Testament

  The man on duty already had the reels turning on the tape recorder. “Who knows, maybe it’s nothing. It could be just your mother.”

  “My mother’s been dead two years.” He picked up the phone, and it was one of Claire’s girl friends. That didn’t matter. He started shaking anyhow.

  “I know it’s late,” the woman said, “but I need to ask Claire about—“

  “She isn’t feeling well. She’ll call you back tomorrow.”

  “I hope it isn’t serious.”

  “She’ll call you back,” he said and hung up.

  He couldn’t help wondering if she was the same woman who had been breathing on the phone to Webster. No, he told himself. That’s insane. You need to stop thinking like that. She’s Claire’s best friend.

  But he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. “You look awful,” Webster told him. He came at seven the next morning with a new man for the phone. But Webster didn’t look good either. His big-boned face was slack and pale, and his eyes were for the first time dull, and he looked like he had been up all night himself. He even wore the same gray suit, out of shape now.

  “It was ethylene glycol,” Webster said. “And they didn’t get it from a plant nursery, they got it from a garage. Some kinds of antifreeze and windshield cleaners have it in them. It’s a little sweet, and if you’d swallowed some of it in the milk, you would maybe have noticed the taste just before it killed you. It only takes a drop or two. The trouble is, so many people buy antifreeze and windshield cleaner there’s no way to trace them all.”

  “You came all the way over here at this hour just to tell me you can’t trace whoever bought the poison?”

  “At least you know I’m being honest. If I tell you the worst, then you’ll know to believe me when I tell you something good.”

  “So for God sake tell me something good.”

  “Right now I haven’t anything. You were right, the FBI couldn’t help us much. The man who delivered the milk seems like he wasn’t involved, but we’re watching him anyhow. He left the milk around six, so there was plenty of time for somebody else to slip the poison into it. The autopsy’s finished. You can have your child’s body released to the undertaker.”

  At first he didn’t know what Webster was talking about. Then he realized. A funeral. He had so little accepted Ethan’s death that he hadn’t even thought there would be a funeral.

  “What is it?” Webster said. “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head and phoned the church as soon as Webster left.

  “I’m sorry,” the housekeeper said. “The fathers are all out saying Masses now. The rectory hours aren’t until nine.”

  So he waited and smoked from the new pack of cigarettes that Webster had given him before he left. They tasted like musty cotton batting, hard to draw on, and he wouldn’t have trusted them if he had not already without thinking smoked the others Webster had given him the day before. “You take some slivers from this plastic. You slip them into your target’s cigarette. The fumes are so lethal, one drag later and he’s dead.” He had used that in his article, making certain not to mention the kind of plastic. But what was the difference? he thought emptily. Christ, wasn’t there anything that couldn’t be used to kill someone?

  The priest said there was an opening for a funeral in two days. He looked in the phone book for undertakers, but there was no listing. See FUNERAL DIRECTORS, it said. Sure. Of course, he told himself. That’s what I need. A damned director. His instinct was to pick the first name on the list and be done with it. But he kept thinking of Kess and how the first name on the list was obvious, so he slid down to the next from the last. He knew it wouldn’t take long for Kess or his men to find out which undertaker he was using, but at least this way he wasn’t helping them any to set up some kind of trap.

  “There’s been an extensive autopsy,” he told the man on the phone. “I’m not sure if my son can lie in open state.”

  The voice was warm and smooth, like a minister on the radio. “If that is what you’d like, sir, we’ll do our best to arrange it.”

  He thought a moment. “Yes. My wife will want that. I can’t come down to pick out a casket or anything. Please give him the very best you have.”

  The voice was puzzled. “Certainly, sir. Whatever you wish.”

  “I can’t go over to the hospital and sign the release papers either. You’ll need to bring them here for me to sign before you can get the body.”

  The voice was twice as puzzled. “Well, yes, certainly, sir. May I say that we all of us sympathize with you in your time of mourning.”

  “Whatever you want. Go on and say it.”

  15

  An hour later a priest showed up at the front door. He was stooped and wrinkled. His hair was thin and white like spider’s silk, his black suit specked here and there with dust. He said he was the pastor, but he had never seen him before and he had never heard Claire mention a priest like this either, so they sat in a triangle in the living room, the two of them and the detective from the phone.

  The priest apologized for coming around so unexpectedly. He obviously didn’t want to talk about what he’d come for. “It’s a small matter, I’m sure,” he said, fidgeting on the sofa. “But we really should discuss it. You can’t imagine how I dislike bothering you in your grief.” His voice was hushed and unsettling, as if he were straining to whisper in the vestibule before Mass.

  “What is it?” He still wasn’t sure this was really a priest. He thought of calling the church to make sure. The detective had his hand near his shoulder holster under his jacket.

  Again the reluctance. “I hardly think it’s anything serious, I’m sure it isn’t, but you see, I was checking through our records as a matter of course, and—well—you are Roman Catholic, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you attend Mass regularly?”

  “My wife and daughter go every Sunday.”

  “Yourself?”

  “I haven’t gone in ten years.”

  “Not even to make your Easter duty?”

  “That’s right.”

  The priest looked out the front window for a moment. He cleared his throat. “May I ask why you don’t attend?”

  “They changed the Mass into English, and then they brought in the guitars.”

  “A few of us very much regret those changes as well. In spite of them, you should have completed your Easter duty so that you could remain in the Church and try to save your soul. You don’t believe, is that it?”

  “That’s right.” He sounded like he was in confession.

  “Not in the Church?”

  “Not in God. Excuse me, Father, but what is it you want to say?”

  “Perhaps I already understand. After I checked through our records, I phoned the other parishes, and I learned from the courthouse that your child was born here—but I find no record of his baptism.”

  Almighty God, you sent your only Son to rescue us from the slavery of sin and to give us the freedom only your sons and daughters enjoy. We now pray for this child who will have to face the world with its temptations and fight the devil in all his cunning. Your Son died and rose again to save us. By His victory over sin and death, bring this child out of the power of darkness, strengthen him with the grace of Christ, and watch over him at every step in life’s journey. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

  He saw now what was coming, and he knew what it was going to do to Claire. He didn’t know how he could tell her. Principle, he thought. The things I have done for principle. “Yes,” he said quietly. “The baby was not baptized.” He was sure now that this was a priest. Not even Kess or his men would have thought of this.

  “My dear man, was there a just reason?”

  “The baby was very sick for the first two months, and we couldn’t take the chance of going outside with him.”

  “But surely—how old did you say he was on th
e phone? four months? five?—surely by then he was well enough to be taken to the church.”

  “I didn’t want him baptized,” he answered, “because I wasn’t sure I wanted him raised Catholic.”

  “Baptism has no denomination. It admits anyone to the possibility of Christian salvation, regardless of sect.”

  “If you believe.”

  “But it wasn’t yours to bargain disbelief against the welfare of his soul. Are you absolutely certain that no one baptized the child? A nurse at the hospital perhaps? Or your wife when the child was sick? It doesn’t require a priest. Anyone can do it, and with ordinary water.”

  I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

  “No,” he said. “I’m sure no one did it.”

  “This is very difficult.”

  “Go on. I know what you’re going to say anyhow.”

  The priest’s words were formal, a refuge into the language of pronouncement. “Canon law forbids a funeral Mass for your child. It also forbids his burial in consecrated ground. Since the child had not yet reached the age of reason, he could not have committed any sin, and therefore he is not liable to the damnation of hell. He will repose in the state of limbo, free from the pain of the eternal fire, subject only to the great frustration of never being allowed to participate in the beatific vision of God’s glory.”

  16

  So they went that night with two detectives to the funeral home. He had told Claire everything by then, expecting her to accuse him again, to scream and hit him, at least do something, but she had not reacted at all. She had been silent all the hours before, and she had not spoken after, and it was as if she were alone somewhere back in her mind, unaware of anything around her. One detective went in the car with them; the other drove behind to watch for anyone following. At the funeral home, the two of them got out first to scan the darkened tree-lined street before they said it seemed all right to go in.

  The place was soft rugs and muffled voices. There were rich red, thickly gathered drapes on all the walls. Rose light filtered through them, and from every wall an electric organ played muted minor chords that went on smoothly, never ending. Funeral Muzak, he thought, feeling suffocated.

  He did not like having Sarah along, but he would have worried leaving her away from him, even with the guard that stayed behind to watch the house, so he brought some books for her to read, and cookies and milk from a grocery store on the way, certain these at least were safe to eat, and he asked an attendant for a place apart where she could take them.

  “But I want to see Ethan. Why can’t I see Ethan?” Sarah asked.

  “Because he won’t be like when you knew him.”

  The electric organ played on thinly.

  “He’ll look different?”

  “No, but he won’t be the same.”

  She mulled that over. “He’ll look like a doll?”

  The image struck him horribly. “Does that idea bother you?”

  “No,” she answered. “I guess not.”

  “Then that’s what he’ll look like.”

  She was still mulling it over as the attendant led her away. One detective immediately followed, soft across the rug. The other looked in all the rooms, glancing repeatedly toward the front door.

  Almost at once the undertaker silently appeared. It seemed his shoes barely touched the rug. His suit was black, perfectly fitting broadcloth. He was tall; his face was thin and gray and pursed with consolation—and like the priest, there was a question of whether Kess had gotten to him. He looked toward the detective watching the front door. Then he held out his hand.

  “Our deepest sympathies.” The undertaker’s handshake was soft and dry. “Your son is this way. I hope our arrangements have been to your liking.”

  They went down a hall past a room with a casket at the far end, a young man’s face projecting from it while a black-clad woman knelt before it, her shoulders heaving as she cried. Another woman stood awkwardly beside her, half raising her hands, then lowering them, uncertain if she should interrupt to touch and comfort her.

  They continued softly to the next room, and this time at the far end there was Ethan in his casket. He felt a chill that almost kept him from going in. The detective stood just inside the room, his coat open, where he could still see the front door while they went over and the organ went on playing. The casket was rich dark oak; like the house, he thought, and short and shallow like a toy. In it Ethan lay on stuffed white satin, dressed in a blue wool nursing gown, his best, that Claire had spent hours selecting from his drawer and then had given silently to the undertaker.

  “He’ll look like a doll?” Sarah had asked. But Ethan didn’t look like a doll. He just looked dead. And the undertaker had used the wrong kind of makeup, the sort that fills in wrinkles on the face of an adult. But Ethan’s face had already been smooth, so the extra surface made his skin seem thickly covered with pale wax. So small, so tiny featured.

  He turned away, glanced back, turned away again, and gradually he became accustomed to this stranger who once had been his son.

  Claire looked, and kept on looking, and beneath her black veil her face was heavy and old. She had her long black hair tied severely back, her features stark. Cry, he thought. Why doesn’t she cry and get this out before it all eats her away?

  And what about yourself? he thought. He’s your son. Why don’t you cry?

  The wreath of carnations he had ordered. The sickly sweet musty smell of flowers going stale. Death. Everywhere death.

  The organ would not stop playing.

  He shook his head and turned entirely away, and the undertaker was still with them. What does he want? A compliment? Don’t tell me he wants a compliment on Ethan’s face.

  “Is everything satisfactory?” the undertaker said.

  “The casket is very nice.”

  “It’s our best. You need never have second thoughts about that. You’ve done everything you can for him.” The rug and the drapes absorbed the undertaker’s voice so that he sounded as if he spoke from another room. “May I offer you and your wife some coffee perhaps?”

  He thought of poison and answered, “No.”

  “Some wine or perhaps something stronger? We sometimes find that helps.”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  “Anything you wish, please let us know.” The undertaker sounded disappointed. Slowly, smoothly, he left the room.

  At least as far as the door. The heavy man who stumbled past had his tie open and was red-faced, breathing hard.

  The detective lunged over, pinning the man face to the wall.

  “Dear God,” the undertaker said. “My God, what is it?”

  The detective had his revolver out, the undertaker gasping at it, and the red-faced man was mumbling, “What the hell? Hey Jesus,” while the detective told him, “Quiet,” searching him for weapons, up and down his pant legs, at his crotch, under his arms.

  “What do you want?” the detective demanded.

  “My friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “He’s dead. I’ve come to see my friend. They hit him with a train and now he’s dead.”

  “Oh,” the undertaker said. “That’s in the next room.”

  “And now he’s dead,” the man repeated.

  The detective smelled his breath and turned his face away, “Let’s go find out about your friend. And while we’re at it, let’s find out how drunk you are.”

  “No.” He stepped forward, overcoming his surprise enough to plead, “Don’t leave us.”

  “Only for a second. I need to check this out.”

  “But what if they sent this guy to distract you? What if while you’re gone they come for us?”

  “No matter what, I need to check him out. I won’t leave this door out of sight.”

  The sudden fright had started him shivering. As he watched them go, he feared he would be sick. Claire had seen it all, her face blank, and now she was watching Ethan ag
ain. Looking at Ethan made him sicker. Even when the detective came back and shrugged, he didn’t feel any better. He couldn’t go and sit down and leave Claire standing alone. He had to wait with her, fighting to control his nausea, and ten minutes later when she spoke for the first time that day, her voice was thin and quiet, and she never took her eyes away from the body as she told him, “You can’t know how much I wish that you and your slut had gone away.”

  17

  Then two days later, in the morning, they had the funeral. The priest said that various general prayers were allowed, but no mention of salvation, and no holy water could be sprinkled on the coffin, nor any dust spread out in a cross upon the lid. The priest also said that unbaptized infants were not allowed past the antechamber to the church. He told the priest, “All the way in or nothing,” and the funeral, what there was of it, was conducted at the undertaker’s.

  There were fold-down metal chairs arranged in rows. He and Claire and Sarah sat in front. Behind them, more friends had come than he expected. He wondered if any of them had been a part of Ethan’s death. Two detectives were watching the door.

  The priest read his salvationless prayers, closed his book, and told them, “The death of the aged we can understand. They have lived out their time and done their work, and God in His wisdom has judged them ready to be called…. But the death of the young, that is one way of God that we find most difficult to accept and comprehend. We look at this child in his coffin, and we are heartsick at the waste, at his lost chance to feel joy in the goodness of living. Never to relish food and drink, to take pride in his body, to know friends, love his family. Never to have the chance to do great things, to be a good man, an example to his generation, a privilege to be with. All denied to him by God. The waste, we say.

  “I could tell you to rejoice, that God has seen fit to call him early to eternal ecstasy. But for reasons we do not yet know, God did not permit this child to be baptized. The stain of original sin still makes up the character of his soul, and he now exists in limbo. That is another kind of waste, his lost chance to witness glory, and that waste we find even harder to accept.