Dying Wishes (14 page)

~

Gerald
MacRae
turned out to be the shorter, more compactly
built husband of the Grant-
MacRae
foursome I had seen
several times now. Two young associates shared office space with him on the
first floor of an historic residence on Broad Street.

“More
accurately, I share this space with them,” he explained after we were
comfortably settled on the sofa in what must once have been a parlor and now
served as a conference room. “Thank you, Shirley,” he added, accepting a tea
tray provided by an elderly, birdlike little woman who smiled at me warmly and
took herself out, shutting the door behind her. “Shirley shares my view of
retirement,” he commented. “One needs to remain active, and so we do.”

He
poured out two cups of tea. “Janet and I lived here for many years, as a matter
of fact. We used to enjoy doing a lot of the maintenance and
restoration
work
ourselves, but there came a day when we realized we would rather
expend our remaining energy on the tennis court.
Sugar?”

I
shook my head. “I can certainly understand that. I can see that day coming
myself, which is one of the reasons I swapped my creaky old Colonial for one of
the freestanding condos at The Birches a few years back. I’m not much of a
tennis player, though.”

“Well,
we all have different interests. It’s what makes people so fascinating, don’t
you agree? It must be gratifying to know that your hobby has helped so many
individuals when they needed help most.”

I
was genuinely perplexed.
“My hobby?”

He
shrugged apologetically. “I’m sure there’s a better word for your, shall we
say, unofficial inquiries. There was that matter at BBG in Hartford, and I
understand you were most helpful to the owner of the diner on Old Main Street.
Of course,
Ada
and
Lavinia
Henstock
think the world of you and your partners.”

For
the second time today I felt totally exposed and not a little foolish. How
stupid of me to think I could sail into an experienced lawyer’s office as a
potential client without his having thoroughly researched me. I gathered what
was left of my dignity and looked
MacRae
in the eye.

“How very kind of you to say so.
As an attorney and a longtime resident of Wethersfield, you couldn’t help but
be aware of our past activities, which were, as you say, entirely unofficial
and motivated by a desire to help, I assure you.”

“I
have no doubts whatsoever on that score, Ms. Lawrence. Now, how may I help you?
I know you have a need for some end-of-life documents, but which ones
specifically?”

“My
goodness, how many are there?” I asked as I stirred a little honey into my
herbal cinnamon brew. It smelled heavenly. “I already have a will, of course,
but with my fiftieth birthday approaching I thought it was time to prepare a
living will, as well. Is there something more I need?”

“Ah,
yes, the big five-o,”
MacRae
joked gently. “There’s
something about the half-century mark that inspires a flurry of death
preparations. Of course, in my case, fifty is only a distant memory.”

I
flinched at the phrase
death preparations
.
“You speak about death so casually. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

He
regarded me with amusement over the rim of his teacup. “I assure you that death
is a subject I take very seriously, Ms. Lawrence, more so with every passing
year. I simply don’t believe it’s helpful to attempt to disguise it with euphemisms.
We are all born, and we will all die. It’s a fact of life, so to speak, though
that sounds a bit oxymoronic.”

He
stirred his tea for a moment. “It never ceases to amaze me how many careful,
responsible people take great pains to plan for college, prepare for careers
and save for retirement but do their best not to think about death. The
planning they do is prudent, of course, since those things are all likely to
happen; but death isn’t merely likely. It’s a rock solid certainty, yet
relatively few people take the time to make certain their final wishes will be
honored.”

I
had to admit that what he said was true. “I guess
it’s
human nature not to face our mortality too directly,” I suggested. “It’s much
easier to hand over the responsibility to our physicians or God or some other
supreme being. We can avoid thinking about it if we shrug and say it’s out of
our hands.”

MacRae
chuckled.
“That’s very true. We can talk about death in the abstract, just not our
deaths. I find it helps to think about it as a practical matter and as if it
were someone else’s issue. The Terri
Schiavo
drama is
a good one to contemplate.”

I
recognized the name as having been very much in the news but couldn’t remember
why.

“Terri
Schiavo
was a comatose Florida woman in a permanent
vegetative state who was being kept alive via a feeding tube. She had neither a
written living will nor a formal proxy designation, so she had no one legally
empowered to speak for her. While the relatives, courts, political groups and
religious lobbies wrangled over their conflicting interpretations of the poor
woman’s end-of-life wishes, it took her eighteen hundred seventy-seven days to
die, more than five years.”

“How
horrible,” I said, “but it seems that everyone I know has a living will these
days. Maybe that case is why. If it will save me from such a fate, sign me up.
It’s a fairly simple form, right?”

“It
can be,” he agreed, “but I wouldn’t recommend it, and not just because I stand
to earn a fee here. Between you and me, I don’t need the money,” he smiled. “My
point is that these decisions are too important and too complicated to risk on
one of the boilerplate forms available on the internet. They’re quick, and
they’re user friendly, but they have been challenged successfully too many
times for me to be able to recommend that approach.”

I
digested this information as I held out my cup for a refill. “So how do you
suggest that I go about this?”

“I
always think information gathering is the best way to start. Fortunately, the
internet puts it all at our fingertips. You need to educate yourself about your
options, decide which ones you prefer, and then we’ll draw up a document that
reflects them and set you up with a good, tight proxy designation.”

“Options?
You mean not
being kept alive on machines, that sort of thing.” Was it my imagination, or
did a veil of caution drop over
MacRae’s
genial
features?

“Yes,
but we have so many other options to consider now thanks to recent changes in
the law: hospice, voluntary withdrawal of food and fluid, physician-assisted
suicide.” He kept his voice carefully neutral.

“Surely,
that’s not legal,” I protested, referring to the last option.

“Not in Connecticut, no, but in Oregon and other
locations in the Northwest and abroad under legally proscribed circumstances.
Our choices are limited primarily by geography these days.”

“Where
do you stand on these issues?” I asked him point blank.

His
expression grew more guarded. “That’s really immaterial. The only person’s
opinion that matters here is yours.”

Shirley
knocked on the door and stuck her head in. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr.
MacRae
, but Mrs.
MacRae
asked me
to remind you that you have a dinner engagement in half an hour.” She smiled
apologetically and retreated.
MacRae
looked at his
watch.

“Well,
we did get to chatting, didn’t we? Let me give you some literature, lists of
websites and so on, as a place to begin your research. You can complete some
questionnaires, and we can meet again in a week or two to get started on those
documents.” He rose and extended his hand.

As
I left the office I had the distinct feeling that
MacRae
had learned more about me than I had about him during our interview. Internet
research, eh? I was willing to bet
MacRae
had done a
bit of that on me before I had arrived that afternoon. Well, two could play
that game, I thought, fingering his business card. I wondered what might turn
up in a Google search on Gerald R.
MacRae
.
Fortunately, I had the whole evening free to find out.

Eleven

As
luck would have it, Mack Realty was a madhouse on Tuesday. Things usually don’t
get crazy busy until the end of the month, since that’s when everybody wants to
schedule their closings, but favorable interest rates were fueling a definite
uptick in sales. Margo had practically worn out her
Manolos
showing a portfolio of new listings, and Emma had been forced to hire some
temporary help to cope with a rash of refinances.

Almost
without our realizing it,
Strutter
had returned to
the office nearly full time. She was lucky to have a wonderful daycare
situation for Olivia, a schoolteacher who had opted to stay home for a few
years with her own two small children, but it was clear that she missed her
little girl terribly.

“Just
bring Olivia to work with you,” Margo urged, and
Strutter
and I howled. “What’s so funny?” she demanded. “I mean, the point of having our
own business is to be able to run things as we please, right?”

“I’m
sorry, Sweetie, you’re absolutely right about that,”
Strutter
soothed her when she could speak. “It’s just the idea of turning a two-year-old
loose in an office full of legal documents and electronic equipment …” Her eyes
met mine, and we were off again.

Margo
looked from one of us to the other. “Maybe we could just pen her up out back
with Rhett,” she suggested sourly.

“Now
there you might just have something,”
Strutter
said
and went over to give her a hug. “Rhett’s always been a perfect gentleman with
ladies of all ages.”

“He
surely has,” I agreed. “I’ll bet Olivia could ride him like a horse and pull
his ears, and Rhett would just turn those adoring eyes on her and lick her
face. Now quick, let’s compare notes before the phone rings again.”

I
was bursting with information and could hardly contain myself, but first I
wanted to hear about Margo’s massage session with Tommy Garcia. I expected her
to recount a flirtatious, slightly bawdy encounter with the handsome Latino,
perhaps even concluding with his suggesting that his sexual favors were
available for a price. I trusted Margo’s devotion to her husband completely,
but I knew she was entirely capable of making Tommy believe she was a needy,
neglected wife interested in something more.

Instead,
I got a report that Garcia’s mother would have been proud to hear. “What an
absolutely lovely young man,” Margo sighed. “I don’t know what Ginny could be
thinkin
’. The idea that that sweet boy could be
carryin
’ on improper relationships with any of the
residents is simply
disgustin
’, that’s what. I don’t
believe it for a second.”

Strutter
raised her eyebrows, and I blinked. “We are talking about Tommy Garcia, the
hunky Latino busboy at Vista View?”

Margo
glared at me. “I can only imagine what you would have to say to some silly
woman who talked about your Joey that way,” she scolded. “Just because a young
man has eyes like molten chocolate and a physique to die for does not make him
a gigolo, and
workin
’ at a menial job does not mean
he’s stupid. For your information, Tommy has perfectly wonderful manners and
was entirely respectful of my modesty during our entire session.”

Strutter’s
eyebrows climbed still higher.
Margo, modest?

“Furthermore,
he is just six credits short of
earnin
’ his
designation as a licensed massage therapist. Did you know that the pretty
little blonde who works as a dining room hostess at Vista View is his
girlfriend? Sandy, I think her name is. They’re practically engaged. After
Tommy gets his license, they plan to open a small office and offer in-home
therapy to clients who can’t travel, even hospice patients. He is one of those
rare individuals who really cares about people and wants to help. We could
surely use a few more like him in this world.”

I
regarded my friend with amazement. This was a side of Margo I had never seen
before. From the look on
Strutter’s
face, she was
experiencing the same confusion. Margo was pure mother tiger, defending her
cub. She flounced to the sofa and sat down.

“Oh,
don’t look so surprised. I know how people’s minds work. If a good
lookin
’ young man shows a mature woman the tiniest big of
attention or affection, he must be after her money.”

“Or
the other way around,” I ventured.

“What
do you mean?”

“A
pretty young woman and an older man,”
Strutter
supplied.