Cloud Nine (15 page)

“Anyway, for fifteen years she yearns and nothing happens. And then one day, you jolt her back teeth out by calmly announcing, ‘Jane, I got married.’ That she can’t forgive you. And then, to top it off, appears this practiced seducer, and the rest was a foregone conclusion. But it
had
to come sooner or later, once you and Sonya got married. That it came with Burl was unfortunate, but it’s her life, and we can’t choose for her. Still, I should call Stan Modell.”

Stan Modell was our lawyer, and she called from the hall extension, with me standing by, in case. The call went on for some time, after she sketched out what had happened, touching on Burl lightly, and bearing down on the will. When she hung up she said, “He wants to see me this afternoon, wants me to come to his office, so he can look things up, in connection with her farm, and ‘try to work something out,’ as he said. But he says hang on to the will—under no circumstances let it out of your hands. We don’t know what will come up, and if you have it you have it.”

So it seemed I’d done the right thing, in giving Jane a stall about sending it back. Sonya suggested that Mother come to the house, when she got back from Upper Marlboro, “so I can give you dinner, and you won’t do any talking at Gramie’s office about it.” Mother agreed and accepted, and left.

I left, for a day that was endless—I had two houses to look at, to get the history of, to make an appraisal on, and it took me all afternoon, until after six o’clock. But at that I got home before Mother, who had had to wait in Stan’s office until Mort Leonard got back from a trip to the District and could talk when Stan called him.

“I heard the call,” said Mother. “Stan made it perfectly plain that he felt we had a suit, the basis for an action, to recover the money you’ve paid, the ten thousand or so Jane’s accepted, in return for the will she drew, making you her beneficiary. But he wasn’t exactly threatening—he was ‘hoping it wouldn’t be necessary,’ and reminding Mort of what it might mean to Jane to have it come out in a lawsuit that though she pretended to farm this land, she was actually living off you, so the farm was not her main income, and her
Rural Agricultural
tax status more or less, mostly more, phony. These lawyers can figure angles, but I told him hold his horses, not to move unless I gave the word.

“Gramie, I don’t know much, but this much I’ve learned in my life: Stay out of lawsuits. It looks as though we’ve lost it,
but
if we just do nothing, refrain from aggravation, and mark time, Jane
may
come to her senses,
may
kick this scavenger out,
may
resume her life. After all, she’s not married yet.”

“I’m sorry to say she is.”

That was Sonya, very quiet. She’d brought the cocktail tray, and was watching me stir the martinis. “What did you say?” I asked her.

“She got married. To Burl.”

“She couldn’t. In Maryland, they must wait two days, as who knows better than we do, before they can get their license.”

“They drove to Dover, Delaware, and had it done there. She called from the motel they’re in—she wanted you to know, ‘wanted Gramie to be the first one.’ Also she asked me to tell you, don’t bother about the will, sending it back to her. She’s having a new one drawn when she gets back tomorrow, leaving the farm to Burl, and voiding the one you have.”

I poured the martini, raised my glass, said “Mud in your eye.” But Mother didn’t raise hers, and Sonya didn’t raise hers, and pretty soon Mother said: “I’m scrubbing her—putting her out of my mind.”

“Well I certainly am,” I assured her.

“You’re not, Mrs. Stu isn’t, and I’m not.”

Mother stiffened so you could see it, not being used to that kind of talk, from a sixteen-year-old snip. But Sonya went right on: “Father was here when she called, and the first thing he said was: ‘Jesus, who’s on that hook now?’”

“He has that hook on the brain.”

I was fairly disagreeable about it, but she kept her cool as she said: “Yes, he has, hasn’t he? It rides him all the time.”

But Mother cut in then, very cold, and very much in the grand style: “Sonya, I’m done with Mrs. Sibert, so stop talking about her please, as I’ve heard all I mean to listen to on a most unpleasant subject.”

“Mrs. Stuart, I think you mean.”

“Ah yes, Mrs. Stuart, of course.”

“Your daughter-in-law has the same name as you.”

“Sonya, I’ve accepted your correction.”

“And in my house, I decide what I talk about.”

“Very well, I withdraw my remark.”

“And you’re listening, whether you mean to or not.”

If Mother replied to that, I don’t just now recollect, but Sonya had cut her to size, and now got up from her chair and sashayed over to her, in kind of a slow way she had, one hand on her hip. “So the dream,” she said, “is kerflooie—the white moon, the white shells, the white cotton, are gone,
except the lilies aren’t
.”

“When did lilies get in it?” I snapped.

“White ones, on Miss Jane, before they close the lid.”

“Of the coffin, you mean?”

“The casket, they call it now.”

That settled my hash for a while, as it was the part of the dream I tried not to think about.

She went on then, to Mother: “You’re not scrubbing Miss Jane—she’s married to your son.” Then, to me: “And you’re not—she’s been your godmother, and she’s now your brother’s wife.” And then, tapping her own wishbone: “And I’m not—I’m the cause of it all.” And after letting that much sink in: “One of us, one of us three in this room, is on that hook, the one my father worries about. Because, if she signs a new will, making Burl her heir, she won’t live to see the snow—it’ll drift down on her grave before it falls on her. Somebody here must see that she doesn’t die.”

She picked up her cocktail glass, raised it, and said: “Here’s to the lucky one, whichever of us gets elected.”

H
OOK OR NO HOOK,
the summer dragged on, and what had been a beautiful dream, with us up there on our cloud, had turned into an ugly nightmare, but not one that you hoped would end, because somehow you knew the awakening was going to be still worse. I carried on, I got listings. I helped the salesmen, I closed deals, though it was all tougher than usual, as the recession was on, and things were slow, terribly slow.

But all that time the other was bugging me, especially Stan Modell. Couple of days after that evening with Mother, he called with news of the new will, which he’d got from Mort Leonard—Jane had drawn it, making Burl her heir, had it witnessed, signed it, and handed it over to him. Stan was all hot to sue, to recover the ten thousand I’d paid, “or at least draw the papers, and out of courtesy show them to Mort. Graham, he dare not let that suit come to trial. Because if it comes out in court, that while claiming to farm her land, to enjoy Rural Agricultural assessment, she was actually deriving her main income from you, that does it. They pop her up to her proper status, on the basis of actual value,
probably retroactive,
so she’ll be eaten alive by taxes. She’ll have to do something about you, at the very least refund your ten thousand dollars. It’s not hay, Graham—and what do you have to lose?—I’ll carry the load, on a contingent basis, of course, and all
you
have to do is nothing.”

I told him I’d think about it.

I told him on Mother’s phone, where I did all my talking with him, on call-backs I’d give him, when he’d ring me at the office. He’d call, I’d tell him stand by, and then go running out and drive to Mother’s. Helen Musick thought I’d gone nuts, and who am I to say I hadn’t? Of course, when I’d hang up on a call, I’d talk it out with Mother, who was still dead set against suing.

“Gramie,” she told me very solemn, “you’ll do as you like, of course, and Stan’s idea sounds good—certainly she has her nerve, to be keeping the money you’ve paid her. Just the same, who says you’ll get it back? Suppose the court holds that while you were paying her, you were actually heir to her land, if she had died in that time, and would have inherited. When she didn’t die, you had assumed a risk and lost, on the principle of insurance, and have no refund coming.

“Also, Gramie, suppose she says, suppose she swears in open court, after coaching from we-know-who, that wedlock was part of the deal, that you promised to marry her, after spending years in her bed, but when out of the blue, you up and married a young girl, she decided to call it off. Don’t forget, you lived for ten years in her house, and the bed may be hard to disprove.

“I’m against the lawsuit, Gramie. It would be wonderful, I’d love it myself, I confess, to get a judgment against her that Burl would have to pay, out of that money he made, from poor little Dale Morgan’s death—but it might not turn out that way, and I’d simply hate it, his laughing at us in court, the wolfish grin he’d give it, in case we lost, which we might very well do. It’s a wrench to give up that dream, it had become part of me. But let’s face it, it’s gone! It’s not there any more! Well, life is like that! I say let’s forget it!”

“Amen, I say it too!”

“...
We can’t forget it!”

She screamed at me, after one of Stan Modell’s calls, marching up and down, digging her fingernails in, and nipping her lip with her teeth. “We’re in one key, the orchestra in another, as your little wife reminded us, that evening at your house.
Jane won’t live to see the snow,
that’s what we’re up against, unless something is done! So she’s a nut, a screwball, a kook, but we always knew that, didn’t we? Now she’s a screwball with a bad egg winding her up, a Trilby who met her Svengali—but can we hold it against her?

“The main thing is, she’ll be hit by some horrible accident, as Dale Morgan was hit, and for exactly the same reason—
so he can cash in on it big!
So okay, okay, okay, now we’re on key, at last. But what do we do about it? What
can
we do about it? Go to the police? What do we know to tell them? Let Stan Modell file his suit? What good is that going to do? Go to her? Warn her? Then
he
could file suit against
us.
And, it wouldn’t do any good, not in her present mood. Can you think of anything, Gramie?”

“Not right now I can’t.”

“I’m at my wits’ end, I confess.”

I’d have given anything to talk all that out with Sonya, but something came up, so I couldn’t. The beds were delivered, and Modesta made them up, so they looked identically the same as the ones that were taken away. And I got into mine, pleased to be back again in our own proper room.

And I waited and waited and waited, but nobody came in there with me. I called, and she answered, from across the hall in the guest room. I went over there, and she was in bed, in the same bed she’d been sleeping in, reading
Playboy.
I asked if she wasn’t coming in with me, and she said: “Better I sleep in here.”

At that I blew my top. “In what way better?” I asked. “You keep screeching that you’re my wife. Has it occurred to you, I’m your husband? Get out of that bed! Get in there, where you belong!” I ripped the covers off her and tried to pull her out, but she fought me off, stronger than you might think. I wound up slapping her and she started to cry. So a woman in tears calls for love, and God knows I was willing. But these weren’t that kind of tears. They came in heaves and twitches and jerks, and had a bitter sound. I tried to ease her, but she wouldn’t relax to let me. Then I went back to my room, sobbing worse than she was. So I couldn’t talk anything out with her, not in a friendly way.

And then one day, at the office, came a mysterious call, from some guy I probably knew. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “if you’ll drive down past the playground, the playground by the creek, where Forty-fourth intersects, you’re going to see something, you’re going to get a surprise.” I paid no attention, but went back to work, for at least eighteen seconds. Then I had Elsie ring the house. When no answer came I went down and got headed for Forty-fourth Avenue.

The “playground” is only a halfway thing, mainly grass and bushes and trees, with a brook running down the middle that’s really the head of Anacostia Creek. One or two rustic benches are there, but no restrooms or supervision, so parents don’t like it and forbid their kids to go there, with the results it’s usually deserted. It was deserted today, as I drove past on Forty-fourth, except for two people, lolling around on the grass, one Burl Stuart, the other Sonya Kirby. I drove by in a hurry, then at East-West stopped and took a U-turn, to go back. When I did I spotted their cars, her Valiant down near the bridge, his Pinto behind it. I drove by once more, slowing down a little to stare, and at Understood pulled in and stopped. I debated whether to go back, to stop and have it out, with her, with him, with both of them, but somehow couldn’t. I wish I could say I had some good reason, a deep reason that made sense, but it wouldn’t be true. I just lost my nerve, couldn’t make myself.

I drove back to the office and sat down at my desk again. Helen Musick came in, had a look at me, and wanted to know the trouble. I told her, “Nothing.” But she took me down and drove me around in her car, making me open the wing, so the cool air blew on my face. Then she took me in People’s and bought me a Coke. It revived me enough so I was able to carry on, the rest of the afternoon.

At last, around six, I got home and Sonya got up from reading the afternoon paper, the
Evening Star.
She brought me the cocktail tray, but I said: “I don’t care for anything.”

“Well you may as well have one.”

“I said I don’t want it!”

“Listen, you don’t have to yell.”

So we sat there a minute, and then, very casually, she said: “I saw you drive by today. Why didn’t you stop?”

“Some particular reason I should have?”

“Well after all it was me.”

“And also Burl Stuart.”

And then, as sour stuff boiled up in my throat, I went over and bellowed: “Why? Why was he there with you?”

“I said you don’t have to yell!”

“Answer me! What was he doing there?”

By that time, I was in slapping range, and might have fired one at her, except that she turned into something I was always forgetting she was, a brash teenager. She snapped a kick at my stomach, which I flinched away from in time, but it shut me up. She sulked a moment, then said, as though talking to a child: “What was he doing there? Well if I told him to meet me there, how could he, without
being
there?”