relation between caterpillar and butterfly. Religious men think of heaven. Impious men of unfinished revenge. But Edwin Windsor is not like any of these.
In Edwin’s mind, death is exact. He can imagine it for what it is, a quick slip sideways, the sudden warmth on his neck and chest, lightheadedness, ringing in the ears, but no pain. Then the cold of the tile as he lies down and the warm stuff of his life sullies the floor. Peaceful. Inevitable. Definitive.
At the edge of this grim reverie, he imagines a function stretching out over time. The accretion of money and utility that all the moments of his life have brought and will bring. The part that came before is lost forever. Childhood and yesterday were, after all, only sunk costs. And the future, unknowable, but not inestimable. And where he stands in a perfectly white bathroom with a razor at his neck is the impossibly sharp edge of the now. Valued by the expectation of all future worth discounted back to this moment — a series, a summation, the equation of the value of his life. And with this in his mind he slides the razor along his skin, instead of through it.
The hair is parted from his face with a crackling whisper. He wonders if there isn’t something else. Something unmeasurable. If he took the summation and subtracted the crude utility of his life from it, would there be something left over? A something which makes all other measures truly and perfectly ridiculous? The immeasurable. The incommensurate. The soul. The a priori behind and yet still somehow beyond all biological demands.
Edwin splashes water on his face, and searches for his soul as plainly and practically as one might look for a spot that he has missed shaving. Edwin finds nothing.
In the next room he dons a broadcloth shirt and closes it with platinum cufflinks. He selects a black silk tie and turns to the new suit laid out on the bed. Mr. Giles has brought it himself. Carried in his hands all the way from England. This time, not at Agnes’ request, but for her funeral. When Edwin had asked him if it needed further work, Mr. Giles had shook his head no. With great emotion, he said, “It is perfect.”
The fabric of the suit is black. So black, it seems to suck light from the room. The line of the shoulders is so soft and alive, it moves like water deep underground on a moonless night. As Edwin slides the jacket over his shoulders it is as if darkness has been poured over his frame. He bends to tie a pair of shoes that have been hand-made for him by a wrinkled Italian cobbler who speaks no English.
Finally, he tucks a handkerchief into his breast pocket. Not a gaudy pocket square, but a full handkerchief of Egyptian white cotton. There will be tears, but Edwin will cry no more. His grief is absorbed by purpose. He adjusts his tie, tugs his cuffs into place, and goes to Agnes’ funeral.
Chapter Forty-Four
A Eulogy for Agnes
“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her worth is far above rubies,” Edwin says. It is from Proverbs, 31:10. As Edwin says it he can feel the dust of dry pages rolling around in his mouth. “I like to think that Agnes would have enjoyed those words, but I can not know. All I know is that I have lost.” Edwin pauses, trying to find the words. But there is no adequate vocabulary of loss.
“I have lost,” he says, attempting the sentence again. The words on the paper in front of him seem meaningless now. He cannot bring himself to say them. Everything feels heavy. His elegant frame sags. The strongest will might never bend, but even the hardest heart will surely break in the end.
And then, even though he knows it’s not possible, he hears her voice. It swells within him. Filling, for the moment, the empty place in Edwin’s soul.
“It was never supposed to be like this,” he hears Agnes say. And then he feels his lips move, and the words come from his mouth.
“It was never supposed to be like this,” says Edwin.
Now he says her words as she does. “The brave men and strong women of generations past did not sacrifice for this.” Now he knows the rest. He leaves Agnes behind, as he must. As is right and proper for a funeral, and speaks on his own.
“She, in particular, deserved better. She saw the best in all of us, even when the best wasn’t there. I am sad to say that in many ways, her life must have been a terrible disappointment. But she never gave up. She never flagged in her defense of what was sensible. She believed that, to the best and brightest among us, falls the duty of keeping the Grand Synthesis.
“In the end, the world did not come to her rescue. She was taken from us. She was taken from me. And we are all the poorer for it.
“When I was twelve, I lost my parents in a tragic accident that was beyond anyone’s power to prevent. An unfair twist of an unfair universe. And I, being young, intelligent and privileged, could not comprehend it. And not comprehending, I gave up.
“It was Agnes, then, who came to my rescue. She did not coddle or comfort in the expected way. She gave me a question, ‘Young Master Windsor,’ she asked me, ‘What will you do with your life?’ I told her that there was nothing worth doing. That there was no point to any of it. Against the overwhelming forces of cruel fate and relentless time, a man could do nothing. We were all powerless. All else was comfortable illusion.
“And she told me that there is always a way to oppose, if not the instance, then the principle of a thing. And that it is in principle that true strength is found. The strength of character that can transform ordinary people into something more.
“At the time, I thought I knew what she meant. I was mistaken. And, at the time, I am certain I did not fool her. But finally, I have learned her lesson. I know what it means to oppose a thing. I know what it means to rise to meet a principle, however cruel and demanding it may be. No matter what it might require. I know what it means to become something more than you are in the service of an idea.
“It is small consolation. She is gone. And once again we are left behind to make what sense we can from the world.”
Edwin steps down, but does not return to his seat. He walks to the back of the church and stands in the shadows. He observes the ritual, but derives no comfort from it. There is no belief or fantasy that can prevent him from seeing things as they are. Edwin knows his complicity. He knows he is an accomplice in the murder of Agnes Plantagenet. One of many. He does not want his guilt removed. He does not want his sin expiated. One does not expiate the truth.
When the service is over, the priest approaches Edwin. “Those were very kind words for a very special woman. I have always found Proverbs to be my solace in times of trial. Are you familiar with chapter two, verse ten? ‘The way of the LORD is strength to the upright: destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity. The righteous shall never be removed: the wicked shall not inhabit the earth.’”
Edwin looks at the priest. “Unfortunately, my work does not leave me time to read popular fiction.” The priest straightens up as if he has been slapped. He does a double-take. There is nothing humorous about Edwin’s manner, yet there is no tone of insult. The priest walks away with his confusion, saying nothing else.
“Those sure were nice words,” says Topper, “I’m not sure I know what they meant, but those sure were nice words there E.”
“Thank you Topper.”
“So, we gonna get him?”
“Yes,” says Edwin. “We’re going to get him.”
“Really?” says Topper. Unable to believe that Edwin is agreeing to revenge. “That’s great. ‘Cause I know you’re hurting. And there is nothing like a big old dish of comforting revenge, to make you right with the world.”
“Perhaps,” says Edwin, “But the real question is, which him?”
“Whattya mean?”
“Who are we going to revenge ourselves upon?”
“Excelsior! Who else?”
