Good Provider

Marjory flew home to St. Louis for her father’s funeral, depressed about him, his life and the damage he had done to her, and then to her younger sister after she’d left. Her father, Lionel Brandon McCall IV, had been abusive and incestuous, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it; mom didn’t want to face the truth, make a scene, break up the marriage, or end up alone. So she let her daughters be molested and abused? Marjory burned in knotted up anger just thinking about it. She loved her mother, but years of counseling hadn’t soothed the anger; it had only given her some distance. Her father was dead; how could she not spit on him, as she passed the casket?

Her younger sister Laurel picked her up at the airport; her niece Noel was in the back seat. The niece, about seven, had a hauntingly innocent face, yet hard, with an unspeakable sadness to it. Marjory again knotted up in anger. She had come back for Laurel’s wedding, many years ago, maybe eight; Laurel had married an angry man, abusive also no doubt, Kent Stoddard was his name. Laurel was now separated from Kent Stoddard, Marjory knew, and this had happened recently. Marjory also knew that there was a chance she, Laurel, had married the SOB because he was like her father. The feeling, in their little car, was that they were trapped in life. Laurel and Marjory were not speaking easily; the past weighed on them. Father was dead, but he had put them in the jail of their own feelings, and now even the little girl looked like death warmed over. They fell into silence and rolled into what was now mother’s driveway; she would be living alone.

Lionel Brandon McCall IV had owned a securities firm and was respected in the community. Charges that he was an incestuous molester would have been met with powerful lawyers bullying either girl; it was clear their mother would not be on their side. Neither had tried; they had kept silent until they were able to leave, and an air of bitter recrimination hung around the house now that he was gone. How could mother have done this to them? Surely she knew about it, yet she did nothing? Surely she saw her own daughters, crying and angry, leaving home way too early? Mother, ashen-faced and tearful, accepted their condolences and told them the details of the funeral, which would be held in two hours, more or less. She made coffee. The house was well-decorated with the trappings of wealth, and flowers had been arriving from friends, relatives, and colleagues nationwide, none of whom suspected Marjory and Laurel’s secret. An icy glaze remained on the sidewalk from last week’s winter storm; Lionel Brandon McCall IV had slipped on it, fell on his own back porch, and hit his head on a low retaining wall, killing himself instantly at the age of 63; at least this was the story Marjory had gotten over the phone from both Laurel and mother. The ice had remained for days, untypical of the St. Louis area, but not unheard of. The walkway and the roads were now heavily salted and had been shoveled by helpful neighbors, but slippery patches awaited in parking lots and driveways across town.

Laurel and Noel had actually been visiting when it happened, mother said; she was playing “Sorry!” with Noel on the living room floor, when Laurel came in to say that father was sprawled in the back. Marjory instantly imagined that Laurel had actually done it; Laurel was not beyond that. Pushed the old vulture while he was off-balance, and killed him. It was possible; Laurel also was clearly knotted up, held in suspended anger, not showing emotion, pretending to be mourning, when in fact, who knew what she was thinking? Marjory, the older sister, felt guilt wash over her; in leaving home, she had left poor Laurel to the same cruel fate she had suffered. She had done nothing. She could do nothing but leave. She was trapped; either way, everyone lost, it seemed, no matter what she did, and the best thing was to just get away.

The funeral was held in a central place where parking was easy in spite of the ice, and people arrived in carloads. Good words, words like “good provider,” were said about Lionel Brandon McCall IV, but Marjory was stuck on the “good provider” phrase. Her anger welled up inside of her. She almost stood up and yelled at the pastor, who was going on about rewards in the world beyond. Sitting close to her mother and sister, she still had a space next to her, on the other side, and was surprised that Noel had come to sit there at her side for part of the service. She looked into Noel’s sad eyes. Life had to win, she thought; they couldn’t stay trapped forever. They had to be rid of these terrible men, Kent Stoddard included, and find somebody who would treat them better. Somebody had to show poor Noel the way. Noel, looking straight forward, betrayed no emotion; perhaps she agreed. It was snowing outside; the snow landed on the slippery ice, where ice remained, and hid the dangerous spots.
Mother and her daughters accepted condolences in a small line after the service, and stood talking as mourners passed by, many of whom Marjory didn’t know, or barely recognized, in the case of some cousins, aunts and uncles who lived in the area. So tragic, they said, that he fell on the steps, in the ice, died so early, had many good years left, but couldn’t enjoy them. Bile rose slowly in Marjory’s throat. She kept her eye on Noel, but Noel was also clearly watching her.

A little later her opportunity came. Mother had been cornered by a man with the proclivity to talk her ear off; Noel went to the bathroom. Marjory followed her. In the bathroom she asked Noel if she was alright, and she said she was. “Sounds like a terrible accident,” Marjory said.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Noel said, straightforward, plain and simple. No emotion, no sobs, no guilt.

“You saw it happen?” Marjory asked.

“Yes,” she said. Now her eyes were fiery, defiant, enraged. She had seen her own grandfather killed, if she was to be believed. “Don’t tell anyone, please, Aunt Marjory.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Marjory answered. The girl, now a little upset, ran out of the room before she started crying. Marjory waited a minute, but followed. What to do now?

Her first thought, as she reentered the funeral home lobby, with its sober organ, was that either Laurel or Mother had to have done it deliberately, most likely Laurel. Marjory could understand a murderous rage, when one lived in the same town, when one had a daughter who visited the house, perhaps had to visit the house, to keep up relations with mother, or just to keep up. Kent Stoddard had left; as violent as he was, they relied upon him; now they had to go back home, for whatever reason, and the old man had probably gone after Noel. I’d kill him too, Marjory thought, yet seethed at the pretense of a funeral, where everyone was going on about “good provider,” and little danishes were being served.

Sounds of coffee cups on saucers and pleasant conversation filled the room when she reentered, but tears welling up made it difficult for her to concentrate, or even see clearly. She was only in town until tonight, when a late flight took her back to the west coast; her time was limited. She had to corner Laurel, and her chance came toward the end, when they were cleaning up, and Laurel stepped out back for a cigarette. Marjory followed her. Noel was inside being occupied by her grandmother, putting dishes in the sink. The back porch looked out on a busy but icy street; cars skidded at the edges where snow covered ice, and it appeared that one could drive. An early winter sun was already setting at the edges of the horizon. Marjory summoned up all her strength.

“Noel says it wasn’t an accident,” she said.

“It wasn’t,” said Laurel, looking straight at her, blowing smoke the other way. “She pushed him.”

“Noel?”

“Don’t say a word. I don’t know why I’m even telling you. Yes, she did it. She pushed him, he fell, and it killed him.”

“But…” Marjory was stunned.

“There’s something you ought to know,” Laurel continued. “Kent Stoddard was a violent bastard. But he was our protection. He kept the old man at bay. Maybe you didn’t see that. But once he left, we had a problem.”

“Laurel,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Listen, Marjory. It’s over now. She had courage that we didn’t have. Yes, she’ll have to live with it. Yes, she’ll suffer guilt. But what’s the difference? Was there really a choice?”

Her voice tailed off, crying, knotted up inside. True, in a sense, the girl had just done something that maybe should have been done long ago. Laurel ground up her half-smoked cigarette in an ice patch, composed herself, and went back in; Marjory was on her plane within hours.

(2-09)