she'd taken her a roll, wondering whether to tell her yet, and Clara had… had what? Should Clara eat the roll first, and then be told, or… the kettle whistled to her.
Rolls, cups of tea, the pretty enameled tray she might sell at the flea market for a few dollars. She carried it into Clara's bedroom with a bright smile, and said, 'Here you are, dear.'
'Wish I could have eggs.' Clara fumbled for one of the rolls, and Jeannie helped her. It was stupid, the doctor saying she couldn't have eggs, when she was over ninety and couldn't live long anyway, but it saved Jeannie from having to smell them cooking when she had a hangover. She sipped tea from her own cup, meditatively, wondering just when to do it. She felt someone staring at her, that unmistakable feeling, and turned around to see nothing at the window at all. No one could see through the blinds and curtains anyway. Her neck itched. She glared at the picture on the wall, the fake fluffy cat Clara called Snowball. Two glowing golden eyes stared back at her, brighter than she remembered. Hangover, she told herself firmly; comes from mixing pills and booze. So did the stench of tomcat.
What it really did was remind her of the perfect method. She cleared away the tray, gently wiped Clara's streaked chin and brushed away the crumbs, then carried the tray to the kitchen. She was a little hungry now, and fixed herself a bowl of Clara's cereal. The right bowl would be in the sink, later, if anyone looked. They would look; it was that kind of town.
Then she carried in the morning paper, and the white cat-shaped pillow, fixing her face in its fake smile for the last time. She would have a fake sad look later, but this was the last fake smile, and that thought almost made it real.
'I'm sorry, Aunt Clara,' she said, as sorrowfully as she could. 'I've got bad news-'
'Pearl?' Clara's face went white; she was staring at the paper. Jeannie almost wished she'd thought of that he. It would have done the trick. But in her own way she was honest. She shook her head.
'No,' she said gently. 'May Ellen.' Clara's face flushed pink again.
'Law! You scared me!' Her breath came fast and shallow. 'May's been loony this five years-I expected
'I thought you'd be upset,' said Jeannie, holding out the cat pillow, as if for comfort. ' Pearl said-'
Clara's good eye looked remarkably alive this morning, a clear unclouded gray. 'I thought I heard you two whispering out there. She here?'
'No, Aunt Clara. She didn't want to disturb you, and she said she'd start crying-'
'S'pose she would. May was her maid of honor, after all.' Jeannie had not realized that Pearl had ever been married. Clara's voice faded again. 'It was a long time ago…' Now she was crying, grabbing for the cat-shaped pillow as Jeannie had hoped she would, burying her face in that white fur, her swollen knuckles locked onto it. Weak sobs shook her body, as disorganized as her speech.
'There, there,' Jeannie said, as soothingly as if she expected it to go on tape. 'There, there.' She slipped an arm under Clara's head, cradling her, and pushed the pillow more firmly onto her face. It didn't take long, and the bony hands clung to the pillow, as if to help.
Jeannie 'discovered' her an hour later. By then she had bathed, dressed, downed two cups of strong coffee, and made her own bed. She checked her appearance in the mirror. Slightly reddened eyes and nose could be grief; she left off her usual makeup. When she called the doctor, he was unsurprised, and quickly agreed to sign the certificate. She let her own voice tremble when she admitted she'd told Clara of May's death. He soothed her, insisted it was not her fault. 'But it's so awful!' she heard herself say. 'She started crying, into that old fur pillow… she wanted to be left alone, she said, so I went to take my bath, and she's… it's like she's holding it to her-' Sounding a little bored, the doctor asked if she wanted him to come by and see… she could tell he thought it was silly: old ladies do not commit suicide by smothering themselves with fur pillows. 'I guess not,' she said, hoping he hadn't overdone it.
'You're all right yourself?' he asked, more briskly.
'Yes… I'll be fine.'
'Call if you want a sedative later,' he said.
Jeannie removed the pillow from Clara's face, unclenching the dead fingers, surprised to feel nothing much at all when she touched that cooling flesh. Clara's face looked normal, as normal as a dead face could look. Jeannie called the funeral home Clara had always said she wanted ('give the condemned their choice'), and then, nervous as she was, called Pearl. It was a replay of the doctor's reaction. Jeannie lashed herself with guilt, admitted she had chosen the time badly, explained at length why it had seemed safe, and let Pearl comfort her. The irony of it almost made her lose character and laugh-that Pearl, now twice bereft, and sole survivor, would comfort the murderer-but she managed to choke instead. Pearl wanted to come, right away, and Jeannie agreed-even asked her to call Mr. Benson, the lawyer. 'I feel so guilty,' she finished, and Pearl replied, wearily enough, 'You mustn't.'
Everything went according to plan. Pearl arrived just before the funeral home men; she had her moment alone with Clara, and came out saying how peaceful Clara looked. She herself looked exhausted and sick, and Jeannie insisted on giving her a cup of tea and a roll. The funeral home men were swift and efficient, swathing Clara's body in dark blue velvet, and removing it discreetly by the back door, rather than wheeling the gurney past Pearl in the living room. 'So thoughtful,' Jeannie murmured, signing the forms they handed her, and they murmured soothing phrases in return. She wondered if they would be so soothing to someone who felt real grief. The lawyer arrived; she sensed a renewed alertness in his glance around the living room, but she had been careful. None of the conspicuous ornaments was missing. He murmured about the will filed in his office; Jeannie tried to look exhausted and confused.
'Will? I don't suppose she has much, does she? I thought-if I can just stay here a week or so, I'll go back to my job in the city-' In point of fact, Clara had to have been rich; she'd been married to a rich man-or so Jeannie had always been told-and he'd left her everything. And Mr. Benson had always spoken of her monthly income as allowance from a trust; trusts were for rich people. Jeannie had not come to a small town to work herself to the bone for nothing. But she knew she must not say so. The lawyer relaxed slightly.
'Of course you're free to stay here as long as you need; we all know you've put a lot into nursing Clara. The funeral, now-?'
'I thought Tuesday,' said Jeannie,.
'Excellent. We'll talk about the will afterward.'
A steady stream of visitors came by that afternoon; Jeannie had no time for the relaxing drink she desperately wanted. Someone middle-aged stripped the bed, made it from linens taken from a bureau drawer. The woman seemed to know Jeannie, and where everything was, which made Jeannie very nervous, but the woman said nothing. She slipped away after restoring Clara's bedroom to perfect order. Several people brought food: a ham, a bean casserole, two cakes, and a pie. Two of the women walked into the kitchen as if they owned it, and put the food away in the refrigerator without asking Jeannie anything. But she survived it all, and at last they left. She was alone, and safe, and about to be richer than she'd ever been in her life.
She was also deadly tired. She thought of pouring herself a drink, but it seemed like too much trouble. Her own bed beckoned, a bed from which she need not rise until she felt like it. No more answering Clara's bell (in her memory, already blurring, she had always answered Clara's bell.) No more getting up each morning to help an old lady use a bedpan and give her a bath. No more cooking tasteless food for a sick old fool. She stretched, feeling the ease of a house empty of anyone else's needs, with plenty to satisfy her own, and settled into her bed with a tired grunt. Beside her, the bedside table held what she needed if she woke suddenly: the pills, the flat-sided bottle that would send her straight back to lovely oblivion. She turned out the light, and yawned, and fell heavily asleep in the midst of it.
She woke with stabbing pains in her legs: literally stabbing as if someone had stuck hatpins into her. Before her eyes were open, she was aware of the rank smell of tomcat somewhere nearby. She kicked out, finding nothing, and reached down under the bedclothes to feel her legs. Something clinked, across the room, in the darkness. It sounded like beercans. The rattle came again, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging through tightly packed bottles.
Something was in the room with her, and had found her cache, her secret store of liquor hidden in the back of her closet. Furious, she reached for the bedside table lamp. Something raked her arm, painfully.
