The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (54 page)

T
HE DAY OF THE MEMORIAL
service was overcast with the June gloom that so often blankets the Bay Area in early summer. Germaine had already left for work. Mercedes moved robotically through her morning routine. She had taken to running with Germaine in the early mornings for the past few months; but this morning, instead of feeling energized by their exercise, she felt tired and full of dread at the prospect of seeing Jack’s friends all in one place.

She had had no contact with any of them, but had heard about their reaction to her abandonment of Jack in his hour of need. Her reasons were no one’s business, and she had felt no desire to explain. She had found out who her friends were, and who held her in contempt. Now she faced another day of reckoning.

She dressed in black from head to toe and ran her fingers through her very short hair, which now had a shock of white in it. She wore no jewelry and wrapped a black shawl around her bare arms. Her joy and sense of self-containment had sprung a leak and were trickling down the black hole in her heart.

Cars lined the street on both sides of Jack’s house. She felt apprehensive, but worked her way through the throng of young men, past tantalizing platters of food tastefully arranged on the table and the flowers from Jack’s gardens, which were everywhere.

Of those present, she knew only Gabe, Martin Macey, and Damon Vanderveer. Damon looked like a phantom already. With a walker and an oxygen tank, he barely resembled the love-smitten, robust young man in Jack’s photos. He obviously had AIDS and had expended tremendous effort to be present. There were men from the Castro District, whom Jack had befriended since he moved there, but no one else from the past. She was the only woman, save for the two nurses who had attended Jack at the end, and only she was dressed in black.

Gabe kissed her cheek and poured her a drink.

“I don’t know anyone here, really,” she said.

“They all know you. You’re a legend.”

“You mean a jezebel.”

“Not at all. Jack showed his hand to all of us before the end. No one knew why you left at first, but that didn’t last long. The lawsuits, his treatment of Janine, the liens against his assets, all the estate plans he had drawn up with himself as trustee—it all came out. Jack had legal dealings with most of his close friends over the years, and we’ve all had unpleasant surprises as a result. You never told anyone what you knew, and you could have.”

“I saw no point. What became of Janine?”

“She passed away two years ago and left everything to Jack.”

“Who took care of her affairs?”

“I did. It wasn’t that arduous. She was a sweet little old lady.”

“So Jack got away with it, embezzling from her all those years!”

“He told her everything he’d done—all the money he’d taken from her. But I don’t think she really understood. She had dementia herself by then. It didn’t seem to matter to her.”

“The lawsuits all settled. I know that from the office. None of the insurance companies ever contacted me, though, if there were even any investigations.”

“It’s just as well.”

One by one, people began to toast Jack. Since most of them had only met him in the last three years, their speeches rang hollow in her ears. But everyone had heard about Mercedes and recalled Jack’s oft-repeated praise of her. She stood quietly and listened, feeling more depleted with each eulogy.

The group moved outdoors to the garden, where the sun was now shining. Gabe guided her to the bench under the bower, and someone else brought her a plate of food. Each guest came by to shake her hand and to pay his respects to the woman Jack Soutane had loved; the woman, as he had told them, who showed him what love was supposed to be. She could barely speak. The black hole inside stole her breath.

Damon shuffled over and sat down on the seat of his walker beside her.

“Mercedes, I have a confession to make. I owe you an apology,” he panted.

“I can’t imagine what that could be,” she said.

“I judged you after you left Jack. I thought he told you he was gay before you were married, so I assumed you knew the risks. And I’m not the only one who thought that.”

“I know, Damon. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I need to say it, Mercedes. None of us knew about Jack’s financial improprieties. We didn’t know he’d concealed so much about himself from you. I only found out in the last few years that he knew he was HIV positive before he married you and kept it secret.”

“How did you find out?”

“He told me, in a lucid moment. He felt very guilty. He said hurting you was what he regretted most.”

“It’s generous of you to tell me. I’m sorry you’re sick too, Damon.”

“It was bound to happen, the way we carried on.”

“I found pictures of you and Jack in his desk at the office when he was first hospitalized. That’s when I realized he had another life I knew nothing about. I’m glad I found out, but I wish he had leveled with me. I could have helped him straighten out a lot of things. He must have loved you very much, Damon.”

“Jack was the love of my life, but he was damaged goods. We can’t help whom we love, though, can we? Love strikes, and you’re toast! I’m not too far behind him now,” he said, gesturing at his emaciated body. “We’ve lost so many friends to AIDS, nearly everyone in our old group. Well, this is good-bye.”

She squeezed his hand before he slowly got to his feet. He shuffled toward the door and was soon out of sight.

Martin was next. He sat down by Mercedes on the bench.

“I tried to warn your friend Caroline about Jack before you were engaged. I don’t know if you remember that.”

“I do. You said Jack was ‘strategic.’ That was the understatement of the decade! I guess we didn’t take your warning seriously. By then I was too much in love. I only saw what I wanted to see.”

“I’m glad to see you’re healthy. How’s your daughter?”

Mercedes’s face softened into a smile. “She’s doing well. She’s just about ready for college.”

“Jack used to talk about the two of you as though you were twin angels. You brought him a lot of happiness.”

“For a while. With conditions.”

“Yes, there were a lot of conditions, weren’t there? Many, many people were drawn into Jack’s orbit. He attracted everyone. And once you were in, his charisma kept you there. But he didn’t fool everybody. Many of us found out what he was up to after it was too late, when we were too entangled with him to extricate ourselves gracefully. I had to move my law practice away from his, at some loss, but even then I continued to see him socially. I never met a more appealing man.” Martin took a deep breath. “It was most difficult for you, but you showed great decorum in how you handled it.”

Gabe filled her glass again. All the guests had left; only the three of them remained. “And now we have the business of settling Jack’s estate,” Gabe said.

“Who’s handling that?”

“Martin and I will be, with help from Matthew Spencer.”

“I don’t envy you.”

“I don’t envy us either. But there are a few things we can tell you up front,” Gabe said. “Jack maintained the premiums on the life insurance policies, and kept the trust. There’s no reason to think the policies won’t pay out, so you and Germaine will be well provided for. He also left you a few items in his will—a lot of his household furnishings, his car, some U.S. Treasury bonds, and this.”

Gabe reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope, which he placed in her hands. She saw the Soutane & Associates return address, engraved on Jack’s fine bond stationery, and slipped it into her purse.

“Things will be a bit easier for you now, at least financially,” Martin said. “As soon as we get the title to the car straightened out, I’ll drive it over to you.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“No need to say anything,” Gabe said, “except maybe to Germaine. She’ll be able to afford the best college she can get into. Jack would like that. He always said she was going places in life.”

Mercedes stood up and shook Martin’s hand. She walked slowly through Jack’s house one last time, feeling his presence and appreciating the harmony of the environment he had created. Gabe accompanied her to the door and kissed her again.

“Still got those yoga sutras?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yes, thank you. They’ve served me well these past few years.”

“I’m glad. Take care of yourself, Mercedes.”

She drove home the long way, taking back roads at a leisurely speed. She drove with the windows rolled down and the radio off. The greenery of the hills and side streets was soothing and the fragrance of eucalyptus leaves and evergreen needles filled the car.

G
ERMAINE HAD FINISHED HER SHIFT
and was sprawled on the couch in her shorts and tee shirt, barefoot, deeply immersed in
Les Misérables
when Mercedes came through the door.

The girl bounded to her feet and threw her arms around her mother. They were matched shoulder to shoulder, head to head, foot for foot. Mercedes’s eyes filled with tears, her arms around Germaine’s shoulders.

“Who said you could grow up?”

“I didn’t know I had to get permission.”

“You did. I must have neglected to tell you.”

“It’s your fault, Mom. All that food.”

“I’ll put
Les Misérables
on your head. That will deter you.”

“Nothing will deter me.”

“That’s my girl.”

Germaine loosened her embrace, and Mercedes moved a strand of hair out of her daughter’s face.

“How was the service?”

“Rather enlightening. I’m glad I went, but I’m very tired now. I think I’ll go lie down.”

Germaine kissed her face and said, “I’m glad it’s over.”

Mercedes went into her room and kicked her shoes off. She pulled the envelope out of her handbag. She lay on her bed and held the envelope to her breast for a few moments before opening it. There was one page, folded in thirds, with three words on it. He had found his good pen.

Please be forgiving.

This book has been many years in creation, so I am thankful to a great many people for help along the way. I am profoundly grateful to Brooke Warner and her team at She Writes Press for bringing Mercedes Bell into the light of day. Crystal Patriarche, CEO and President of SparkPoint Studios, and Brooke Warner have an inspired business model and level of respect for writers that I hope more PR companies and publishing houses will adopt to set more writers free.

I am very grateful to my editor, David Landau who, with such a generous spirit and unflinching wit, challenged every phrase to be its best or to disappear. I was also extremely fortunate to work with Carol Staswick, a Latin scholar and grammarian, whose line edits were brilliant and terrifying. I am grateful to Kathy Beaudoin for her technical expertise, proofreading and friendship through many years in the trenches.

I am indebted to my writing mentor, Spencer Beasley, and my mother, Nancy Bartron Dwight, the original English language maven, for teaching me English usage and showing me that grammar is the elegant skeleton upon which the body of words lives. I thank my father, Donald Stearns Dwight, for introducing me to the creative life through his own, for empowering me as a young person, and for continually pressing me to write this book.

I humbly bow to Dr. William W. Foote for his wise guidance over the past 30-odd years. Without the insights and perseverance his questions sparked I could not have come to understand my characters or my purpose well enough to do them justice.

The following people read drafts and offered in return the great gift of their perceptions: Bethany DeRuiter, Kate Arsenault, Laurel Brandstetter, Kathryn J. Brown, Marcy Ayanian, Jeanne Marlow, Janine Orendain, Evan Michael Sinclair, Judy Brown, Laura Arago, Mary Howell, Chet Paulinellie, Kaitlin Duffey, Karin Larkins, and Trish Bare. They helped me strengthen the book and boosted my persistence.

This book truly owes its existence to my husband, Robert W. Duffey, whose devotion, forbearance, cooking, and encouragement nurtured me through the entire process. With an exacting eye he read many drafts of the manuscript. He was my sounding board and was present at every milestone, including the glorious day on which it was accepted for publication.

May we all remember that every moment in this lush life is a gift.

Namasté