Galore - Michael Crummey [96]
He could hear the man breathing where he stood just inside the door. —Tell him to sit, he whispered to Ann Hope.
—He won’t sit, she said. —He didn’t want to come at all.
—Give us a moment alone.
Absalom turned his head toward the door when Ann Hope left. —Thank you for coming.
—What do you w-w-want?
Absalom nodded to hear his childhood affliction echoed in his son’s voice. He cleared his throat. —You know I’m your father, he said.
There was no response but Absalom could sense the silence in the room shifting, like colors turning in a kaleidoscope. —I don’t expect you to forgive me, he said.
—Wh-wh-why am I here?
—I have six children. Three live in the United States and each will receive an equal monetary inheritance. Levi is responsible for my wife and for Adelina and he will inherit fully two-thirds of my estate and business interests. Which leaves one-third for you, Henley.
—I don’t w-want your god-d-damn money.
Absalom raised his hand. —My wife will have the papers drawn up, he said.
—F-fuck you, you b-b-b—he stamped his foot to shift the word ahead—bastard.
Absalom heard the door. —Henley, he said. But the footsteps were already halfway down the stairs. He tried to call out to Ann Hope but didn’t have the breath for it.
He woke hours later, the house submerged in the stillness of early morning. —Who’s there? he asked.
—It’s me, Absalom. It’s Ann Hope.
—Did you talk to Henley before he left?
—He was in rather a hurry. He looked very unhappy.
Absalom repeated what he’d told his son then, outlining the changes he promised to make to his last will and testament. —He claimed he didn’t want my money but he’ll change his mind once I’m gone. I’ll be easier to forgive when I’m dead.
Ann Hope laughed then, a harsh little bark.
—Will you do this for me? he asked.
—I’ll have the changes made, if that’s what you want.
—We can’t use the company lawyers. Go see Barnaby Shambler, have him draw them up.
—All right.
Absalom took a quick breath. He said, I never deserved you, Ann Hope, I know that for a fact.
—Perhaps I’ll forgive you once you’re dead as well, she said.
Sleep seemed to drift down upon him from some great height, he could almost hear it as it approached, the weight of it like fathoms of ocean above him. He woke to the sound of a whispered conversation. —Who’s there? he asked.
—Mr. Shambler’s here to see you, Ann Hope told him.
—Hello Mr. Sellers.
—Did you bring the papers?
He could hear the man shifting in his chair. —I did, yes. He said, It’s not my place to tell you, Mr. Sellers, but I don’t see how this will help matters.
—You’re worried what Levi will do when he finds out you witnessed these papers behind his back.
—I’m too old to worry, he said. —And old enough to know that doing the right thing isn’t always advisable.
—Spoken like a true politician, Absalom said. He held his hands out in front of himself. —Show me where to sign.
Ann Hope spoke to no one at the funeral. She’d already packed the trunks she was taking to America and she was done with every soul on the shore but her husband who had only to be set into the ground.
The Episcopalian chapel was full to overflowing for the first time in years and the mourners talked of nothing but the length of Absalom’s illness and Ann Hope’s faithfulness, her unwavering vigil, which would have tried the nerve of a mule. She refused to leave the sickroom to eat or sleep or wash her face the last seven days of his life. Newman stopped in to see Absalom morning and evening though there was nothing to be done, he said, but wait. He lifted the bedcovers to examine the dying man’s feet, a mottled purple climbing past the ankles toward the knees. —Hours now, he said. —Days at best.
Ann Hope sat in the chair by the window and waited for Absalom to die. He rarely spoke or opened his blind eyes, but she was with him each time he came to himself. —Who