The Four Seasons
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Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”
“Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.
Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.
“Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”
Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”
“Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”
Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.
“Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.
Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. It would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”
“Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”
“Dennis,” Birdie said in controlled fury, furtively checking Jilly’s reaction to his outburst. “Would you go out and get the rest of the bags from the car, please?”
Dennis tossed down his newspaper with an angry flip of the wrist, then rose abruptly from the table, pushing back his chair so hard it almost toppled over. He took pains to allow a wide berth between himself and Birdie.
Jilly sensed the tension escalating in the room. Daggers flowed in the gazes between Dennis and Birdie, and again between Rose and Birdie. Jilly sipped her coffee, narrowing her eyes. She’d never seen this side of Birdie before. She’d always been bossy growing up, but now she was more of a bully. In contrast, Rose caved in, staring absently at some point across the room.
“If Rose has planned to use Mother’s dishes,” Jilly began cautiously, “then that’s what we should do. We don’t have time to argue over the point, so let’s just pitch in and do what she wants.” She put down her cup and lifted her chin. “It is, after all, her call.”
No one missed the steel in Jilly’s voice. Birdie drew her shoulders back and met her gaze. “Her call?” She took a breath, then said in a controlled voice that fooled no one, “Jilly, I know you just arrived. Perhaps you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to organize this funeral. Everything was set until Rose decided entirely on her own to change everything. Imagine, a luncheon here! You don’t have any idea….”
“But of course I do!” Jilly replied with a light laugh. “This isn’t a formal sit-down dinner, darling. It’s a petite soirée. You’re making entirely too big a fuss over it. I’ve thrown lunches bigger than this on a moment’s notice. It’s all in the attitude. I think it’s fabulous that Rose is finally going to use all this stuff. Mother hardly ever entertained.”
“That’s because she was a perfectionist,” Birdie said, drawing herself up. “It mattered to her that things were properly done, or not done at all.”
“Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly countered, waving her hand. “Mother was so intimidated by Emily Post and things like matching china, menus, which side to serve on and which side to take away, that she was simply overwhelmed by it all. The truth is she was afraid nothing was ever good enough.” Her eyes flashed. “She was always so damn worried about what other people thought. That’s why she never entertained.”
Hannah watched her mother summarily silenced by this mysterious aunt and sat back in her chair. Birdie appeared to be holding on to her position, for the sole purpose of winning in the eyes of her daughter.
“Come on, Birdie,” Jilly said, rising from the table. “Rose has done all the preparation, let’s have fun putting it together.”
“Jilly,” Birdie said, thoroughly frustrated at having to defend the only sensible position on the matter. “This is not another game. You can’t fly in after all these years and expect us to pick up where we left off as children. I’m sure your life in Europe is very exciting and glamorous,” she said in a stuffy manner, “but here in America, everything is not always fun.”
Jilly shook her head, seeing clearly the woman Birdie had become. “Why can’t it be? Birdie, listen to yourself. When did you get so old and sour?”
Birdie stiffened as though slapped and Jilly regretted her words instantly.
“We can do this,” said Jilly soothingly. “We’ll make this the most charming, delightful luncheon imaginable. We’ll have china and silver, pink tablecloths trimmed with lace and ribbon, tea sandwiches and flowers everywhere.”
“Exactly,” Rose exclaimed, her face glowing. “I’m sure that’s the way Merry would have wanted it.”
It was the first time that morning that Merry’s name was mentioned. Merry, who was already gone from them. Merry, whose presence was suddenly overwhelming. They had been tiptoeing around their grief, trained as they were since childhood to tuck away emotion. But now that her name was spoken she sprang to life in their thoughts.
Rose’s eyes were bright with tears. Jilly went to her side to wrap an arm around her.
Birdie did the same. “Glad you’re home,” she said in Jilly’s ear. “Missed you.”
“Me, too,” Jilly replied, relishing the heartfelt hug from Birdie she’d missed with the first hello.
Dennis pushed through the door, his arms filled with bags of paper products.
“Okay then,” Birdie called out, releasing her sisters to face Dennis. “All this stuff goes back in the car!”
Dennis stopped short, looking confused.
“Don’t ask!” Birdie swooped up the bags from the counter and proceeded out the door. “I’ll take them back—but I still think I’m right,” she called over her shoulder.
Dennis shrugged, shook his head and followed.
Jilly met Rose’s gaze and smiled as the mood shot skyward.
Outside the garage Birdie paused to take a deep breath and stare at the yard. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. Cheery heads of crocuses were emerging through the sparkling snow, valiantly promising spring would come, even if a bit late. Beyond, in the side yard, the hot sun had melted the snow on the rectangle of sidewalk that bordered a forty-foot expanse. That space had been an in-ground swimming pool, long ago.
She saw in her mind’s eye the brilliant blue of the pool’s water. Bahama Blue, it was called. Every other summer the girls had to help paint that color on the sloping cement walls, looking like Smurfs when the job was done. The pool was the family’s playground. In happier times, Dad would come home from work and jump in like a “bomb,” splashing his girls while they squealed with delight. They’d take turns being hurled from his shoulders, pretending to be mermaids diving off a cliff. One more time, Dad!
They’d spend the day playing mermaids in the pool and wouldn’t come out until their fingers were pruned and their lips were blue. Especially Birdie. She loved to swim and was a natural, able to hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.
Mermaids…Birdie’s lips turned up in a smile. She hadn’t thought of that in, oh, so many years. It was their favorite game. Jilly made it up, of course, though she herself had thought up most of the game’s rules, like holding their breaths under Iceland and being dead if they ever touched the drain. That’s how things worked between her and Jilly. Imagination and rules. Right brain and left. They were a good team. They were best friends. Rose had loved the game, too. And Merry.
Birdie cringed at the vision of a girl’s small limbs kicking beneath Bahama Blue water. She blinked it away and looking out, saw again the rectangle of earth in the yard that was once the swimming pool. Snow piled high over it, creating a mound. It occurred to Birdie with a shudder how much it looked like a gravesite.
5
THE “MAY BALL” FUNERAL LUNCHEON, as it was known in later years, succeeded in dispelling the usual gloom and doom Birdie dreaded at such occasions, even if it did rouse the ridicule she’d predicted. She overheard a few smirking comments on the pink damask tablecloths and the yards of lace trim. But overall, Birdie was moved by how many people really loved Merry. Though her sister hadn’t seen people often, the impression she’d made was deep and permanent. Perhaps it was her innocence, or perhaps it was her joy that elicited devotion from everyone she met. All in all, Merry’s memory had been properly honored, even if in pink and lace.
The final stragglers were clustered in the foyer, gathering their coats and saying their goodbyes. With her red hair pulled severely back in a chignon at the neck, Jilly stood at the door with the poise and straight shoulders of a dancer, sending off strangers and family alike with a grace that Birdie both envied and was proud of. Birdie might have attributed her skill to her training as a model and actress, except that she knew better. Jilly always was the swan in the pond.
In contrast, she hardly saw Rose all afternoon. Her shy sister had skirted through the rooms like Jeeves, quietly attending the buffet, discreetly collecting dishes and scurrying them off to wash. To the guests, she undoubtedly appeared the perfect hostess, but Birdie knew her sister would rather scrub the floor with her tongue than wag it in small talk with all these people.
As the last of the guests were leaving, Mrs. Kasparov, the real estate agent she’d selected, came forward to discreetly hand her a sales portfolio. She was a diminutive woman with gray-and-black hair and an overbite. With her aggressive manner, she reminded Birdie of a terrier.
“Here is the list of sales comps and the other information you requested.”
“Thank you. I should imagine we’ll put the house on the market right away, to take advantage of the spring market. We’ll call you,” Birdie said, nudging her toward the door. Blessedly, Mrs. Kasparov nodded then signaled her husband, who sighed in relief and rose with a cumbersome effort. The couple shook Jilly’s hand warmly at the door, then, after her gaze took a final, hawklike sweep of the room, Mrs. Kasparov left.
The whole house seemed to sigh when the door clicked shut. Birdie rubbed her neck, thinking she’d love nothing more than to prop her feet up and collapse. She caught Jilly’s eye and they shared a commiserating smile. Their lawyer, Mr. Collins, who had been sitting patiently in a wing chair by the front window, rose on cue.
“I think we’re all ready now,” she announced. “Mr. Collins, thank you for your patience. Shall we move to the dining room?”
Reaching out her arm, she placed it around Rose’s shoulder as she passed, and together they went to sit at the dining room table which had been cleared of the luncheon, linen and lace.
Mother’s mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier. As Birdie sat, she idly wondered who would get the dining room furniture. The table would look lovely in her Tudor house. And who else would need such a big set? Jilly wouldn’t want to lug it to France and Rose would probably get a small condo.
Jilly took a seat at one end of the table, directly across from Mr. Collins, who was busy laying out papers. Her hands were folded neatly and she sat straight, her green eyes wide and alert, as though on stage. They waited patiently for Rose to take her seat. Her face stilled pensively when she caught sight of Mrs. Kasparov’s real estate portfolio on the table.
When at last they were all settled, Mr. Collins folded his hands on the table and smiled benignly at them. He was a tall, dignified gentleman who had been their father’s best friend. “Uncle George,” they’d once called him, though only Merry continued calling him that into adulthood. Today was a formal setting, however, and as he was acting as their legal adviser, he maintained a respectful reserve. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he proceeded.
“Your sister was a very special person to me, and your father was a dear friend. It was my pleasure, and my honor, to act as the co-executor of your father’s will and Meredith’s trust fund, as it has been to serve the interests of the entire Season family throughout the years.” He glanced briefly at Jilly, who met his eyes with equal reserve.
“You are all well aware of how your father wished his property handled and distributed after his death?”
The three sisters nodded to indicate their understanding.
“At the time he wrote his will, back in August of 1977, his chief concern was for the care and welfare of his youngest daughter, Meredith, once it became established that she would not be capable of providing for herself after he and your mother were gone. Your mother willingly chose to accept one-third of the estate for her own support, thus leaving the bulk of their joint estate in a trust fund in Meredith’s name. If you recall, after her death in 1990, what little was left of your mother’s estate was distributed equally to all four daughters. I believe the amount was forty thousand dollars?”
Jilly’s face remained impassive as she nodded. Birdie recalled her phone call from Europe, full of doubt and disappointment to learn how little was left from their mother’s estate. Birdie had been filled with resentment and her attitude toward her sister had changed that day.
Mr. Collins adjusted his glasses as he checked a figure on the paper. “It was also stipulated that, upon the occasion of Meredith’s death, the residue of the estate should be distributed equally among the remaining Season issue. As of this date, that would be Jillian, Beatrice and Rose Season. The estate includes all remaining monies, assets and real property, or in this case, this house, the summer home in Indiana having been sold in 1984. I’ve frozen the bank accounts and sold the few remaining stocks, and after the estimated taxes and funeral expenses, excluding the sale of the house, of course, I’m calculating approximately twenty thousand dollars will be left in the trust fund to be dispersed.”
“Is that all?” Jilly asked, sitting straighter. “I thought my father had left a considerable estate.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Birdie muttered, furious that Jilly was disappointed again.
“Your father left a fair-size estate,” Mr. Collins replied calmly. “One that diminished over time, considering the expense of upkeep for a house and property of this size, not to mention Merry’s considerable medical and educational expenses. If you wish, I can give you a detailed accounting afterward.”
“We were very careful with the spending,” Rose interjected, worried.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jilly replied to Mr. Collins. “I’m sure everything is in order, I’m just…surprised. How much would you say the house is worth?”
Birdie promptly opened the portfolio and sifted through the papers. “According to Mrs. Kasparov, the fair market value would be somewhere around five hundred fifty thousand dollars. Less the real estate commission, transfer taxes and such.”
“You can’t be serious.” Jilly looked devastated. “In this area? That can’t be right. It seems very low.”
Here we go again, Birdie thought. She cast a quick glance at Rose, not wanting to offend her with what she was about to say. “Mrs. Kasparov believes the house and property need quite a bit of work. Things she itemized in particular include the porch, which is rotting in places, pipes that have broken, and the walls haven’t been properly repaired. The paint and wallpaper need to be freshened. The grounds are completely overgrown and the filled-in pool detracts from the land value. And of course the kitchen and bathrooms are terribly outdated and would need to be totally redone. The bottom line is, the place is architecturally lovely and in a great location, but it’s what’s known as a handyman’s special.” She set down the papers and folded her hands over them. “I quite agree with the estimate. Under the circumstances, we can’t expect top dollar.”
“Regardless of the condition, it’s a double lot,” Jilly argued. “Within walking distance of the lake! The land alone is worth that much. Why, the house down the block is up for over a million.”
“Walk through the house, Jilly. You can’t compare the two.” Birdie hesitated. “There’s some question as to whether the house should be torn down.”
“No,” Rose gasped.
Jilly was indignant. “I want another opinion.”
“You can look at the comps,” Birdie said, handing the folder to Jilly. “We have to consider if we really want to do the work ourselves to fix the place up, or just sell it as is as quickly as possible. Frankly, I vote for the latter.”
Rose was shifting in her seat, wringing her hands. She stared at Mr. Collins in silence, then glanced at her sisters, cringing under the question shining in their eyes.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “Well, now, that is an issue that should be discussed between the three of you, privately. I wouldn’t presume to interfere, but I am at your service should you need my professional advice or—” he ventured a smile that revealed the affection accrued from a lifetime of association “—if you just want the advice of an old friend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Birdie said.
Jilly echoed this but Rose remained silent, seemingly distracted.
“Is that everything, then?” Birdie was deeply flustered by Jilly’s disappointment. She began tucking back papers and closing up the real estate portfolio. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. Collins requested this meeting after the funeral when everything was perfunctory. They could have just as readily handled it between a phone call and a FedEx. Dear man, he was probably being thoughtful. She really didn’t know what she would have done without him all these years.
“There is one more rather delicate matter to discuss,” he replied.
Birdie looked up, surprised. Mr. Collins’s tone altered and he appeared to be treading on softer ground. “Oh? And what would that be?”
He slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “I called this meeting today because I wanted to discuss something with you while all of you were still together, under this roof. This is a unique situation.” He cleared his throat and began again, glancing briefly at Rose.
“I’ve known Merry from the time she was born. She would, from time to time, come down the street to visit Mrs. Collins and me. As you know, your sister was not legally competent, but during this last illness, she had a remarkable intuition that her time was limited.” He looked at Rose for confirmation. She was sitting straighter in her chair, pale and still.
“We had several long conversations. Merry was quite concerned about one issue in particular.” He cleared his throat again and pulled from under the sheaf of papers a videotape. On top, taped to it, was a small envelope, a young girl’s blue stationery adorned with pastel flowers.
Birdie narrowed her eyes, noticing that the writing on the envelope was large and childlike—Merry’s.
Rose stood and, in the manner of one who had anticipated this event, took the videotape from Mr. Collins’s hand and carried it to the living room television, which was set up and ready to receive the tape.
“Won’t you make yourselves comfortable on the sofa?” he said, indicating that they should all move to the other room.
Birdie and Jilly rose without exchanging glances and followed him to the living room. The mood was uneasy; no one knew quite what to expect. They sat opposite each other in the two wing chairs. Rose fiddled with the television and Mr. Collins remained standing, apparently eager to begin.
“What’s this all about?” Birdie asked.
“Be patient,” he replied. “It will all become perfectly clear.”
“All set.” At his nod, Rose pushed the play button, then seated herself in front of the television.
The room settled into silence as the video ran, beginning with a short strip of blank tape. Suddenly, there was Merry, full of life. There were gasps from the sisters at the shock of seeing her beautiful face fill the screen, smiling, giggling and covering her mouth when she laughed.
“Oh, my God,” Birdie gasped, bringing her fist to her lips. “Merry…”
It was almost too much to bear. Merry was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, without any outward sign of mental disability. Beyond her delicate bones, her tiny waist, her brilliant blue eyes that lit up her face when she smiled, there was another, more elusive quality to her charm. For all that she was thirty-two years old, Merry still possessed the coquettish, utterly beguiling innocence of a child.
As the camera zoomed in, Birdie saw signs of Merry’s illness in the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the whiteness of her skin and the blue cast to her lips. And she looked so much like Rose. The younger two Seasons were both small with delicate frames and the same red-gold hair worn long and straight. Except that Merry was obviously frail and weak, where Rose was physically strong. The invalid and the caretaker.
Mr. Collins’s voice could be heard on the screen. “Hello, Merry, how are you today?”
Merry grew suddenly coy, turning and lifting one shoulder. “Fine.” Then tilting her head, she asked, “Are you making pictures now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Like the ones of Jack and Ali?”
“Your picture will look just the same,” the off-camera voice of Mr. Collins assured her.
Merry nodded, accepting this, seemingly distracted by something over his shoulder.
“What do you want to tell us today?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He chuckled. “I thought you had something you wanted to say.” When Merry frowned and shook her head, apparently confused, he prodded, “To your sisters? Rose and Birdie and…”
“Jilly!” she exclaimed, sitting up in her chair. He had her full attention now. “Will Jilly see this?”
“Yes, I’ll make certain she does. Now, tell Jilly and Birdie and Rose what you told me.”
Merry’s face went blank as she stared back at the camera.
Birdie leaned forward, her heart aching as she watched intently. Here were the sure signs of Merry’s brain damage.
“When I show your sisters this movie,” Mr. Collins’s voice continued with admirable calmness, “what do you want them to know?”
“They’ll see me?”
“Yes.”
Her face grew serious, pouty. Then she wagged her finger at the camera and said in all seriousness, “I want you to find Spring. I want you to go get her, okay? And tell her—”
She paused to think, looking upward, then, with inexpressible sweetness, she smiled straight into the camera like a pro and said, “Tell her I love her. Please?”
“Who is Spring?” he asked.
Merry’s face clouded and she shook her head. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“Who said you cannot?”
“Rose said not to talk about that.”
“I see. Well, is there anything else you want to say?”
Merry grew distracted again and appeared to fatigue. She slumped her shoulders and shook her head no. “Will you give the picture to Rose and Birdie? And Jilly?” She brightened briefly. “We’re the Four Seasons,” she said with obvious pride, raising four fingers up to the camera. Her hand dropped to her mouth as she began coughing, mildly at first, then hard and gasping.
The camera was cast aside, the picture tilting wildly, settling on an angled shot of the carpet and Merry’s slender legs, then a man’s trousers hurrying toward her. All the while the hacking cough continued in the background, then the video went blank.
No one spoke. Rose moved to turn off the television. Jilly continued staring at the black screen. Birdie sniffed and rose to collect a box of tissues. She blew her nose, then dabbed at her eyes as she returned to her seat.