Chapter 31

The following morning begins with services for Mr. Wells, who succumbed to old age, not any manifestation of Mount Can’t. Ben fields a phone call just as mourners start arriving shortly before ten. A woman is asking for Effen. Ben says it’s not Gustie. Could it be Farrell? Effen takes the call in his office.

Matt, who worked his way through school at a local supermarket, hears a distant noise that reminds him of a sack of potatoes flumping down on the floor. The sound is familiar, so Matt thinks nothing of it until Ben mentions it’s time to find The Owner, and Matt walks into the office to find The Owner in a senseless heap on the floor. The telephone receiver dangles over the side of the desk, banging against the sleek mahogany.

One of Effen’s House rules is “Be discreet.” If someone gets sick, don’t make a fuss; just do what has to be done. Blasting protocol, Matt shouts for help, then slams the receiver back in place. The phone rings. Matt grabs it. “What!”

A policewoman on is on the line. She says she didn’t like the way her conversation with Mr. Hume ended.

Ben races into the office as Matt dives out, hand to mouth. The receiver rocks on the desk. Perplexed, Ben looks from Effen to the phone. He hears the tinny voice and gingerly picks up the receiver. “Hello?” His voice is high and trembly. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got two guys here who just keeled over from it.”

The woman tells him not to panic; an officer is on the way.

An officer?

By now the rest of the staff have caught the drift that things are out of the ordinary. Harry, an older man who worked for Effen’s uncle, sees Effen on the floor and goes into first aid mode.

Vince, another House “original,” asks Ben what happened.

Ben lowers the phone in a trance. “Man, I can tell this is one job we’re not gonna do …”



Farrell is playing with Jack in the kitchen when Effen calls. He’s sorry to bother her, but will she please come to The House right away. “We have a little emergency. I would really appreciate your help.”

An emergency? Now who? Mount Cant’ers? Matt? Ben? Old Harry?

She can’t bear to ask, but she guesses the emergency is bad news. Effen shouldn’t be home. He should be at the Wells funeral.

The sense of the unexpected peaks when The Owner opens the door. He’s wearing his funeral suit, but the tie is loose, the vest and collar are open, and the pallor of his face nearly matches the white of his shirt.

He doesn’t answer Farrell’s intense “What is it?” right away. He brings her to his office. The tea service is on the desk. Can things be that bad if he’s made tea?

“What is it?” she tries again.

He takes her coat, motions her to the sofa. “Have a seat.” His manner is Effen-courteous, but his appearance reminds Farrell that making sure someone is seated before imparting news does note bode well.

“Francis, what happened.” The words form an order to answer, not a question.

He reaches for the sugar bowl. “Two sugars and lots of cream, yes?” He places everything in the cup, then adds the Earl Grey. “I was wondering if you’d help out with a few notices.”

“Gustie called out?”

“Sit. Please.”

She does as he requests. Her heart’s in her ears. She doesn’t know if she’s going to go into cardiac arrest or throw up. “For heaven’s sake, Francis, just tell me what’s going on.”

He stirs the tea, but it seems to Farrell that he’s not seeing what he’s doing, and that he doesn’t know what to say. His reticence is making her feel more ill. She wants to shake the tidings out of him. When he finally speaks, he does so in the detached yet baffled meanderings of a Shakespearean character in a soliloquy.

“I know people who are the parents of teenagers. They tell me that one of the worst things about being the parents of teens is all the worrying over things they never imagined they’d worry about: Will their kids get in with the wrong crowd at school Will they start using drugs. Will they get into accidents with friends who’ve just begun to drive. Will they play a sport that leaves them paralyzed or worse. Will they go out to a party and never return. Gustie …” Farrell waits for the rest of the sentence to follow Gustie’s name. All she hears is the delicate chink of the spoon against the cup. The tea will be cold by the time she drinks it—if she ever feels like drinking it.

“Gustie,” Effen continues, “will never be one of those parents. She’s dead. So are the girls.”

Now Farrell doesn’t know what to say. Expressions of grief and horror seem trite and inadequate. She sits, barely breathing, stewing in a blend of disbelief and fascination, as she remembers Anne hugging Effen when he saved her from police custody the night of the hearing. For a moment, he was the hero every little girl dreams about but never finds in real life.

“We need to send notices to the newspapers,” he’s saying.

Farrell replies without thinking. “No, don’t trouble yourself. Let the funeral parlor take care of it.”

“The House is the funeral parlor.”

Farrell presses her hands to her mouth, determined not to become ill at the notion of Francis Hume practicing his profession on his own wife and daughters.

“How can I ask anyone else to do it?” he says in a tone that suggests he’s too aware of Farrell’s thoughts. “How can I possibly explain what this woman has done?”

For the first time, Farrell realizes she doesn’t know what led to the deaths but surmises the cause was unnatural. “What woman? Are you talking about Gustie? Why? What has she done?”

“A stupid thing, really. She ran the car in the garage. On purpose. The police found a note."

Effen's font of rhetoric appears to have dried. The emotional source, however, has not. Cup and saucer burst against the wall. The teapot, spoons, a decanter, and a cachepot with a philodendron follow. Each impact takes chunks out of the striped wallpaper. The philodendron slides to the floor, leaving a soily trail.

The barrage sends Farrell shrinking into the sofa cushions. The Francis Hume she knows can’t raise his voice to call across the hallway, let alone in anger. But this is more than anger. It’s the gross, mindless rage Ben Franklin called “that momentary madness.”

Farrell has had occasion to toss a few items herself. She knows there’s no sense in trying to reason with Effen. He needs physical persuasion. Recalling that long-ago lesson in self-defense, she finds her center of gravity, then brings him down with a carefully placed trip. She hangs on, hoping to break his fall, then pushes him on his back. She’s half kneeling: one knee’s on the floor, the other’s over the area below his belt, lest he need more preventative action.

Restraint may not be necessary. He doesn’t seem to know what hit. The look on his face suggests he’s thinking, “What am I doing down here?” and “What are you doing to me?” all at the same time.

Farrell keeps him down until she’s certain he’s all right. As she helps him up, he notices the marks on the wall. “I pitched baseball in high school.” He nods to a gouge near the sconce. “That must be the curveball. It always got away from me.” The observation is limp.

Swaddled in sudden, eerie tranquility, Effen kneels and starts collecting shattered glass and crockery. “At least the fax machine is unscathed.”

Farrell crouches beside him. “France, you can’t do it. It’s too much. Never mind what you’ve got to do. That’s bad enough. Think of what you’ll have to contend with: the grandparents, the schoolmates, the media. Especially the media! The facts of the case would attract the press under ordinary circumstances. But this is Mount Can’t. And Gustie was closely connected to Tom. I would be surprised if the media starts banging on your door as early as this afternoon. It all depends on how quickly word spreads, and on how quickly the prosecutor’s office releases the details.”

Now Effen’s collecting the delicate shrapnel with the same solemnity that Matt and Ben granted the snowman. “It’s all right, Farr. I want to do it. It’s the last thing I’ll ever be able to do for them.”

“You can’t. You’ll never get over it.”

“I’ll never get over if it I don’t do it.”

“Don’t do this to yourself! Please. You’ll be here alone at night.”

“I won’t be alone if they’re here.”

Farrell groans. Effen asks her not to be silly. “It’ll be no different from the old days, when people were waked in their homes. The family didn’t spend the night with neighbors just because Mom or Dad or little Betty was having an eternal nap in the living room.”

The telephone rings. Will Effen answer?

He shuffles toward the desk on his knees, then stops, and mutely beseeches Farrell.

It’s a reporter. Farrell refers the man to the prosecutor’s office. “They’re not going to give you a minute’s peace,” she tells Effen upon hanging up. The phone rings again. “They’ll parade in here with their notebooks and their lights and their tape recorders and they’ll strip the privacy away from every single person in this house, dead and alive.”

The phone continues to ring.

“But it’s the last thing I can do for them.”

“You said you’d never get over it if you didn’t do it. Are you sure you’ll be able to get over if it you do? Do it, and you’ll have the press latching on to the image of a husband and father burying his family in a way sane people can’t begin to imagine.”

“Farrell, it is the last thing—“

She bends over him, frames his face with her hands. “It’s the bravest, sweetest thing you can do. But not doing it should be the last thing you can do for them. Don’t send them off knowing you’re the one who helped turn their tragedy into a freak show. Say goodbye knowing you weren’t the one who wouldn’t let them rest in peace.”



Funny, what emotion can do to a body. First Effen was tossing housewares at the wall. Now he’s tired. Tuckered out, as Uncle Ed used to say. The trash in his hand is as heavy as the iron doorstop. He lets them drop to the floor, then circles Fsarrell’s waist as if hugging his pillow and rests the side of his head in the area between the first and second buttons of her blazer. The blazer hangs open. The tweedy edge lightly scratches his face, but the sweater beneath is soft (a mohair blend?).

Amn Farrell is warm. She smells of roses and jasmine and wool.He’s certain the perfume is Joy, but he wonders what kind of soap she uses. Crabtree and Evelyn? Caswell Massey? Plain old Ivory or something natural and trendy? And does she like long, hot baths? Or does she prefer a shower?

The telephone’s still ringing. Farrell doesn’t answer. She holds Effen, thoughtfully runs her hand through his hair. “What’ll it be, F.N.?”

The long, deep sigh denotes surrender. She’s right. It’s best to live knowing he’s not to blame for not letting Gustie and the girls rest in peace.

If only he can say it and mean it …