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Just about everyone who had been at the church arrived. The small murmur of conversation that had begun when we first returned from the cemetery exploded into a loud roar of voices. Randolph tried standing beside my mother, Clara Sue and Philip at the front entrance to greet people, but he had to sit down after a while. He was given a glass of whiskey and sat there, still looking quite dazed and confused. Once in a while, he would focus his faraway eyes on me and smile.
Before long, I heard my mother's peal of laughter and saw her escorting the men she obviously considered the most important around the room to the various tables of food and drink. I saw her every-where, and everywhere she was, she looked like a fashion plate, vibrant and beautiful and always surrounded by clusters of male admirers.
Late in the afternoon, the mourners began to leave, most stopping by to shake Randolph's limp hand. Older people, especially the older women, tried to give him real comfort and some hugged him. It was only then that he looked like he knew what was happening and what had happened.
Finally, when just a half dozen or so people remained behind, a tall, stout gray-haired man with a robust slightly tanned face and dark brown eyes approached Jimmy and me. His forehead had deep furrows and there were webs of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but despite his apparent age, he stood firm and had an air of authority about him that told me he must be Mr. Updike even before he had introduced himself.
"I have contacted the people who thought they were adopting your baby," he said when he pulled us aside. "I have their address here," he indicated, handing me an envelope, "and they expect you to come by in a day or so. Naturally, they're very upset because we were all given to understand this was something you wanted to do."
"I was never even asked, and I would never have agreed," I replied. He nodded and then shook his head.
"It's a bad business, bad business. I'm conducting the reading of the wills in about a half hour in Mrs. Cutler's office," he added. "Be there."
"What would Grandmother Cutler leave you?" Jimmy asked as soon as Mr. Updike walked away.
"A pail and a mop," I replied. I really could think of nothing else.
Mr. Updike sat behind Grandmother Cutler's desk with the papers and documents spread before him. Randolph, my mother and Clara Sue sat on the settee. Philip sat in a chair to the right of them and Jimmy and I took the chairs on the left.
Even with all the lights on and the sunlight streaming through the windows, the office looked dreary, drab and gloomy.
But I couldn't get over how brilliant my mother looked. Supervising the funeral and its aftermath had brought a healthy flush into her face. She sparkled, her eyes dancing with a youthful glint. Clara Sue, who had been pouting all day, glared with hatred every time she looked my way. Our cheerful mother looked more like her sister.
"Since everyone who is required to be present is present," Mr. Updike began, "I shall commence with the formal reading of the wills and disposition of the estates of William and Lillian Cutler, both deceased," he said in a somber tone of voice. My mother was the first to realize something odd.
"Did you say William and Lillian, John?" she asked.
"Yes, Laura Sue. There is some unfinished business as concerns the instructions William left."
"Well, why wasn't it done before this?" she pursued.
"Please be patient, Laura Sue," he replied. "The answer is here," he added, tapping a document. My mother's smile wilted and I thought she looked rather uneasy suddenly, but Randolph didn't seem to notice or care. He sat there coolly, his legs crossed, his eyes focused on some memory rather than on Mr. Updike.
"I shall begin then," Mr. Updike said, "with a letter of instructions left by William B. Cutler, deceased." He fixed his glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose and held up the document to read.
" 'Dear John or whom it may concern,
" 'This letter is to serve as my final will and testament and is to be read only immediately after the event of my wife Lillian's death. I have left these instructions specifically to ensure that my wife suffer no embarrassment during her lifetime.' "
Suddenly, my mother rose, her hand on her bosom. Mr. Updike looked up from the documents.
"I . . . I'm not feeling well. I've got to lay down!" she exclaimed and bolted from the office. Randolph started to rise.
"You had better remain here, Randolph," Mr. Updike said firmly.
"But . . . Laura Sue . . ."
"She'll be all right," Mr. Updike said and made a gesture with his hand to indicate we must forget her for the moment and return to the business at hand. Randolph sat back slowly, looking frightened as well as dazed. Mr. Updike continued to read.
" 'I realize I have no real way to make amends for my actions, but I feel I must not permit my sins to echo on and on punishing the innocent. Accordingly, I hereby confess to having fathered the second child of my son's wife. I make no excuses for this other than to say I succumbed to the same animal lusts and desires men have succumbed to since Adam and Eve. I blame no one, but myself.
" 'Accordingly, I hereby instruct that on the event of the death of my wife Lillian and on the eighteenth birthday of my son's second child, who is in truth my son's half-sister, sixty percent of my holdings in the Cutler's Cove Hotel be deeded to the second child and the remaining forty percent, heretofore deeded to my wife Lillian, be distributed as she sees fit in her last will and testament.' "
Mr. Updike looked up. For a moment it was as though a streak of lightning had passed through the room and we were all waiting for the clap of thunder. Everyone, including me, wore the same expression of disbelief and shock. Randolph shook his head slowly. Philip's Adam's apple bobbed as if he had just swallowed a live frog. Clara Sue finally broke the silence by bursting into tears.
"I don't believe it!" she screamed. "I don't! I don't!" she repeated, pounding her own leg. "This can't be happening!"
"This has all been properly notarized and witnessed. Actually, I witnessed it myself years ago," Mr. Updike said calmly. "There is no question about its authenticity."
