The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ you don’t,” he replied, looking up from his mail. “If she leaves something out, then she’ll have to live with it.”

      “Oh, Dennis, don’t be ridiculous. If I don’t get after her who knows what she’ll wear?”

      “Then she’ll be embarrassed. You’re the one who’s always preaching about natural consequences.”

      Birdie fumed. She knew he was right, but she just couldn’t bring herself to allow her daughter to be poorly turned out for her sister’s funeral. “Whenever someone sees a poorly dressed child, or walks into a messy house, they never blame the father. It’s always the mother who’s thought of as a slacker.”

      “Who cares what anyone thinks?”

      “I care!”

      “You might as well relax and let her be. She’s fifteen. She’s not going to listen to anything you say, anyway.”

      She put her hands up in an arresting position, cutting him off. “We’re not going to get into this right now. I’ve simply too much to do. Could you please just go upstairs and finish your own packing without this big discussion? I already packed your dark blue suit for the funeral. Just pick out some casual clothes. That’s all you have to do.”

      “You never like what I pick out, anyway, so why not finish it yourself?” he muttered, but he shuffled up the stairs, anyway.

      She bit back a retort and turned on her heel to head for the phone. If she didn’t get some space between them quickly the fuse they’d lit would explode. Lately, anytime they were in a room together it was like putting a match near a powder keg. The tension had really started heating up again in the past few days. Ever since Merry’s death.

      Birdie paused to think, Was it only four days ago that Merry had died?

      It was a night much like any other night. There had been no premonition of trouble to come. Birdie had always thought she would somehow sense when a loved one was dying, especially someone as close as a sister. She was a physician, after all. She expected that she’d develop some intuition as to when death was imminent. Apparently not, she thought, chagrined. She hadn’t suspected a thing as she crept under the sheets, yawned and murmured good-night to her husband before falling into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

      The call from Rose woke her just after 11:00 p.m. Merry’s lungs had filled again with the current bout of flu and she was having trouble breathing. Complications weren’t unusual for Merry. Her lungs had been damaged as a child, making her a high-risk patient. Her doctor had upped her medication and was on his way but Rose wanted to call Birdie for help.

      Birdie had risen promptly, dressed, made a pot of coffee and placed a call to her colleague to cover her morning appointments in case she was late getting back. It didn’t take long, not more than forty minutes, to get on the road. When she knocked on the door of the Season family home not even four hours later, Birdie had known instantly that she was too late. Rose met her with grief etched across her drawn face and red-rimmed eyes. Even in her shock, Birdie noticed the calm, even serene cadence to Rose’s voice.

      Birdie, our Merry is gone. I know, I know…It was all very sudden and there was nothing that could be done. It caught all of us by surprise. It was her time and she was ready. There, there…It was peaceful, really it was. You know our Merry…. She died with a smile on her face.

      Birdie reached a shaky hand up to wipe the tears from her cheek. That was four days ago and she still couldn’t believe her sister was dead. In her opinion, she was allowed to slip away. Rose should have called her to Evanston the minute Merry’s flu worsened. The doctor should have admitted her to the hospital at the first sign of fluid in the lungs. Fury, guilt and sorrow twisted in Birdie’s heart as she wrestled with the issue that kept her awake at night and shortened her temper during the day.

      If only she had been faster—perhaps skipped making the phone call or that pot of coffee, if she’d pushed the speed limit on the way down—she might have been able to save her.

      

      Jillian DuPres Cavatelli Rothschild Season reached above her head with a shaky hand and buzzed for the steward. Most of the other passengers were slowly becoming alert, having eaten and napped. But the plane was a mess. The stewards had done their best, but eight hours of togetherness was getting very old and the interior of the enormous plane looked as tired as the 178 passengers felt.

      She buzzed for the steward once again. A handsome blond young man in a horrid navy-and-burgundy striped shirt sauntered down the narrow aisle to her seat and mustered a tired smile. He had long, curly lashes that any model would kill for, but from the looks of the circles under his eyes and his bored expression, he was more eager for this plane to land than she was.

      “I’d like a Scotch, please,” she said, handing him money. “And some water and ice.”

      He paused, furrowing his brows, seemingly trying to gather his last vestige of polite intervention. “We’ll be landing soon, ma’am. Perhaps some coffee?”

      Jilly straightened in her seat and delivered one of her famous megawatt smiles. “If I wanted coffee,” she said in a honeyed voice, “I’d have asked for it. What I want is one of those cute, itty-bitty bottles of Scotch and a glass of ice with just a smidgen of water. Please.”

      The steward looked severely uncomfortable now, glancing furtively at the old woman in the next seat who was hanging on every word. He stretched across the backs of the row ahead and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “You’ve had three already and you didn’t touch your dinner.”

      Jilly leaned forward and replied in a stage whisper, “I know. I never eat anything I can’t identify.”

      “Are you sure you wouldn’t want some coffee, or perhaps some tea?”

      It was embarrassing enough to have to ride in coach again. In first class they wouldn’t have questioned her request. More Scotch? Right away!

      Jilly dropped all pretense of friendliness. “What I’d like, young man, is a cigarette. But since you fucking well won’t let me have that, I’ll settle for a Scotch.” She turned to the elderly woman. “Excuse my French.”

      She could tell from the way the steward’s lashes fluttered that the slim young man wanted to tell her what she could do with her fucking cigarette and Scotch. Jilly steeled herself, ready for a fight when the little bell went off and the pilot’s voice informed them that he was sorry but that there was heavy snowfall in Chicago and that there would be long delays. This was met with a chorus of groans from the passengers. The steward closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. When he opened them again, he proffered a perfect steward’s polite smile that said, Forget it, it’s just not worth the aggravation.

      “Right away, ma’am.”

      Jilly watched him retreat down the aisle as a dozen more lights lit up and hands flagged him as he passed. She hated to be called ma’am, madam, frau or any other sobriquet that implied she was old. Still, she felt a twinge of regret for making such a fuss, but not so much that she didn’t want her drink.

      A short while later the little bottle of Scotch was delivered, along with her five-dollar bill. Apparently the flight was in a holding pattern and drinks were on the house. Grumbles were still audible throughout the cabin but the gesture of goodwill went a long way to settle the passengers. “Thank you,” she said sweetly as she tucked the five-dollar bill СКАЧАТЬ