Joseph said, "You were the first man who gave me any opportunity and did not treat me like a dog. It has nothing to do with gratitude." "No? What is it then?" But Joseph, becoming sullen, had no answer. He did not know, himself, what it was that really held him to Mr. Healey. He was to learn a few days later, on a warm April evening in 1865. Joseph, always indifferent to the war, felt neither relief nor joy when it neared its end, except that a large source of profits was about to be terminated, and abruptly. There were rumors, uttered in hope, that the war might continue in forays for many years, so that the factories could continue to spew out prosperity in the North and the workers in them flourish. To multitudes, the end of the war brought dismay and confusion. It had been exciting and rewarding. Firebrands in Washington shouted for "continuing conflict to the end that every outpost is eliminated!" To concerned constituents they said: "War is not concluded so immediately. We have hopes that the war prosperity will continue, at least for a decade. Moreover, there is the South to be exploited in the event of eventual peace, with all its riches and its land. You can be certain, sir, that the terms of peace will not be gentle. There are opportunities-" Mr. Spaulding told Joseph of this, laughing richly. "So much for 'holy wars,'" said Joseph, remembering the international bankers he had met in New York, the men who had no allegiances to any race or any country or any ideal. The lust for justice, for which so many shouted in the newspapers, meant the lust for loot. To the vast majority of Northern Americans the causes of the war, the issues of the war, were as meaningless as Sanskrit, and were as pertinent to them. Only those who mourned their dead whispered, "Why?" To which, as Mr. Spaulding explained, there was only one answer, and that the American people must never know, for the safety of those who truly ruled them. Though the war continued in sporadic bursts here and there through the desperate South it was known that it had come to an end. Mr. Lincoln said, "We now have the task of the reconciliation of brothers, of binding wounds, of the hand of friendship extended from victor to foe, of lifting up the wounded of both North and South, and of a national mourning for our heroic dead wherever they were born. There shall be no vengeance, for none is needed. There shall be no riches nor plunder for evil men, who batten on the flesh and blood of the helpless. We are one nation, and one nation we will remain until we are destroyed by our Vandals from within." With that, he sealed his death warrant. The hand that pulled the trigger of the gun which killed him that balmy evening in Washington, in April 1865, might have belonged to an obscure actor. But the power that controlled that hand was not suspected, nor did even the owner of the hand suspect. Political assassins, as Mr. Montrose was to say, have many sponsors, all in accord, and none but they know their names. Mr. Healey had grown enormously fat through the years, loving his drink and his food with the passion only a full-blooded man can know. He had loved women as well, and still did to a limited extent. He had loved money, but not so much as his physical well-being and his joy in living. To Mr. Healey a day was never drab nor monotonous nor dull nor melancholy nor depressing, no matter the weather. It was an occasion of infinite interest, private celebration, pleasure, involvement, laughter, and enjoyment. Shrewd about money, he was never cautious about self- gratification. In fact, he viewed money as not just a source of the power to manipulate-though his Irish soul rejoiced in that-but as a means to make life more rapturous, more satisfying. "There's some," he said to Joseph, "that thinks as you grow older that your appetites become less. If they do, you never had them to begin with, Joe. A milky-mouth man loves milk from his birth and dies with the love of it. Sure, and a man can become impotent-happens with lads, too-but a real man never stops loving women. Your stomach can turn on you any time, but that don't stop you from loving your meals and your drinks. Just makes you mad until you can enjoy them again. A man's a man until he dies, but a milksop was never a man. Pure-in-hearts, I call them, and bad cess to them all, and may they have nothing but their damned milk and honey in heaven, too. It's all they deserve. Bet Our Lord dines better." He peered at Joseph. "You got the capacity, boyo, but you're a Cromwell at heart, and you won't let yourself go. If you ever do-" And his little black eyes, sunken now in folds of red flesh, sparkled. "I hope to be there, that I do! It'll be something to make the angels happy and clap their hands. Reckon they hate the milksops." His doctor was old-fashioned, and bled him when his head ached too violently and he became dizzy. His doctor also advised him to "use judiciousness in viands." Mr. Healey had never been judicious, except when it came to money. "If I die," he would say, "let me die with my boots on, after a good meal with lots to drink. Hell, is life worth watching everything you put in your mouth, and being what they call 'moderate'? A life of moderation, Joe, is for near-corpses and those who hate living." "The golden mean," said Joseph. "Aristotle." "Never heard of him," said Mr. Healey. "If he lived being moderate, he didn't live at all. Maybe he didn't like any part of it. Who wants to live feeling his pulse all the time and calculating his life in the years he has lived and not how he lived?" Mr. Healey did not die with his boots on. He died almost immediately after an ecstatic romp, naked, in his bed, with Miss Emmy. He had recently concluded a gigantic meal of his favorite food and drink. He died as he had wanted to die, with delicious tastes in his mouth and his body on the soft body of a woman, and happiness in his heart, and aware of his own interpretation of the splendor of life. He died without illness and dwindling and fear, without a doctor at his elbow, without a nurse holding his hand, without pain or agony. He died in the scent of Miss Emmy's perfume, his lips fastened on hers. An artery had burst voluptuously in his brain or his heart, and he never knew it. It was Miss Emmy's shrieks, as she ran naked into the hall, that aroused Joseph and Harry Zeff and Mrs. Murray, and the maids. Joseph was the first in the bedroom. There lay Mr. Healey, fat and bloated and still rosy, with a smile of total bliss on his mouth, as if he had encountered angels as full-blooded as himself, and as masculine, and had joined their roistering company with shouts of laughter. "He was a man," said Harry Zeff, as he decently covered Mr. Healey's body with a sheet. Mr. Healey, later the dead recipient of emotional accolades, received none more pungent nor more true.
Chapter 25
Joseph, who had believed that he could never again experience the anguish of human emotion, and that he was removed from the common torments of men, was appalled and distraught over the grief he felt for Mr. Healey. No matter how his disciplined mind fought with sorrow the sorrow kept emerging like a vomiting well of blood, to darken and distort his thoughts, to drown out rationality, to flood over plans and conjectures. He tried to think over his now-threatened future, but it faded before he could consider it in new torrents of grief. He was incredulous to discover how deeply Mr. Healey had intruded into his cold and isolated spirit. He found himself listening for the roaring laughter, the spill of genial obscenities, the robust slamming of doors, the pound of heavy boots. The house appeared to darken, the halls became attenuated, and even the golden warmth of April days became dun. As for the horror that gripped the nation over the assassination of President Lincoln-Joseph never knew it, nor cared. It was Harry Zeff who arranged for the funeral, and sent for the priest of the little Catholic church. The priest had heard of Mr. Healey. He had not thought of him as a Catholic man, he, the owner of brothels and gambling houses and saloons and the runner of bootleg whiskey. He had never seen Mr. Healey in his church. He had not even thought of him as Irish. (God forbid!) Dubiously, the timid old man surveyed the remains in a long silence. Then he had sighed, and said, "Yes, he was Irish. I can see that. Knew many such as he on the ould sod." So Mr. Healey, though he had died unshriven, was given Christian burial, even if the old priest sincerely doubted that he had died in a state of grace, and certainly he had not received Extreme Unction and was probably laden with sins which would take him an eternity to expiate. "He was a good man," Harry told the priest. "He had never turned a sufferer away from his door." The priest sighed again. "That's more than many professed Christians can say," he admitted. T
he old priest marveled, in his innocence, at the overflowing of his church by gorgeously clad and very young damsels, handsome middle-aged ladies, florid gentlemen in embroidered waistcoats and ruffles, and sleek lithesome characters in expensive gray and fawn pantaloons-and with high silk hats and rich boots. He could not recall seeing these before and decided they must have come "from distant parts" and certainly not from Titusville. Then, of course, to the priest's stupefaction, the governor arrived, and the splendid senator, Mr. Tom Hennessey, and his lady and their pretty young daughter, and various other politicians, and supercilious gentlemen rumored from New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, all outfitted as the butterfly and all decorous and low-voiced. The obscure little church almost disappeared in a welter of brilliant carriages. There were many newspapermen and photographers. (One noble-looking gentleman wanted to deliver a eulogy from the pulpit, but the priest, recovering a little from his shock and bewilderment, stammeringly refused, and with considerable umbrage. However, he was still shocked. He had considered Mr. Healey only a local sinner and not one of such awesome dimensions.) Mr. Healey was buried in the little Catholic graveyard near the church, in a fine plot. The undertaker had come from Philadelphia with an entourage. He ordered-after consultation with Mr. Spaulding-a giant cross of marble fully fourteen feet high. Mr. Healey may not have lived as a Catholic Christian, but, as Harry Zeff contentedly remarked, "He was buried as one, and never was there a kinder man." The old priest, whom doubt had begun to plague, was stupefied when Mr. Spaulding gave him a sheaf of money totaling fifteen hundred dollars. "Mr. Healey would like that," he said, with a grandiloquent gesture. The priest had visions of a roast of beef and a statue of the Blessed Mother which would truly honor her and the Poor Box, not to mention two more pews and a new cassock for himself and a month of good meals for the two Sisters of Charity who taught in the tiny church school on the outskirts of Titusville, and something for the Missions. "He never came to see me," the priest mentioned, to which Harry replied, "He was a very modest and humble man. A Christian." Joseph did not attend the Requiem Mass. Harry did not press him nor make any comment.
Joseph sat alone in the house, with its long booming echoes, and tried to control his grief and his emotions, and their destructive scream in his mind. He had forgotten such sorrow, which he had known when his mother had died and the news of his father's death had been brought to him. Now it came to him again like fresh blood newly spilled, and as terrible, and he knew that sorrow was ageless and vital and part of a man's being. The thought that Mr. Healey was dead was incredible to him, and then the incredulity turned to anguish and a hatred of death, itself. He, himself, he thought in his youth, was invulnerable to death. To him it was a loathsome and humiliating thing. Two days after the funeral he received a note by hand from Mr. James Spaulding: The honor of your presence is requested at the office of Mr. Spaulding of Titusville at 2:00 p. m., Thursday, of this week, in connection with various bequests in the matter of the concern of the last will and testament of Mr. Edward Cullen Healey, late and lamented citizen of this fair city. In spite of his sorrow Joseph's heart gave a great bound. Was it possible that Mr. Healey had remembered him in his will, and if so, why? He was thinking of this when Harry came into his room and showed him a similar letter, and the two young men looked at each other eagerly, ashamed of their hope, yet hoping. "A thousand dollars apiece, I bet!" cried Harry, in a hushed voice, then looked embarrassed. "Discussing it when he's just in his grave!" "Why should he leave us anything?" said Joseph. When he went to the offices he discovered that all the present thirty-five men who worked for Mr. Healey were in a state of excitement, for they, too, had received the same formal notice. There was not a man who had not been sincerely fond of Mr. Healey, and now they looked at each other in silent query. Only Mr. Montrose was without question, and he kept glancing at Joseph who was as astonished as the others, and he shook his head a little and reproached himself for his former cynicism. They had all met at Mr. Spaulding's office on the designated day and time, quietly tiptoeing into the room as if a corpse lay there, and seating themselves in a series of small rows of chairs which the lawyer had caused to be set up. It was unusually warm for April and the windows were open and the hills could be seen beyond, over the rooftops, all brilliant gold with new leaves, all bluish shadow and bronze clefts and patches of the deep green of pines and spruces. A nation was in mourning for its murdered President, and flags stood at half-mast and black crepe and bunting hung from every doorway and window, and groups stopped on the streets to talk and to cry vengeance, and newsboys were appearing almost on the hour every hour with fresh headlines in the papers, which were caught up at once by grim-faced men who had, in the past, had nothing but contempt for the dead man. But no one thought of Mr. Lincoln in Mr. Spaulding's offices, for a fortune lay palpitating there in a sheaf of papers on his desk, and it seemed to many that they had the shine of gold on them. Mr. Spaulding sat like a high priest or at least the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, behind his desk, gravely clad in black, with a black cravat, his hair decorously smoothed down, his rubber}' face set in an expression of solemn sorrow and reverence, his eyes downcast, his hands folded before the papers as if, thought Joseph, he were waiting for the sacred moment to place them as in a monstrance. A faint and mournful scent as of funereal fern emanated from him. Seeing that all were gathered, Mr. Spaulding let his big head drop as if in prayer, or as if overcome and too burdened to speak immediately. All the men decorously waited; not even Mr. Montrose smiled. But Joseph was filled with a wild exasperation. The swine had surely calculated on that ray of sunshine touching his dyed hair in a halo-like glow, for Joseph had caught his sidelong look at the ray just before bending his head, and he had moved a little forward in his big chair to catch it better. Mr. Spaulding began to speak. It was his grandest hour, for never before had the evidence of so much money lain before him. His voice was like a choir, throbbing and trembling. Now he lifted his eyes, big and hollow and ponderable, full of portentousness and grief, and all at once he looked the very parody of a prophet and Joseph felt an alarming urge to laugh out loud, to shout a ridiculing execration. "I have here, before me," said Mr. Spaulding, touching the papers with a reverent hand, "the last Will and Testament of my beloved friend, Edward Cullen Healey, who died on the day our even more beloved President died-and perhaps there-there is a portent, a meaning we of feeble intellect and dark understanding cannot penetrate. We can only bow our heads in wonder. We can only Meditate, Reflect, seeking humility, overcome by Awe." The gathering said not a word. But Joseph thought he heard a ghostly echo of Mr. Healey's boisterous laughter and even, perhaps, a ribald word. Mr. Spaulding took out his scented kerchief and elaborately and slowly wiped brow, then eyes, then blew his nose sonorously. He replaced the kerchief. He began to read again, and every word was like an invocation. Each man employed in Mr. Healey's offices was to receive a year's full salary in addition to his regular salary, and a bonus of five hundred dollars extra at Christmas, provided he remain for that period at least "in the employ of my major legatee, who inherits my residuary estate." He was also to receive an immediate lump sum of three thousand dollars, "in gratitude for loyal services." Each Christmas he remained in the employ of the "major legatee" he would receive an additional five hundred dollars. Mr. Montrose received twenty thousand dollars outright, and "a prayer that he serve my major legatee for a period of one year at least." He also received sundry little treasures he had admired in Mr. Healey's house, "notably a Sanger portrait of George Washington." In addition, he received one hundred shares in the Pennsylvania Railroad and "three of the producing wells next to the Parker Farm." "There are no words," Mr. Healey had dictated, "which can convey my affection for Mr. Montrose, who has served me well for over two decades before the date of this Will." Mr. Healey prayed that Mr. Montrose would find it in his heart to remain with "my major legatee" until his conscience is satisfied that said Major Legatee was fully qualified to continue "without that supreme wisdom, delicac
y of tact, perfection of judgment, of which my dear friend, Mr. Montrose is the Proud Possessor." Joseph glanced at Mr. Montrose who seemed greatly moved. His fine catlike face became very serious, and he looked aside. Harry Zeff was left the sum of five thousand dollars, and at this Harry let out a loud and involuntary whistle which made everyone jump in his chair. A slight ripple of laughter ran through the room, shaken, unintended, and Mr. Spaulding looked as horrified as a priest might look if the Host were desecrated. He hid the will with his spread hands. He gulped. He implored the ceiling for mercy with uplifted eyes. His jaw trembled; his mouth shook. The sun ray quivered in his hair which, all at once, appeared to rise on his head in a holy breeze. Harry was immediately thrown into immense embarrassment and confusion, though everyone eyed him with sympathy as well as with smothered mirth. His dusky face was crimson. He cowered in his chair. Even Joseph was amused, and he thought of young Liza. The unpardonable interruption was ignored by Mr. Spaulding, and after a prolonged delay he began to read again. There were small sums to the girls who worked in his house, a sum of money for a madam he particularly appreciated, ten thousand dollars to St. Francis's Working Boys' Home in Philadelphia, gifts to a seminary, an orphanage in Pittsburgh and-to Joseph's dark amazement-the sum of two thousand dollars for Masses for his unregenerate soul. Mrs. Murray received the sum of one thousand dollars "provided she quits my house and Titusville within ten days" of Mr. Healey's death. There were other small but pleasant remembrances to friends in various cities. Miss Emmy received an income for life of five thousand dollars a year, an incredible sum, riches. Joseph had never heard a will read before. When Mr. Spaulding stopped reading he felt a slight sadness, for there had been no mention of his name, no remembrance. It is not the money, he thought. But I believed that we were friends, that he had some regard for me.