Sarah, forgive the intrusion," I said, "but I must speak with you."

Her eyes were huge and frightened in her gaunt face. She bit her lips bloodless and said nothing.

"Surely you do recognize me?"

She nodded. A whimper came from somewhere in the dimly lit room behind her and she cast a quick glance over her shoulder.

"May I please come in?" I asked, and God forgive me, I did not wait for her invitation. I put my cane on through the door and followed it one foot at a time.

Sarah backed up as I came through but still she said nothing, and she left it for me to close the door behind me. In truth the little room was so stuffy I would have preferred to leave it open, but that would have meant all those eyes continuing to stare. And no doubt a hundred ears would have been overhearing us as well.

Another whimper, and Sarah turned and left me.

She is going to her sick child, I thought.

Oh, but I'd had no idea how sick he was ... I had no idea such a creature could be human and continue to live.

Sarah came back with her child—I supposed it was a boy— wrapped around her. If he were able to stand, he would likely have been as tall as she, for Sarah Kirk was a small woman both in stature and of limb. But one doubted he could stand; his arms and legs were white as mushrooms that have grown in a cellar without ever knowing light, and they were thin as the bones beneath that too pale skin. His hugely misshapen head lolled against her shoulder, his almost white hair was wispy and thin as a baby's, his blue eyes were vague and unfocused, and his protruding tongue leaked drool down her dress.

"You see how it is, Miss Jones," she said.

"How—how old?" My own problems, whatever they might have been, had shrunk to nothing and temporarily fled my mind. I could not even begin to frame the words I wanted to say, nor were the words I'd come in here intent on saying necessarily the right ones, the words that most needed to be said.

"Thirteen years. But he won't last much longer. Can't. His lungs don't half work anymore."

As if to demonstrate, the creature in her arms sucked in a heaving breath, so heavily congested it sounded as if he were breathing underwater.

"Can we—" I began, then backed off what I'd originally intended and tried again. "Ah, that is, he must be heavy for you. Perhaps we might sit down?"

Sarah stiffened. "I have nothing to say to you, miss."

The words sounded as if she had rehearsed them. As if she'd expected eventually to see me here, or to be questioned by me at some time and place. Ah, but had she rehearsed them all on her own or had someone else required it, even chosen what she was to say?

With the purpose of my visit thus forcefully recalled to me, I made a quick decision. I knew it might prove disastrous, might backfire, but still I went ahead on pure instinct.

Quietly but forcefully I said, "Whatever amount any other person has paid or offered to pay you, I will pay you double. I don't mean to offend you, Sarah—I can see you truly need money for the boy. But the thing is, I must talk to you, and have some answers from you. I think you know why."

The boy groaned and his head lolled dangerously. He had very little control over his musculature, and as he moved, Sarah's hand came up automatically to protect that huge head, as one does a baby's. A glistening thread of saliva stretched between his head and her upraised arm like a piece of spider's web.

Sarah's eyes lost some of their fear and gazed at me questioningly instead. Finally she jerked her head toward the dim recesses behind her and said, "All right, we can sit over here, if you think you can stand it."

Her remark and the tone in which she said it made me thank God I had not come in here dripping Russian sable. I followed her farther into the room, which was small and therefore crowded, rather dark owing to its having only one narrow window, but perfectly clean.

I felt so keenly the unjust disparity between Sarah Kirk's situation and my own that if I could have run out and immediately sold the things I'd left on the carriage seat beneath that lap robe, I would have done it, and given her all the money . . . for nothing. I'd have done it just because she needed the money far more than I needed furs; far more indeed than any human being needed such frivolity as furs, except perhaps in Russia, where furs may not be so frivolous, as without them the Russians might freeze to death. At any rate, I would have given Sarah the proceeds from such a sale gladly, whether she gave me information or not.

But that was a fantasy, and here and now the reality must be dealt with. I watched the nurse arrange her deformed and probably mentally defective son on a pallet atop a wooden platform at waist height. Nearby a very large wicker basket held soiled bedding. There was a slight stench, but not much. I surmised the boy must have no control over any bodily functions, that she changed the bedding frequently, most likely washing the boy each time she changed it, and the bedding once a day. A formidable amount of work, especially considering she also had her nursing jobs at night.

I stood looking over her shoulder, so interested in the diligent way she cared for her son that I could not feel repelled. Sarah glanced at me and said, "You can sit over there, miss."