“He gave you a hundred dollars,” Mills said.
“I left it up to him. Usually, when they come down, they come with family. It’s rare to see a servant. What could I do? You were already here. I left a lot of it up to you. I let you assist me. We didn’t get in each other’s way. It should have been more, I suppose, but he, that Harry, only came down last night. He didn’t know what to give. My other clients are more generous, but maybe Harry isn’t cheap. Maybe he don’t really know.”
“How come you didn’t tell him?”
The old man shrugged. “A tout’s pride,” he said.
“Listen,” George said, “I’m pretty tired. I’m supposed to be over at their hotel tomorrow morning at seven o’clock to get their bags and check out for them.”
“Of course,” Merchant said. “I’m gone in a minute. There’s some things I want to tell you. Go on, get in bed. I’ll let myself out.”
“Could you get the light?” George said sleepily.
“Sure,” Father Merchant said, and turned off the overhead light. He drew the night curtains and spoke to Mills in the dark.
“Maria is courted by all the eligible ranchers in that country,” he said. “But she loves only one, the patrone, who is her father. She don’ know he is her father, but he knows. He suspects. It makes no difference, by this time he can’ help himself. She reminds him of her madre. Only this one is even more beautiful, more desirable. He tries to seduce her but she has too great honor. If he mean to sleep wit’ her he mus’ marry her. He arrange a fake pries’, a young fellow from the south to do it. The real pries’ is killed. He does this, the patrone. He knows he is damn to murder a padre but his passion has made him loco. The fake pries’ is brought in an’ they are married. They go away. He is a wonderful lover. Maria is sick with love, with sex. She has never experience nothin’ like this. All he has to do is touch her, she is on fire. She can’t get enough. But he’s a old man, the patrone. All this love is killin’ him, an’ now she is pregnan’. She is no longer so beautiful to him. She knows this but makes demands. To stop her he tell her all about the fake pries’, about himself. Now she is like her father, insane with passion. She don’ care she is pregnan’, she don’ care she’s his daughter. Maria is depraved. The old man is fearful about what he have done. He make a confession, first to a pries’, then to officials. The pries’ tell him God have forgive him if he is truly peniten’. He go to Maria. He fear for her soul. He tell her to confess. ‘Why?’ she says. ‘I am sorry for nothing. Only that you love God more than your daughter. That, that is the filth.’ They come for him, for the patrone. They take him away. They don’t know she knows, her father don’ tell them. He is hanged. For killin’ the pries’. No one know. Only the pries’ who hear his confession. He can’t tell. He is waitin’ for Maria to seek absolution. That how it end. We wait for the worse woman in the worl’ to ask for forgiveness. That how it end.
“You’re going back. These programs haven’t been broadcast yet. No one knows this in Mexico. Only the planners of the program. Only me. Only you.”
“Why are you tell—”
“I told Mrs. Glazer,” Father Merchant said. “I whispered in her ear before she died.”
“What are you talk—”
“A hundred dollars,” Merchant said contemptuously. “I just see that rich gringo bastard and know I won’t get more.”
“What do you—”
“A hundred dollars,” Merchant repeated. “I saved him seventy on the rate of exchange, on red tape even more. A hundred dollars!”
“What do you want?” Mills shouted. “What do you want?” He snapped on the bed lamp.
“How much would you say?” Father Merchant whispered. “You were here for a mont’. I kep’ you both alive that first week. I didn’t know there’d be a servant. There’s not usual a servant.”
“Do you want me to give you money? Is that what you want?”
“You? You? A go-between’s go-between?”
“What do you want?”
“How could I know there would be someone to do the errands? Someone so indifferent he could bathe her, wipe her nose, her ass, take her for treatments, out for a ride? Death is what I do, the errands of cancer. The tips, the advice, all that’s just sideline.”
“What do you want?” Mills demanded.
“To give you your half,” Father Merchant said, “these fifty dollars,” and threw the money down on the bed.
9
In St. Louis, Louise still counted her breasts when she went to bed, taking inventory, too, since her husband’s employer had died, of her glands, pressing her stomach and kidneys, examining her cervix and rectum, obtaining skintight latex gloves which George frequently found on the rug when he stepped out of bed. She was purchasing as well home urinalysis kits, checking for diabetes, excessive leukocytes, early warning signs of a dozen diseases. She had bought a thermometer which registered temperature electronically, a gadget which noted blood pressure, a full-size doctor’s scale.
“Are we refurnishing?” George asked.
“Do you begrudge me a little security? It didn’t cost you a penny. All the money for this stuff came from what was left over from my father’s insurance policy. He even paid for the dress I bought for Mrs. Glazer’s funeral.”
They were going to the funeral, George as one of the pallbearers, Louise because she was a fan and because she had not forgotten the dying woman’s condolence phone call on the occasion of her father’s death.
Indeed, there was to be a small contingent from South St. Louis. Before she had left for Mexico, Mrs. Glazer had written to invite all the people on her Meals-on-Wheels route and had organized two limousines to pick up all those who were strong enough to attend and take them to the Church of St. Michael and St. George in west county and then on to Bellefontaine Cemetery. The limousines would return them to their homes in the city after a stop for lunch at Stouffer’s Riverfront Inn. All this had been detailed in Judith Glazer’s letters to the guests themselves, as well as to Crane, the funeral director.
Only George and Louise had not been invited, George learning he had been asked to be a pallbearer when Harry approached from behind the curtains of first class on the flight to St. Louis. “My sister,” he said, “wanted you to serve as one of the pallbearers. She asked me to give you this.” He handed him a sheet of folded hospital stationery. All it said was “Please, Mills,” and had been written and signed with great effort. He examined the note closely. The signature would have been illegible had George not recognized it from some of the last traveler’s checks she had signed.
“Yes, well I know it probably wouldn’t stand up in court,” the brother said, “but you have my word it’s what she wanted. What do you say? They don’t like passengers to stand in the aisles.”
Mills’s mood ring blazed.
The funeral had been much on her mind. George himself had written down the names of specific ushers she wanted, nephews and nieces and the children of friends who she had determined would replace the regular lay functionaries of the church. It seemed she wanted as many people involved as possible. Even after she had been taken to the hospital she had had George place a call to the organist at St. Michael and St. George. When he handed her the telephone, she burst into tears.