Katherine Page - The Body in the Bouillon

“If you like," Mrs. Pendergast agreed. "There's some greens and carrots in the fridge you might want.”

Faith did and merrily set about assembling a good strong stock. She'd clarify it in the morning and bring some leeks and Madeira or port to add.

There was enough time for a visit with Farley before she left, and he regaled her with stories of various inhabitants of Aleford—mostly long gone. She tried to steer him toward the Hubbard family, but there didn't seem to be anything of interest there to Farley, except sympathy for Dr. Hubbard—"Poor Roland. Losing Mary so young." Faith did learn, however, that Millicent Revere McKinley's father had had a lucrative bathtub gin business, and she filed the information away for possible future use.

That night Faith told Tom she definitely had to get back to work. Making such a large amount of stock was a poignant reminder of Have Faith's past glories when she had had any number of pots going at once.

“It's exhilarating—of course I love to cook for you and Ben, but there's not quite the scope for imagination a banquet offers.”

Tom was amused. "Maybe Mrs. Pendergast will let you do the main course soon if she likes your bouillon—and then who knows what next.”

Mrs. Pendergast did like Faith's bouillon. Faith offered her a steaming cup after she had added the egg whites, Madeira, leeks, parsley, and other seasonings before straining it.

“Very tasty—and you're right. It does look nourishing. Are you going to bring up Mr. Bowditch's tray today?"

“Yes, I have time, if you don't need me here." Faith felt as proud of her bouillon as of her first galantine de lapereau.

Muriel Hubbard was in Farley's room when Faith entered. She was about to take his blood pressure and had his medication in a small paper cup.

“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild, how nice to see you," she said.

“It's always nice to see Faith," Farley added gallantly. "What have you brought today besides your charming self, my dear?"

“Vegetable quiche, salad, rolls, fruit compote, and some bouillon I made."

“That will be a treat. Muriel has one or two nec- essary things to do with my poor old self; then I will consume it with relish. Can you stay a while?"

“I'm afraid not today, but I will see you on Monday, and you know when you feel up to it, someone will come and get you for church. I'm sure it will be soon.”

Muriel agreed. "Mr. Bowditch will be up and dancing at our annual Hubbard House Christmas party, just like last year, I'm sure."

“Save me a waltz," Faith said, and left.

The afternoon was filled with errands, and she was tired by the time she and Ben got home. She was a little surprised to see Tom in his study. He got up and put his arms around her.

“What is it? Tell me quick! My parents ...”

“No, darling. It's Farley. He died this afternoon."

“Oh no! And he seemed so well when I left.”

“I'm afraid they found him face down in your bouillon, Faith dear.”

Three

“ My bouillon!" Faith cried. "That's impossible. There couldn't possibly have been anything wrong with it. I tasted it myself. So did Mrs. Pendergast. And what about the rest of Hubbard House? Oh, Tom, don't tell me there's more!"

“Honey, I'm sure it was simply a horrible coincidence. No one else is the least bit sick. Farley had a very weak heart. In fact, it's amazing he'd gone on this long.”

They walked over to the couch and sat down. Ben wriggled between them and, whether from fatigue or the first stirrings of tact, kept quiet and nuzzled Faith's arm.

Meanwhile Faith was reviewing every ingredient in the bouillon and every step in making it.

Too much Madeira for a man with a serious heart condition? Mrs. Pendergast hadn't said anything, and she had the part-time dietician's list of instructions by her side at all times. Besides, there wouldn't have been any alcohol left after the soup was heated.

A sudden thought struck her.

“Tom,"—she could barely get the words out—"do you think he drowned in the soup?”

The idea had also occurred to Tom, but he had deemed it more prudent not to mention it.

“I suppose it's possible, darling. But I'm sure it will turn out to be his heart. Dr. Hubbard said he would call back to talk about funeral arrangements, and I'll ask him to let us know the exact cause of death.”

Tom brought his arm around to encircle his little family more closely and looked down at the two heads by his side. Every once in a while he thought he could detect a hint of red in Ben's mop—a little like Tom's own reddish brown hair—but today it shone as golden blond as Faith's, and they could have posed for a Breck shampoo ad.

“They'll never want me back at Hubbard House again," Faith said soberly.

“Come on now. You're being ridiculous."

“Well, wouldn't you be if someone had just lied in your bouillon?" Faith retorted.

“Of course it's terribly upsetting, but if you're going to volunteer in an old age home, you'll have to get used to the fact of death." Tom spoke slightly sternly. He didn't want Faith going off thedeep end about something that was not in the slightest her fault. Poor Farley could just as well have fallen into his mashed potatoes. It was a question of balance—or aim.

“Yes, I know that. I thought of it the first day I was there, but Hubbard House is such an un-deathlike place. It's hard to believe all those sturdy people out playing golf and taking courses at Harvard Extension aren't going to keep on living forever."

“True, it is hard in this case. The residents of Hubbard House represent an admirable—and I might add very privileged—sector of the elderly population. They have goals and don't consider that they're through so long as there's a breath left in their bodies."

“Exactly. And Farley was one of them until only a few hours ago. It still doesn't seem possible that he's dead. He was fine—a little short of breath, as usual, and that was all. We were talking about dancing together at the Christmas party."

“Think of it as a good death then. Mercifully sudden.”

Faith felt tears pricking at her eyes. Maybe it would be too difficult to remain at Hubbard House much longer. Assuming that they wanted her back, that is. She wondered how the people who worked there all the time were able to cope with the deaths of those they had grown close to. Her upbringing and continued sojourn in a parish had provided her with strong, difficult-to-define beliefs—Tom referred to her as a combination of pantheism, early Christianity, and anthropothe- ism, with special emphasis on the "anthro" part—but whatever she was, she thought she should certainly have become used to death by now. She'd been to enough funerals. Yet she wasn't. No matter what she believed lay ahead, it was still the end of this life.

“Farley never married, but he has a number of nieces and nephews and their children, all of whom were devoted to him, I understand. He spoke to me about his wishes regarding a funeral a year or so ago. He wanted to be cremated and buried in Aleford in the Bowditch plot with a simple graveside service. One of his nieces lives in Beverly Farms, so I'll probably have to go up there this evening or tomorrow morning to talk with her."

“Not tonight, Tom. Go in the morning if you can. Let's have a quiet night here.”

Tom realized he hadn't been home for the entire evening all week. He also realized there was a Celtics game on. But that had nothing to do with it.

“Good idea. There's no rush, since they have been expecting this for years, and I don't feel as pressed as I might to comfort the bereaved or whatever it is I do. Besides, it's been an incredibly busy week."

“Besides," Faith added, "there's a game on. I'll dig out the chips and you drive to the packy for some brew.”