Three Continents (14 page)

It was Grandfather's father who had built the house on the Island. At that time—around 1910—there had been only a dozen or so summer homes there, all of them like ours, large and comfortable, to accommodate the big families they had in those days. In the winter the houses had been shut up with a caretaker to look after them, and then it must have been very quiet on the Island, with its one street of stores and the rows of fishermen's houses and the dwellings of retired sea captains. But it had soon become a more popular resort, and the big summer houses were turned into hotels and the sea captains' houses were rented out for the season. Just three of the big houses were still owned by the original families, and not many of us came there regularly. Only
Grandfather had spent as much time there as he could—that is, whenever he was on leave from his missions. It meant a lot to him; it was where he spent his vacations as a boy, and I know he loved the Island very much and would have thought it a good place for him to die in.

He was lying on his bed in his own bedroom. Sonya sat beside him in a little low chair. It wasn't so different from when he had lain on my other grandfather's deathbed, except that now it was his own. He still looked very grand, and his hands were folded in the same sculptured way over the sheet. Sonya, Michael, and I stayed with him through the rest of the day and took turns through the night. Sonya was dissolved in an unending stream of tears; her whole life was visibly melting away. Michael and I were dry-eyed. It wasn't that we didn't feel Grandfather's death but that our own life hadn't gone away with his, as Sonya's had. Staying with him all those hours in the silent room, I studied him, and I know Michael did too. We made ourselves consciously look at death; its complete stillness, its absence of life—which made it a presence; that is, Grandfather was no longer there but Death was. Michael probably contemplated a lot on this subject of presence and absence, being and nonbeing—he had a mind for abstract ideas. I didn't, and soon found myself sliding into other thoughts—the hours were long and slow—and I wondered what they were doing at Propinquity now. Were they under the tree listening to the Rawul, was the Rani laying out her tarot pack with Mrs. Schwamm, did Crishi go to the waterfall on his own or had he taken someone with him?

Michael got on the phone to the people who had to be called: Aunt Harriet, Grandfather's only surviving sister; the attorney; the
Times
; official people in Washington; but what took the most time was trying to locate Manton. It seemed he and Barbara had taken off for Spain somewhere, and after Michael managed to reach him, it took Manton a day and a half to get his plane connections. So it happened that the Rawul and his party got there before him. They did us the courtesy of attending Grandfather's funeral—the Rawul himself, Crishi, and two followers. These latter at once relieved the rest of us of all arrangements—they took over in the same efficient way as they had at Propinquity. By the
time Manton finally arrived, the bedrooms in the house had been opened up, and the preparations for the funeral were complete. This was just as well, for Manton was incapable of giving thought to anything except his own grief. He and Grandfather had hardly been on speaking terms for many years, but this was due not to personal animosity—so Manton had once explained to me—but to their being totally different personality types. It did not, Manton told me, detract from his filial feelings in any way, and I must say he proved them now with his abundant tears. He and Sonya rushed into one another's arms, where they clung together; and then Manton went around embracing everyone else including the Rawul and Crishi, so that in a way I was glad Grandfather wasn't there to witness his son's grief for him. Michael stood prudently aside, and when Manton looked around for him, he disappeared. Manton also looked for Lindsay, and when he realized that she hadn't come, he fell around my neck again and thanked God I hadn't taken after my mother but after him and his side of the family.

At the funeral, however, he was controlled and stately. We were not a large group at the graveside—besides the Rawul's party, there was Aunt Harriet, who had flown in from Martha's Vineyard; some local people; an emissary from Washington sent to pay the President's respects; Mr. Pritchett, who was Grandfather's attorney; and Reverend Endicott from the Episcopalian church on the Island. As the principal mourners, Sonya stood between Manton and me, Michael between me and Aunt Harriet. It was more or less as it had been at Grandmother's funeral eight years before. The place was the same—the small maritime cemetery with its very early, very simple graves of fishermen and sailors. It was on slightly higher ground than the rest of the Island, with an unimpeded view, clear above the houses and churches, of an expanse of sky and ocean; and this gave the cemetery the feel of a small craft sailing out into uncharted waters. Michael and I were used to being principal mourners at our grandparents' funerals: Grandfather was the last—besides Grandmother, we had been there for both Lindsay's parents. But I had not felt before as I did now. Perhaps because I was older; perhaps because he had been such a presence—in our lives, as well
as in himself. Even last night he had been there, silent and immobile, but still it was he,
his
corpse. Now there was only the sealed coffin being lowered into the deep-dug grave; and the smell of newly turned earth and of the sea; and the sound of the sea and Sonya's sobs and Reverend Endicott saying dust to dust. Grandfather was the dust he spoke of. There was a cramp in my heart, like some hand had caught and squeezed it. Michael felt the same, I'm sure, but he stood as straight and stiff and dry-eyed as I did, watching the coffin go down.

Manton continued being dignified for the rest of the day. He walked away from the graveside with a slow and measured tread, his hands behind his back; the Rawul walked beside him, with the same tread, and his hands also clasped behind him. Just as Grandfather and the Rawul had looked like two statesmen in high conclave, so did Manton and the Rawul. The man from Washington walked behind them, and at the gate of the cemetery they waited for him and took him with them in the front car to return to the house. I don't know what this man's name was, but I knew he was there from the State Department on official business, and it was fitting that he should be. People like him used to turn up on official business at Grandfather's embassies, always with the same blandly relaxed conversation and exactly calculated schedule. They were very different from Grandfather's own friends in government—senators, cabinet members, or other ambassadors—who had hours to spare and smoked cigars and quoted Henry Adams. I wished it could have been one of those who had been sent, but I guess they were too old now or sick or gone altogether, and only the others were left. Grandfather didn't even know this present President, who was a very different style of man from those he had been friendly with, and I suppose we should have been grateful that anyone had been sent. The Rawul certainly felt gratified by the presence of this emissary and addressed many of his remarks to him—not really saying anything but volleying courteous conversational shots to him, which the emissary deftly returned.

The house on the Island had porches all around it, with white wicker armchairs and summery green cushions, and
light and sea air and sea breezes flowed through it from end to end. The only dark room, wedged between the principal living room and the pantry, was the dining room, where the shutters were usually kept closed to keep the heat and glare out. It was here that we gathered after the funeral for what turned out to be a sort of ritual meal. This was probably due to the presence of an official emissary, a clergyman, and an attorney; and to the Rawul, who conducted himself in a solemn, ceremonial way; and to Aunt Harriet, who, in appearance very much like Grandfather, sat statuesque and stony silent. But it was Manton who put the final, ritual stamp on the occasion. He waited until we were all seated; then very slowly, very deliberately, he went to the head of the table and drew out Grandfather's chair and, for the first time in his life, he sat there in Grandfather's place. He looked down the length of the table and at that moment, surveying his family and guests, he took on Grandfather's authority. Tall, florid, every inch a Wishwell, he appeared at last to be in his proper place.

Sonya sat at the other end of the table. I noticed that she hesitated before sitting down in what had been, after Grandmother's death, her usual chair, and she gave a quick glance around as if she thought someone else with a better right was coming to claim it. When no one did, she quickly hunched herself up in it, a bowed, bundled, humbled little figure very different from the vivacious Sonya Grandfather had so loved. It was harder for her to be here than for anyone else—she only wanted to be lying on her bed, weeping; but of course everyone belonging to our family was expected to sit upright when there was a family occasion to be got through. Aunt Harriet, in the middle of the table between emissary and attorney, was the touchstone of this tradition. Tall and craggy like a male Wishwell, she sat poker stiff in the black silk she wore for summer funerals. For winter ones she wore black wool, and for the in-between weather there was her black crepe. She had attended funerals in every season, having buried her parents, her other brother and two sisters, two husbands (Uncle Greg and Uncle Rob), and her son, Cousin Tom, who had overdosed. In all the years I had known her she had changed very little, just growing more craggy and
gaunt. I don't think she could hear at all anymore, but it didn't make any difference since she had never listened but only delivered her opinions. She was doing it now, and the attorney, Mr. Pritchett, who knew her well, was nodding respectfully, while the emissary, who didn't, felt called upon to respond without noticing that it was superfluous. Manton, at the head of the table, continued to fulfill his function admirably, both taking up threads of conversation and starting new ones when necessary. The Rawul gave him full support, as did clergyman, attorney, and emissary. The only ones who didn't were Sonya, Michael, and me; we didn't want to be there, but somewhere else and on our own. As for Crishi, he played his part and contributed to the conversation when he had to; but at least twice he caught my eye and gave the smallest shrug, and then he looked up and seemed to be imploring the ceiling, “Why do we have to be here? How much longer?” I think he did the same to Michael, who must have been glad, as I was, that Crishi was there with us and knew how we felt.

Manton continued relaxed and assured for the rest of the day. Together with the Rawul, he took the emissary to his plane, and both of them warmly shook his hand and conveyed messages of respect and regard to the President who had sent him. Manton received condolence callers from the Island and put them at ease. He conducted the conversation at dinner as he had at lunch. He was respectfully considerate of Aunt Harriet, reverentially so of Sonya. Sonya too was different. Besides being stricken and tearful, she was apologetic and anxious not to displease. It was the same air and attitude she had had when Grandmother was alive, as of a poor relation or a domestic, recalling what I had heard about her earlier life, in Hong Kong or was it Singapore, where she had made herself indispensable in rich people's houses.

But next day everything changed. In the morning, we—that is, the family—gathered in Grandfather's study to hear Mr. Pritchett read the will. Mr. Pritchett was behind the desk at which Grandfather had worked on his book. Grandfather's papers and the volumes he consulted were still piled up on tables next to it. We had our backs to the windows, but whenever Mr. Pritchett looked up he saw the view—that is, the
ocean—Grandfather had seen whenever he looked up from his papers. Feeling closed in, I turned to glance out at the stretch of beach and the unending ocean with flecks of sailboats on it and of gulls above it. What thoughts had passed through Grandfather's mind as he looked over this view with his eyes the same color as the sea, and some would say, as cold? Aunt Harriet, wearing her hearing aid, was listening keenly to Mr. Pritchett's reading, and sometimes she interrupted him with “Could we have that again, Mr. Pritchett?” And he went back and repeated it in the slow, impartial, careful voice this careful will deserved. Grandfather must have drafted it very meticulously, weighing personal as well as larger considerations, making sure that, apart from some small, fair bequests, nothing went out of the family; that Sonya was financially secure for the rest of her life, and in the place where she felt most comfortable—that is, the house in the city, which was to be hers during her lifetime and Michael's and mine afterward. He didn't leave her this place on the Island because he knew that, without him, she would never come here; he left it to Michael and me, along with the rest of his estate. At that time, to save inheritance tax, people did sometimes pass over their children in favor of their grandchildren, but I don't know if that had been Grandfather's intention. He made no mention of Manton at all. I imagined how, as he wrote these words that Mr. Pritchett was reading, Grandfather had filled himself with the sight of the waves—advancing, breaking, and receding in impartial motion—before writing slowly and what he must have considered impartially: “In passing on to my grandchildren, Michael Samuel Manton Wishwell and Harriet Margaret Maria Wishwell, what has been entrusted to me by my forebears and theirs, I repose my confidence in them that they will act with the discretion, duty, and responsibility their family heritage both demands and deserves.”

By the time we left the library, Manton's face was more flushed than usual, but he kept up his dignified behavior. Still the courteous host, he saw off Aunt Harriet and Mr. Pritchett to the ferry; and when Aunt Harriet said to him in her brusque way, “Well, Manton, we don't know what was in his mind, but he must have had good reason,” Manton did
not say anything, simply held her coat for her to get into, advising her that it might be chilly on the ferry. In saying good-bye to me, Aunt Harriet enfolded me in a hard embrace and in her smell of lozenges, cologne, and the earth she was forever digging in her garden. She pressed me more affectionately than she had ever done before, but I was not surprised. I had already learned from the reading of a previous will—Lindsay's father's, where she and Michael and I got everything—that people's attitude changes both toward the inheritors and the disinherited. That evening, when those of us who remained sat down to dinner, Manton again pulled out Grandfather's chair at the table: Then he hesitated and looked toward Michael, who had already sat down next to Crishi. For a moment it seemed that Manton was offering the place at the head of the table to Michael, as to the person who now had the right to it. But of course Michael had no idea what he meant. So then Manton sat down at the head of the table again, but it was for the last time.