Fortune's Hand (40 page)

“I have a horrible vision of him standing on the edge of the abyss, ready to jump.” And Philip shook himself, as if to dispel the vision. “We must talk to Julie about the arrangements. Has Robb no relatives?”

“None. It's all in Julie's hands. Whatever she wants.”

“So whatever she wants, I'll carry out. My guess is that Eddy will help.”

“He will. That's one thing about Eddy. He's always been there to help when needed.” And bitterly, she added, “Arrangements! You can't even die without there being some sort of arrangements.”

Down the long aisle they walked, Julie first alongside Wilson Grant's first cousin, an elderly gentleman who had offered to escort her. Behind them came Ellen and Philip, who took their seats in the second row, a placement properly emphasizing that she was not the widow.

The church was crowded, and the sidewalk was lined with people who were unable to get inside. Among those inside Ellen had, on the long walk, seen familiar faces: Andrew, in the back row; Mrs. Vernon, crying; both Fowlers; Jim Jasper; Mr. and Mrs. Harte; childhood friends and neighbors from long ago; casual acquaintances and—no doubt about it—a horde of the merely curious. The organ played a requiem by someone whose name Ellen knew, but was in her present state of mind completely unable to recall. The light was soft and vaguely lavender; how odd it is that everything always looks lavender in churches, she thought. In soft, melodious cadence, the minister spoke about the mystery of the human soul and how we are stricken when a good man, beloved by so many, chooses to die before his time. Robb hadn't known how valuable he was. He had lost faith in himself. He will be missed. He will be remembered for his good works. He has entered eternal life.

Julie is sobbing softly. Everything here is soft, Ellen thought, even the carnations lying in a spray of tender leaves upon the coffin. Only let it be over quickly.

Then it was over. Outside on the way to the cars, people went to Julie; and some, faintly embarrassed because they had known Ellen as Mrs. MacDaniel, and not sure just what tone their condolences should now assume, came over to her.

The younger Fowler murmured, “A terrible shock,” and shook hands.

“If there's anything I can do for Julie,” said Mrs.
Harte, “such a lovely young thing … So hard for her.”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much. You're all so very kind. Thank you.”

They drove through bright sunshine to the cemetery, where into a respectful hush, more sonorous words were spoken. And behind all these listening faces, Ellen thought, the same question tantalizes: Why? Why Robb MacDaniel? Hushed feet then trod the grass and departed. In the cars going home, they will be trading guesses. There must be something.… an illness? An “affair”? Well, it's of no concern to Robb MacDaniel anymore.

By the second month after a funeral, another phase begins. Letters of condolence have been received and acknowledged. Floral gifts have long ago withered and been discarded. Telephone calls have tapered off. Work is resumed.

Julie had declared, reasonably or not, that she was not going to return to the newspaper. There, inevitably, she would encounter Andrew and Max; that was asking too much of herself. Instead, she would double her hours at the school of journalism and be finished all the sooner.

“That part is not a bad idea,” Ellen said in discussion with Philip. “It's the rage and grief that I worry about. They're gnawing away at her.”

“Did you read through the whole letter Andrew sent her?”

“Yes, it was really eloquent, a renewed explanation,
an apology, and a love letter. Quite moving. I'm sorry she tore it up. At some later time, who knows but what she might reconsider?”

“I doubt it. In her mind, that article is too firmly linked with Robb's death.”

“Not in your mind, though?”

“No. Too simplistic for me. What about you? Do you still believe it? You knew him better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” Ellen said.

They were planting tulip bulbs, and Philip was on his knees. Now he looked up. “I called the paper yesterday,” he told her. “Thought maybe I'd say a few words to Andrew.”

“What on earth did you want to say?”

“I called just to be friendly. Or see how the land lay. I don't know. Just a hunch.”

“But you just said—”

“I thought maybe I'd find out what he knew, whether there's anything more about Robb.”

“I really wish you hadn't done it, Philip. We should ‘put this behind us,' as the saying goes. I've done it, as much as I ever will, which isn't all that much, I admit. But for Julie, it's entirely different.”

“No need to worry. I learned nothing. Andrew has left. He's left the paper and gone north somewhere. New York, Chicago, Boston—nobody knows. He threw everything up on account of Julie. Max says it's a pity. The boy's talented. He'd make a great foreign correspondent. Very learned. Knows history. A pity.”

Ellen took the last bulb from the box and stood up,
sighing that she must be getting old. “Why should a little work like this be tiring?”

“Because your mind's tired. You think you're over all the trouble, but you're not. It takes time.”

“Sometimes I wonder about that fellow Eddy. In some ways he was a very poor influence.”

“Not so. Robb was too positive to let anybody influence him that strongly.”

“Anyway, one good thing did happen because of Eddy. The Wheatley place. Whenever we go there and see Penn working in the greenhouse, having a life, I think of Devlin and that means Eddy, of course.”

“Can you believe Devlin's new gift? Another million for a pool?”

“Well, he's got fresh money, loads of it, and he wants to make a fresh comeback. He'll be bigger than ever unless he gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar and collapses again.”

Philip laughed. “Cynical remarks like that don't fit your personality, although I must say I agree. But still I have to marvel at the complexity of things, that such a man can also do so much good, for whatever reason. Say, what time is it? Aren't we taking Julie out to dinner?”

“Yes, better hurry. I wish she was going out with a new man instead of just with us, poor kid. But she isn't interested in any. She hates Andrew and still doesn't ever look at anybody else.”

“Again, the complexity of the human animal,” said Philip, dusting earth from his hands. “The older I get,
the less I understand. There! I hope the rabbits don't get at these again next spring.”

The tulips had long since bloomed and faded, roses were flourishing in their circular plot, and Robb was dead almost a year when Eddy Morse rang the doorbell one evening. The visit was certainly unexpected. They had not seen him since soon after the funeral when he had paid a call on Julie, then still staying at the house. Indeed they had expected probably never to see him again.

Now he apologized. “Am I interrupting your dinner?”

Ellen, wondering what he could want, assured him that he was not. “We're just having our coffee outdoors. It's so cool. Come join us.”

“Don't mind if I do. Actually, I should be talking to Julie instead of you”—this with a nod to Ellen—“but on second thought, I decided that what I have to say might be too much for her. She was so crazy about her dad.”

Under the awning, they sat down, and in some suspense, waited.

“Nice little property you've got here,” Eddy began, accepting a cup. “Good neighborhood. As they always say, location is the name of the game.”

“What is it that you don't want to tell Julie?” asked Ellen.

“Well, here's the thing in a nutshell. I got to thinking, well naturally we knew Robb was stone broke, but so was I. Not far out of the woods myself now. But still,
is that a reason to kill yourself? That's the farthest thing from my mind, you'd better believe it.”

“I believe it,” she said, her glance having clearly revealed the original Eddy with his thick gold bracelet watch, gold cuff links, and fine British blazer. “And what is it that you don't want to tell Julie?” she repeated, curbing impatience.

“Okay. This is no fun, believe me. But maybe it'll be better if you do know. You must have been racking your brains to figure it out. Like me. I've been racking mine ever since. So, okay. Three days ago I got the idea of dropping in on young Fowler. I used to deal with him when they represented Devlin, but that firm didn't want to represent him anymore, didn't want to dirty their hands, I guess, and I don't work for Devlin anymore. He's got a whole new crew. Anyway, I got the idea that Fowler might have a clue. Don't know what took me so long to think of it, but I did. First Fowler didn't want to tell me, but I told him if there was anything to know, the family, Julie I mean, should know it. So he agreed. Anyway, he knows I can be trusted.”

Eddy lit a cigarette, puffed, and hesitated. Dusk was moving through the trees. The setting and the suspense were eerie. And finally, he began.

“Robb left a note on their desk. It didn't say much, only that he wasn't coming back, was sorry, would explain later. ‘Later' was when the letter arrived two days afterward, the one mailed from the hotel. Seems that he was in big, big trouble that he hadn't told anybody about. Seems that when the Danforth Bank went under and they examined all the records, they found a bunch
of Robb's notes, signed when he borrowed, signed under oath. Where you have to list your assets, you know? Well, his assets weren't really his assets. They were all encumbered by debt—other notes. His net worth wasn't worth much. So that's perjury, you see.”

Perjury. A criminal offense. Ellen's ears throbbed. And the silence throbbed.

“It was just the last year, toward the end, that he did it. He got desperate. Can you believe it, as well as I know Robb—we were buddies, you know that, Ellen—I never knew how many investments he had. He had ten times what I had. No, more than that. He was buying stuff all over the state, and out of it. Buying with shoestrings. And now comes the worst. No wonder he was half-crazy. And I haven't told you everything yet. Toward the end, too, he was so desperate, that he started submitting false bills, Fowler said, faking his billable hours.”

“He couldn't possibly have thought they wouldn't find out!” exclaimed Philip.

“Of course he knew they would. It would have taken a few months, that's all. But he admitted it right off the bat. Confessed. Asked pardon.”

Out of the dusk, a figure emerged, a vision so real that Ellen actually felt its presence: the young man with the face of Lincoln, or Robert E. Lee, the young man, idealistic and eloquent and simple. And as if he had himself seen this vision, Philip laid his firm hand upon her trembling hand.

“Yes,” Eddy said, “I could cry for my friend Robb. What a waste! Funny thing, that's what Fowler said,
too. He said Robb should have asked them for help at the beginning. They would have tried, anyway, would have done their best. Very decent people, those Fowlers and Harte. Very decent. Men with hearts in their chests.”

“I've wondered,” Ellen said slowly, “why, having decided to take this awful step, he didn't leave a letter for Julie.”

“Why that's easy!” Eddy cried. “He didn't know what to say.”

“Yes,” Philip agreed. “What words can there be for what he was feeling that day? All those emotions, love, shame, regret, fear—all of them at once.”

“Fear,” said Eddy. “The least he could hope for was disbarment. And that itself would have killed him.”

Ellen asked, “What about Julie now? This will be yet another blow. I can't imagine how I'll tell her.”

For a few moments, no one spoke. And in her head there developed a contest between grief and anger: how could Robb have done this to Julie—and to himself? A man of his intelligence! But Philip would say that intelligence is not always the answer. A thousand tiny strokes of fortune touch us on our way, to move or change us.

“Perhaps,” Eddy said, “I should do it after all. Yes, I can do it if you want me to. You see, about that boyfriend of hers, actually he protected Robb, or tried to. Fowler told me that after Robb was gone, Rufus Max—he knows Rufus Max, you see—told him he had known about the perjured bank statements. I have no idea how he knew, but then guys in that business, it's their business
to know. So he told Fowler, but he, Max, didn't print it because I guess Julie's boyfriend urged him not to, with the suicide and all. I guess the boy couldn't bring himself to tell Julie about it, especially since it hadn't happened yet. It's going to come out anyway, only these investigations, the courts, drag stuff out forever.” Eddy paused. “So you want me to talk to Julie?”

Philip said quickly, “Yes, since you're willing. There'll be plenty of talk between Julie and us afterward. This will be no small shock for her.”

“I'll say.” Eddie nodded. And then he demanded, “Hey, level with me. Was it any of my fault? Did I drag him into stuff he wasn't made for? God, I hope not. I loved that guy.”

“Nobody ‘dragged' anybody,” Ellen said gently. “So no, you didn't. He did it himself. Or else those thousand little strokes of fortune did it, the ones Philip just mentioned.”

“I guess maybe that's how I'll put it to Julie. Good God, I remember buying dolls for her. And when Robb brought her to play tennis. She was a great player, that kid. She was her dad's shadow, I always said. God, I hope she won't take this too hard. I hope she won't be sore at him.”

There were tears in Eddy's eyes. And still very gently, Ellen assured him that she would not be.

“She'll try to understand, Eddy. And in the end, she will understand, as much as any of us can.”

“So it comes down to this,” Philip said a few days later, “Andrew really couldn't help himself, could he? He
knew there were serious charges bound to come to light, but he didn't dare reveal them. And he also knew what all this meant to you, so he was caught in the middle, wasn't he? You do see that, don't you?”