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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 50 из 490Betteryet, I’d invite him to the reading of the will. And to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, I leave … pause for effect, smile, continue – five hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, Jim.
“Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”
“Oh… I was… So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”
“She’s well. Have you gone to church?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You should go. Your wife goes.”
“My ex-wife.”
“I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”
“Good. He does a good job.”
“I didn’t like George’s service.”
Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.
Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”
I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.
She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”
I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.
Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”
“Of course.” Poor George.
I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much… but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”
I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.
Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.
Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.
“Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”
“Oh… I was… So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”
“She’s well. Have you gone to church?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You should go. Your wife goes.”
“My ex-wife.”
“I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”
“Good. He does a good job.”
“I didn’t like George’s service.”
Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.
Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”
I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.
She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”
I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.
Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”
“Of course.” Poor George.
I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much… but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”
I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.
Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.
Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.