The Gate House

  The lady directed me to a small elevator in the lobby. “Second floor, room six.”

  I was alone in the elevator, which took a long time to ascend one flight, during which I listened to a piped-in minute of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons—“Summer,” if you’re interested. I imagined the doors opening to a celestial landscape of white clouds and blue skies with pearly gates in the distance. I really needed a drink.

  The doors, in fact, opened to a floral wallpapered corridor, in which stood a Lady in White. She greeted me by name, and introduced herself as Mrs. Knight, then said, “Call me Diane.”

  “Hello, Diane.”

  “Follow me, please.”

  I followed her down the long corridor. Mrs. Knight seemed like one of those health care professionals who was both stern and gentle, a result, no doubt, of having to deal with every conceivable human emotion in the House of the Dying.

  She said to me as we walked, “Mrs. Allard is medicated for pain, so you may not find her as alert as you remember her.”

  “I understand.”

  “She is, however, lucid now, and all her mental faculties are intact.”

  “Good.”

  “Her pain is tolerable and manageable.”

  “That’s good.” I had the feeling I was supposed to be asking questions to elicit these statements, so I asked, “How are her spirits?”

  “Remarkably good.”

  “Many visitors?”

  “A few. Including your mother and your wife.”

  “My ex-wife.” I inquired, “They’re not here now, are they?”

  “No.” She glanced at my gift and said, “She’s going to love that Teddy bear.”

  Mrs. Knight stopped at a door and said to me, “I’ll go inside and tell her you’re here.” She added, “It’s very good of you to come all the way from London to see her.”

  “Yes, well . . . she’s a wonderful lady.”

  “Indeed, she is.”

  I wondered if there was another Ethel Allard here.

  Mrs. Knight was about to open the door, but I asked, “How long . . . ? I mean—”

  “Oh, I’d say about half an hour at most.”

  “Half an hour?”

  “Yes, then she gets tired.”

  “Oh. No, I meant—”

  “I’ll stick my head in every ten minutes.”

  “Right. What I meant . . . I’ll be in town for only a few more weeks, and I wondered if I’d have the opportunity to see her again.” Mrs. Knight was either not following me, or didn’t want to address the subject, so I asked bluntly, “How long does she have left to live?”

  “Oh . . . well, we never speculate on that, but I’d say the end is near.”

  “How near? Two weeks?”

  “Maybe longer.” She informed me, “Ethel is a fighter.”

  “Three?”

  “Mr. Sutter. I can’t—”

  “Right. I had an aunt once who—”

  “You have no idea what I’ve seen here. Death is the great mystery of life, and so much depends on attitude and prayer.”

  “Right. I believe that. I’ve been praying for her.” I need her house.

  Mrs. Knight looked at me and delivered what I guessed was a well-rehearsed piece of wisdom, saying, “It’s natural for us to want to hold on to our loved ones as long as possible. But that’s selfish. Ethel has made peace with her condition, and she’s ready to let go.”

  That sounded like one week, and I might need two more weeks in the gatehouse. I’d been encouraged by Mrs. Knight’s assertion that Ethel was a fighter, which seemed now to contradict this report that Ethel was ready to let go. Rather than ask for a clarification, I tried a new tack and said, “I’m also her attorney—in addition to being her friend—and there is some paperwork to be drawn up and signed, so perhaps I should speak to her doctor about her . . . remaining time.”

  She nodded and said, “Her attending physician here is Dr. Jake Watral.”

  “Thank you.” Maybe the key to my continued stay in the gatehouse was less in the hands of God or Dr. Watral and more in the hands of Amir Nasim, whom I should have called when I got here. Which prompted me to ask Mrs. Knight, “Has a Mr. Amir Nasim called on Mrs. Allard? Or phoned?”

  She shook her head and replied, “I’m not familiar with that name.” Mrs. Knight seemed anxious to move on, so she said, “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  She disappeared inside room six long enough for me to have a little guilt pang about my motives in wanting Ethel to keep fighting. I mean, putting aside my housing problem, Ethel’s pain was under control, she was lucid, she had visitors, and she did have some paperwork to sign—so why shouldn’t she hang in there? That’s what her daughter, Elizabeth, would want her to do.

  Mrs. Knight reappeared and said to me, “She’s waiting for you.”

  I moved toward the door, then turned back to Diane Knight and said to her, “You are a saint to work here.”

  A sweet, embarrassed smile passed quickly over her stern lips, and she turned and walked away.

  I entered Ethel’s room and gently pulled the door closed behind me.

  God, how I hate deathbeds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.

  The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.

  On the sky blue wall facing the bed was a television, and sitting on the tile floor, near the window, were a few floral arrangements and a small potted Norfolk pine.

  All in all, not a bad anteroom to the Great Beyond.

  Ethel was sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall, and didn’t seem to notice me. I moved to her bedside and said, “Hello, Ethel.”

  She turned her head toward me and, without a smile, replied, “Hello, Mr. Sutter.” I recalled that Ethel reserved her smiles for when she had the opportunity to correct you on something.

  I said to her, “Please call me John.”

  She didn’t respond to that, and said, in a clear voice, “Thank you for coming,” then asked, “Are you looking after my house?”

  “I am.” I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

  “All right today.”

  “Good . . . you look good.” In fact, in the full sunlight streaming over her, she looked ashen and emaciated, but there was still some life in her eyes. I noticed, too, a touch of rouge on her gray cheeks.

  I hadn’t seen her in years, but we’d communicated by letter when necessary, and she’d been good at forwarding my occasional mail to me every few months. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards.

  She asked me, “Have you tended to my garden?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “I never let you or George in my garden,” she reminded me. “Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

  “Right. But I’ve learned to garden in England.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Well . . . right.”

  She said to me, “You’ve been back for over a week.”

  “Right . . .” I explained, “I would have come sooner, but I thought you might be coming home.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Why don’t you sit? You’re making me nervous standing there.”

  I sat in the armchair beside her bed and handed her the Teddy bear. “I brought this for you.”

  She took it, looked at it, made a face, then set it beside her. I guess she didn’t love it after all.

  I was batting about zero for three or something, so I picked another subject and asked her, “How are they treating you here?”

  “All right.”

  ?
??Is there anything I can see to?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you think of anything—”

  “What is the purpose of your return from London, Mr. Sutter?”

  “John.”

  “Mr. Sutter. Why have you returned?”

  Well, Ethel, I need to get my things out of your house before you die and the Iranian guy changes the locks.

  “Mr. Sutter?”

  “Well, I came to see you, of course.” This sounded a bit insincere, so I added, “Also, I have some business in New York, and I thought this might be a good time to recover some of my personal effects from the gatehouse.”

  “You’d better hurry. That Iranian man won’t let you stay. Have you seen him?”

  “No.”

  “You should speak to him. My life tenancy allows for a reasonable amount of time to have my property removed.” She asked, rhetorically, “But who knows what he considers reasonable.”

  “Let me worry about that, if the time comes.”

  “Augustus should have been more specific.”

  Well, not too specific, Ethel. I’d actually seen the document in question, and it names both George and Ethel, of course, and mentions their loyal and faithful service over the years. George was certainly loyal and faithful, and Ethel was . . . well, apparently a good lay. I often wondered if George understood the reason for Augustus’ generosity. Anyway, I said to Ethel, “It’s premature to—”

  She interrupted, “Have you seen your wife?”

  “My ex-wife. No, I have not. Have you?”

  “She stopped by yesterday.”

  “Then you know I haven’t seen her.”

  “She’s a wonderful woman.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “She looks so beautiful.”

  I was getting a little annoyed, so I replied, “Many men seem to think so.”

  She ignored that and said, “I think she would like to see you.”

  I didn’t inquire as to why Ethel thought that. I changed the subject and said to her, “I opened a jar of your crabapple jelly, and it was wonderful. Would you like me to bring you a jar?”

  “No, thank you. But see that Elizabeth gets them.”

  “You’ll want some when you go home.”

  “And give her all the vegetables I canned last fall.”

  I nodded, but she was staring straight ahead, the way dying people do who suddenly catch a brief glimpse into eternity. She then said, as if to herself, “What will become of my harvest?”

  I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “How is Elizabeth?”

  Ethel came back to earth and replied, “She’s fine.”

  “Good.” I’d also heard she was divorced, but ladies of Mrs. Allard’s generation would not mention that. I said, “I need to call her.” I was about to explain that Elizabeth needed to do an inventory of personal property and look over the paperwork, but that might confirm to Ethel that she had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, so I recovered nicely and said, “I need to arrange with her for your home health care.”

  She was getting annoyed with my pretense that she was going home, and quite frankly, so was I. She said, “I am dying, Mr. Sutter. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Well, I’m—”

  “That’s why I’m in hospice, and not the hospital.”

  “Right.”

  “What I need you to do is to take care of my affairs after I’m gone.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Thank you.” She added, “I won’t keep you here very long.”

  I wanted to say, “Take your time,” but instead I said, “I’ll be here as long as necessary.” I added, “And thank you for your hospitality.”

  She reminded me, “You were, and I assume still are, a paying guest. A boarder.”

  “Right.” Check’s in the mail, Ethel. I mean, talk about the world turning upside down. Upward mobility in America can be fast, but downward mobility is always a free fall.

  Anyway, to put her mind at ease, I said, “If you’ll let me know how much the rent is, I’ll deposit the amount in your account.”

  She replied, “The same rent as you were paying ten years ago.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “You may deduct that amount from your bill.”

  “There’s no charge for any legal work I may need to perform on your behalf.”

  “Thank you.” She asked me, “How long are you staying here, Mr. Sutter?”

  Even if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t tell anyone who was in contact with Susan.

  “Mr. Sutter? Are you going back to London? Or are you home?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Does that mean you may stay?”

  “It means I’m not certain.”

  She detected a note of annoyance in my tone, so she changed the subject and asked me, “Is my will in order?”

  “I believe it is.” I added, “I’ll need to bring you a few documents to review and update, and perhaps a few papers to sign.”

  “Don’t wait a week.”

  “I’ll come Saturday or Sunday.”

  “Sunday is the Sabbath.”

  “Right. Saturday or Monday.”

  I never quite understood these old Christian socialists. I mean, it wasn’t a pure contradiction of terms, and socialists could certainly be religious—social justice through Jesus—but Ethel was, in some ways, among the last of a dying breed.

  I noticed a few magazines on her tray table and saw that none of them were the old lefty magazines she used to read; they were mostly house and garden monthlies and a few local, upscale Gold Coast publications that, as I recalled, chronicled the activities of the rich and famous, the charity balls, grand house restorations, and some goings-on in Manhattan. Maybe Ethel was collecting the names of millionaires for re-education camps when the Revolution came.

  Or maybe, by now, in the clarity of approaching death, she’d realized, like everyone else, that in America all change is superficial; the structure remains the same.

  Mrs. Knight, as promised, stuck her head in and inquired, “How are we doing?”

  Why do hospital people use the first person plural? I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine. Your patient is still dying.” But before I could say that, Ethel replied, “We’re doing fine, Diane. Thank you.”

  “Ring if you need anything.”

  I needed a Dewar’s and soda. Ring!

  Ethel got back to business and informed me, “I have given Elizabeth written instructions for my funeral. See that she follows them.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “See to it.”

  “Right.”

  “She’s strong-willed, and wants everything her way.”

  I wonder who she got that from?

  “I’ve picked out my dress. Have her find it.”

  “Right.” Apparently, there’s a lot to think about when you’re dying, and I’m not sure I’d be as cool or organized as Ethel was being. Hopefully, I’d drop dead of a heart attack, or get run over by a bus, and let other people worry about the details.

  “Also, be sure that Elizabeth speaks to Father Hunnings.”

  “I will.” The Right Reverend James Hunnings was, and I guess still is, our parish priest at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. I thoroughly disliked him, and if he were honest, he would say the same about me. I’d driven past St. Mark’s in Locust Valley and noticed that Hunnings still had top billing on the signboard, which didn’t surprise me; this was a good gig in a wealthy parish, and though Episcopalians should be on the endangered species list, there were still enough of us around here to keep Father Hunnings in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

  I asked Ethel, “Have you spoken to Father Hunnings?”

  She replied, “Of course. He comes almost every day.” She added, “He’s a wonderful man.”

  He wouldn’t be saying the same about Ethel after I told him that Mrs. Allard had left the church onl
y five hundred dollars. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I was looking forward to that phone call. Better yet, I’d invite him to the reading of the will. And to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, I leave . . . pause for effect, smile, continue—five hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, Jim.

  “Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”

  “Oh . . . I was . . . So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”

  “She’s well. Have you gone to church?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You should go. Your wife goes.”

  “My ex-wife.”

  “I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”

  “Good. He does a good job.”

  “I didn’t like George’s service.”

  Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.

  Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”

  I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.

  She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”

  I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.

  Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”

  “Of course.” Poor George.

  I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much . . . but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”