and a grim dissatisfaction on his fading face was his last decipherable response to her.
Later, she gave up and let him rest.
Aware of her newsy appeal, she returned and concentrated on the mirror and made her face up for interviews. For the past hour, she alone owned title to the house. She owned the art and paintings, the 1939 Lincoln Zephyr and the Cadillac convertible on blocks to preserve the tires. Everything was hers except the lumber operation in Dawson Creek and the motorcycle which was unsalvageable. She smiled as she combed through her thick hair and she studied her face. There would be a stringer for the Palm Beach Times slumped somewhere at the precinct primed and ready to jump up, popping a barrage of blinding shots at her. So she studied her face again, never hurrying.
Murine, she thought, then changed her mind. Red eyes were essential. By the time she entered the white lights of the precinct, her hand was again steady.
“Well, yes, he had been drinking.” She had intended to admit only that much, hoping the officer was not slyly accusing her of matching him jigger for jigger, night after night, or—the thought struck her suddenly— that she had sent him out to fetch her some more rum.
“So, he drank a lot normally?”
“I asked him not to, but you know how it is with men in wartime. I can’t get his attention these days. Not a kiss, if you understand what I mean.” So saying, she emphasized the wrong thing.
“It’s the war and all this waiting for D-Day,” she added. “Not me.”
“Lady, how much had he been drinking?”
“Enough to run dry, to go out for some more.” She straightened her spine, ran her red fingernails nervously through her hair and took a deep breath. She needed him to note in writing that she, Phyllis MacAndrew, was not tipsy. Not this time.
She caught herself ruefully pursing her mouth to lob a counterattack. “But you know it wasn’t his fault, you know that, don’t you?” The officer glanced over at her and lit a cigarette before he spoke.
“That he hit a parked truck like a Kraut dive bomber?”
“Are you telling me the truck had no lights?”
“That’s right, Ma’am. It was parked by the side of the road. The driver was sleeping. It happened after midnight.”
“So he’d turned off his goddamned lights, did he?” She was starting to color. “I hope to God that jerk has insurance.”
“I hope your fancy boyfriend has insurance.”
“We were going to get married. I have a ring, see?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He blew out a breath. The ring was expensive.
“Where is he? I want to be with him.”
“I wouldn’t advise it. Color of his eyes?”
“Greeny-green. Like mine.”
“That’s him, lady. We got the right one. His wife said to call you. She’s in New Mexico.” Phyllis reeled—that was an unnecessary second slap in the face. For a few moments, she said nothing, remembering how just the mention of his cult-addicted wife Anissa rankled Russell, sent him into a tailspin, uncoiling him.
Phyllis relished picturing her own rendition of the scene: Officer to Anissa: “I’m afraid I have painful news for you.”
Anissa to Officer: “Painful? The world has been waiting for justice! He’d been begging Saint Germain to strike him down because of sin—sin, alcohol and vulgar music.” Anissa was a fanatical member of the Chicago-based I AM Movement where she and several hundred others did daily battle against liquor, meat, sex and war.
Phyllis’ heart was heavy as she sensed Russell’s ghost hovering somewhere above the weary group in the early morning precinct, being battered by his impossible wife. Whatever the issue, Anissa was right and Russell was wrong. And now he was dead wrong. Let Anissa and her Saint exult; Phyllis was certain they were in fact gloating themselves silly in their muddy small town a thousand miles from nowhere. They were so far off the beaten track that they were perfectly safe saying whatever they wished: not even the Japanese nor the German planes could reach them while they printed inane books, passed out misleading pamphlets and ranted on and on, disapproving of simply everyone and everything surrounding the war. They lashed out against bombs, bullets, whisky, cigarettes, adultery, dancing, meat and the Andrews Sisters. Who knew what else they would latch onto?
Roosevelt needed to declare them anti-American because it was the war that had spurred Americans’ craving for tobacco and alcohol.
And their fanaticism against dance tunes. Certainly, the I AMers were unpatriotic, undermining the national morale because music was the war’s voice and even promiscuity had its soothing place. Anissa and her sour believers went wholly against the grain. They alone waged their own war within the greater war.
From his anteroom in the sky, Russell must have seen Anissa’s self-congratulating elation since he had died before she’d signed the divorce papers. That was surely the reason Russell had appeared to her so upset and agitated—he was still trying to throttle Anissa. The task now fell to his residual beneficiary; she was equal to the task.
“Where in God’s name did you take him? Please officer, tell me where he is!” Her voice cracked, tears swelled. She snuffed them back up into her sinuses and coughed. It was urgent that she quiet his remains— only she could ease his turbulence.
“Morgue, Ma’am. You gotta fill out some papers, like his wife said. She figures you can identify his clothes.” This third uncomfortable mention of Anissa, his soon-to-be-divorced crackpot wife, was painful. Phyllis tried to erase the woman from her mind but she could not.
His blood-sucking wife, this distant specter, was a pampered millionairess who relentlessly upped the ante by refusing to sign the divorce papers and righteously hurtled names and insults at both Phyllis and Russell which, if you must know, Officer, she wished to state for-the-record, caused Russell more agitation, more anxiety and misery, forcing him to drink, yes…forcing him to drink. You have witnessed the pitiful results, Your Honor. She virtually murdered him. And then there were his children, by one of his wives, the First Mrs. Barclay and another child too, a hazy girl somewhere. Half French.
Step aside, ladies. All you who are slated to muster out when the Third Mrs. Russell Watson Barclay ascends to preeminence—all to be slashed from your privileged “Next of Kin” status. But for this tragic unforeseen event.
Let them all rot in Hell.
In the meanwhile, thank God, the reason the reporter and the wags looked at her accusingly was that Russell had had his lawyers sign over as much of his property as he was able to in Palm Beach County before the divorce; he told her that she was the only woman he’d ever loved. The ink was barely dry.
And it was true. He had never really loved the others. How could anyone?
He sang to her.
Had he ever sung to them?
Only she, the new Mrs. Russell Barclay-elect. She was his consort, she was his inspiration, his consolation, his movie star; he took her everywhere with him, set her up at The Breakers
