The Obituary Writer Read Online Free

Mrs. Benton said matter-of-factly, and Vivien nodded, willing herself to be calm. It had been thirteen years and she was getting better at holding her own grief at bay.
    “That scared the bejesus out of us,” Mrs. Benton said, “so we moved up to Monticello.”
    Vivien waited. With a sigh, Mrs. Benton went on. “Three children. Owen, fourteen. Maxwell, twelve. June, ten.” She frowned again.
    She was a plump woman with saggy skin that made Vivien think of elephants. Of course, Vivien had never actually seen an elephant, except in books and magazines at the library, which was where she spent her free time. There and at Lotte’s place. And here, of course. Alone.
    Even in her grief Mrs. Benton had applied red lipstick and too much face powder. Out of habit, no doubt. Grieving people operated by rote. They went through the motions of living, pulling their hair from their faces or pinning on a brooch without thinking.
    “Are you going to write that down?” Mrs. Benton said.
    “No, no, I have it. Owen. Maxwell. June,” Vivien said.
    “I don’t know,” Mrs. Benton said, shaking her head and sending her folds of skin into a tremble. “I came because of what you did when Elliott Mann died. Do you remember that obituary you wrote? Why, people went up to his wife for weeks afterwards saying that after reading it, they felt they knew him better than when he was alive. Why, no one at all knew that he had rescued those boys from drowning way back.”
    She waited for Vivien to say something. When she didn’t, Mrs. Benton said, “You put in that poem by Emily Dickinson. Remember?”
    “Of course,” Vivien lied. In truth, after she wrote an obituary, she pushed that person’s name, that life, out of her mind. It was too much of a burden to keep so many deaths so close.
    “I liked that poem,” Mrs. Benton said. “Maybe you’ll use it for my Frank?”
    “Perhaps,” Vivien said.
    The women sat across from each other in silence. Vivien was very aware of the grandfather clock’s loud ticking. She wondered if Mrs. Benton heard it too.
    Finally Vivien said, “Tell me about Frank.”
    Mrs. Benton’s overly powdered face seemed to fall in on itself. “When I think of him, it’s always with his birds, you know?”
    “Birds?”
    Mrs. Benton nodded, no longer trying to control her tears. “He raised songbirds. What will become of them all now? Cages and cages of songbirds. He could exactly imitate each of their songs. Couldn’t carry the tune of a regular song, mind you. But the man could chirp.”
    Yonder stands a lonely tree, There I live and mourn for thee, Vivien thought. Would Mrs. Benton be satisfied with Blake instead of Dickinson?
    “I used to accuse him of loving those birds more than he loved me. I didn’t really think that. If you had seen him, Miss Lowe, when I was sick with consumption a few years back. How tenderly he cared for me. How gently he brushed my hair and laid cool cloths on my forehead. He was a gentle man, my Frank. And to think something as simple as a tooth . . .” She shook her head, unbelieving.
    Vivien thought again of “The Birds,” when the voice of the woman asks: Dost thou truly long for me? And am I thus sweet to thee? Yes, Blake was exactly right for Frank Benton’s obituary.
    “It had to come out, didn’t it?” Mrs. Benton asked suddenly, her eyes wild. “It was infected. You know the pain an infected tooth can cause. I told him to go and have Doc Trevor take it out. I told him that. But it had to come out, didn’t it?”
    “Of course, darling,” Vivien said, reaching for Marjorie Benton’s doughy white hands. “Of course.”
    Grief made people guilty. Guilty for being five minutes late, for taking the wrong streetcar, for ignoring a cough or sleeping too soundly. Guilt and grief went hand in hand. Vivien knew that. The morning of April 18, 1906, threatened to creep into her mind. She saw it there at the edges of her thoughts, her younger self in their bed with the