“I believe it is.” I added, “I’ll need to bring you a few documents to review and update, and perhaps a few papers to sign.”

“Don’t wait a week.”

“I’ll come Saturday or Sunday.”

“Sunday is the Sabbath.”

“Right. Saturday or Monday.”

I never quite understood these old Christian socialists. I mean, it wasn’t a pure contradiction of terms, and socialists could certainly be religious – social justice through Jesus – but Ethel was, in some ways, among the last of a dying breed.

I noticed a few magazines on her tray table and saw that none of them were the old lefty magazines she used to read; they were mostly house and garden monthlies and a few local, upscale Gold Coast publications that, as I recalled, chronicled the activities of the rich and famous, the charity balls, grand house restorations, and some goings-on in Manhattan. Maybe Ethel was collecting the names of millionaires for re-education camps when the Revolution came.

Or maybe, by now, in the clarity of approaching death, she’d realized, like everyone else, that in America all change is superficial; the structure remains the same.

Mrs. Knight, as promised, stuck her head in and inquired, “How are we doing?”

Why do hospital people use the first person plural? I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine. Your patient is still dying.” But before I could say that, Ethel replied, “We’re doing fine, Diane. Thank you.”

“Ring if you need anything.”

I needed a Dewar’s and soda. Ring!

Ethel got back to business and informed me, “I have given Elizabeth written instructions for my funeral. See that she follows them.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“See to it.”

“Right.”

“She’s strong-willed, and wants everything her way.”

I wonder who she got that from?

“I’ve picked out my dress. Have her find it.”

“Right.” Apparently, there’s a lot to think about when you’re dying, and I’m not sure I’d be as cool or organized as Ethel was being. Hopefully, I’d drop dead of a heart attack, or get run over by a bus, and let other people worry about the details.

“Also, be sure that Elizabeth speaks to Father Hunnings.”

“I will.” The Right Reverend James Hunnings was, and I guess still is, our parish priest at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. I thoroughly disliked him, and if he were honest, he would say the same about me. I’d driven past St. Mark’s in Locust Valley and noticed that Hunnings still had top billing on the signboard, which didn’t surprise me; this was a good gig in a wealthy parish, and though Episcopalians should be on the endangered species list, there were still enough of us around here to keep Father Hunnings in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

I asked Ethel, “Have you spoken to Father Hunnings?”

She replied, “Of course. He comes almost every day.” She added, “He’s a wonderful man.”

He wouldn’t be saying the same about Ethel after I told him that Mrs. Allard had left the church only five hundred dollars. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I was looking forward to that phone call. Better yet, I’d invite him to the reading of the will. And to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, I leave… pause for effect, smile, continue – five hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, Jim.

“Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”

“Oh… I was… So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”

“She’s well. Have you gone to church?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You should go. Your wife goes.”

“My ex-wife.”

“I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”

“Good. He does a good job.”

“I didn’t like George’s service.”

Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.

Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”

I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.

She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”

I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.

Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”

“Of course.” Poor George.

I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much… but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”

I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.

Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.

Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.”

I wasn’t sure if that masculine pronoun referred to George or Augustus, and I also wondered how they handled love triangles in heaven. I said, “Yes, you will.”

Ethel said to me, or to herself, “I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends and family who went before me.”

I didn’t reply.

On the subject of reunions, Ethel informed me, “Mrs. Sutter would like to see you.”

I feigned confusion and replied, “My mother and I are barely speaking, Mrs. Allard.”

“I’m speaking of your wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

“She’s very disappointed that you haven’t called her.”

This came as a surprise, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Actually, I felt pretty lousy, but I informed Ethel, “The phone works both ways.”

“Mr. Sutter, if I may be personal, I think you should forgive and forget.”

I slipped into my old master/servant tone of voice and said, “Mrs. Allard, I have forgiven and forgotten, and I have no wish to continue on this subject.”

But Ethel did, and since she was in a unique position to say whatever she wanted without consequence, she said to me, “You’re hurting her, and yourself.”

My goodness. Crotchety old Ethel Allard was seeing some sort of celestial light, and was determined to do something good before she got grilled by St. Peter.

Also, on a more earthly level, Ethel knew a thing or two about adultery and the weakness of the flesh, so she gave Susan a free pass on that. In other words, Ethel and Susan had something in common; to wit, they’d both crossed the Do Not Diddle line. These were two very different cases, of course, with far different results, but the bottom line was a pair of men’s shoes under their beds that didn’t belong there.

I was a little annoyed and said to her, hypothetically, “Would George have forgiven you if you-?”

“He did.”

“Oh…” I never thought that George knew about Augustus. Well, George was a forgiving soul, and I’m not. Plus, George got the free housing. I reminded her, “This subject is finished.” I looked at my watch and said, “Perhaps I’d better be going.”

“As you wish.”

I stood, but didn’t leave. Instead, I walked to the window and stared out toward the sinking sun. From here, I could see a glimpse of the Sound between the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the water.

“What do you see?”

I glanced back at Ethel.

“Tell me what you see.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I see sunlight sparkling on the water. I see trees, and the leaves are glistening from the rain. I see the sky clearing, and white clouds blowing across the horizon. I can see the head of Hempstead Harbor, and boats, and I see land across the Sound, and there are flights of gulls circling over the water.”