Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(21)

Politely, stiffly the widow is listening.

In truth, the widow is not listening.

Only dimly does the widow hear the brother-in-law speak for there is a roaring in her ears as of a distant waterfall. Only vaguely is she aware of the mouth moving. A kind of hinge to the mouth, like that of a scavenger bird.

Why is he here? Why is he here with her? This person in all of the world whom she has never trusted. This person who she believes borrowed money from her husband with the tacit understanding on both sides that the money would (probably) not be returned.

The brother-in-law who has expressed an awkward, unwished-for interest in her as if there were a kind of complicity between them. You know—that I know—you will never tell Jim.

Jim! But the husband was called James.

Except at times by the younger brother. With a smirking smile—Jim. Worse yet, Jimmy.

But this is so: she’d never told her husband how his younger brother has had a habit of standing uncomfortably close to her, looming his bulky body over her; he leans his face into hers, hugging her too tightly in greeting or in farewell, so that she is made to feel the unpleasant solidity and heat of his (male) body. How he addresses her in an undertone with a suggestive smile—H’lo Claudie. Been missing you.

Often, at family gatherings, the brother-in-law’s breath smells of whiskey. Warm, gaseous. And his heavy hand falling on her arm as if accidentally.

She has never told her husband. She would have been embarrassed and ashamed to tell her husband. Rather she would keep a disagreeable secret to herself than share it and disturb others.

Her love for her husband had been a protective love, which she did not want to jeopardize. She did not want to be the bearer of upsetting news to her kindly, sweet-natured and trusting husband and had kept many things from him in the long years of their marriage.

She would keep from him now, if she could, the rawness of her grief. She would not want the (deceased) husband to know how she misses him.

She would not want the (deceased) husband to know how she distrusts, dislikes, fears his brother.

In any case (she has told herself) nothing is likely to happen between her and the brother-in-law because she would not allow it to happen.

“You’re looking very pale, Claudia. We all hope you’re getting enough sleep.”

At this she smiles ironically. Enough sleep! There could be only enough sleep if she shut her eyes forever.

“Sure I can’t fix you a drink? I think I’ll have another—just a little . . .”

The brother-in-law is in his mid-fifties, several years younger than the (deceased) husband and of the widow’s approximate age. He has made a show of being a devoted family man but his life has been carefully arranged so that he spends as little time with his family as possible. Solid-bodied, big-armed, despite his slightly hunched shoulders he has a ruddy golfer’s face and the manner of one eager to take charge with his very hands if necessary.

The widow can see the hands getting a grip—on her.

As if she were a golf club. An instrument to be deftly deployed by one who will take charge.

“The real estate market isn’t great at the present time—I acknowledge that. Mortgage rates are high. But with careful marketing, and sound investments after the sale of the property . . .”

The brother-in-law’s eyes are damp, inquisitive. Moving over the widow’s body like swarming ants as he pours himself another drink, and drinks.

“. . . of course, it has been a terrible shock. You have had a trauma. Which is why . . .”

The brother-in-law is confident that he will win over the widow. Her silence is a goad to his ingenuity. Her politeness, her courtesy, her habit of deference are a goad to his loquacity. It isn’t clear to him—it isn’t clear that it much matters—whether the widow is near-catatonic with grief or is simply stiff-backed with female stubbornness in opposition to him precisely because he has the very best advice to give to her.

That is how women are—perverse!

In his professional life the brother-in-law has been an investment banker. He is not an investment banker now—(the widow isn’t sure if he “has his own business” or is “between jobs”)—but he retains the skills, the information, the experience of investment banking or at least the insider vocabulary, and he is after all the widow’s brother-in-law, to whom the widow might naturally turn in this time of distress.

(Indeed the widow has been behaving strangely since the husband’s death: keeping to herself, avoiding even her family, her closest relatives and friends. Avoiding him.)

“You know, Jim would want you to confide in me. He’d want you to bring me any questions you have about the estate, finances, death taxes, IRS taxes, putting the house on the market . . .”

But I do not want to put the house on the market.

He will be happy to take on the responsibility of acting as the executor of her husband’s estate, the brother-in-law says. If she wishes. Naming him executor in her place would require just a consultation with her lawyer. Such an arrangement is “very commonly done”—“a very good idea”—when a widow is inexperienced in “money-matters” and has had a bad shock.

“Shall we make a date? An appointment? I can call your lawyer, we can set up a meeting early next week . . .”

The widow scarcely seems to hear. It is true that she is very pale, waxy-pale, her skin exudes a kind of luminescence that makes her appear younger than her age, as her loose, somewhat disheveled hair, streaked with gray, silver, white hairs and falling to her shoulders, gives her a look somewhere between despair and wild elation.