Apprehensions and Other Delusions Read online

  “I know it isn’t done too often any more, but it was her specific wish that you should all attend the reading,” said Harbinger. “It’s day after tomorrow, you know. Ten-thirty. Sharp.”

  “Yes. In your office.” William glowered at him.

  Jessie laughed again, this time in response to a memory that was as sharp as anything happening around her. “They’ll all be like ravens perched on rooftops, making noises like rusty gates,” Marjorie had said with relish. “It’s a pity I won’t be there to see it. All my dear relatives.” Her smile had reminded Jessie of the grin on a crocodile. “Little do they know what I’ve done.”

  “You!” said George, who had extricated himself from Annis’s clutches. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jessie, although she had a pretty good guess now. “I don’t plan it.”

  “Good God, I hope not,” said George. “It’s really disconcerting.”

  “At least,” said Jessie. She finished her mineral water and went for a refill. “I haven’t enjoyed it much, myself.”

  “Sure you don’t want something stronger?” asked the bartender.

  “Actually, I’d love something stronger, but I know I’d start guffawing again, and that would be too much, even for this lot.” She shook her head once. “Thanks for asking.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, and upended a bottle into her glass. “Let me know when you change your mind. I’ll pour anything you like.”

  George made a grunt of disapproval. “You’ve been through a lot, but you still ought to be willing to behave suitably.”

  “And what would that be?” Jessie asked, making no apology for her exasperation. “Do you think I ought to be overcome? I might have felt that during her last couple days. They were pretty harrowing. Or the night the power went out and the thunder and lightning went on for two hours—that was excruciating—do you think I had an excuse to lose it then, even though I didn’t? But now? When it’s all over? And everyone is beginning to turn their memories into myths?” She gulped a generous amount of mineral water and sputtered as a new burst of laughter took hold of her.

  “Can’t you control yourself?” George demanded. “Given all she did for you?”

  “Oh, yes. All she did for me,” said Jessie, and stopped the indignation she felt; it would be less welcome than her laughter.

  “She took you in,” said George emphatically. “Knowing what you did, she still took you in.”

  Enjoying the double meaning of that remark, Jessie said, “She certainly did. She was very good at taking people in.”

  George understood some of her meaning, and frowned again. “What an ungrateful thing to say.”

  “Why should I be grateful? I never did anything wrong. I was followed by a whispering campaign that was wholly unfounded,” said Jessie with as much vehemence as she could summon, which was surprisingly little. “You know that. Marjorie knew that. The cops know it.”

  “You should have been grateful for the work,” said George righteously.

  “And she should have been grateful for all I did above and beyond nursing. Her room had fresh paint on the walls and new sheets, so she wouldn’t have to look at dull walls and sleep in a dull bed. I did that for her.” Jessie giggled. “And I arranged for the elevator to be installed on the staircase so she could come down for dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do those last eight years.”

  “She paid for it,” George reminded her.

  Jessie cackled. “You can’t tell me any of the others would have thought to do any of it.”

  “If we were there every day, we would have,” George said.

  “Do you think so?” Jessie laughed again.

  George scowled. “That isn’t a very kind implication.”

  “But true, George, true,” said Jessie. “I did my best for her.”

  “Your best,” George scoffed. “If that’s what you think, no wonder you laugh.” He turned away from her in conspicuous disapproval.

  Jessie wanted to yell at him, to pound his back, and demand to know how many times he had emptied Marjorie’s bedpans, or struggled to wash her while she lay against her pillows, complaining about being wet. Or the constant struggle they had had with her oxygen tank, and, toward the end, her ventilator. But it didn’t seem worth it, and after all, she was a nurse; they had paid her reasonably well—not as much as some, but not badly—and it was all part of her job. She handed the glass to the bartender. “Vodka, almost no ice,” she said.

  The bartender filled her order without comment, although he winked at Jessie. He gave her an encouraging smile and handed her a small napkin; it was pale peach with a black edge, just as Marjorie had specified.

  “This is for Marjorie.” She lifted the glass, looking over at Daniel, who was pacing back and forth at the front of the room, occasionally glancing at his watch.

  “Some folks get mad when people die,” said the bartender.

  “I know,” said Jessie.

  “You laughing gives them an excuse to be mad,” he went on. “If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else.”

  “I know that, too.” The vodka was beginning to seep into her, its hot little fingers loosening her tight shoulders and filtering down into her stomach almost like a sexual thrill; she swallowed more of it. “Thanks.”

  “No one’s ever as good as people say they are at funerals,” the bartender went on. “No one really expects the service to tell it like it is, but the way they can all stand it.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jessie said.

  “And they’re never as bad as people say, either,” he added.

  “Do you think so?” Jessie asked.

  “It’s gotta be that way,” said the bartender. “I do maybe fifty of these a year, and they’re all pretty much the same—everyone slightly embarrassed that someone’s dead and secretly relieved they’re still alive. It makes them all a little crazy.” He poured a second vodka and handed it to Jessie. “Go ahead. Take this. It’ll make it easier. Don’t worry about how much you drink. If you need a cab, I’ll see you get one. By the look of it, you won’t be the only person taking one. I’ll bet they’ll have to pour at least eight of these mourners into taxis before the night is through. I’ll keep an eye on you.” He winked another time and waved away the tip she proffered. “You keep it. It sounds like you deserve it more than anyone here.”

  “That’s a sweet offer. Thanks.” For the first time her smile was genuine and without tension.

  “Pleasure,” said the bartender. “Get the most you can out of this party. It looks like things’ll turn nasty in a couple of days.”

  Jessie considered this as she took the second glass and sipped it. “This is really good,” she said.

  “Taking care of that old lady must have been a lot of work,” said the bartender.

  “She could be demanding,” Jessie admitted, feeling a bit conspiratorial for saying so much to a stranger with the family all around them.

  “And they stayed away,” said the bartender. “And now they’re bitching about you. Typical.” He winked at her again, more broadly than before. “Just come back here when your glasses are empty and I’ll take care of you again.”

  “Thanks,” said Jessie. “Thanks a lot.” She took a couple of steps away from the bar so she wouldn’t be tempted to have another vodka too quickly. This was more than she had had to drink in the last six months; not since New Year when she had had two rum toddies and three glasses of champagne had she allowed herself to indulge in more than a single glass of wine at dinner. She glanced over the room, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. There was a couch against the wall and she was tempted to go sit down. But if she did, she could be trapped there if anyone decided to join her, so she remained where she was, slightly in front of the alcove that concealed the ent
rance to the kitchen.

  “You read the autopsy report, I suppose?”

  The question seemed to come out of the air. “What?” Jessie nearly dropped her drinks as she swung around to face Julian Bachs, the sleek young physician who had taken care of Marjorie for the last two years; Marjorie had distrusted him and she had insisted on calling Bradley Ferguson, her former physician who had retired almost three years ago and had checked each and every recommendation, prescription, and piece of advice that Bachs gave before she was willing to do anything. Bachs was in a charcoal-grey business suit and looked as if he was about to pose for GQ.

  “The autopsy. You should have received a copy. Marjorie stipulated that Brad Ferguson, Nowell Harbinger, and you be given copies. It was authorized.” He could not conceal his disgust at this arrangement.

  “Yes. I received a copy, and I read it. Death was due to the failure of the ventilator during the power outage. Everyone knows that. This was obvious from the first. No one can say I made lightning strike the substation. The power company has the whole event in their records. And the drug levels in her body were where they ought to be for the treatment she was receiving. There was nothing suspicious about her dying.”

  He held up his drink—gin-and-tonic—and said, “That should shut up anyone who wants to cast blame for her death.”

  “Do you think there could be any questions about it?” Jessie asked, a rush of queasiness coming over her.

  “In this family? I’d be shocked if someone didn’t accuse you or one of the others, like Albert, of trying to do away with Marjorie. William has called me twice about the autopsy.” He patted Jessie on the shoulder. “If there’s any question, there’s the autopsy report, and it removes all doubt.”

  For the first time in almost an hour, Jessie didn’t feel in danger of laughing. “I don’t want to have to go through any more investigations.”

  “You mean the one over twenty years ago?” Julian Bachs nodded. “Oh, yes, Marjorie told me all about it. She said she was safe having you take care of her, because you would have to do everything right, just in case. She said if anything was the least bit wrong, you’d have to move heaven and earth to make it right for her.” He tapped his temple. “She was a little preoccupied with the fear that someone would kill her. I can’t imagine why—she had no reason that I could think of to suppose any of her relatives might kill her. Everyone knew she was in failing health. And everyone knew that she couldn’t last very long. If it hadn’t been the power loss, it would have been something else. As it was she survived more than three years longer than anyone expected.” He offered Jessie a polished smile. “You did a superb job for her. No one can possibly doubt you took excellent care of her.”

  “It’s good of you to say so,” she managed to tell him.

  He drank the rest of his gin-and-tonic and put the glass down on the occasional table near the alcove; four glasses already stood on it. “I’ve had two already. I should take a break. But I might not. This is a pretty dreadful affair, isn’t it?” He did his best to look reassuring. “If you take any grief from the family, you let me know and I’ll explain it to them.”

  “You sound as if you expect trouble,” said Jessie, and suddenly had to press her lips together so that she would not succumb to more laughter.

  “Families get strange when there’s been a death, especially of someone like Marjorie.” Bachs cocked his head. “You shouldn’t worry about anything.”

  Jessie took a moment to compose herself. “Then I’ll do my best not to,” and in spite of her best intentions, she giggled.

  “Stress, I know.” Bachs wandered away to the bar only to return a few moments later with a glass filled with gin and ice, with a little tonic to give it sparkle. The sharp juniper odor caught Jessie’s attention before she heard Bachs speak. “It was a long ordeal with her.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to die,” said Jessie, and fought back another roll of chuckles. Small wonder, she thought. With all Marjorie had done in her life, from Lysander to Theodore, she had made herself a widow four times over, all without compunction, and only when death was looming did any of her actions bother her. She had told Jessie, “I don’t suppose there’s a halo waiting for me in heaven. Not with what I’ve done. Still, I had children to think of, and the men couldn’t be relied upon to bother with them. I reckon I would do it all again, if I had to. I might get rid of William—he’s such a fussbudget. I could leave the others better off and I could have afforded to send Albert to Stanford. He might have made something of himself if he’d gone to a really good school. I don’t see how God could hold any of that against me: He helps those who help themselves.” She had looked apprehensive as she had repeated the adage. “But we’re not supposed to kill, even when they’re feckless spendthrifts.”

  “You were fortunate to get to know her so well,” said Bachs. “I tried, but she didn’t want any part of me. She paid me well, I’ll say that for her.”

  Jessie drank more of her vodka, sputtering a little as she stopped her laughter. “I don’t know if you’d call it that—knowing her.”

  Bachs looked over at her as his curiosity was spurred, and was about to add something when Jessie stepped away from him, for she was certain she was about to start laughing again. “Well, call me if you need anything,” he said a little vaguely.

  “Sure,” said Jessie, her lower lip caught in her teeth. She went toward the bar, more for the company of the bartender than another drink.

  At the front of the room, Daniel cleared his throat and nervously raised his voice. “It’s gonna be a couple minutes more, folks. We’ll have the Cliquot in a little bit. It’s coming. Just be patient, please.” He looked over at Jessie as if to dare her to laugh now. “They’ll bring out glasses for everyone.”

  “What’s the hold-up?” asked one of the mourners from out of town, a man in his fifties whom Jessie didn’t recognize.

  “Who knows?” said Daniel. He coughed once to show he was aware of how much of an imposition this delay was.

  As if on cue a deliveryman in denim coveralls swaggered in behind a hand-truck bearing four cases of premium champagne. He held out a clipboard, and, after a moment, Albert went and signed for it. There was a sudden surge in conversation, as if all the people in the reception hall had been waiting for this moment.

  Jessie finished her vodka and handed the glass to the bartender. “Keep it,” she said. “And don’t give me any more, even if I ask for it.” She glanced away from the bartender; there were half-a-dozen guests gathering around the stack of cases. “Flies around honey.”

  “In more ways than one,” said the bartender, and when Jessie glanced his way, winked at her.

  In spite of her efforts, Jessie laughed again, this time without apology. As the others scowled and stared at her, she let herself continue to laugh. Finally it began to fade without any effort on her part, and, as three waiters distributed glasses of pale, fizzy champagne to the mourners, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and was surprised to see tears there. Why would she weep for that wretched old harpy? she asked herself. Marjorie had killed four grown men and five children, if she had told the truth. What on earth was there to cry about?

  “You all right, ma’am?” the bartender asked.

  When Jessie laughed again, there was a note of despair in it, a concession she had never expected to make. “She made me miss her, goddamnit.”

  George swung around again. “Well, I should think so. There aren’t many women like Marjorie around. They don’t make them like her any more.”

  As Jessie’s laughter welled afresh, she said, “Yes. Let’s hope,” and drank her champagne before Daniel could propose a toast.

  About Inappropriate Laughter

  When I first wrote this, back in 1997, I hadn’t a clue where I could sell it. It falls in between so many forms that it ends up belonging in
none of them. The Spook on-line magazine finally took it—trimmed down by 2,000 words—in 2002, and it is in that form that you see it now.

  The story’s experiential inception, I think, stems from a memorial service I attended when I was 18. Two of my friends got the giggles about halfway through the event, and from that point on, small explosions of not-very-well-suppressed laughter punctuated the expressions of grief I remember wishing they could/would stop, but that seemed impossible. For the next five months the two regularly apologized for causing such an uproar, admitting that they couldn’t recall why it had seemed funny to them. Certainly their chagrin has infused the story, along with a host of implications that may or may not account for what is happening.

  ON THE third day of battle, the bombing drove Sister Maggie off the roof where she had taken refuge in an abandoned dovecote; she returned to the enormous, wrecked hotel, dreading what she would find in the four floors of pillaged rooms. Since the local uprising—calling itself a revolution—destruction had escalated. It was worse than she feared: in what had been the lobby injured children were left to their own devices while their parents labored to shore up defenses or joined various ragtag resistance movements, nipping at the enemy with captured guns, with improvised weapons, with knives, with stones.

  The smell was like a slaughterhouse in summer, pungent and heavy. A continual moan made up of all the cries and whimpers and grunts of the wounded ebbed and flowed through the pillared ruin. Most of the furniture had been broken up and now covered the large, gaping holes that had once been windows. Two of the long couches had been pressed into service as examining tables. The village’s midwife, usually shunned, was doing this work, practicing her own sort of triage.

  Sister Maggie approached the old woman. “Let me help,” she pleaded. “I am a nurse.” She was reasonably certain she was the only person with clinical medical training for half a day’s journey in any direction. It wrung her soul that no one in the village would accept her assistance: she was here to give it, yet remained ostracized.