Addison. “I agree. That’s not printable.”
“Then don’t give that crap to me,” Addison cried,
batting at Judith’s hand. “It belongs to Jim—or in the
trash.”
“But it’s all true,” Jim declared, sounding offended.
“How could we lie about my brother? He was a
wretched man.”
“I thought,” Judith said, frowning, “that you mentioned how Margie and the kids couldn’t get along
without him.”
“They can’t,” Jim replied with a helpless shrug as he
took the obituary from Judith. “Bob made good money
as a football consultant. Now all they’ll have is what he
left in the bank.”
“Which,” Addison sneered, “is considerable, I’d
bet.”
Jim shrugged again. “It’s fairly substantial. But
Bob didn’t play in the era of million-dollar contracts.
And he tended to spend much of what he made. On
himself, of course. He had it all, in more ways than
one. As if,” Jim added, tearing the obituary into
small pieces that fluttered to the floor, “he didn’t
have enough to begin with. All that talent and a fine
physique and good looks besides.” Defiantly, he
flung the final pieces of paper onto the floor.
“Frankly,” Judith asserted, “he sounds like a pitiful
sort of person. I can’t imagine he was truly happy.”
“Oh, he was very happy,” Jim said bitterly. “I never
SUTURE SELF
213
knew a man who was as happy as he was. As long as
he got his way, which he usually did.”
“Look,” Addison said, his aggravation spent, “I’m
sorry I can’t send on that obit. Why don’t you write another draft with just the facts? Plenty of people don’t
tack on personal notes. Remember, on the obituary
page you’re paying for it by the word.”
“I am? I mean, we are?” Jim fingered his chin. “I’ll
tell Margie. I don’t think she knows that.” He started
for the door.
“Say,” Judith called after him, “may I ask you a
question?”
Jim looked apprehensive. “Yes?”
“Your nephew, Bob Jr., mentioned that his mother—
Margie—felt like ‘the vessel’ in terms of bringing on
the deaths of your brother, Mr. Kirby’s wife, and
Joaquin Somosa. Do you have any idea what Bob Jr.
was talking about?”
Jim blinked several times and his hands twitched.
“No. No idea. Whatsoever. Margie—as usual—is
being hard on herself. Poor Margie.” He sketched a little bow and dashed out of the room, narrowly
