A long, hot shower, with the water pelting her face and soaking her hair, helped to restore some sense of focus. She pulled on a terry-cloth robe, wrapped her hair in a towel and forced herself to order scrambled eggs and toast with the usual juice and coffee.

Granddad and Gary are arriving tonight, she reminded herself. If they see me like this, they’ll keep asking what’s wrong until I break down and tell them the whole story. I’ve got to practice well today. And I’ve got to practice especially well tomorrow, when Granddad will be listening. I’ve got to give the kind of performance that makes him feel that all the years of teaching me and sacrificing for me were worth it.

Sondra got up and walked to the window. Today is Tuesday the 15th of December, she thought, as she looked down at the street, already bustling with midtown traffic and pedestrians rushing to work.

“The concert is next Wednesday,” she said aloud. The day after that is Christmas Eve-that’s when we’re supposed to go back to Chicago, she thought. Only I’m not going. Instead, I’m going to ring the bell of St. Clement’s rectory, something I should have done seven years ago instead of running two blocks to a phone. I’m going to tell Monsignor Ferris that I’m the baby’s mother, and then I’ll ask him to call the police. I can’t live with this guilt for one day longer.

23

At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, Henry Brown, a clerk at the Surrogates Court on Chambers Street in lower Manhattan, looked up and said, “Good morning,” to a determined-looking woman of about sixty, with red hair and a somewhat prominent jaw. A keen judge of human nature, Henry noted the smile lines around the woman’s mouth and the crinkles around her eyes. He knew that these hinted at a pleasant disposition, and that the irritation he saw in her face probably was just of the moment.

He thought he had her pegged: She’d be a disgruntled relative who would want to examine the will of a relative who had cut her off.

He quickly learned he was right about the desire to see a will, but the woman was not a relative.

“My name is Alvirah Meehan,” Alvirah explained. “It’s my understanding that wills filed for probate are public documents and I have the right to examine a particular one if I choose,”

“That’s quite right,” Henry said pleasantly. “But of course it must be in the presence of a member of the staff.”

“I don’t care if the whole city government is hanging over my shoulder,” Alvirah said brusquely, but then softened. After all, it was not the fault of this helpful clerk that the closer she got to seeing Bessie’s actual will, the more steamed up she felt herself becoming.

Fifteen minutes later, Henry Brown positioned beside her, she was studying the document. “That word again,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just that the word ‘pristine’ sticks in my craw. You see, I would swear that the lady who wrote this will never used that word in her entire eighty-eight years.”

“Oh, you’d be astonished how literary some people get when they write their wills,” Henry said helpfully. “Of course, they do come up with some lulus, mistakes like ‘irregardless’ or ‘to reiterate again.’” He paused, then added, “I must say, though, that ‘pristine’ is a new one. I’ve never seen that word used before.”

Alvirah had tuned out when she heard the dismaying opinion that it might be considered customary to put some unfamiliar and perhaps highfalutin words into a will. “Now, what’s this?” she asked. “I mean, look at this last page. The will is already signed.”

“That’s known as the attestation clause,” Henry explained. “By the terms of New York State law, the witnesses must complete this page. It attests that they’ve witnessed the signing of the will, and the testatrix, in this case, Mrs. Bessie Durkin Maher, must also sign it. In essence it’s a reconfirmation of the witnessing of the will. Without it, the witnesses would have to appear in court at the time of the probate, and, of course, when wills have been standing for years, the witnesses may have moved or died.”

“Take a look at this,” Alvirah ordered, holding up two pieces of paper. “Bessie’s signature on the will and then on this-what did you call it?-attestation clause. See there? The ink is different. But they had to be signed at the same time, right?”

Henry Brown studied the two signatures. “Definitely these are two different shades of blue ink,” he said. “But perhaps your friend Bessie decided her signature on the will, which while totally legible, was written in rather light ink, so she simply changed pens. There’s nothing illegal about that. The witnesses signed with the same pen,” he pointed out.

“One of Bessie’s signatures is firm, the other wavy. It’s also possible that she signed these papers at two different times,” Alvirah said.

“Oh, that would be illegal.”

“I couldn’t agree more!”

“Well, if you’re quite finished, Mrs. Meehan…“ Henry did not complete the sentence.

Alvirah smiled at him. “No, I’m not, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for giving me all this time, but I know you don’t want there to be a miscarriage of justice.”

Henry smiled politely. Anybody who gets cut out of a will screams miscarriage of justice, he thought philosophically.

“Look, Henry,” Alvirah continued. “It’s all right if! call you Henry, isn’t it? You should just call me Alvirah.” Without waiting to see if Henry accepted this elevation of their acquaintance, Alvirah said, “Bessie swears this was her last will. I swear this thing is a phony. Besides, where did Bessie get the know-how to type this attestation clause? Tell me that.”

“Well, she may have asked someone to type it for her, or someone may have given her a copy of the form,” Henry said patiently. “Now, Mrs. Meehan, I mean, Alvirah…” he began.

“All right,” Alvirah said, interrupting him. “I know it’s not proof, but these signatures look different, and I say Bessie didn’t sign these papers at the same time.” Briskly she gathered up her things. “Okay, Henry, thank you,” she said, rushing out, a woman with a mission.

Alvirah went directly to the James and Eileen Gordon Real Estate Agency. She was scheduled to see yet another co-op, this one on Central Park \Vest and described by Eileen Gordon as “a steal at two million.”

In the course of pretending interest in the place and hearing Eileen once again exclaim about the beautiful view-even though the view was somewhat limited, since the apartment was on the second floor and looked directly into trees-Alvirah managed to turn the conversation to the signing of Bessie’s will.

“Oh, yes, the dear sweet old girl signed both papers,” Eileen said, her round eyes opening wide as she smiled reminiscently. “I’m sure of that. But she was obviously getting very tired. I think that’s why the second signature was quite wavy on the line. If she changed pens, I didn’t notice. The truth is I may have been just kind of looking around the room. That townhouse is in almost perfect condition. I mean, a few things, like the living room door, need fixing, but that’s nothing. With the way prices are now, I could get three million for that house easily.”

For once I think you’re right, Alvirah thought, as, thoroughly disheartened, she turned off the microphone in her sunburst pin.