Street Symphony (2 page)

In that final unsisterly act, Lucy had bequeathed her lottery winnings, nearly the whole $155,400, to the amateur theatre where she’d spent her evenings and weekends directing a group of part-time actors in unusual plays. Even though Gerald, virtually widowed these past few years by his wife’s devotion to drama, had gone to France for three weeks with Kate Fernley a year ago, he still expected that some of the money would come to him. No doubt he longed, as many men must sometimes do, for the old days when a woman and her goods became her husband’s property on marriage. He would anyway get the insurance payout and whatever was in Lucy’s current account as well as her half share of their distressed condo.

“Too young. Too young,” Aunt Marie said for the fiftieth time. “There are so many decrepit old people for whom death would be a blessing, you see them out on the street all the time and instead, well – she had so much ahead of her.”

Berta wondered if her aunt included herself among the decrepit. After her brother had died and then the sister-in-law she’d complained of all her life, Aunt Marie had appeared to shrink inside her mourning clothes and was on the way to becoming a wraith. Berta looked at her now and saw the brave makeup, the jaunty bright scarf, and resolved to visit her frequently, help her with errands and make sure she ate well. Perhaps too it was time to persuade her to move out of her townhouse into a supervised residence.

~ • ~

Ransom was angry to be left
off the list of speakers at the service. He’d written a poetic prose piece that included some of his most recent musings about death interspersed with nice moments in their childhood and a couple of lines of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with feathers”,
et cetera
. He’d abandoned William James as too heavy for this audience. But Berta had invited the rat Gerald and three people from the little theatre, as well as Lucy’s doctor, to share their thoughts. And she, naturally, the bossy eldest, would speak first. He parked the Volvo close to the hall and there, as he opened the car door, in that very moment, he decided. To hell with them all! He would speak. He was the deceased’s brother and he had something important to say. In her very last words, Lucy had recognized him and whispered, “I know you.” It would be easy to get up and walk forward in the gap between the officiating humanist’s
sermon
and Berta’s false memories. All he had to do was move and move fast. Berta would not create a scene by pushing him back into his seat; she had a decent sense of occasion.

~ • ~

Jill saw him straighten up
in a way that meant he had made up his mind to take action. She hoped he wasn’t about to do something clownish. He and his sisters were, had been, a strange trio, and, looking back, she realised she could have been more wary. Their mother, Amber Rose, had drawn her into the house on the first visit, hugged her and said, “Look after my boy. Not everyone understands him.” Lucy, so beautiful, had walked out of the room. Berta, in her role as household drudge, had entered bearing a tray laden with a brightly painted teapot and cups. Ransom had run after Lucy and could be heard arguing with her offstage. Mr. Breen, who came in later and quietly drank cold tea, had the look of a man who’d been taught the cruel lessons of life early.

Jill had only imagined that the parents lived in expectation of grandchildren when she saw the shabby rocking horse in the corner of the living room, the miniature soldiers in their sentry boxes, the crowd of teddy bears on the sofa. On later visits she noticed that the toys had been moved or replaced by others and that Amber Rose wore an old black hat with yellow and green feathers stuck into a red band, even in the house.

~ • ~

Berta wanted to draw a large circle
round the absence of Lucy. No one else was to be allowed inside the chalk ring. She would rule the space. No grief could measure up to her grief. Intruders were not welcome. Lucy had rightfully said, “I owe you”, offering gratitude finally for those last few weeks of devotion. She could call it devotion now although there’d been days when she’d gone downstairs and thrown things at the wall. The sandwiches and the wine were set out. Lucy’s friend Gina was in the kitchen making tea. And here they came, friends, relatives, strangers. Were the men and women who came back to the house guests, or mourners or visitants or maybe
consolateurs?
She watched through the window as they parked their cars on the narrow road. The later ones would have to go around to Merton Street to find a space. And there was Ransom at the door, greeting, thanking, welcoming. “Do come in. So good of you. Please help yourself. Yes, it’s a great loss and so young. Too soon.”

She still couldn’t get over the nerve of him getting up on his hind legs and marching to the podium to spout his thoughts on the necessary beauty of death. It would have been his fault if half the people in the hall had marched out into the heavy traffic like a bunch of lemmings determined to take advantage of this amazing once-in-a-lifetime-only-one-to-a-customer offer in order to get to heaven then and there. That was exactly why, though she loved him and knew he had a right to speak, she’d left him off the program.

His intrusion had left Gerald floundering, reaching for his hanky before he limped forward to speak about Lucy’s artistic nature, her determination and her love of theatre. He choked a bit on that one. After a few moments he’d straightened up and said firmly that she had much left to do in life and “should not have been taken from us so soon”.
Sound of lemmings turning back
. Berta had felt like applauding.

After the three actors read a brief scene depicting Lucy’s great qualities, the pianist had led them into “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, her favourite song. They were all born in the Beatles era and their mother, on her best days, had sung the songs, danced round the house, baking, adding bits of hash to the muffins, while wearing the hat she called Hope because the feathers reminded her of a poem she’d read at school. It was surprising really, Berta thought, that the three of them had grown up without becoming dependent on drugs or alcohol.

Gerald took hold of her arm and said, “Who paid for all this? I mean the wine and food.”

It was an accountant’s question, but Berta could see from his shifty look that he was still trying to make amends for his defection.
Get over it,
she wanted to say to him.
Lucy won’t care any more.
But it would be good for him to suffer for a while. There was nothing like death for stirring up guilt. The anger would kick in later when he
understood that Lucy had left the four of them, himself, Ransom, Jill and Berta, only six thousand dollars each. Then he would query Jill’s share and talk of contesting the will.

“We’ll sort it out later,” she said. “Lucy didn’t want a fuss, but people expect it. Could you go and tell those kids not to touch the toy soldiers? And look after that couple there. I don’t know who they are, but…”

“Friends of mine,” he said, and wandered away.

The sickening scent of lilies had seeped into the drapes, the wallpaper, the food. Many people had sent floral tributes. All would have to be thanked. But at least that smell hid the other odour, the odour of death and age and unspoken bitterness.

~ • ~

Jill had cried while Ransom was speaking
in the memorial chapel. Parting is a little death. Yes, all right. She’d made her plan weeks before but couldn’t act on it while his sister was dying. Ransom was not a bad man. He simply required that attention be paid to him.
I’m thirty-six and I want a child, a small infant child, not a childish man.
She watched him now as he handed round sandwiches, gathering compliments for his speech, driving Berta crazy although she was clearly doing her best to be calm.

~ • ~

Aunt Marie was sitting in the corner
by the dollhouse playing with the minute furniture. She’d put the bed on the roof and was holding the table in one hand as if she were about to throw it into the fireplace. She looked up at her niece and smiled a soft smile, perhaps a hint of approaching dementia.

Poor old thing,
Berta thought.
I’ll wrap up some food for her to take.

But then her aunt stood up and kissed her. “Life is so uncertain,” she said. “This has been hard for you. Do take care of
yourself. Don’t drive too fast. Don’t make extravagant purchases. That happens so often in the turmoil of grief.

“I’m going to India next week with my friend Anil. I’ll be starting a blog. You could let the others know about it, Berta. What you must do is get out of this mausoleum before some other sick person moves in on you. Take a vacation. Go on a spree. And do get rid of these damn toys. Your mother was quite mad, you know.”

When she woke next morning, Berta knew that it was not a dream and that downstairs the kitchen was full of dirty glasses, empty bottles, crumbs, plates. Ransom and Jill and Gerald had followed the guests out yesterday afternoon and left the mess to her as usual. Just as they would leave to her the clearing out of this old house. A four-square house, their father had called it. A solid, decent house. Plenty of light. Good spaces. And she had loved it, but lately she’d tended too many of the dying in these rooms. First Dad, who, in his old age, had become demanding and spiteful. Then Amber Rose, who’d denied them the right when they were kids to call her Mother or Mom – “My name is pleasing and must be used” – had made her exit in a strangely polite way. No fuss. No bother. Lucy as her voice grew weaker had tried to explain why the theatre had to have her winnings. “Art is forever, Bertie.” And Aunt Marie was going to India with a man called Anil.

She hadn’t even had time to sort out her mother’s clothes. There were a couple of smart suits, hardly worn, and three shirts she meant sometime to alter for herself. And there on the shelf was the box containing the hat called Hope. Berta lifted the box down and took out the hat and put it on. From the mirror a woman looked back at her, a tired woman but one to whom the hat lent promise. The green and yellow feathers waved back at her. She laughed. She laughed and laughed. And cried. There
were
other kinds of life. Dean Harpur had said she was welcome to come back to the office full-time when she was ready. But did she want to spend the rest of her days among old documents?

I will wait and take time to grieve before making the leap, but I will leap.
After Amber Rose’s death a year ago, she’d planned to sell the house and either take a six month leave or buy a condo and work from home. But then Lucy’s cancer had invaded her body and she’d moved into her old home for comfort and a sister’s loving care. The last days before Lucy had gone into the hospice had been fraught not just with worry and sleeplessness but with the continual assaults from Gerald wanting reconciliation, wanting love, wanting assurance that half the winnings would be his because he was a good man now.

And behold, I am free. Sad, but alive and free.

A loud knock at the door made Berta rush down the stairs, almost slipping on the worn third step. Jill was on the doorstep
with a small bag, saying, “It’s just for a night or two. Why are you wearing that hat?”

The phone rang. Ransom. He was in tears. Could he come round right away?

It only lacked Gerald, who appeared at the door moments later looking contrite and miserable and determined. “I’ve come to help clean up,” he said.

Subtext:
We have to contest the will.

Berta wanted to scream and shout,
I need space. I need time to mourn three people I loved and who loved me. And the aunt I planned to look after has let me down.
She took one huge, deep breath, exhaled, and allowed her new self to take charge a little sooner than planned. She told Jill she could have Lucy’s room; the bedding was new. She told Gerald to make himself some coffee and enough for Ransom, who was on his way over.

Jill shouted, “You’re not to let him in. I’m trying to leave him.”

Berta went upstairs, packed her carry-on bag, stuffed the old hat into the bathroom wastebasket, called a cab and descended the steps in a significantly slow way.

“Tidy the place up,” she said to Jill. “I’m putting the house on the market. I’ll be back in ten days or so. Tell Ransom to dispose of Mother’s clothes. And the place needs a really good clean. There are plenty of sandwiches left over from yesterday.”

She ignored the questions and the cry of, “Hey, wait!” and walked down the path to the escape car. “Morrow’s Real Estate on Johnson first, please,” she told the taxi driver. “And then, if you’d wait for me, I’m going to the airport.” She checked on her iPhone; there were five seats available on the evening flight to Paris. And Paris was as good a place as any to come to grips with the
this-ness
of grief, and to buy a new hat.

Go, Dad, Go!

“Go, Dad, go,” Dorry had said to him
in her cheerleader’s tone. No pompoms, no skimpy skirt, just a desire to find an occupation for the old man, preferably at some distance. “You said you’ve always wanted to do it.”

Roland couldn’t recall having mentioned
it
more than a couple of times, but here he was in fine surroundings as advertised, three meals a day likewise, own room, one-on-one instruction as well as daily group sessions. Five students to one teacher: great ratio. There were rules that made sense though he felt irked by their wordiness.
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