Page 16 of Going Home in the Dark

11More Than One Way to Say Goodbye

Professor Britta Hernishen never just entered a room;she made an entrance. Even after all these years, Rebecca had not been able to decide whether the woman hesitated at the threshold to script and choreograph how she would present herself or if she exhaled drama with no more forethought than she exhaled carbon dioxide.

The hospital room door was heavy in order to provide a degree of soundproofing and hinged to resist a sudden wide swing that might knock a patient off a gurney. Nevertheless, it flew open now as if struck by a supernatural force. Britta strode inside with as much authority as General George Patton displayed when crossing a stage to address his troops. She wore black heels, a severely tailored gray knit suit with matching waist-length cape, and a black cloche hat with a gray feather.

She halted three feet from Rebecca, looked her over, and said, “What is this ridiculous getup you’re wearing?”

“That’s Rebecca Crane. She’s incognito,” said Spencer Truedove, for he was a cutting-edge artist, and cutting-edge artists were expected to live dangerously.

Regarding him as if he represented an example of incomplete human evolution, Britta said, “Did I speak to you, young man?”

“No, Mrs. Hernishen.”

“I shed my ignorant husband ages ago. I prefer to be addressed asProfessorHernishen.”

“Yes, Professor Hernishen. I’m sorry.”

“A silly wig and eyeglasses? It is not Halloween, Ms. Crane.”

Bobby said, “She has security issues. She’s famous, after all.”

The regal head turned toward him. “Mr. Sham, you surprise me.”

“It’s Shamrock.”

“Is that so?”

“Robert Shamrock.”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“Well, it’s my name.”

“One would think you should know.”

“Shamrock. Not Sham. Bobby the Sham is just something my friends call me.”

“How strangely insistent you are regarding the issue. Let’s just set the matter aside for now. My point is this—when a person like you, who claims to be a writer, defines ‘fame’ as what ensues when a person like Ms. Crane appears in blood-drenched movies and badly written television comedies, then a person such as I must inevitably despair. Do you consider yourself a person schooled at all in literary matters?”

Bobby said, “I’ve published twelve novels.”

“Is that what you call them? I think the word ‘books’ would be the safer word. If you possess a modicum of taste and discernment, I believe you will agree with me that, regarding recognition attained because of the aforementioned filmed entertainments, the word ‘fame’ is less well chosen than the word ‘notoriety.’”

Years earlier, Spencer had told Rebecca that he endured Britta Hernishen not only because she was Ernie’s mother and becauseErnie was a sweetheart but also because he believed she was a psychopath who taunted him only to elicit an insult so that, when he made the mistake of wising off to her, she would feel righteous about drawing a knife from her purse and filleting him like a fish.

Rebecca did not find Spencer’s fear to be irrational. That was why she smiled and merely said, “Well, I did win two Emmys.”

“And that pleases you, does it?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

“How forthright of you to admit as much.”

Whether to save Rebecca from making a remark that would inspire a furious knife attack or because he was not sure whether Britta knew her son’s health appeared to have taken a serious turn for the worse, Spencer said, “Professor Hernishen, I don’t know if you’re aware that ... Maybe somehow it simply hasn’t been called to your attention ... What I’m trying to say is, well, I’m sorry to be the first to tell you, if in fact I am the first to tell you, that Ernie passed away, he died, just minutes ago. They tried to save him but couldn’t, they made a valiant effort, you’ve got to give them that.”

Britta stared at Spencer in silence for a long moment, as if he had delivered this dire news in one of the few languages she didn’t speak fluently.

At last she said, “Mr. Truedove, I know you consider yourself an artist working in a visual medium, and I am quite aware that real artists working in visual media rarely are also gifted with coherent speaking and writing skills. Just as those like Mr. Shamrock, who see themselves as writers, can seldom also paint or sculpt well. Mozart was no Rembrandt in his spare time. Of course I am aware of what happened to Ernest. I was at a restaurant across the street, keeping vigil in my way, having a cocktail before dinner, when the head nurse on duty called me withthe news. I came directly here. If with that tangled agitation of words you intended to imply that I should be openly grieving, be assured I forgive your impertinence.”

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