that we had to go and retrieve the money somehow.
But it wasn’t Jasper. It was Private Church, standing on my doorstep, a brown cardboard folder of papers in one hand and the cap to his uniform in the other. The expression in his eyes was purely neutral, impossible to read, but I felt my heart leap as though he were holding a pair of handcuffs out toward me. For weeks I’d been anticipating this visit and it hadn’t come; now it was here, and it was impossible not to link it in my mind with the money I’d received, even though of course there was no way they could be connected, no way anyone could know about that other than Mr. White and me. Unless the police had asked the bank to notify them if I made any large deposits …? But what would it mean if they had? There wasn’t anything improper in what Mr. White had done for me-I hadn’t asked for it, and he was free to spend his money as he saw fit. But how could I explain that to the police, if they got suspicious? What could I say the money was for? Some sympathetic conversation each night over tonic water?
“Mrs. Medford, may I come in?”
I wanted to shut the door on him, keep him outside, perhaps telephone his partner to ask what I should do- but what I had to do, and did, was stand to one side and let him come in.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Medford-”
“No trouble. None whatsoever.”
“-but I’m afraid we need your signature on a document, so that we can complete the investigation into your husband’s death. Finalize it, as they’re saying these days.”
Having set down his cap on the back of the sofa, he fished a single sheet out of the folder and laid it on top, handing me a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket.
I took it from him, consumed with relief that it wasn’t about the bank or the money after all. But the feeling was short-lived. Looking at the paper, my vision blurred so that all the words on the page ran together, except for one that stood out near the top: EXHUMATION.
It was Liz’s week at doing Jake’s set-ups, so she didn’t stop by for me. I walked instead, my light coat thrown over my uniform. All the way down to the Garden, my thoughts kept racing from the money to the paper Private Church had made me sign and back again. He hadn’t known about the money-yet. But he might find out at any time, and if I didn’t have a good explanation when he did, it could go badly for me. But there weren’t any good explanations, not as long as Mr. White and I were strangers to one another. Of course, if that could be changed … But did he want it changed, or could he be persuaded to? It would mean a new life if so, not just an answer to Private Church but a new start for me, and a way to get Tad out of Ethel’s hands. It could solve all my problems quite neatly. But there was a world of doubt in those two words,
As best I could, I forced Private Church and his papers and his tests from my mind. There was nothing I could do about any of that. I just had to trust that the police couldn’t possibly discover anything that wasn’t there-though I knew as well as anyone that tests aren’t perfect and sometimes
When I got to the Garden it seemed odd that things looked exactly the same. It also seemed odd that though I usually told Liz a lot, about what went on in my life, to the extent that anything did, I had no intention of telling her this. I was conscious she’d draw wrong conclusions, as I certainly would have, in her place. Well? Were such conclusions wrong? And what was the right conclusion? Mr. White would surely expect something for his money, wouldn’t he?
I found out soon enough. Right on the stroke of five, here came Mr. White, and there was Jake, with his tonic, and there was I, pouring it for him at his table, quite as though nothing had happened. He sipped it, leaned back, wiped his lips with the napkin. “Well!” I said. “I’m still reeling, Mr. White. And I’m still not too terribly sure it isn’t a dream. How can I possibly thank you?”
“… The thanks I prefer that we skip.”
“But I have to thank you.”
“Please! … Please.”
He was very quiet, and held up a hand as though to cut me off. I said: “Very well, then-I can’t help it, though, if I feel deep gratitude.”
“O.K., but let’s change the subject.”
“… That’s a beautiful place you have.”
“You like it? I built it myself.” He warmed to the topic, and even more to the change of topic. “I had the architect model it after the Harbor House in Annapolis-except, of course, for the octagonal wings. They strike me as wrong, but the rest of it, the proportions, the general layout, and the size, I had him follow quite close. I think it comes off pretty well.”
I didn’t care about any octagonal wings, but it wouldn’t have been polite to say so. I let him go on in this vein for a while. When he paused, a response from me seemed called for, so I said: “It almost seems to float, rather than stand.”
“I think the white door casing and window sills are the reason for that-they match the oyster shell drive. That glittering dead white effect comes from the lime. It lightens the whole prospect, and gives that impression you speak of, of floating, rather than standing. You’re quite observant, Joan, to notice it.”
“I notice all sorts of things.”
I sounded waspish in spite of myself, and knew that my chronic weakness, a temper that wouldn’t stay put, was going to make me trouble, as usual. I heard myself say, not wanting to: “If invited to look, of course. Of course, today, I wasn’t. Wasn’t allowed to get out of the car.”
“Joan, there was a reason.”
“Why don’t you say what the reason is?”
It popped out of my mouth like a firecracker, I trying to shut myself up, not with much success. He said: “It would upset me no end to say what the reason was. Joan, you must know by now I’m quite mad about you, and-”
“Then why don’t you act like it?”
“I thought I did. Today.”
I swallowed, I did everything I could think of to make myself shut up, but no soap. I went right on. I said, glancing around and grateful to find us with no one in earshot: “So O.K., you gave me fifty thousand dollars, and I’ve said how grateful I am. But when I really try to say it, you cut me off. So what do I do now? O.K., I’d like to know, what do I do?”
“Not what you think, Joan.”
“How do you know what I think?”
“Then Joan, what do you think? Tell me.”
“If you mean, what I think of what you want me to do for my fifty thousand bucks, I don’t know, but I’m human, and I won’t be too proud, whatever it is that you want. For fifty thousand dollars I could swallow my pride. But if you want to know what I think in general, what I think you should do to prove it, how insanely you feel for me, there’s just one way, Mr. White-that I’m supposed to be too modest to speak of. Well, I’m not. If you wanted a woman for a night, you could have one for a lot less money than you just gave me-perhaps one of the other girls who work here, as I’m sure you know. If you like me enough to give me the amount you gave-why, there’s a way for a man to share that much of what he has with a woman he likes, and only one way I know that’s got any legitimacy to it.” I saw pain flit across his features again, as it had that time before, but mixed, I thought, with a sort of longing, and though I knew it wasn’t the way to go about it, I couldn’t stop myself and plunged right in. “You could ask me to marry you, that’s how-well, goddam it, why don’t you ask me?”
“I’d give anything to,” he whispered.
“Spit it out, then. Why don’t you?”
His face fell, and his next words were so quiet I could barely make them out.
“I have angina, Joan.”
I had to rummage around in my head to remember angina, what it was, and finally placed it was some kind of heart trouble, and after getting connected up I said: “I don’t get the point, Mr. White. What’s angina got to do with
