She felt as if she were an actor trapped in a bad play by an incompetent
playwright, forced to deliver her wooden lines of dialogue because it
was less embarrassing to persevere to the end of the third act than to
stalk off the stage in the middle of the performance. In addition to
identifying himself as a grief counselor, Attison referred to a casket
as an “eternal bower.” A suit of burial clothes, in which the corpse
would be dressed, was called “the final raiments.”
Attison said “preparations for preservation” instead of “embalming,” and
“resting place” instead of “grave.”
Although the experience was riddled with macabre humor, Rachael was not
able to laugh even when she left the funeral home after two and a half
hours and was alone in her car again. Ordinarily she had a special
fondness for black humor, for laughter that mocked the grim, dark
aspects of life. Not today. It was neither grief nor any kind of
sadness that kept her in a gray and humorless mood. Nor worry about
widowhood. Nor shock. Nor the morbid recognition of Death’s lurking
presence in even the sunniest day. For a while, as she tended to other
details of the funeral, and later, at home once more, as she called
Eric’s friends and business associates to convey the news, she could not
quite understand the cause of her unremitting solemnity.
Then, late in the afternoon, she could no longer fool herself. She knew
that her mental state resulted from fear. She tried to deny what was
coming, tried not to think about it, and she had some success at not
thinking, but in her heart she knew. She knew.
She went through the house, making sure that all the doors and windows
were locked. She closed the blinds and drapes.
At five-thirty, Rachael put the telephone on the answering machine.
Reporters had begun to call, wanting a few words with the widow of the
Great Man, and she had no patience whatsoever for media types.
The house was a bit too cool, so she reset the air conditioner. But for
the susurrant sound of cold air coming through the wall vents and the
occasional single ring the telephone made before the machine answered
it, the house was as silent as Paul Attison’s gloom-shrouded office.
Today, deep silence was intolerable, it gave her the creeps. She
switched on the stereo, tuned to an FM station playing easy-listening
music. For a moment, she stood before the big speakers, eyes closed,
swaying as she listened to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.”
Then she turned up the volume so the music could be heard throughout the
house.
In the kitchen, she cut a small piece of semisweet dark chocolate from a
bar and put it on a white saucer.
She opened a split of fine, dry champagne. She took the chocolate, the
champagne, and a glass into the master bathroom.
On the radio, Sinatra was singing “Days of Wine and Roses.”
Rachael drew a tub of water as hot as she could tolerate, added a
drizzle of jasmine-scented oil, and undressed.
Just as she was about to settle in to soak, the pulse of fear which had
been beating quietly within her suddenly began to throb hard and fast.
She tried to calm herself by closing her eyes and breathing deeply,
tried telling herself that she was being childish, but nothing worked.
Naked, she went into the bedroom and got the .32caliber pistol from the
top drawer of the nightstand. She checked the magazine to be sure it
was fully loaded.
Switching off both safeties, she took the thirty-two into the bathroom
and put it on the deep blue tile at the edge of the sunken tub, beside
the champagne and chocolate.
Andy Williams was singing “Moon River.”
Wincing, she stepped into the hot bath and settled down until the water
had slipped most of the way up the slopes of her breasts. It stung at
first. Then she became accustomed to the temperature, and the heat was
good, penetrating to her bones and finally dispelling the chill that had
plagued her ever since Eric had dashed in front of the truck almost