My father wasn’t much for aphorisms — in my family dispensing nuggets of wisdom was Mom’s job — but as Daddy warmed up the Saturday-night yelloweyes in the oven on Sunday afternoon, he would invariably say that beans and beef stew were better the second day. I guess it stuck. The only other piece of fatherly wisdom I can remember receiving was that you should always wash your hands after you took a shit in a bus station.
While I was reading the story on Devore, Audrey came over and told me that Royce Merrill had passed without recovering consciousness. The funeral would be Tuesday afternoon at Grace Baptist, she said. Most of the town would be there, many folks just to see Ila Meserve awarded the Boston Post cane. Did I think I’d get over? No, I said, probably not. I thought it prudent not to add that I’d likely be attending a victory party at Mattie Devore’s while Royce’s funeral was going on down the road.
The usual late-Sunday-afternoon flow of customers came and went while I ate, people ordering burgers, people ordering beans, people ordering chicken salad sandwiches, people buying sixpacks.
Some were from the TR, some from away. I didn’t notice many of them, and no one spoke to me. I have no idea who left the napkin on my newspaper, but when I put down the A section and turned to find the sports, there it was. I picked it up, meaning only to put it aside, and saw what was written on the back in big dark letters: GET OFF THE TR.
I never found out who left it there. I guess it could have been any of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The murk came back and transformed that Sunday night’s dusk into a thing of decadent beauty. The sun turned red as it slid down toward the hills and the haze picked up the glow, turning the western sky into a nosebleed. I sat out on the deck and watched it, trying to do a crossword puzzle and not getting very far. When the phone rang, I dropped Tough Stuff on top of my manuscript as I went to answer it. I was tired of looking at the title of my book every time I passed.
‘Hello?’
‘What’s going on up there?’ John Storrow demanded. He didn’t even bother to say hi. He didn’t sound angry, though; he sounded totally pumped. ‘I’m missing the whole goddam soap opera!’
‘I invited myself to lunch on Tuesday,’ I said. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, that’s good, the more the merrier.’ He sounded as if he absolutely meant it. ‘What a summer, huh? What a summer! Anything happen just lately? Earthquakes? Volcanoes? Mass suicides?’
‘No mass suicides, but the old guy died,’ I said.
‘Shit, the whole world knows Max Devore kicked it,’ he said. ‘Surprise me, Mike! Stun me! Make me holler boy-howdy!’
‘No, the other old guy. Royce Merrill.’
‘I don’t know who you — oh, wait. The one with the gold cane who looked like an exhibit from Jurassic Park?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Bummer. Otherwise . . . ?’
‘Otherwise everything’s under control,’ I said, then thought of the popped-out eyes of the cat-clock and almost laughed. What stopped me was a kind of surety that Mr. Good Humor Man was just an act — John had really called to ask what, if anything, was going on between me and Mattie.
And what was I going to say? Nothing yet? One kiss, one instant blue-steel hard-on, the fundamental things apply as time goes by?
But John had other things on his mind. ‘Listen, Michael, I called because I’ve got something to tell you. I think you’ll be both amused and amazed.’
‘A state we all crave,’ I said. ‘Lay it on me.’
‘Rogette Whitmore called, and . . . you didn’t happen to give her my parents’ number, did you?
I’m back in New York now, but she called me in Philly.’
‘I didn’t have your parents’ number. You didn’t leave it on either of your machines.’
‘Oh, right.’ No apology; he seemed too excited to think of such mundanities. I began to feel excited myself, and I didn’t even know what the hell was going on. ‘I gave it to Mattie. Do you think the Whitmore woman called Mattie to get it? Would Mattie give it to her?’
‘I’m not sure that if Mattie came upon Rogette flaming in a thoroughfare, she’d piss on her to put her out.’
‘Vulgar, Michael, très vulgarino.’ But he was laughing. ‘Maybe Whitmore got it the same way Devore got yours.’
‘Probably so,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what’ll happen in the months ahead, but right now I’m sure she’s still got access to Max Devore’s personal control panel. And if anyone knows how to push the buttons on it, it’s probably her. Did she call from Palm Springs?’
‘Uh-huh. She said she’d just finished a preliminary meeting with Devore’s attorneys concerning the old man’s will. According to her, Grampa left Mattie Devore eighty million dollars.’
I was struck silent. I wasn’t amused yet, but I was certainly amazed.
‘Gets ya, don’t it?’ John said gleefully.
‘You mean he left it to Kyra,’ I said at last. ‘Left it in trust to Kyra.’
‘No, that’s just what he did not do. I asked Whitmore three times, but by the third I was starting to understand. There was method in his madness. Not much, but a little. You see, there’s a condition.
If he left the money to the minor child instead of to the mother, the condition would have no weight. It’s funny when you consider that Mattie isn’t long past minor status herself.’
‘Funny,’ I agreed, and thought of her dress sliding between my hands and her smooth bare waist.
I also thought of Bill Dean saying that men who went with girls that age always looked the same, had their tongues run out even if their mouths were shut.
‘What string did he put on the money?’
‘That Mattie remain on the TR for one year following Devore’s death — until July 17, 1999. She can leave on day-trips, but she has to be tucked up in her TR-90 bed every night by nine o’clock, or else the legacy is forfeit. Did you ever hear such a bullshit thing in your life? Outside of some old George Sanders movie, that is?’
‘No,’ I said, and recalled my visit to the Fryeburg Fair with Kyra. Even in death he’s seeking custody, I had thought, and of course this was the same thing. He wanted them here. Even in death he wanted them on the TR.
‘It won’t fly?’ I asked.
‘Of course it won’t fly. Fucking crackpot might as well have written he’d give her eighty million dollars if she used blue tampons for a year. But she’ll get the eighty mil, all right. My heart is set on it. I’ve already talked to three of our estate guys, and . . . you don’t think I should bring one of them up with me on Tuesday, do you? Will Stevenson’ll be the point man in the estate phase, if Mattie agrees.’ He was all but babbling. He hadn’t had a thing to drink, I’d’ve bet the farm on it, but he was sky-high on all the possibilities. We’d gotten to the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale, as far as he was concerned; Cinderella comes home from the ball through a cash cloudburst.
‘ . . . course Will’s a little bit old,’ John was saying, ‘about three hundred or so, which means he’s not exactly a fun guy at a party, but . . . ‘
‘Leave him home, why don’t you?’ I said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to carve up Devore’s will later on. And in the immediate future, I don’t think Mattie’s going to have any problem observing the bullshit condition. She just got her job back, remember?’
‘Yeah, the white buffalo drops dead and the whole herd scatters!’ John exulted. ‘Look at em go!
And the new multimillionaire goes back to filing books and mailing out overdue notices! Okay, Tuesday we’ll just party.’
‘Good.’
‘Party ’til we puke.’
‘Well . . . maybe us older folks will just party until we’re mildly nauseated, would that be all right?’
‘Sure. I’ve already called Romeo Bissonette, and he’s going to bring George Kennedy, the private detective who got all that hilarious shit on Durgin. Bissonette says Kennedy’s a scream when he gets a drink or two in him. I thought I’d bring some steaks from Peter Luger’s, did I tell you that?’
‘I don’t believe you did.’
‘Best steaks in the world. Michael, do you realize what’s happened to that young woman? Eighty million dollars! ‘
‘She’ll be able to replace Scoutie.’
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing. Will you come in tomorrow night or on Tuesday?’
‘Tuesday morning around ten, into Castle County Airport. New England Air. Mike, are you all right? You sound odd.’