Nelson DeMille - The Gate House

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.”

I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.

Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.

Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.”

I wasn’t sure if that masculine pronoun referred to George or Augustus, and I also wondered how they handled love triangles in heaven. I said, “Yes, you will.”

Ethel said to me, or to herself, “I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends and family who went before me.”

I didn’t reply.

On the subject of reunions, Ethel informed me, “Mrs. Sutter would like to see you.”

I feigned confusion and replied, “My mother and I are barely speaking, Mrs. Allard.”

“I’m speaking of your wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

“She’s very disappointed that you haven’t called her.”

This came as a surprise, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Actually, I felt pretty lousy, but I informed Ethel, “The phone works both ways.”

“Mr. Sutter, if I may be personal, I think you should forgive and forget.”

I slipped into my old master/servant tone of voice and said, “Mrs. Allard, I have forgiven and forgotten, and I have no wish to continue on this subject.”

But Ethel did, and since she was in a unique position to say whatever she wanted without consequence, she said to me, “You’re hurting her, and yourself.”

My goodness. Crotchety old Ethel Allard was seeing some sort of celestial light, and was determined to do something good before she got grilled by St. Peter.

Also, on a more earthly level, Ethel knew a thing or two about adultery and the weakness of the flesh, so she gave Susan a free pass on that. In other words, Ethel and Susan had something in common; to wit, they’d both crossed the Do Not Diddle line. These were two very different cases, of course, with far different results, but the bottom line was a pair of men’s shoes under their beds that didn’t belong there.

I was a little annoyed and said to her, hypothetically, “Would George have forgiven you if you-?”

“He did.”

“Oh…” I never thought that George knew about Augustus. Well, George was a forgiving soul, and I’m not. Plus, George got the free housing. I reminded her, “This subject is finished.” I looked at my watch and said, “Perhaps I’d better be going.”

“As you wish.”

I stood, but didn’t leave. Instead, I walked to the window and stared out toward the sinking sun. From here, I could see a glimpse of the Sound between the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the water.

“What do you see?”

I glanced back at Ethel.

“Tell me what you see.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I see sunlight sparkling on the water. I see trees, and the leaves are glistening from the rain. I see the sky clearing, and white clouds blowing across the horizon. I can see the head of Hempstead Harbor, and boats, and I see land across the Sound, and there are flights of gulls circling over the water.”

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I should have noticed it more.”

“We all should.”

Neither of us spoke for a full minute, then I moved to her bedside.

She was clutching the stuffed bear, and I saw tears in her eyes.

I took a tissue from the box and patted her cheeks. She took my hand and said, “Thank you for coming, John.”

Her hand was very cold and dry, and this, more than her appearance, made me aware that she was closer to death than to life.

She squeezed my hand and said, “I never liked you, you know.”

I smiled and replied, “I know.”

“But I respected you.”

Deathbed confessions are admissible as evidence, and deemed to be truthful, so I said, “Thank you.”

She further confessed, “You’re a good man. There are not many left.”

I agreed with that, and said, “You are a lady.”

“You’re lost, John. Find your way home.”

“I’m trying.”

“Call her. And call your mother. And your children. Reach out to those you love, or once loved.”

“I will.”

She squeezed my hand again, and said, “Goodbye.”

I returned the grasp, then let go of her hand and moved away from the bed. Then I turned back, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek.

I left the room quickly and headed to the elevator.

Iexited Fair Haven Hospice House into the bright sunlight, and took a deep breath of fresh air, glad I was out of there, but happy I went.

Though Ethel and I never cared for each other, she’d been one of my last links to a long-ago past, and a link to George, whom I liked very much. So, to be honest, I was feeling a little sad.

Also disturbing were Ethel’s mentions of Susan. I was perfectly happy carrying around a grudge, and I didn’t want to hear that Susan was… well, whatever.

On that subject, it occurred to me that Susan could be coming here for a visit, and I didn’t want to bump into her, so I kept an eye out as I made my way to the parking area.

Also, I could imagine my mother coming to see her old socialist buddy. In America, politics crosses all lines – class, race, ethnicity, and levels of intelligence.

And regarding Harriet Sutter, I should explain, in my defense, that I’m not a bad son; she was a bad mother, more interested in saving the world than in raising her two children. My father was a decent if distant man, but his wife ran his life, and Harriet made little time for me, Emily, or my children. Oddly, though, Harriet was and remains close to crazy Susan, and Susan’s betrayal of me did not cause Harriet to change her favorable opinion of Susan; in fact, my mother suggested to me that I try to understand why Susan “strayed,” as she called it (I call it fucking another guy), and she also suggested counseling so that I could better comprehend my own failings, which may have led to Susan’s unfulfilled whatever.

I mean, pure bullshit. I could almost hear Ethel Allard and Harriet Sutter chatting over tea, wondering why silly John had his shorts in a knot over an unfortunate lapse of judgment by poor, sweet Susan. Ethel, I can forgive. My mother, never.

Anyway, the other person I didn’t want to run into was the Reverend James Hunnings, who was annoyingly cordial to me, and to everyone who disliked him. Hunnings always spoke as though he was on stage, and there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice or heart. But if I did see him, I’d drop a little hint that Ethel had put St. Mark’s in her will. Then I’d wink and nod.

I made it to the parking area without running into anyone, and I was about to get into my car when I heard a car door close, and a female voice said, “John Sutter.”

That’s me, so I turned and saw Elizabeth Allard coming toward me, carrying a small pastry box.

I walked toward her and said, “Elizabeth. How are you?”

We shook hands, then, by mutual consent, engaged in a clumsy hug.

She said to me, “You look great, John.”