Jill Emerson - The Trouble With Eden

“Some people just want to go on.”

“Some people don’t.”

She walked to the window. “It’s so close in here,” she said. “I should have told the Robshaw girl to open a window while she was here. It feels like rain, doesn’t it? We could use a little rain. This summer I never thought I’d hear myself say that again. The silver maple’s starting to turn. It’s early this year. Does that mean a hard winter or a mild one?”

“I can never remember. I think it means an early winter, doesn’t it?”

“That sounds right.”

“Never did like winter. Didn’t mind the cold. Always the damned inconvenience of it. Slopping around through snow and slush, shoveling cars loose, skidding around on the roads. Cold never bothered me because I always had enough antifreeze in my radiator. A man would sure feel the cold without it.”

“Can I get you anything, Clem?”

“Well, that depends. Do we put on an act for each other or don’t we?”

“It’s a little late in life for that.”

“Yes, it’s late in life, and I never did like winter. You know what I want, Olive.”

She went downstairs. There were blank spots on some of the walls. She looked at each spot and remembered immediately the picture that had hung there.

She came upstairs with a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass to the brim and held it to the light, admiring its color. “All due success to temperance,” he pronounced.

“I wonder how long you’ve been saying that.”

“Seems as good a toast as any.” He drained the glass in two long swallows. “Well, I needed that,” he said. “They can poke all the needles in the world into you and it’s not the same thing. By God I needed that. I was cold sober for over a week and I can’t remember the last time I could have made that statement. You rarely saw me drunk but did you ever see me sober? Well, once or twice, I suppose.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

He poured another drink but sipped this one. “You know, I’ve got to be the luckiest son of a bitch who ever drew breath. Never been much good at or for anything—”

“I could dispute that.”

“Oh, maybe I was all right at that, but not much else. But what did I ever do to deserve you? All the hours I’ve spent sitting around and wondering about that.”

“If I have to listen to much more of this I’ll have to start drinking myself.”

“It’s nothing but true.”

“Try to make me out a saint and I’ll take your bottle away,” she said. “Understand?”

He grinned. “But God knows you’re an ornery bitch under it all.”

“That’s better,” she said.

On good days they would go out in the garden together. He would sit in a canvas chair with a glass in his hand while she readied the flower beds for winter, pulling the late weeds, cutting back roses and perennials, spreading a mulch of peat moss. Often they would go for hours without either of them speaking a word.

On other days, when the weather was bad or when he was not feeling well enough to go downstairs, she spent long hours in the bedroom with him. Sometimes she read poetry to him. He liked to sit with his eyes closed and hear her read poems he had read long ago. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they merely sat together.

Just before dawn on November’s first Thursday she awoke to hear him coughing beside her. She switched on the light. He was lying on his side and his pillow was dark with blood.

He said, “This is it, kid. No, don’t call anyone. They can’t do anything now and if they could I wouldn’t go through all of that again. Just give me your hand.”

“Oh, my darling.”

“What a good month this was. Best one of my life. I wanted to last until Halloween. Always liked Halloween. Never cared much about Christmas but I always liked Halloween. Wonder why that is... ‘It’s coming along nicely.’ First words you ever said to me.”

“I remember.”

“ ‘It’s coming along nicely. Is it for sale?’ I thought, by God, that’s a woman, and I never met one before... It hurts but not so bad now... I never gave you enough.”

“You gave me everything.”

“Took and took and gave you nothing. Always loved you, though. Hope you get a better one next time round... I want to hold your hand. I can’t feel your hand, I want to hold it...”

But she was holding his hand.

The funeral was far better attended than she had thought it would be. She hadn’t realized how many friends Clem had had. She remained dry-eyed throughout the service and the burial, accepting sympathy gracefully however awkwardly it was extended. After the service was concluded she managed to get rid of the minster’s company without offending him. She went home and sat in the living room until it was late enough o go to bed.

Three days after the funeral she called Henry Biedemeyer. She had seen him at the services and he had said then what a good man Clem had been. Now he made the same little speech. It was tiresome enough hearing that sort of thing once, but she heard him out politely.

“I’ll want to have a new will drawn,” she said. “Do you think you could see me today?”

He said that he could, and offered to come to her house.

“No, I’d as soon get out of the house myself. An hour from now? Will that be all right?”

An hour later she was sitting in his office. Her will was a simple one, essentially the same document Oscar Biedemeyer had drawn shortly after her marriage. All of her estate was to be placed in trust, with the entire income payable to her husband. Upon his decease the principal was to be divided among various charitable institutions. The only changes she had seen fit to make over the years had been related to the ultimate bequests.

“This should be simple enough,” Henry said. “We’ll just eliminate the trust and make the dispersal immediate. Unless you had other changes in mind?”

“Nothing earthshaking. Just let me look at that list now and see who I’m mad at. I used to drive your father crazy. There was a time when I was in this office every few months cutting off one outfit and adding another. Let’s see now. These look all right. Doylestown General. How do I feel about Doylestown General? Oh, I guess we can leave them in. Hold on, now. Why in pure hell is the March of Dimes still here? Didn’t Salk put them out of business?”

“They’re working on other crippling diseases now.”

“Might have known they wouldn’t put a going operation like that on the shelf. No, let’s cross them out of there. Now there’s an organization dedicated to saving wild horses and ponies from extinction, here’s a circular I got from them, and they can have the March of Dimes share.”

“You seriously want to give that much money to wild horses and ponies?”

“If I didn’t know some fool would contest it, I’d be strongly tempted to give the whole shooting match to wild horses and ponies.”

“Well, you’re the boss.”

And don’t forget it, she thought. She said, “One other thing. There’s a young girl who works for me, Linda Robshaw. She’s been a great help to me all year and I know she’s at loose ends. I think it would do her good to have the shop, and I’d like to see the Lemon Tree stay in operation after I’m gone. God knows it’s little enough in the way of a monument. Can you add a codicil to that effect?”

“That’s easy enough. I can also make it contingent upon her operating the business for a specified length of time.”

“Oh, the hell with that. I don’t put strings on things, Henry. She won’t have a problem with inheritance tax, will she?”

“On the shop and the inventory? You rent the store, so all that’s involved is fixtures and stock. What’s that worth?”