Free Redemption by Howard Fast

opened my New York Times . There is a feeling in a certain circle of New Yorkers that if one does not dedicate himself to the Sunday Times , one will be lost to the flow of life. I know people who have not lived in the city for years, yet for whom the Sunday Times continues to be scripture. Whether anyone has either the time or the inclination to read the entire enormous paper, I don’t know. I start with the news section, followed by the “Week in Review,” the magazine, and the book section—and rarely go any further. On this Sunday, the news section had a left-hand two-column article headed: MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF AN OLYMPIC ATHLETE, and reading on, I learned that William Sedgwick Hopper had been found dead at his desk after midnight Saturday morning, with a bullet hole in the back of his head. The details were sketchy, the police evidently unwilling to provide much information at this time, and the partners of the firm he worked for equally unwilling to discuss the case. There was some reprise of the investigation of Hopper’s trading methods and some background of his history as an Olympic gold-medal winner but no mention of his divorce, or of Elizabeth—for which I was grateful.
    I must admit that I was both relieved and satisfied that a brute had met his just deserts. I had never met the man, but out of Liz’s fragmentary references to her experiences, I had a fairly full picture of him. I reminded myself not to share my reaction with Liz when she returned from church, since she was so wedded to her belief that vengeance belonged to God and only to God and that even a glint of satisfaction on my part would have disturbed her.
    When she returned from Mass, glowing from her walk, radiant as she usually was on a Sunday morning, I showed her the paper. She said nothing as she read the story, but the happiness washed out of her.
    â€œPoor man,” she said softly.
    I couldn’t help asking, “Why? Why poor man?”
    â€œBecause he never had a chance to live or to know himself.”
    There was a great deal I could have said in response to that, but I swallowed my thoughts and said only that at least he would bother her no more.
    â€œI never really wanted him dead. I always hoped he might change.”
    â€œSuch men never change, Liz.”
    She simply shook her head, and I had a new insight into the mind of this woman whom I had met by chance and who had changed the course of my life. For the rest of that Sunday, she made no reference to Hopper’s death—nor did I refer to the subject. That evening, back at my apartment—she was in no mood for entertainment—there were calls from both Charlie Brown and Harvey Goldberg, whom I had seen several times since our first luncheon and whom we now watched whenever he appeared on one of the networks to tell us whether the economy was going straight to the stars or straight to hell. Charlie shared my satisfaction, and Harvey Goldberg informed me that Elizabeth had a great opportunity for a piece of the decedent’s estate. I took both calls in the bedroom, out of Liz’s hearing, and reminded Goldberg that I was an expert in contract law and that Liz would be enraged at even the suggestion.
    I had replenished my fire-log supply, and as we sat in front of the fireplace that evening, I said to Liz, “I have been thinking of asking Rena Nussbaum—she sits on the State Supreme Court—to perform the wedding ceremony. I thought you might enjoy having a woman marry us. It could be a week from today, here at the apartment, just a few close friends, about ten or twelve couples, and we could have a little party, champagne and sandwiches. I’ll get Zabar’s to put together one of their big sandwich trays—or maybe I should have the whole thing catered. I want to have Sarah here as a guest.”
    â€œYes—it would be nice to have a woman marry us. I feel so odd—I don’t have anyone to invite.