The Dearly Departed (32 page)

“Or two. Whatever time you could donate.”

“Couldn't you just rent the movie? Or tune in to Court TV?”

“We could, I suppose . . .”

“Besides, I wasn't a prosecutor or a litigator. Except for moot court, I've never been before a judge. I've never practiced law outside my father's company.”

Fran Pope's smile revealed that she had done her research and treasured the knowledge that Emily Ann's father was the Grandjean of Big John, Inc. “That must be very interesting—corporate law? Exercise law?”

“My official title was consultant, but my hours were pretty flexible. I had a lot of demands outside of work.”

“Political, I'm sure.”

“
All
political. Until last week.”

“Of course. When the tragedy occurred.”

“Tragedy?”

“Miles Finn! I understand his son was your campaign manager.”

Emily Ann liked this interpretation; liked the image of her campaign derailed by an act of God. She nodded sadly. “I couldn't ask him to go on. It was like the air going out of a balloon, and it all seemed so pointless after the phone call came. How do any of us know how much time we have left and how we should spend it? I mean, look what it's done to Fletcher: He's virtually dropped out of society and taken up residence in an unventilated cabin on an obscure lake.”

“Like the Unabomber,” said Mrs. Pope.

“Except,” said Emily Ann—and with this she couldn't help but flash a superior smile—”other than quitting his job and leaving my campaign in ruins, he's displaying no antisocial behavior. He's more of a person now, no question. I had a terrible time during the months we were on the road together establishing any kind of intimacy. And you know I don't mean in the physical or sexual sense.”

Mrs. Pope waited. It was a delicate matter that she and Christine Ouimet had already spent a good deal of time speculating over. They both had grown children, living in cities, sleeping in queen-size beds. Among young people, cohabitation could mean splitting the rent and nothing more. “It makes perfect sense, even to an old fuddy-duddy like me: You and Mr. Finn are colleagues, presumably friends, and what would be the alternative if you wanted to visit? The King's Nite Motel? It's the last place any of us would stay. It's always a dilemma—where to put our out-of-town relatives.” From her canvas bag Mrs. Pope brought forth a cellophane package. “Flatbread?”

“Maybe a half,” said Emily Ann, reaching over and breaking a corner off one seeded cracker.

“He's a very attractive young man,” said Mrs. Pope. “There's something intense about him that I think a young woman would find compelling.”

“I'm sleeping in the guest room,” said Emily Ann. “In case that was what you were asking.”

“No! Of course I'm not. But I will confess something naughty on my part, and that's my ulterior motive: There are several single professional males in the Players who would be delighted to meet you. As for your sleeping arrangements, it never crossed my mind, nor would I ever ask anyone a direct question about her romantic attachments.”

“I'm much too busy for romantic attachments,” said Emily Ann. “And that applies to Fletcher. Luckily, we're in the same place right now.”

“I understand completely: same place, separate bedrooms.”

“I meant figuratively, emotionally.”

Mrs. Pope nodded and chewed her flatbread, waiting for amplification.

“I don't want to jinx it,” said Emily Ann. “But Fletcher and I are working through some problems.”

Mrs. Pope smiled and nudged Emily Ann with an elbow. “In the old days, when I was single, it served the cause to introduce a little competition.”

“In what sense?”

“Men.
Other
men. Actors, for example. We choose our members carefully, by invitation only—”

“You're kidding! By invitation and not auditions?”

“Certainly auditions. But that's within our circle, after they've been invited to join. We tried open casting calls, of course, but we weren't happy with the results. A number of people tried to sign up because they thought it would launch them into King George society. And once in a while we'd get someone insufferable who'd ushered in summer stock and thought he could show the locals how it's done. And there's the occasional man who thinks it's a socially acceptable way to kiss and nuzzle a woman who isn't his wife.”

“Really? You think some get into it just for the sex?”

Mrs. Pope leaned in to confide, “Not sex per se. But we've had situations where two characters are in bed together.”

“Nude?”

Mrs. Pope closed her eyes.

“I take that as a yes?”

“It started with a male director, who's since moved back to Long Island, who felt that the woman's bra straps undermined the whole scene.”

“Did it cause a big stir?”

Mrs. Pope said, “For better or for worse, it was our best box office ever.”

“What was the play?”

“
Same Time Next Year.
Do you know the premise? Two characters, married to other people, have an annual liaison—much of it under the sheets. Accordingly, we closed our rehearsals, which of course was all the publicity we needed for many years. We'd be in the black if we continued in that PG-13 vein, but it wasn't to be.”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Pope crushed a piece of cracker and threw the crumbs at a brood of pigeons. After a beat, she said, “Because our trailblazer died.”

“Sunny's mother? She was the one under the sheets?”

“Pulled up to
here.
” She traced a line from her left armpit to her right. “What was underneath the sheets . . . well, no one really knew except her co-star.”

“Which was who?”

“Bill Sandvik for a few weeks. Then, after Petra Sandvik put her foot down, Bill Kaufman.”

“Really? His wife made him quit the play? In this day and age?”

“It was almost too perfect a casting job,” explained Mrs. Pope. “Bill, the first Bill—well, the chemistry between him and Margaret may have been a bit too evident. They wanted to rehearse
au naturel,
ostensibly to get comfortable with each other's bodies. Luckily, by opening night, Bill Kaufman was able to rekindle the sparks.” She sighed. “It was a turning point for us. There had never been any scandal associated with the Players, and suddenly we were the subject of rumors.”

“And it was Mrs. Batten's fault? Is that what I'm hearing in your voice?”

“Margaret was very talented. No question. And willing to take that particular artistic risk.”

“More than once?”

“When she first came on board, she was a shy widow, unworldly. Not liberated in any sense. And certainly not enjoying any kind of social life.”

“So then what happened? She came out of her shell? I've heard of that—people who can turn into someone else onstage. Shy people who come to life and stutterers who can speak fluently.”

“I was—and I mean this sincerely—very fond of Margaret. I honestly believe she was a sweet woman, and very kind. People responded to her. Men were drawn to her initially because of that.” Mrs. Pope pressed her lips together and turned back to the pigeons.

“Initially drawn to her?” repeated Emily Ann. “And then what?”

Mrs. Pope said, “You're a modern woman. I think you can fill in the blank.”

“This was before she was engaged to Fletcher's father, though, right?”

“I'd rather not get into it. Margaret considered me her friend, and friends don't say unkind things about each other, especially after one has passed away.”

Emily Ann asked, “Are you saying she slept around?”

“How did we even get on this subject? All I wanted to do was invite you to join the Players. Now I feel like a gossip. And, worse, a prig. What you may be hearing in my voice is my conviction that people should respect their marriage vows.”

“But she wasn't married.”

“I meant the men.”

“She fooled around with married men?”

Mrs. Pope began studying the tennis game in front of her. “Neither goes to the net,” she said.

“Wasn't she a little old to be running around?”

“Fifty-seven. I'd prefer to drop the subject.”

“Did Fletcher's father know any of this?”

“Miles Finn—” Mrs. Pope stopped herself.

“Say what you were going to say. I won't tell Fletcher. Or anyone.”

“Miles Finn and Margaret Batten had a bond. Whatever forays they made into the dating scene, they eventually returned to some kind of understanding: They were each other's backup or, if you'll forgive me, they met each other's physical needs during the dry spells. Which is to say, it was like an open marriage without benefit of clergy.”

“Did Sunny know about her mother's sex life?”

“We don't think so. After all, they shared a bedroom until Sunny went away to college.”

“Fletcher thinks Sunny is his half-sister,” said Emily Ann. “He's getting their DNA tested if he can talk Sunny into it.”

“We're all wondering how we missed the obvious. Well, yes we do know: Sunny went away blond and came back looking like Miles Finn reincarnated. And then the son walked onto the scene! Most of us almost fainted at the graveside. And suddenly the double funeral made sense. We knew they were a couple of some sort and that there was a very long history. Margaret once confided to me that Miles didn't take her seriously until other men entered the picture.”

“And was that what she wanted? To marry Miles?”

“We thought so. We were all a little surprised when she continued to see other men, to
entertain
other men at her house after she and Miles went relatively public.”

“How did you know she was entertaining other men?”

“Because.” She stopped. “No one was spying. It was unavoidable. We all play golf—”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“The women in the Players. Margaret's house is just on the other side of the rough, through the bushes on seventeen. It did not require snooping to notice a car parked in her driveway, and who drives what vehicle is no secret in King George.”

Mrs. Pope stood and called sharply to the teenage girl, who was seconds away from kissing her boyfriend over the sagging net. “Alison! Don't you think you've had enough of a workout for one day?”

Alison peered nervously into the sun. “Mrs. Pope?”

“I happen to know she's not supposed to be seeing this boy,” Mrs. Pope said to Emily Ann.

“Okay. It's all yours,” said Alison. “Jason has to get back to work anyway.”

“He dropped out of school,” Mrs. Pope murmured. “He was suspended for smoking in class; worse—in a chemistry lab. And he didn't bother to finish the year.”

“How do you know all these details?” asked Emily Ann.

Mrs. Pope looked perplexed. “
Do
I? It's just common knowledge that Jason Bonner was suspended for smoking and didn't go back. I think anyone in King George would be aware of the bare facts.”

“I see,” said Emily Ann.

“The
Bulletin
has to be very thorough. There's so few of us to cover and so much space to fill.”

“I understand,” said Emily Ann. “I've been on the receiving end of reporters' insatiable appetites for stories.”

“Is that a problem? Because if you were our legal consultant for
Inherit the Wind,
it would be news.”

“Really? On the front page?”

“I can see it now:
CONGRESSIONAL CANDIDATE DIPS HER TOE IN THEATRICAL WATERS
.”

“
Ex
–congressional candidate.”

“Still, you'd be very big news. Candidates pass through all the time, but no one in recent memory has stayed the night. And certainly there's never been an overlap with the Players.”

Emily Ann stood up, bent one leg back and held it firm by the ankle.

“What if it we did it all in one evening?” Mrs. Pope asked. “Two or three hours at the most? Followed by a small dinner party?”

Emily Ann stopped mid-stretch. “I haven't been to a social gathering other than a fund-raiser for practically a year. I hope I could circulate without shaking hands and asking for votes.”

“You'll be the guest of honor. I'll do the introductions, and I'll be sure that there's an eligible bachelor on either side of you. Which means I've just decided: cocktails first, followed by a sit-down dinner with place cards.”

“I don't eat meat,” Emily Ann said.

“Nor do I,” said Mrs. Pope. “At least hardly ever.”

“Do I bring Fletcher?”

“That's up to you. I'd love to meet your parents if they're visiting.”

“They're angry with me right now, my father especially. He didn't want me to run in the first place. He thinks I'm a quitter, and an expensive one.”

“But it wasn't your fault! It's like saying you're responsible for the death of your campaign manager's father. How could you have seen that coming?”

“You're absolutely right,” said Emily Ann. “I only wish Daddy saw it that way.”

Mrs. Pope patted the empty bench beside her. “Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, don't you think? Anytime you feel like talking, you call me. I have three children, and I have wonderful relationships with all of them. I also have very good instincts about what makes people tick, men especially.” She smiled. “After thirty-six years, Ansel still rushes me home from the club on Saturday night.”

Emily Ann sat down again, shuffled the contents of her big green bag, and brought forth an indigo-blue Palm Pilot. She touched her stylus to the screen and poised it over the results. “I'll pencil your dinner in for what night?” she asked.