Sourland (28 page)

“But I—don't understand…‘Pre-existing'—there is none…”

“How many times such a claim has been made, and a pre-existing document turns up, that is
fully legal
. Mrs. Myer, please understand that we can't proceed to ‘probate' your husband's will in its present state. There are no legal grounds for the assumption that you are, in fact, the executrix of Tracy Myer's estate.”

“But—I am his wife. You've seen my I.D., and the marriage certificate—”

“And if there are claims against the estate—these must be processed.”

“‘Claims against the estate'…”

Adrienne spoke faintly. What a nightmare this was!

She remembered how several years before—following the unexpected death of one of Tracy's brothers—he'd made arrangements for
both their wills to be drawn up. This was a task—a necessity—Tracy had postponed as Adrienne had postponed even considering it and at the signing in the attorney's office she'd so dreaded reading through the dense legal language that she'd signed both wills without reading them assured by the attorney that everything was in order.

It was the future Adrienne had dreaded when one or another of the wills would be consulted. Now, the widow was living in that future, and it was more terrible than she'd anticipated.

“Letters will have to be sent by you, Mrs. Myer, by certified mail, to all of your husband's relatives and business partners, if he had these, as well as to anyone else who might have a legitimate claim upon the estate.” Capgrass spoke in a flat perfunctory voice in which there lurked a
frisson
of something insolent, disruptive. “This is standard procedure in probate, and it is very important.”

“But—why would anyone make a ‘claim' against the estate? Why would this happen?”

“Mrs. Myer, this is
probate
. The court must determine if your husband's estate is ‘free and clear' before allowing the estate to be divided among beneficiaries and administered by any executor or executrix.”

“But—how would I know how to begin?” Adrienne's voice rose in alarm. “My husband took care of all of our finances—our taxes—insurance—anything ‘legal.' He has—had—relatives living in many parts of the country—he didn't have business partners, but—he'd invested in his older brother's roofing business, to help him financially…” Adrienne recalled hearing about this, years ago, though Tracy hadn't discussed it with her at any length. And hadn't the brother's business gone bankrupt just the same? A part of Adrienne's mind began to shut down.

Suttee
. She'd wakened that morning thinking of
suttee
.

The ancient Hindu custom of burning the widow, alive, on her husband's funeral pyre. A cruel and barbaric custom said to be practiced still in the more remote parts of India and Adrienne thought
There is a cruel logic to this
.

“Your husband was married previously—?”

“‘Married previously'? Why do you say that? He was
not
.”

“Our records show—”

Capgrass was typing into a computer, hunched forward like a broken-backed vulture peering at the screen. A small thin smile played about his lips. “It seems here—our records show—unless there are two distinct ‘Tracy Emmet Myers'…Your husband was required by law to inform you of any prior marriages as he was required to inform the individual who performed the wedding ceremony and if he failed to comply with this law, Mrs. Myer, there may be some question about whether your marriage to him was
fully legal
. You may want to retain an attorney as soon as possible to press your claim.”

Press your claim.
Adrienne sat stunned.

“But—I know my husband. I knew him. It is just
not possible
…”

Capgrass continued to type into the computer. In a matter-of-fact voice reading off data to the widow who could not hear what he was saying through a roaring in her ears.
This is wrong. This is not right. You don't know him. None of you knew him.

Yet, had Adrienne known Tracy? Had she known the man, except as
her husband
? In the hospital an altered personality had emerged from time to time, unexpectedly. Adrienne couldn't forget a curious remark Tracy had made that was wholly unlike the man she knew: one evening he'd muttered in a wistful voice as a cheery Jamaican attendant left his room chattering like a tropical bird—a fleshy girl bearing away soiled linen, the remains of a meal—“If only we could be so simple! It's as if they don't realize they are to die.”

Adrienne had objected: “Tracy, you can't judge them by their outward manner. They are spiritual people just like us.”

Adrienne's reply had been inadequate, also. Not what she'd meant to say. Not what she
meant
.

It wasn't like her to say
them, they
in this way. As it wasn't like Tracy to speak in such a way. And what had Adrienne meant by
spiritual people just like us
. This was condescending, crude.

Was this how racists talked? How racists thought?

The widow's mistake had been, her husband had been her life. She was a tree whose roots had become entwined with the roots of an adjacent tree, a seemingly taller and stronger tree, and these roots had become entwined inextricably. To free the living tree from the dead tree would require an act of violence that would damage the living tree. It would require an act of imagination. Easier to imagine
suttee
. Easier to imagine swallowing handfuls of barbiturates, old painkiller medications in the medicine cabinet.
I can't do this. I can't be expected to do this. I am not strong enough

What was mysterious to her was, before Tracy's death she had not ever understood that really
she might lose him
. That really in every sense of the word
he might depart from her, die
.

That there would be a time, a perfectly ordinary morning like this morning in the Mercer County Courthouse, Office of the Surrogate, when the man who'd been Tracy Emmet Myer
no longer existed and could not be found anywhere in the world.

The very routine of the hospital, to which she'd become almost immediately adjusted, had contributed to this delusion. How capably she'd performed the tasks required of her, bringing Tracy his mail, his work, his professional journals, his laptop—proof that nothing fundamental had changed in their shared life. And the cardiologist was optimistic, the EKGs were showing
stabilization, improvement
. Yet one evening Adrienne had naively approached an older nurse at a computer station in the corridor not far from her husband's room—the woman middle-aged, kindly and intelligent—her name was Shauna O'Neill—you had to love
Shauna O'Neill
!—she'd seemed to like Tracy very much—you had the feeling with Shauna O'Neill that you were a special patient, of special worth—for hadn't Shauna always remembered to call Tracy
Professor Myer
which had seemed to comfort him—and flattered him—but seeing Mrs. Myer about to peer over her shoulder at the computer screen Shauna O'Neill had said sharply, “Mrs. Myer, excuse me I don't think this is a good idea”—even as Adrienne blundered near to see on
the screen beneath her husband's name the stark terrible words
congestive heart failure
. In that instant Adrienne panicked. She began to choke, to cry. For hadn't they been told that her husband was improving, that he would be discharged soon? Adrienne stumbled back to her husband's room. Tracy had been dozing watching TV news and now he wakened. “Addie? What's wrong, why are you so upset?” Adrienne had never cried so helplessly, like a terrified child. If one of the broken mutilated dolls in the lurid photographs could have cried, the doll would have cried in this way. This was the single great sorrow of which Adrienne Myer was capable—at the time of her husband's death, and in the hours following, she would not cry like this. She would not have the strength or the capacity to cry like this. Raw emotion swept through her leaving her stunned, hollow. At the time she'd kissed her husband desperately, his cool smooth cheek which the Jamaican attendant had recently shaved; she'd gripped his fingers which were cool also, as if blood had ceased to flow in the veins there. She stammered, “I'm c-crying only because—I love you so much. Only because I love you so much, Tracy. No other reason.”

She'd frightened Tracy, crying like this. She'd offended him, violated hospital protocol.

She wondered if he'd forgiven her? If he could forgive her?

She had abandoned him, finally. For that, how could he forgive her?

And yet: she was thinking possibly there was a misunderstanding. A mistake. Possibly she'd been summoned to Probate Court by mistake. As the computer data regarding her husband was mistaken, so the “fact” of his death was mistaken, or premature. Her husband hadn't died after all—maybe. Her husband hadn't died
yet
.

“Ma'am! You will come with me, please
now
.”

The interview with Capgrass seemed to have ended with shocking abruptness. Adrienne had been trying to explain the circumstances of her husband's hospitalization and the promises the hospital staff had made or had seemed to be making, she'd begun to speak excitably, but, she was sure, not incoherently, and out of nowhere a security guard—
a dark-skinned woman with hair pressed back so tightly from her face, her head appeared to have shrunken—was tugging at her arm, to urge her from the room. Adrienne was gripping her handbag, in both arms she clutched at documents. She was distraught, disheveled. A pulse beat in her head like a giant worm, writhing. Had Capgrass pressed a secret button, to summon one of the sheriff's deputies? Had the widow said something reckless she hadn't meant to say? She hadn't been
threatening
—had she? The dark-skinned female deputy was escorting Adrienne from the court official's office—Adrienne was perspiring inside her expensive clothes—Oh! she'd forgotten something—she'd left something behind, with Capgrass—but what it was, she couldn't remember. “Ma'am come with me. This way
ma'am.
” The deputy spoke forcibly, ushering Adrienne into the hall. Adrienne had had more to tell Capgrass—more to explain—trying now to explain to the deputy that she had to leave the courthouse immediately—her husband was in the Summit Hill Hospital, fifteen miles away. “I have to leave now. I have to see him. His name is Tracy. He can't be left with strangers. He's waiting for me…he will be anxious, if I'm not there.” Adrienne was thinking how, in the past day or so, for no reason, unfairly, for he'd been sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking and not always knowing where he was, Tracy had squinted at her and said in a hurt accusing voice, “Adrienne? Where the hell have you been? I don't see much of you these days.”

Long she would recall the hurt, and the injustice.

Don't see much of you these days.

When he'd loved her, he'd called her
Addie
. The full, formal name
Adrienne
meant something else.

Or maybe—this was another, quite distinct possibility—he'd said, after he'd died, and Adrienne arranged to have his body delivered to a local crematorium, in a voice beyond accusation or even sadness the man who'd been her husband for thirty-two years said
Well! We won't be seeing each other for a while.

“This way, ma'am. You are not authorized to leave Probate Court just yet.”

The deputy handed Adrienne a tissue with which to wipe her inflamed eyes, blow her nose—as she led her back into the waiting room—how vast this room was, Adrienne could only now appreciate—how many were waiting here!—as far as the eye could measure, individuals who'd died, or were waiting to die, or had managed to avoid death temporarily, yes this was Probate Court and all who were here
had not died
but had
survived.

This was their punishment, that they had
survived
, and that they were
in Probate
.

“Ma'am, slip on one of these.”

Without Adrienne's awareness and certainly without Adrienne's consent, the deputy had escorted her through the waiting room and into a corridor, she'd brought Adrienne into a windowless room, and shut the door firmly. What was this? Where was this? Adrienne's tear-blinded eyes could barely make out rows of cubicles—cubicles separated from one another by plywood partitions—the air in this place was close, stale, smelling of the anguish and anxiety of strangers' bodies.

How the gigantic pulse in Adrienne's head throbbed! She'd become confused. It had begun to seem probable to her that her husband was still alive—
not yet dead
—and that Adrienne had come to the hospital herself, to the first-floor radiation unit where women went for mammograms.

She had postponed her yearly mammogram, out of cowardice. Yet somehow she must have made the appointment, for here she was.

“Ma'am? You will please slip on one of these.”

A second woman, in a bailiff's uniform—this was made of a drab, dun-colored fabric, while the sheriff's deputies' uniforms were a more attractive gray-blue—had appeared, and was handing Adrienne a paper smock—a paper smock!—which Adrienne had no choice but to accept. If she wanted to be released from this hellish place.

The bailiff instructed Adrienne to step inside one of the cubicles and remove all her clothing—outerwear, underwear—her boots and her stockings and her jewelry—to place her possessions on the bench inside the cubicle—to put on the smock, and a pair of paper slippers—and to come back out when she was ready. Inside the cubicle, Adrienne began to undress like one in a trance. How grateful she was, there was no mirror in the cubicle—she was spared seeing the widow's wan, frightened face.