Lament for a Lounge Lizard. Mary Jane Maffini
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would have deleted the two of them from the hard disk with a smile on my face.
“What’s the matter, don’t you like writing?”
I jumped. Josey! I hadn’t even realized she was in the house.
“Of course, I love it.” Not strictly speaking true, since my latest incoming cheque had been a royalty cheque for $12.62, and with every word I typed I asked myself if the world was trying to tell me something.
“I wondered, because your mouth gets all shrivelled, and your eyes get kind of slitted. And I heard you hissing.”
“How did you get in?” My heart was still thumping.
“You always ask me that. Anyone could open that lock.”
Right. Get the geedee lock changed, I reminded myself.
“Can’t you see I’m working?” I have to admit this was mean-spirited of me since Josey was soaking wet and showing a definite slump in her shoulders.
She gave me a look that could slice and dice. I felt a jab in my conscience. After all, I wasn’t the only person in the world. Just the most miserable.
“Sorry, Josey.” But I was talking to her back.
“You should do something soon about this lock before someone comes in and kills you too.” The door slammed behind her.
I caught up to her at the end of the driveway, just as she was getting on her bike. I talked her back into the house. I made a fire, some cocoa and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. I endorsed the cheque for $12.62 and lent her some dry clothing and a squall jacket before sending her off to dig up all that was fit to print about the totally unavailable Mme Flambeau.
I felt better after that. Which only meant I was psychologically unprepared for my next visitor.
* * *
The news that Benedict’s body had been released to Bridget and expeditiously cremated was only exceeded in awfulness by her idea of the subsequent step.
“You can’t be serious, Bridget.” I was so stunned I forgot that it’s not nice to leave visitors teetering in the rain while you reel in dismay.
She swayed on her crutches at my front door, clutching a plastic bag from Forty Shades of Green. Her skin was so pale, you could practically see her skinny little bones.
“Of course, I’m serious. Rachel took care of the whole shebang. I couldn’t handle it myself.”
“I don’t mean the cremation. I mean the, um, other thing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But didn’t you ask me if you could do anything?”
Anything at all, I’d said. And meant it at the time. Anything but this.
Bridget teetered. She started to cry, which wasn’t immediately obvious with the rain dripping off her nose. Not the first time she’d been crying that night either.
“No, I’m sorry. You’d better come in. You need coffee. Maybe a bit of Irish coffee. That’s what you need. I’ll have to use Courvoisier, if that’s all right.” That would give me a chance to use the Irish coffee glasses I’d splurged on and ordered through her.
“Thanks. I could use a bit of a treat. Courvoisier’s fine. Aren’t we all part of a global village now?” She hobbled toward the living room. “The police finally let me get access to Benedict’s place. I sure need something.”
Tolstoy rubbed himself against Bridget’s leg, in case that was what she needed.
Bridget settled into the wingback chair. Her cast stuck straight out on the footstool. I sat on the floor. That way I wouldn’t have to fall off something if Bridget had any more surprises, such as knowing something about the note Sarrazin claimed had been found in Benedict’s cabin.
She clutched her glass. Two Irish coffees and two handkerchiefs later, she said: “Isn’t it terrible? What kind of a measure of a life is this? All those years, and he hardly left a thing of substance. Nothing tangible. Just these little things, souvenirs he wanted given to old friends.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I was okay until I tried to clean out his little cabin. Oh, God, get a load of me, will you, I’m shaking. He meant so much to me. Now I have nothing left.”
“You cleaned out his cabin?”
“Rachel did all the physical stuff. I sat blubbering and making decisions I’ll probably regret. Oh, listen to me whining. You’ve been through a lot too. It must be terrible having all that stuff in the papers.”
Seeing Bridget, nose like a fire hydrant, made me feel sadder for her than for Benedict. “Don’t worry about what he didn’t leave. Benedict didn’t care about things, except for books, booze and buddies.”
“And bimbos,” she said. “Um, and women, certainly.” I was unwilling to put either Bridget or myself into the bimbo category.
Bridget smiled. “At any rate, you said you wanted to help, so I’m hoping you won’t mind delivering these few bequests while you’re doing the other thing. He left a list of people he wanted to have special little trinkets. I don’t think I can do it without breaking down. Maybe in six months, but not now.” She fished small wrapped parcels out of the green bag.
I gawked at her. I hadn’t wanted anything to do with Benedict for more than seven years, and that went double now. Of course, I couldn’t say that out loud. But if Bridget could take the location of Benedict’s death with such grace, who was I to refuse her this small but incredibly irritating set of errands?
“No problem. But about that other thing...”
She was ready for me. “It was his last wish, Fiona.” She was busily arranging a pile of slim books next to the parcels.
“What do you mean? He didn’t have a last wish. He didn’t know he was going to die.” My voice broke on a squeaky note.
“And these books,” Bridget said. “While Weeping for the Wicked. It’s his latest volume of poetry. Probably what won him the Flambeau. I have just a few. So very good friends only. One for you, of course, and I have a list of who else gets books and mementoes. I hope I haven’t missed anyone. It’s very hard for me to think clearly.”
“About this last wish thing...”
“You know, it’s funny,” Bridget said, soothing as cough syrup, “Benedict might not have had a will, but on several occasions he specifically mentioned he wanted to be scattered over the river. And who are we to argue?”
Unable to argue, I found myself sputtering. “But you can’t seriously expect me to scatter them and give a speech.”
“He would have wanted it. Well, maybe not the speech. I know you aren’t all that outgoing. But creating a memorial event that will be a testament to his spirit. You’re the only one I can ask.”
“But, don’t you want to do it yourself?”
“Oh, no, I can’t stand the thought of it. In fact, I can’t stand period.” She pointed to the cast. “My doctor says it will be another two months before I resume normal activities.” Bridget’s voice wobbled, reminding me she was close to the edge.
“What about Rachel? She handled things for the Memorial and the cremation.”
Tolstoy pricked up his ears. He hates it when I wail.
“No way. Poor Rachel has her hands full with the Bed and Breakfast. It’s not easy running a business on your own.”
It wasn’t easy writing romances on your own either, especially when you had no sex life and were stuck with Cayla and Brandon as ingredients. But before I could say that, Bridget added, “ Rachel never cared for Benedict.”
Unlike me. Having someone else’s lover found dead in flagrante on your best sheets landed you in major psychological debt.
“In