A Solitary Blue (25 page)

“I've been sort of thinking about it. For example, I sort of think I'd like to go into ecology.” The Professor's face went expressionless. “No, not saving the world or getting back to the good old prehistoric days, not that. But responsible management of it, somehow. I'm thinking about marine biology — with some chemistry and some economies, because it's never going to be a simple problem — and computers too, because that's the only efficient way to collate material, so you have to know programming, I guess. Don't you think?” The Professor nodded, watched, waited. “Nobody understands the bay, nobody really knows how it works. It's an incredibly complex system, but . . . I want to preserve it, I'd like to do that for a job. Maybe even enrich it.” The Professor nodded. “Or be a waterman, that would be OK too; it's hard work, but I can do it.”

“You are thinking about it then.”

“Of course. What did you think?”

But the Professor didn't answer. Anyway, Jeff knew what his father had been thinking, and he hoped he had reassured him.

“And you haven't seen your friends the Tillermans, have you?”

Jeff shrugged. He hadn't, and he really missed them — missed the singing and the way they were always working at some project, and the way when they laughed together they egged one another on. The first time that had happened, he'd gotten so choked up he'd had to pretend he had to go home. “I know,” he said, and heard the sadness in his voice.

“I don't understand,” the Professor asked.

Jeff could see that, and he was glad, because it wasn't the Professor's responsibility, it was his own. If the Professor couldn't understand, that meant Jeff had done something right, at least in that one respect. “I'm going to be OK, I think, Professor.”

“I've never heard you say that before.”

“Anyhow, I think it's the truth,” Jeff said. Keeping an eye on the truth was one of the hardest parts; accepting what he'd done to Melody. No matter what anyone would say she'd done to him, he had still done what he had done to her.

That year, Brother Thomas didn't come down for Thanksgiving or for the days after Christmas or for any weekends. He sent Jeff a postcard at Christmas time: “
Adeste fideles.
Did you know that the preferred meaning of
fideles
is trustworthy? Seasons greetings to the Tillermans. Thinking of you. BroT.” During the Christmas holiday, Jeff saw a couple of movies with Phil and Andy, went to a couple of parties, but didn't go to the Tillermans'. The reason he didn't go was simple: he didn't go because he really wanted to.

Dicey never said anything about it, but she didn't seem angry at him or anything. When they ran into each other at school she'd talk to him in the ordinary way. She didn't say anything much except she'd answer his questions carefully. They were usually “How are you?” or “What's new?”

There was no snow that winter, only a long spell of cold weather that froze the muddy fields into ruts, as if they had been fossilized, that sharpened the edge of the winds so that Jeff rode the bus to and from school every day.

The weather broke in February, near the end of the month, into a long thaw. March was warm and gentle, without any lion to it at all. In the middle of March, the Professor told Jeff that Brother Thomas wanted to come down after Easter for the remaining week of the spring vacation.

“That's great,” Jeff said. “But how come?”

“I don't ask him questions,” the Professor answered. “What
he said was, he thought we should do some planting. He wants to put in a vegetable garden. I think he's inspired by your Mrs. Tillerman.”

That was a curious word, inspired. “He said she was strong,” Jeff said. “He's pretty strong too, isn't he? I mean, you have to be, to be a brother.”

“I think so,” the Professor said. “Maybe it's like love; it's so easy to fall in love — the way you fall into the water when the weather is hot — but living in love is different.”

“I wouldn't know,” Jeff pointed out.

“Unhm,” the Professor said.

One afternoon in early April when the Professor's vacation had begun but Jeff's hadn't, he got home to find the Professor vacuuming the kitchen. He shut off the vacuum when Jeff came in. He wore flannels and a regular shirt, with a sweater vest. His hair shone from a recent washing. He had tidied up the room and even washed the big glass doors. “Professor, what's going on?” Jeff asked. He took his books into his room and hurried back. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Make a pot of coffee,” the Professor said. He finished the floor and coiled the vacuum cord around the machine. “It's not warm enough to sit outside, is it?”

“Too damp still,” Jeff said. “Who's coming?” Brother Thomas wasn't due for another ten days, and besides, they didn't clean like this for Brother Thomas. He put water on to boil, then emptied the dishwasher. The Professor's nervousness was catching.

“A gentleman named Beauregard Jacobs,” the Professor said. “Jeff, Gambo died last week. It was a peaceful death he told me.”

Jeff didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry,” he said at last.

“This Beauregard Jacobs is her lawyer. He said he had to see us, me because I'm your guardian.”

“You're not my guardian, you're my father.”

“He called this morning, he'll be here in about half an hour. I don't know, Jeff; does it look all right?”

“She can't do anything,” Jeff told his father. “She won't. Don't worry.” He knew that, for sure. He had finished Melody last summer, finished her for good and all. She couldn't get at the Professor again, not any more; and Jeff could only hurt himself.

“I just want to look as if I'm doing a good job,” the Professor said, his eyes going around the room, to find anything he'd neglected.
“Just in case.”

But it turned out that Beauregard Jacobs wasn't interested in the Professor or the housekeeping at all. He had come to see Jeff. He came wearing a white suit and carrying a straw hat in his hand. His shoes narrowed to polished points. He was a big man, as tall as the Professor, but broad and heavy as well. He had dark hair with silver streaks in it and small brown eyes under shaggy eyebrows. He carried an attaché case.

They sat at the table, Jeff and the Professor at the ends, Mr. Jacobs in the middle so he could spread out papers, with a view out the windows. He had shaken their hands and presented his condolences, as soon as he came in. He had been grateful for a cup of coffee. It had been, he said, a long drive down from the Baltimore airport. This was surely, he said, the most secluded spot he'd ever seen, but then he guessed writers naturally hankered after seclusion.

“Is that right, Dr. Greene?”

“I'm not a writer.” The Professor too had a mug of coffee to fiddle with.

“But surely Miss Melody told me — ”

“Just a history book,” the Professor said. “But you said you wanted to talk to Jeff?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed, I do.”

Jeff waited attentively. He thought about getting a glass of water, so he too would have something to turn in his hands, but decided not to. The lawyer looked straight at him. He waited, listening.

“Your great-grandmother was a fine lady, very old-fashioned in many ways, which I for one find a rare virtue these days. A rare virtue.”

Jeff nodded.

“My father was the man she originally consulted. I inherited her, as you might say.”

Jeff nodded.

“I've administered her property for a number of years. I think you might say I'm more intimately aware of the structure of the estate than anybody else. She trusted me, I'm glad to say, absolutely. Yes, absolutely.”

Jeff nodded again and saw the Professor's head going up and down at the opposite end of the table.

“That's by way of introduction. Preamble you might say. Because you see, young man, you are her heir.”

“Her heir?” Jeff echoed, and the Professor at the same time sighed, “Oh no.”

Mr. Jacobs chuckled at their reactions. “She did tell me you were an unusual pair, Miss Melody — I think I'll believe her.”

“But what about Melody?” Jeff asked. “I thought she was going to inherit.”

“Mrs. Melville has left her an heirloom ring, jade, and a portrait — not a valuable portrait, but it had sentimental value to Mrs. Melville. She decided, however, that the male descendent should inherit the estate.”

Jeff didn't know what to say. “But Melody thought — ”

“She has had a hard time of it, you might say,” Mr. Jacobs agreed. “Mrs. Melville had a hard decision to make. But she decided that it was better for the family if the property went through the male line. That was Mrs. Melville's choice. Miss Melody knew about it. She's had time to get used to the idea. Mrs. Melville told her after she'd drawn up the will.”

But it wasn't fair. Even Gambo didn't like it.

“We ought to get the facts straight first,” the Professor said. “Don't you think so, Jeff?”

“The facts, I must say, Dr. Greene, are going to be difficult to keep straight. Which is why I came up here myself, rather than trying to communicate to you by letter.”

“But I didn't even go to the funeral,” Jeff said.

“Miss Melody particularly asked that you not be told,” Mr. Jacobs answered, but he looked at the Professor as he spoke. “You had, shall we say, protested for so long, Dr. Greene, all these years and so hard, she felt that it would be more of an emotional strain than she had strength for. She did say that since you finally agreed to a divorce and it has gone through, she hoped your bitterness has faded.”

The Professor didn't say anything.

“He's not bitter,” Jeff told the lawyer.

“Yes, well,” Mr. Jacobs said. He cleared his throat, drained his mug of coffee, leaned down to open his attaché case and remove papers. He spread the papers around in front of him. “The estate consists of personal property (jewelry and household effects), the one piece of real estate, as well as some stocks. Much of the personal property can be sold at auction and the appraisers have given me an estimate of what they think it will bring. The real estate is, of course,
the house, which is quite valuable in today's market. The investments represent only about fifty thousand dollars in capital. The difficulty is that much of the estate has outstanding loans against it. After taxes, depending on the markets, you should realize from twenty to thirty thousand dollars.”

“I thought Gambo was rich.”

“She had expenses.”

Jeff thought about the big house down in Charleston and the proud woman with her black change purse and her rings and the sun-filled dining room in which they ate breakfast. “What about the aunts?” he asked.

“Fortunately, she had purchased annuities for them, several years ago, so they will move into a nursing home together. She has specified to each the furniture from her own room in the house. Miss Aurelia and Miss Belle will be able to end their lives peacefully.”

“Had she mortgaged the house?” the Professor said.

“I'm afraid so, mortgaged it heavily. She also borrowed against the investments. Whatever real legacy there is will come from the personal possessions. She did make one specific bequest to you, which is the best single piece. I brought it with me. I've had it appraised so there should be no difficulty about giving it over to you now.” He reached down and brought out a small black box, which he passed to Jeff. Jeff knew what it would be: Gambo's diamond ring.

He passed the open box to his father.

“Is that the one?” the Professor asked him.

“That's it.”

The Professor stared at the diamond, glittering white in its black velvet setting. “It certainly is big,” he said finally.

“It's worth — oh — you could probably get twenty thousand dollars for it. Her silver also is worth a fair amount, some of the china pieces, some of the furniture.”

The Professor passed the ring back to Jeff. Jeff looked at it. Twenty thousand dollars, two or three years of college, Jeff thought; and it was his own. He couldn't imagine a hand that the ring would suit, but he could imagine the difference that much money would make to some people. The Tillermans, for example; if it was a question of paying for college. “Thank you,” he said to Mr. Jacobs.

“Thank your great-grandmother. I was only glad to have some good news to bring, so to speak. Now, you'll have to instruct me. Unless you prefer your own lawyer to handle your interests? No?
It's just as well. I think I really do understand just what needs to be done, to realize as much as possible from the estate. I'm not, Dr. Greene, the lawyer who handled the divorce. So we can work together without being hindered by whatever has gone on in the past.”

“Fine,” the Professor said.

Mr. Jacobs studied him for a long time. Then he put his pencil neatly across the top of his yellow pad and said, “I've known Miss Melody for years, of course. And I consider myself in a sense her lawyer now. But you aren't at all what I'd been led to expect.”