Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

“Oof,” said Owen, and fell over backwards.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Stella. “Are you all right?”

“Get up, Grandpa,” said Ronnie. “I didn’t get my turn yet.”

But Owen Crump did not get up. He lay in the grass behind his improvised pitcher’s mound, his eyes wide to the cloudless summer sky. Stella’s eyes were wide too, with suddenly unlimited possibilities.

“I think you’d better go indoors, Ronnie,” said Stella Crump.

Stella felt she looked well in black. It lent her an air of sorrowful mystery and had a slimming effect as well. A merciful release, she thought, the stilted words intended for herself and not for Owen. She hid her jubilation well with sighs and stifled moans and exclamations of “What will I do now?” Stella knew perfectly well what she would do now.

Owen Crump had left his affairs in apple-pie order. His will was brief and to the point. So much for his only daughter, a generous allotment for Ronnie and his infant sister, a sizable donation to the Little League, and the rest to his dearly beloved Stella.

The Garden Club rallied ’round the new widow and Stella bravely accepted their gifts of flowers and small cakes. Her daughter, a thoroughly up-to-the-minute girl, telephoned every day to warn of the dangers of allowing herself to feel guilty. “It was an accident, Ma, no matter what anyone says.” Ronnie was taken to a child psychiatrist to exorcise any guilt feelings he might have. But neither Stella nor Ronnie was troubled overmuch with mental anguish. Ronnie because he was a healthy young animal and didn’t connect himself with the fateful consequence of Grandma’s batting average. And Stella was too busy exploring the prospects of her new status to feel anything but excited and optimistic. On the day of the funeral, Stella stuffed the remaining season tickets down the garbage disposal and listened with satisfaction to their slurping, grinding destruction.

And Francis X. Lafferty became a constant visitor.

“Dear lady,” he said, “your sorrow is mine to share, your tears fall into the fertile garden of my heart and water the seeds of concern. Let me help you bear this terrible grief.”

Stella let him help. She let him drive her around town in Owen’s Cadillac, assisting her with those errands that even a newly bereaved widow must perform. She let him escort her to dinner at expensive restaurants featuring secluded tables and rich pastries. He encouraged her to do her share by picking up the tab.

Tongues wagged as tongues would. The Garden Club was quite enjoyably shocked, and for several meetings did not need to engage a speaker. Stella and Francis provided all the topic that was necessary.

Stella’s daughter, that thoroughly up-to-the-minute girl, said, “Look, Ma. Personally, I think he’s a fraud. But if he’s what you need, enjoy yourself. Hang in there and don’t let the old biddies get you down. Only if I were you, I’d think twice about getting married again. Got to run now. Ronnie has to see his shrink, and I have a macrame class in half an hour.”

Stella did think twice about getting married. In the weeks following Bat Day, she thought of little else. Marriage to Francis and a honeymoon trip around the world, with Francis bringing his message of love and harmony to ever larger and more enthusiastic audiences. Stella could see it all as if it were already happening. Francis, tall and imposing, receiving the adulation of the crowd, while she sat backstage waiting for him to come to her. He would dedicate books to her, and she would be his inspiration. They would travel from London to Paris to Rome. She thought it might be wise to skip over the Middle East, and was none too sure about Francis’ reception in India. They seemed to be on the export side of the guru business there. Tokyo, of course. And then a long stay in Honolulu. She pondered the advisability of hiring a press agent.

Francis said, “Dear, dearest Stella. I hesitate to seem importunate. Unseemly haste in these matters can lead to sad regret. Still, it is my fondest wish...”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“... my heart’s deepest desire, to dare to hope that you will one day in the not too distant future...”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“... consent to become my wife. That is, as soon as a suitable period of mourning has passed, and your heart is able once again to receive the outpourings of another.”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“What did you say, beloved?”

“I said, ‘Yes.’ How about three weeks from today?”

Stella and Francis got married on the day that the home team batted its way into the World Series. To Stella, if she had taken notice, it might have seemed a fitting irony. But she was too busy with wedding plans and travel brochures. Even a small discreet wedding took a certain degree of planning. Arrangements had to be made for joint bank accounts and joint credit cards, Francis must have a new wardrobe, starting with four dozen silk handkerchiefs. The Lincoln Continental, Stella thought, could wait until they returned from their travels. The old Cadillac would do until they left. Through it all, Francis smiled indulgently and made occasional heartfelt speeches on the subject of contentment.

Despite all of Stella’s efforts, she found it was not possible to schedule a lecture tour at short notice. The Royal Albert Hall stubbornly refused to accommodate Francis until the middle of November. So the trip was postponed and Stella and Francis settled in for a short interval of homely marital bliss before their world travels could begin.

Francis consoled a downcast Stella. “Anywhere on earth with you, dear Stella, is paradise to me. Don’t you think we ought to buy a boat? I’ve always had a yen to play Huck Finn on the river.”

“You pick one out, dearest. I’ve got to keep after these travel agents and the speaker’s bureau or we’ll never get this trip off the ground.”

So intent was Stella on planning each last detail of this fabulous trip around the world, she scarcely noticed that Francis spent more and more time pottering about on his new toy, a 25-foot cabin cruiser. Or that when he was at home, he’d taken to hanging about the rec room in the basement with his feet on the furniture watching television and munching swiss cheese and salami sandwiches.

One day, after a particularly fruitless telephone exchange with a booking agent in Brussels, Stella slammed the receiver down and almost wept with sheer frustration. She was tempted to abandon the lecture part of the trip. But that was the point of the whole thing, after all. The tour was her wedding gift to her husband, and she couldn’t just give up this wonderful opportunity for dear Francis to deliver his message to the world and become as well known as Billy Graham, or the Maharishi, at the very least. Still, it would be such a help if he would take just the slightest interest in the practical side of becoming an inspirational figure on an international scale.

Stella pouted and rubbed her tired eyes, thereby multiplying the tiny creases, folds, and pouches that adorned her face. She was too annoyed to care. She heard the powerful hum of the Cadillac’s engine in the drive and tried, unsuccessfully, to arrange her face into a semblance of contentment. Dear Francis always seemed to take it as a personal insult if she appeared even slightly discontent.

The front door opened and Francis bounded into the house with an even greater display of youthful enthusiasm than usual.

“I’ve got them, Stella dearest!” he shouted. “The tickets! I’ve got them! Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted them. And now, thanks to you, I’ve finally got them. Now I am truly content.”

“Tickets? What tickets? I haven’t even gotten our itinerary straightened out yet. How could you get the tickets?”