Джон Макдональд - The Widow’s Estate

At four-thirty he phoned Lollie from the city and said the conference was going into a second session in the evening, so he couldn’t make it for dinner, but could she please save as much of Saturday for him as she could manage. She sounded so remote and dispirited over the phone it made him feel both depressed and restless.

Suddenly he had an idea, a small plan of action which he knew would be grimly pleasurable. He phoned the offices where Mitch had worked. He got through to Ralph Becklund, the man who had made the pass at Lollie. In the process of reaching him, he learned that Becklund was number-two man in the accounting division. He identified himself as a friend of Mitch Barnes. Becklund agreed to meet him in the men’s bar of the Commodore at five-fifteen.

Cal arrived early. He had a specific mental image of what Becklund would be like, one of those meaty, breezy, conspiratorial types, the sort of man most likely to fall for the scheme Cal had in mind. It was essentially simple. He would establish his identity with his very impressive business card. Becklund would know the big, solid reputation of the firm Cal worked for. And Becklund could be made to fall for the big lie — that Mitch, before he died, had recommended Becklund as a man who would fit into a new management team Cal was assembling. He would make Becklund’s mouth water. He would paint the glorious future, say the definite offer would be made as soon as a discreet investigation was completed, and in the moment of parting, casually mention that he was going to tell Laura Barnes about it, because she would be so pleased to know Becklund was getting his big break because of Mitch’s recommendation.

And, of course, Becklund would never hear another word. And he would guess why. And he would have a bitter remorse to last him all his life. “If I had only known.” These are the sorriest words in the language.

Becklund arrived on time. “Mr. Burch? I’m Ralph Becklund.” He did not fit Cal’s imagined picture. He was of medium height, solidly built, with russet-brown hair. He seemed a quiet and decent man, waiting — with sufficient dignity — to find out what Cal wanted. Cal had learned to trust his own instincts about people first, and look at the test results second.

They stood at the bar. Cal bought Becklund a drink. Feeling his way, he made a general comment about how long he had known Mitch Barnes, and waited to see if Becklund would say the usual, sentimental, meaningless things.

But Ralph Becklund shook his head slowly. “I’d never have guessed how much I’d miss that guy, Mr. Burch. The whole flavor of our shop seems a little different now. He was a darned good man. He never kept his guard up... the way the rest of us do.”

“He got a lot of fun out of life, I guess.”

Ralph Becklund looked at Cal with a strangely intent expression. “You’ve known both of them a long time? Laura too?”

“A long time.”

“Then maybe you can do something I haven’t had the guts to do. Sometimes... a man can do something he can’t explain. And I never think of Mitch without remembering it. I... always feel ashamed when I do. Maybe it would help if you’d tell her I still feel sick about what happened.”

“I know what happened,” Cal said.

Becklund looked at him and his smile was wary and sour. “That’s why you wanted to talk to me, Mr. Burch?”

“I’ll tell you it isn’t going the way I thought it would. I was going to set you up, then yank the rug out.”

“I don’t need that. The thing was, it looked so bad. It looked planned. There were things to sign, the retirement account papers. I went out when the kids were in school. I’m not the playboy type, Mr. Burch. I’ve got four kids of my own. Mitch had been dead about two weeks. I was trying to make things as easy as I could, but something set her off after she’d signed the papers. She had to have a shoulder to cry on. There I was, holding her. She’s a very attractive woman. That’s no excuse, of course. So I made the pass, almost in an absent-minded way. It was sort of... the product of feeling helpless and awkward. And she very properly yanked herself loose and busted me one in the nose. She has every right to hate me... but I just wish she could understand. I’ve wanted to call her, but after a stinking incident like that, I’ve been scared she’d misunderstand the phone call even. Twice I’ve dreamed I was explaining the whole thing to Mitch. And he understood it, whatever that means from a Freudian standpoint.”

“Aren’t you sore that’s why I looked you up?”

“Even if I collected another nosebleed, what right would I have to be sore? His best friend, weren’t you? What if something happened to me, and some son of a gun pulled the same thing on Mid? I’ve got no rights to stand on, Mr. Burch. All I can do is tell you I’m not some kind of an animal and hope you believe me.”

“I do believe you, Ralph.”

“It’s a relief to explain it to somebody. How is Laura these days?”

“Trying to put the pieces back together. It’s a long process.”

“I wish her well.” Suddenly Becklund smiled broadly, and Cal found himself liking the man. “I was braced for a horsewhip session. Stay away from the woman, sirrah! No warning needed.”

“She wouldn’t misinterpret an apology.”

“A little belated, wouldn’t it be?”

“Not too late, Ralph.”

Friday was a fine day, without wind, with a small perceptible heat in the pale gold of the sunshine, and a smell of the promise of autumn in the air. He took Lollie out to lunch.

At lunch she looked at him with affection and wry understanding.

“The fixer,” she said. “Improving the look of the world for me. Yes, dear Cal. Ralph Becklund phoned me a little after six last night. Seems you bought him a drink. You are a busybody, you know.”

“I had a little free time. I was sort of curious.”

“I’m glad you did, Cal. It takes a little nastiness out of the past. I think I understand it a little better — at least as much as he does. Maybe he was, even in some misguided way, trying to improve my morale or something, showing me I was an entrancing type. And I guess he’s punished himself way out of proportion to that one crummy little scene. And a man with a nosebleed is bereft of all dignity. The good thing to know is, Cal, there wasn’t any planning involved. I told myself he had it all planned. Which is nonsense, of course. I should have remembered that Mitch and I always thought of him as a pretty decent guy. He’s still a pretty decent guy. So thank you — for him and for me.”

“I had a shifty way to clobber him, but after I talked to him, I knew there was no point in it.”

She frowned. “I share some of the blame for Ralph’s miscue, hurling myself into his arms like that. And at least his reaction was terribly direct. Not like some of the other things that happen.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t look so fierce, Cal dear. Just little hints from the slob types who think all widows are vulnerable and think they are irresistible. You are supposed to know the script and react co-operatively to the first slimy hint. When you don’t, the hint gets a little broader. When it gets broad enough, then I smack ’em down. Not like I did Ralphie. With a very few carefully selected words.” She sighed. “Women are supposed to like compliments. I could do without that kind, Cal. I wish I could look dark and sallow and sad and unapproachable. But I’m an almost-blonde, with freckles, so when I’m not actually crying I look so damnably merry. This face wasn’t built for grief. What am I supposed to do? Wear a sign?” Suddenly, in the midst of her rueful smile, her eyes began to fill.

He called for the bill and got her out of the village restaurant quickly. By the time they were in his car, she was all right once more. He drove over to the parkway and turned north. He took a side road and stopped when they came to a public picnic area beside a brook. They sat on a picnic table in the sunlight, their feet on the bench. She could see, in the deep shadow on the far side of the brook, a cluster of bright fallen leaves.