Hearse and Gardens by Kathleen Bridge Page A

around his frail body.
    â€œDo you want me to take out your hearing aids?”
    His eyes were teary. “First, please hand me that glass of water. I want to tell you a little about my son, Pierce. He wasn’t always a scoundrel.”
    I handed him the glass. He drank like no one had given him liquids in weeks. His hand shook as he placed the glass back on the nightstand. Water splashed on the glossy veneered top and, without thinking, I took the corner of the pillow sham and sopped up the liquid.
    Uncle Harry smiled. “You must love old things. What do you think of my collection?” I followed his gaze to the twelve-foot-high wall opposite the bed. Every square inch was crammed with oil paintings in ornate gold frames with brass plaques. All the paintings were clearly from the Hudson River School: grazing sheep and cows and hilly pastures with winding rivers.
    â€œLovely. What made you want to represent modern art?”
    â€œI was a businessman. Back in the early seventies I knew the writing was on the wall. My second wife Tansy, Pierce’s mother, was one of the ‘it’ girls at the time and also a print model. She was the muse for many an artist who hung out in Springs. Tansy was the inspiration behind the Aqua Net painting by Warhol.”
    â€œI assume she used lots of Aqua Net?”
    â€œThere was an advertisement for Aqua Net showing Tansy driving in a convertible without a hair out of place. It got Andy Warhol’s attention. Warhol started in advertising, you know.”
    I pulled over a chair that belonged in a museum, hoping my hundred and thirty pounds wouldn’t collapse the delicate Regency legs. I reached into my bag and turned up the volume to my hearing aids. Reading Uncle Harry’s lips wasn’t easy. The muscles on his right side seemed slack. It was possible he’d had a stroke sometime in the past. “Tansy must have been beautiful.”
    â€œOh. She was.” He closed his eyes but kept talking. “Blonde, blue eyes, fair skinned, perfectly proportioned facial features and a wide mouth. The perfect artist’s muse. Scandinavian. Mrs. Anderson, our chef, is Tansy’s distantcousin.” He opened his eyes. “Mrs. Anderson could be your mother. You have the same coloring. Tansy was the biggest flirt I’ve ever met, but we all forgave her. She was ethereal, from another time-space continuum. That’s why I left that particular bungalow for last. It was where Pierce always hung out to be closer to his mother. It was his refuge of sorts . . . I never thought it would be his final resting place.” He reached again for the glass of water and brought it to his lips.
    After he returned the glass to the table, he looked at me. A fog had descended.
    â€œI’m Scandinavian. Swedish on my mother’s side.”
    He gave a series of rapid blinks. “Who are you? Where’s Brandy? We have to find Helen. She has to pay. She has to pay! And what about the baby? The wee baby?”
    Still fully clothed, Uncle Harry laid back and pulled the throw up to his chin. He licked his lips. “Did you hear the one about . . .”
    A soft voice called out, “Granddad. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” I turned my head toward the doorway, where Liv Falks, Pierce’s daughter, stood. Liv seemed to be the only one looking for her grandfather. Certainly, his wife Celia didn’t seem to care.
    I walked toward Liv. “He wanted to leave the party—I mean wake. I’m Meg Barrett, a friend of Elle’s.”
    If she noticed my uneasiness over the “party” faux pas, she didn’t show it. She held out her hand. “Liv Falks. I saw you at my father’s funeral. Thank you for coming.”
    Uncle Harry twisted toward her. “Livvy, my Livvy. Come sit next to me and tell me the story.”
    â€œIn a minute, Granddad. Let me walk Ms. Barrett to the