Alison Lurie - Last Resort

“Yes,” Wilkie had said repressively. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’m too tired now.” He had glanced at her in a blurred, peculiar way, and opened his mouth as if about to say something more.

“Yes?” Jenny had murmured finally. But Wilkie had shut his mouth and fallen into a morose, stubborn silence.

It was wonderful that the book, their book, was finished. But why hadn’t he told her? What if he wasn’t planning to let her help him with it? What if he were going to ask Barbie Mumpson to help him instead from now on?

That would be disastrous. Barbie would make a complete mess of the job. She wouldn’t realize how much editing and revision Wilkie’s work always needed: she probably wouldn’t be able to read his handwriting—few people besides Jenny could. Possibly she couldn’t even spell. She wouldn’t know how and where to find illustrations, or check the statistics and quotations, things that Wilkie, because he could rely on Jenny, was rather careless about.

When the book appeared it would be full of errors, and the reviewers would point this out. That would serve Wilkie right, but it mustn’t be allowed to happen, because The Copper Beech was too important, because it was her book too. She must speak to him, must persuade him to give her the manuscript.

But what if, when she spoke, Wilkie were to say, No thanks. What if he were to say, I’m sorry, but I’ve found someone else to help me. I don’t love you anymore.

All right, she could say back. I don’t love you either. I’ve found someone else too.

Outside somebody was turning in at the gate, coming up the walk under the palms; but it was only Perry Jackson. At first Jenny hardly recognized him because he was dressed formally in black slacks, a gray sports jacket, a white shirt, and a formal unsmiling expression.

“Hi,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “Lee asked me to tell you, she’ll be a little late. If you want to leave now I can hang around till she comes.”

“No, that’s all right,” Jenny said, determined to hold her ground. “I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“It won’t be long. She just stayed on to be with Tommy’s parents.”

“That’s fine,” Jenny assured him, thinking again how kind Lee was, how warm-hearted and generous. “Was it a nice memorial service?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Jacko said flatly. “The music was good, and there was a big crowd. Your husband didn’t come, though.”

“Oh, no,” said Jenny, surprised. “Did you expect him?”

“Well. Sort of. Most of the other people who tried to save Tommy were there. The cop and both the paramedics, and a couple of tourists.”

“Really?” Remembering the detached, exhausted way Wilkie had spoken of the incident, Jenny knew that it would never have occurred to him to attend. She looked down, embarrassed.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Jacko smiled briefly. “Listen,” he added. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

“Yes?” Jenny said politely, but in a manner that withheld assent. People often asked her favors in that tone of voice; usually what they wanted was some sort of access to Wilkie, something she couldn’t always promise, and soon would never be able to promise.

“I’d like you and your husband to witness my will.”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” Jenny said, surprised.

“It’s because you’re not mentioned in it, and everyone else I know is, more or less.” He smiled, shrugged.

“But you’re not—” Jenny swallowed the rest of the sentence, recalling that in spite of appearances Jacko was ill; was perhaps even dying.

“You’ll have to come to the lawyer’s office. Maybe sometime this week, if you can make it.”

“Yes, of course—I mean, I’ll ask my husband and let you know,” Jenny said, wondering if Wilkie would in fact agree to witness Jacko’s will—if he would ever again agree to do anything she suggested.

“Thanks. Well, see you around.”

Fifteen tense minutes later, Jenny looked up and saw Lee climbing the front steps, crossing the porch. She was also dressed formally, in a black dress, black espadrilles, a black and purple handwoven chenille shawl, and a black, brooding expression.

“Hi, sorry I’m late,” she said, hardly glancing at Jenny. “How’s everything?”

“Oh, fine,” Jenny replied in a thin voice. “Vicki and Sara checked out of Room Three, and the woman who’s arriving today phoned to say she’ll be here around six. There were a couple of calls about rates and vacancies for March, and Marie-Claire wants to come back in April. I wrote down everything and said you’d be in touch. How was the memorial service?”

“I guess it was good. If anything like that can be good.” Lee did not look at Jenny but at the blank wall next to her. “The church was full, and they played a Maria Callas tape, and Allen Ingram read a poem. People who didn’t know Tommy or Dennis very well probably felt better.” Her voice broke.

“Oh, Lee.” Jenny went toward her. “I’m so sorry.”

“I want everyone to stop dying. I can’t take it anymore.” Lee began to sob. Unlike Jenny, she did not cry easily and gracefully, but in a loud, wrenching manner. “Dennis is devastated. Tommy was his life, more or less. Now he doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself.”

Like me, Jenny thought.

“And Tommy’s parents,” Lee went on, gulping back angry tears. “That was so awful.”

“I guess even if you know it’s coming—” Jenny suggested.

“It wasn’t like that. They were upset all right, but they were mostly sorry for themselves. They didn’t do anything for Tommy when he was sick except send money. They came down maybe twice for a couple of days. They were embarrassed by the whole scene today, Tommy’s friends crying and one of the waiters at Henry’s Beach House coming to the church in full drag and sobbing out loud, with tears running down his makeup.”

“Mm,” Jenny murmured, thinking that she too might have been embarrassed by this.

“And now his parents want Tommy’s ashes, so they can put them in the family plot in Raleigh. They think that’ll make up for everything, show they accept him. They don’t grasp why everyone is enraged and Dennis won’t even speak to them.”

“What’s going to happen?”

Lee shrugged. “We’re working on it. Tommy wanted to be buried in the Key West cemetery, he bought a plot there with room for both of them. But now his lawyer thinks Dennis should forget about that and scatter the ashes before the parents get a lawyer of their own. The whole thing is moronic, fighting over a cardboard box full of grit and flakes like cat litter. I said to Dennis, what do you care, if Tommy’s around anywhere he’s here with you. But he’s not rational right now.”

Neither am I, Jenny thought. Look at me, she thought, not letting go of her friend. Speak to me. And finally Lee did.

“So, how’s everything with you?” she said.

“Oh, all right, I guess. And I think Wilkie’s better. Anyhow he’s agreed to be in this conference here next month on The Writer and Nature, you know?”

“Yeah, I heard about it. My cousin Lennie Zimmern’s going to be there too.”

“The one from New York who criticizes everything.”

“Uh-huh.” Lee smiled. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here,” she said in a different voice. “Last night, when you didn’t call, I thought—”

“I couldn’t, I didn’t dare.”

“Never mind. You’re here now.” From a distance of only a few inches, Jenny and Lee looked at each other with the searching, fearful expressions of people about to jump into a dark, fast-running river. “Tell me something,” Lee asked. “Did you mean what you said yesterday?”