Man Who Loved God

“After the investigation-the police and the autopsy-Mother’s death was officially declared a suicide. Dad was furious. He should have been heartbroken. But he was too angry to recognize his loss.”

Barbara nodded. “Before Joyce … before your mother’s death, your father called me. I’m sure it was just after he found my letter.”

“Was he a bastard?”

“I’m afraid so. That and more.”

Harriet sighed. “He blames you for Mother’s suicide. Even after her death he was going to go public.”

Barbara swallowed nervously. This was the moment she dreaded even though it was inevitable. Was their secret a secret no more? She waited, unable to ask.

“I talked him out of it,” Harriet said. “It got down to the last moment almost. After all, Mother took her life as a direct consequence of what Dad threatened to do. She didn’t commit suicide because of you. She loved you. She couldn’t bear to see you embarrassed. Just as she couldn’t stand the humiliation she would have suffered.

“I promised my father that if he breathed your secret to a soul, I would never speak to him the rest of his life. And I told him I would let everyone know that he and his threats were the cause of Mother’s death.

“I’m convinced he’ll keep quiet. That’s really the main reason I wanted to see you as soon as I could. I told your apartment manager I was a friend. He told me you were in the hospital. I called around till I found you. I was sure knowing all this would help your recovery. It’s been a hard fight getting past the doctor. I can’t blame him, I guess. He didn’t know why I wanted to see you so badly. And I couldn’t tell him, of course.

“As far as the police and other officials are concerned, Mother’s death was a suicide. And since there was no note, and since Dad kept his mouth shut, there is no official reason or record.

“There’s one last thing, Barbara. I’m straight, but I understand you and Mother … at least I think I do. And I think it’s a wonderful thing the two of you had.”

Barbara nodded wordlessly, her eyes again filling with tears. What a beautiful job Joyce had done raising such a daughter. Harriet was only a teenager, but she had a maturity far beyond her years.

Harriet patted her hand, then, after a long, heartfelt hug, she left.

After this visit, Barbara’s health and outlook improved steadily and remarkably. She soon returned to work. When it became clear she wasn’t going to talk about what had happened, her co-workers and those involved in her social life gradually stopped asking.

It was difficult to adjust to the absence of Joyce, the total absence of Joyce.

Life goes on.

She took a page from Joyce’s formula. Barbara determined to take a husband as her launching pad to la dolce vita. Someone with lots of promise. Someone who would make it big. Not someone who was already standing on that glass ceiling. No, she wanted to build and, mold carefully so that when her husband made it, she wouldn’t be that out-of-place newcomer. She would be a person in her own right.

Enter Al Ulrich.

Handsome, young, unmarried, a banker; definitely on the rise, he seemed to be sent from central casting.

With her looks, style, and personality, she would’ve had no problem whatever attracting anyone she chose. She chose Al Ulrich and cultivated him till harvesttime. They were sexually active, each bringing their special experience to their union.

Occasionally she might have been awarded an Oscar for her feigned frenzied orgasms. But then, sometimes her climaxes were very real. Those were the times of her fantasies. Usually, the fantasy was of her beloved Joyce.

Babs and Al took great care to avoid a pregnancy. Al did not want people counting to corroborate their suspicion. She definitely did not want a child.

In due course they were married.

Al quite naturally took it for granted that the barriers against pregnancy would fall once the nuptial niceties had been observed. He was wrong-very wrong.

Fortunately for tender-souled retiring neighbors in adjoining apartments the insulation was thick enough to muffle nearly any outcry. And outcry there was. For once it became painfully clear that while Barbara’s playpen would be open, her nursery was closed, all hell broke loose. Virginia Woolf’s George and Martha couldn’t hold a candle to Al and Barbara.

In time, Al became convinced he was not going to father a child-at any rate not by Barbara. Their marriage then settled prematurely into loveless cohabitation.

One of the considerations about which they were in total agreement was divorce.

For one, Al did not want to publicly admit that he had failed in making a success of his life with this gorgeous, desirable woman. For those who might have assumed that they would be able to control this vivacious creature, Al would have had two words: try it.

For another, Al had a secret hope. He was determined to climb the ladder at Adams Bank and Trust. And when he was seated at the right hand of Tom Adams, Barbara would come around. He was convinced that was her ultimate aim: to be the wife of a singularly successful man. When this happened-and happen it would-he would take counsel with himself. At that point, like Henry Higgins, Al could be a most forgiving man. Or, he could throw the baggage out.

For Barbara, short of having Joyce, things could scarcely have worked out more smoothly. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that Al’s rocket remained on the launching pad.

She complained to him-and to just about anyone who would listen-that he had sold his soul to the company. But in her heart of hearts, that was precisely what should be happening.

If and when Al made it to the big leagues-which meant nothing less than an executive vice presidency-she might even entertain thoughts of a child.

In this, Joyce Hunter had marked a path. From all Barbara could tell in one meeting, Joyce’s daughter had turned out ideally. Not only was she a loyal daughter-to both her parents-she had stopped her father from making public something that would hurt everyone concerned.

No, Barbara would not be averse to having a daughter like Harriet.

But that could not happen till Al made his mark and Barbara’s biological clock was far enough advanced that she would deign to compromise her fabulous figure.

And no talk of abortion under any circumstances.

Sadly, Al was in sight of the magical goal when he was cut down.

Part of Barbara’s present plan was to test the water in four directions to ascertain if any of the present three VPs-or their CEO-might have had a hand in Al’s murder.

She also planned to convince four individuals that each was the father of her unborn child.

Finally, to insure the most comfortable settlement for her, she hoped to uncover some financial hanky-panky perpetrated by any or all of the VPs.

Blackmail, like greed, could be good.

And that is how Barbara Simpson Ulrich grew from an innocent little girl into a scheming, blackmailing widow.

Father Tully seemed to be winding up his eulogy.

Barbara had no idea how long he’d been speaking, how long she’d been lost in thought. She glanced at her watch. She had only a vague notion of when he had begun. Her best guess was approximately fifteen minutes ago. Acceptable timing.

Evidently, Father Tully was drawing some sort of analogy between Al’s involvement in the bank’s new branch and a pair of mountain climbers.

“They were nearly three quarters of the way up,” said Father Tully, “when the storm hit. It was as powerful as it was sudden. The blizzard effectively cut off any chance of further progress or retreat. One climber took refuge in a small natural overhang. The other tried to go on.

“When the storm finally lifted and rescuers were able to find the pair, the climber who had tried to go on was found frozen to death. He was leaning against the wind and died with his knee bent, as if he was taking another step when he passed on.

“One of the rescue party looked at the man and his bent knee, and said, ‘at least he died trying.’