Lying with the Dead by Michael Mewshaw

critic. You know all the rules. Now it’s time to learn a little compassion.”
    “I can’t possibly leave London this winter.”
    “Tell her yourself. I’m tired of being your messenger. She’s counting on a call from you today. If you don’t care about her last wishes—”
    “It’s not a question of not caring .”
    “Blame it on your busy schedule. But wait a few hours before you phone her. She’s like you. She sleeps late and wakes up in a nasty mood.”
    Candy slams down the receiver.
    I go for a walk to clear my head. But the descent of Holly Mount, past St. Mary’s Catholic Church, then past the cemetery of St. John’s Anglican Church, clarifies nothing. Though it’s not raining, the wind whips a dripping mist from the cedar trees. Pitted with decay and furred over with moss, the toothy headstones are wired together by dead blackberry vines, like a display of the appalling state of British dentistry.
    It’s never dawned on me before that I might end up buried here. I don’t relish the thought of being buried anywhere. But I do wonder about my father and why I’ve never visited his grave. That’s the least of it, I suppose—the least of the things I’ve never done that pertain to him. Mom discouraged questions, Candy choked up whenever I asked about Dad, and with Maury silence on the subject seemed a matter of simple kindness.
    From Church Row I spot Kay Kendall’s tomb. A film addict and faithful reader of screen magazines, Mom would love the landmark. During our strained telephone chats, actors and actresses are a favorite topic. As we gossip about celebrities who live near me in NW3—Emma Thompson, David Soul, Kenneth Branagh, Helena Bonham Carter—she shows a surer grasp of their personal affairs than she does of mine. And in every reference to my career, she can’t resist sticking in the knife and twisting.
    “I’m praying you’ll land a starring role,” she invariably says, “in the next Steven Spielberg movie.”
    “I’m a character actor,” I remind her again. “Not a star. I’ll never be bankable in the States.”
    “You just need a good script and a hardworking agent. Before I die, I want you to win an Academy Award or an Emmy. I want to watch you on TV in your tux thanking everybody who made your success possible. I want to be mentioned by name.”
    “Sorry, Mom. That’s not going to happen.”
    “Pray and you shall receive.”
    “Pray for something worthwhile,” I say. “Pray for yourself.”
    “Praying for you, I am praying for myself.”
    “Well, while you’re at it, why not pray that Maury gets promoted to CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation.”
    But she’s relentless, remorseless. Why does Candy imagine that I can persuade Mom of anything, let alone that she’s forgiven? I’m not as dumb as that dove. I know when to quit beating my head against a door.
    Through air as gray and cold as a gun barrel, I head up Flask Walk toward the Heath. Despite the weather, men drink outside the pub while women—their wives?—look on in disdain. For a few blocks I break into a jog. I used to subscribe to the consoling illusion that each hour of exercise adds a day to the tag end of your life. Now I’d settle for peace in the present moment. But thoughts of Mom dog my steps. That she’s anxious for my absolution needles me like the north wind. You don’t have to be a character in a Greek tragedy to fear you’re killing your mother by freezing your heart, forgetting the good, and festering over the bad. What kind of man ignores a final request?
    The kind, it comes to me in self-defense, who has tasted the back of her hand, but kept on paying the bills. Mal, my wiseacre agent, says, “Whenever anybody claims it’s not about the money, it’s about the money.” But despite Candy’s crack that I try to solve every problem with a check, it really isn’t about the money.
    Crossing the zebra on East Heath Road, I follow the footpath to the Mixed Bathing Pond. In a nod to