Soothingly, Mildred explained that if she really meant to pay it back, this was the main thing, and presently Veda was quiet. Then she began to fidget. Mildred kissed her and said: “Would you like to go over to your grandfather’s, darling? You could practice your piano lessons, or play, or whatever you want to do.”
“Oh Mother, do you think it would be right?”
“Ray wouldn’t mind.”
Veda trotted out of the house, and Bert looked a little shocked. “She’s a child, Bert. They don’t feel things the way we feel them. It’s better that she not be here while — arrangements are being made.”
Bert nodded, wandered about the room. A match in the fireplace caught his attention, and he stooped to pick it up. So doing, he bumped his head. If he had been hit with an axe he couldn’t have collapsed more completely. Instinctively, Mildred knew why: poking-into the fireplace had brought it all back, the game he used to play with Ray, all the gay nonsense between the elephant and the monk. Mildred led him to the sofa, took him in her arms. Then together, in the darkened room, they mourned their child. When he could speak, he babbled of Ray’s sweet, perfect character. He said if ever a kid deserved to be in heaven she did, and that’s where she was, all right. Goddam it, that’s where she was. Mildred knew this was a solace from a pain too great for him to bear: that he was taking refuge in the belief she wasn’t really dead. Too realistic, too literal-minded, to be stirred much by the idea of heaven, she nevertheless craved relief from this aching void inside of her, and little heat lightnings began to shoot through it. They had an implication that terrified her, and she fought them off.
The phone rang. Bert answered, and sternly said there had been a death in the family, and that Mrs. Pierce couldn’t possibly talk business today. Mildred barely heard him. The restaurant seemed remote, unreal, part of a world that no longer concerned her.
Around three thirty, Mr. Murock arrived. He was a roly-poly little man, and after seven seconds of purring condolences, he got down to brass tacks. Everything in connection with the body had been taken care of. In addition, notices had been placed in the afternoon papers, though the morning notices would have to wait until Mildred decided when she wanted the funeral, so perhaps that should be the first thing to consider. Mildred tried to get her mind on this, but couldn’t. She was grateful to Bert when he patted her hand and said he would attend to all that. “Fact of the matter, Pop wants to stand the expense, anyhow. He and Mom, they both wanted to come over when I came, but I told them to wait a little while.”
“I’m glad you came alone.”
“But Pop, he wants to stand the expense.”
“Then you attend to it.”
So Bert talked to Mr. Murock, apparently knowing instinctively what she wanted. He set the time of the funeral at noon the next day. “No use stringing it out,” a point to which Mr. Murock instantly agreed. The grave could be dug in the Pierce family plot in Forest Lawn Cemetery, which had been acquired on the death of the uncle who left Bert the ranch. Services were to be conducted at the house, by the Rev. Dr. Aldous, whom Mr. Murock said he knew very well, and would call at once. Dr. Aldous was Bert’s rector, and for a miserable moment Mildred felt ashamed that she could claim no rector as her own. As a child she had gone to the Methodist Sunday school, but then her mother had begun to shop around, and finally wound up with the astrologers who had named Veda and Ray. Astrologers, she reflected unhappily, didn’t quite seem to fill the bill at this particular time.
On the choice of a casket, Bert haggled bravely, bringing all his business judgment to bear, and presently settled on a white enamelled one, with silver handles and satin lining, which would be furnished complete for $200, with two limousines and the usual bearers. Mr. Murock got up. The body, he said, would be delivered at five, and they took him to the door, on which two assistants had already fastened a white crepe. Mr. Murock paused a moment to inspect the wire frames they were erecting in the living room, for flowers. Then he started. “Oh — I almost forgot. The burial clothes.”
Mildred and Bert went back to the children’s room. They decided on the white dress Ray had worn at the school pageant, and with the little pants, socks and shoes, they packed it in one of the children’s little valises. It was the gilt crown and fairy wand that broke Bert up again, and Mildred once more had to pat him back to normal. “She’s in heaven, she’s got to be.”
“Of course she is, Bert.”
“I know goddam well she’s not anywhere else.”
A minute or two after Mr. Murock left, Mrs. Gessler came over and joined them in the den. She slipped in without greeting, sat down beside Mildred, and began patting her hand with the infinite tact that seemed to be the main characteristic of her outwardly bawdy nature. It was a minute or two before she spoke. Then: “You want a drink, Bert?”
“Not right now, Lucy.”
“It’s right there, and I’m right here.”
“Thanks, I’d rather not.”
Then to Mildred: “Baby, Mamma’s listening.”
“There’s a couple of things, Lucy.”
Mildred took her to the bedroom, wrote a number on a piece of paper. “Will you call my mother for me, and tell her? Say I’m all right, and the funeral is tomorrow at twelve, and — be nice to her.”
“I’ll do it on my phone. Anything else?”
“I have no black dress.”
“I’ll get one for you. Size twelve?”
“Ten.”
“Veil?”
“Do you think I should?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Then no veil. And no hat. I have one that’s all right. And no shoes. I have them too. But — gloves. Size six. And I think I ought to have a mourning handkerchief.”
“I’ll have everything. And—”
“What is it, Lucy?”
“They’ll be dropping in now. People, I mean. And — I’ll probably pull something. I just thought I’d tell you, so you’ll know I had a reason.”
So a little while later, Mrs. Gessler was back, and certainly pulled something. By then, quite a few people were there: Mrs. Floyd, Mrs. Harbaugh, Mrs. Whitley, Wally, and to Mildred’s surprise, Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector, who had seen the notice in one of the afternoon papers. Letty’s contribution was tea and sandwiches, which she had just begun to pass when Mrs. Gessler came in, hatted, gloved, and carrying a gigantic set of lilies. With a wave of the hand she dismissed the florist’s driver, and finding the card, read: “Mr. and Mrs. Otto Hildegarde — oh, aren’t they beautiful, just beautiful!” Then, to everybody in the room: “You know, the couple Mildred visited over the weekend, up at the lake. Lovely people. I’m just crazy about them.”
Then Mildred knew that there had indeed been talk, serious talk. But she also knew, from the look that went around, that now it was squelched, once and for all. She felt a throb of gratitude to Mrs. Gessler, for dealing with something she would have been helpless to deal with herself. Bert took the lilies outside, where he spread them on the lawn. Then, coupling up the hose, he attached the revolving nozzle, so they were gently refreshed by the edge of the whirling spray. Other flowers came, and he set them out too, until there was a canopy of blossoms on the grass, all glistening with tiny drops. There was a basket of gladioluses from the Drop Inn, which touched Mildred, but the one that made her swallow hardest was a mat of white gardenias, to which was attached a bluebird card, reading: