“Thank you.”

She disappeared inside room six long enough for me to have a little guilt pang about my motives in wanting Ethel to keep fighting. I mean, putting aside my housing problem, Ethel’s pain was under control, she was lucid, she had visitors, and she did have some paperwork to sign – so why shouldn’t she hang in there? That’s what her daughter, Elizabeth, would want her to do.

Mrs. Knight reappeared and said to me, “She’s waiting for you.”

I moved toward the door, then turned back to Diane Knight and said to her, “You are a saint to work here.”

A sweet, embarrassed smile passed quickly over her stern lips, and she turned and walked away.

I entered Ethel’s room and gently pulled the door closed behind me.

God, how I hate deathbeds.

It was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.

The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.

On the sky blue wall facing the bed was a television, and sitting on the tile floor, near the window, were a few floral arrangements and a small potted Norfolk pine.

All in all, not a bad anteroom to the Great Beyond.

Ethel was sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall, and didn’t seem to notice me. I moved to her bedside and said, “Hello, Ethel.”

She turned her head toward me and, without a smile, replied, “Hello, Mr. Sutter.” I recalled that Ethel reserved her smiles for when she had the opportunity to correct you on something.

I said to her, “Please call me John.”

She didn’t respond to that, and said, in a clear voice, “Thank you for coming,” then asked, “Are you looking after my house?”

“I am.” I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

“All right today.”

“Good… you look good.” In fact, in the full sunlight streaming over her, she looked ashen and emaciated, but there was still some life in her eyes. I noticed, too, a touch of rouge on her gray cheeks.

I hadn’t seen her in years, but we’d communicated by letter when necessary, and she’d been good at forwarding my occasional mail to me every few months. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards.

She asked me, “Have you tended to my garden?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“I never let you or George in my garden,” she reminded me. “Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

“Right. But I’ve learned to garden in England.”

“Nonsense.”

“Well… right.”

She said to me, “You’ve been back for over a week.”

“Right…” I explained, “I would have come sooner, but I thought you might be coming home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Don’t-”

“Why don’t you sit? You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I sat in the armchair beside her bed and handed her the Teddy bear. “I brought this for you.”

She took it, looked at it, made a face, then set it beside her. I guess she didn’t love it after all.

I was batting about zero for three or something, so I picked another subject and asked her, “How are they treating you here?”

“All right.”

“Is there anything I can see to?”

“No.”

“Well, if you think of anything-”

“What is the purpose of your return from London, Mr. Sutter?”

“John.”

“Mr. Sutter. Why have you returned?”

Well, Ethel, I need to get my things out of your house before you die and the Iranian guy changes the locks.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well, I came to see you, of course.” This sounded a bit insincere, so I added, “Also, I have some business in New York, and I thought this might be a good time to recover some of my personal effects from the gatehouse.”

“You’d better hurry. That Iranian man won’t let you stay. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“You should speak to him. My life tenancy allows for a reasonable amount of time to have my property removed.” She asked, rhetorically, “But who knows what he considers reasonable.”

“Let me worry about that, if the time comes.”

“Augustus should have been more specific.”

Well, not too specific, Ethel. I’d actually seen the document in question, and it names both George and Ethel, of course, and mentions their loyal and faithful service over the years. George was certainly loyal and faithful, and Ethel was… well, apparently a good lay. I often wondered if George understood the reason for Augustus’ generosity. Anyway, I said to Ethel, “It’s premature to-”

She interrupted, “Have you seen your wife?”

“My ex-wife. No, I have not. Have you?”

“She stopped by yesterday.”

“Then you know I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman.”

I rolled my eyes.

“She looks so beautiful.”

I was getting a little annoyed, so I replied, “Many men seem to think so.”

She ignored that and said, “I think she would like to see you.”

I didn’t inquire as to why Ethel thought that. I changed the subject and said to her, “I opened a jar of your crabapple jelly, and it was wonderful. Would you like me to bring you a jar?”

“No, thank you. But see that Elizabeth gets them.”

“You’ll want some when you go home.”

“And give her all the vegetables I canned last fall.”

I nodded, but she was staring straight ahead, the way dying people do who suddenly catch a brief glimpse into eternity. She then said, as if to herself, “What will become of my harvest?”

I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “How is Elizabeth?”

Ethel came back to earth and replied, “She’s fine.”

“Good.” I’d also heard she was divorced, but ladies of Mrs. Allard’s generation would not mention that. I said, “I need to call her.” I was about to explain that Elizabeth needed to do an inventory of personal property and look over the paperwork, but that might confirm to Ethel that she had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, so I recovered nicely and said, “I need to arrange with her for your home health care.”

She was getting annoyed with my pretense that she was going home, and quite frankly, so was I. She said, “I am dying, Mr. Sutter. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Well, I’m-”

“That’s why I’m in hospice, and not the hospital.”

“Right.”

“What I need you to do is to take care of my affairs after I’m gone.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you.” She added, “I won’t keep you here very long.”

I wanted to say, “Take your time,” but instead I said, “I’ll be here as long as necessary.” I added, “And thank you for your hospitality.”

She reminded me, “You were, and I assume still are, a paying guest. A boarder.”

“Right.” Check’s in the mail, Ethel. I mean, talk about the world turning upside down. Upward mobility in America can be fast, but downward mobility is always a free fall.

Anyway, to put her mind at ease, I said, “If you’ll let me know how much the rent is, I’ll deposit the amount in your account.”

She replied, “The same rent as you were paying ten years ago.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“You may deduct that amount from your bill.”

“There’s no charge for any legal work I may need to perform on your behalf.”

“Thank you.” She asked me, “How long are you staying here, Mr. Sutter?”

Even if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t tell anyone who was in contact with Susan.

“Mr. Sutter? Are you going back to London? Or are you home?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Does that mean you may stay?”

“It means I’m not certain.”

She detected a note of annoyance in my tone, so she changed the subject and asked me, “Is my will in order?”