The Gate House   ::   Demille Nelson

I noticed a few magazines on her tray table and saw that none of them were the old leftymagazines she used to read; they were mostly house and garden monthlies and a few local, upscale Gold Coast publications that, as I recalled, chronicled the activities of the rich and famous, the charity balls, grand house restorations, and some goings-on in Manhattan. Maybe Ethel was collecting the names of millionaires for re-education camps when the Revolution came.

Or maybe, by now, in the clarity of approaching death, she’d realized, like everyone else, that in America all change is superficial; the structure remains the same.

Mrs. Knight, as promised, stuck her head in and inquired, “How are we doing?”

Why do hospital people use the first person plural? I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine. Your patient is still dying.” But before I could say that, Ethel replied, “We’re doing fine, Diane. Thank you.”

“Ring if you need anything.”

I needed a Dewar’s and soda. Ring!

Ethel got back to business and informed me, “I have given Elizabeth written instructions for my funeral. See that she follows them.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“See to it.”

“Right.”

“She’s strong-willed, and wants everything her way.”

I wonder who she got that from?

“I’ve picked out my dress. Have her find it.”

“Right.” Apparently, there’s a lot to think about when you’re dying, and I’m not sure I’d be as cool or organized as Ethel was being. Hopefully, I’d drop dead of a heart attack, or get run over by a bus, and let other people worry about the details.

“Also, be sure that Elizabeth speaks to Father Hunnings.”

“I will.” The Right Reverend James Hunnings was, and I guess still is, our parish priest at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. I thoroughly disliked him, and if he were honest, he would say the same about me. I’d driven past St. Mark’s in Locust Valley and noticed that Hunnings still had top billing on the signboard, which didn’t surprise me; this was a good gig in a wealthy parish, and though Episcopalians should be on the endangered species list, there were still enough of us around here to keep Father Hunnings in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

I asked Ethel, “Have you spoken to Father Hunnings?”

She replied, “Of course. He comes almost every day.” She added, “He’s a wonderful man.”

He wouldn’t be saying the same about Ethel after I told him that Mrs. Allard had left the church only five hundred dollars. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I was looking forward to that phone call.