by Micah Nathan
“He might be crazy,” I said. “And I think he’s dying. He coughs up blood.”
“Well, he’s so old, anyway. He probably has cancer or something. He has to be like, ninety years old. At least.”
“He said he was older. He said his mother dined with the Marquis de Lafayette.”
“Who’s that? The guy who liked to torture women?”
“No,” I said, staring as she rubbed her hand across her stomach. She was a flirt, no doubt about that. “Lafayette fought with the colonialists during the Revolutionary War. He died in 1834. If Cornelius’s mother dined with him—and let’s even assume she was a little girl when this happened—that would still make Cornelius over one hundred and fifty years old.”
She seemed unimpressed. “My dog lived until he was twenty. What about that old guy in the Bible…” She stretched her arms over her head, another mannerism of hers, perfect for showing off her large breasts. The sweater hugged their curves nicely. “Methuselah, wasn’t it? He was something like a thousand years old when he died.”
“That’s just a fable,” I said.
“No it’s not. It’s in the Bible.” Nicole crossed her arms. “You don’t believe in the Bible?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? Are you Jewish? You don’t look Jewish.”
“I’m not Jewish,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure of this—supposedly I had some great-aunt whose last name was Levine, but that knowledge had died with my mother.
Nicole let out an exasperated sigh. “Then why don’t you believe in the Bible?”
“You’re not making any sense,” I said. “Jews believe in the Bible.”
“Not according to what I’ve heard. Anyway,” she smiled at me, flashing perfect white teeth, “maybe you should just ask Cornelius how old he is, point-blank,” she said. “Unless you’re afraid of what he might say.”
Friday night I found myself sitting at my desk in my room, finishing the last section of Book Six. Nicole had slipped a note under my door. It was an artfully decorated piece of homemade paper with her handwriting across the front:
Eric—There’s a Kubrik (sp?) film festival at Campus Bean. Sounds like your kind of thing. Stop by if you want. I’ve never seen Clockwork Orange.
Nicole seemed to be the natural entryway into college sexuality, but her aggressiveness was misplaced, in my case. I was inexperienced with the opposite sex—having kissed a girl just once in high school, my junior year, during the one party I attended in all four years. The girl was an exchange student from Thessalonica and she’d been crying on my shoulder the entire night, talking about how much she missed home, and how cold New Jersey was, and how she hated the cars and the blacktop streets and the buildings that all looked alike. I felt horribly for her, because I too felt homesick.
We had talked for hours, and toward the end I bent my head down and kissed her full lips, catching her in mid-sentence. It was part sexual experimentation and part pity, because I thought her English wasn’t good enough to express the depth of her feelings, and my only Greek was Attic, learned from two years of studying Balme and Lawall on my own, which must have sounded archaic and bizarre to her modern ears. I could taste beer on her lips, and then she pulled me closer and shoved her tongue in my mouth, eager and hard, probing like a dental instrument. I pushed her away and got up off the floor and walked home, feeling ashamed for no particular reason.
I was two years younger than Nicole Jennings, sixteen to her eighteen, and the thought of doing anything sexual with her was an exercise in frustration and fantasy. I imagined all manner of scenarios, outlandish masturbation visions of heroic rescues—Nicole chained to the wall, dressed in leather straps and knee-high boots, I rushing in, guns drawn, spraying bullets at her captors—followed by sex, all sorts of positions, her mouth half-open, eyes fluttering in ecstasy, beads of sweat pooling between her firm breasts. I viewed sex at that time as nothing more than a naked athletic event, filled with sweat and physical exertion. And I knew very little about how to get it, an event so momentous that broaching the subject seemed impossible. Even if Nicole was practically lighting a flare trail to the nether regions of her anatomy, I still cowered in the corner, the dog that barks behind the fence and runs away when the gate opens.
My phone rang at eight, and I picked it up, expecting Nicole’s raspy voice. I was holding her letter and thinking about her stomach.
“Hey Eric. It’s Art.”
There was a brief, but fierce battle. Lust vs. curiosity. I had wanted it to be Nicole. I had also been thinking about Art.
“What are you doing tonight?” he said.
I glanced at Nicole’s note. The dots over the i’s were like bubbles. “Nothing,” I said. “Just some reading.”
He laughed. “Big shocker. Listen, Dr. Cade’s having a dinner in celebration of a little coup of mine. I picked up a copy of Bracton’s De legibus et consuetudinibus Angliae for two thousand U.S. dollars from some old lady in Bucharest. You familiar with the work?”
No, I told him. Why would I be?
“Come on,” Art said. He sounded drunk. “Bracton…author of landmark work on English common law…” I heard someone in the background yell “Show-off!”
“Have you been thinking about our talk the other day?” Art said.
“A bit,” I lied. I had thought about it a lot.
“And?”
“I’m interested,” I said. “It seems cool.”
I heard the clink of a glass. “I suppose it is cool,” Art said. He sounded like he was smiling.
“Cool as a fucking cucumber,” said the voice in the background.
“You eat yet?” Art asked me.
No, I told him.
“Then join us for dinner,” Art said. “I insist. We’re having lamb and some fantastic wine. I’ll be at your place in twenty. And if you have it, wear something nice.”
Art’s car was a late-’70s station wagon, with cracks in the dashboard and duct tape wrapped around the seats. Receipts littered the floor, along with coins, matches, and empty tobacco pouches. The backseat was completely covered with books—mostly paperbacks with torn pages and missing covers, but a few books bound in leather with brass clasps stood out.
Art wore small, gold-colored, wire-rimmed glasses this time, and he took out his pipe and began to pack it, propping his knees against the steering wheel. The overcast sky blocked out any moonlight, leaving us enveloped within the narrow circle of the car’s headlights, slicing through the darkness.
“I understand you and Cornelius take turns reading your Latin passages backwards,” Art said. “Rumors are spreading that you’ve been seen slaughtering lambs at midnight, in Garringer Hall where the altar used to be.”
I stared out the window. “Cornelius told me the weirdest story,” I said. “The first time I met him.”
The car’s interior briefly glowed red from a match. Art lit his pipe. “Let me guess,” he said. “Cornelius told you that story about his mom having dinner with a Frenchman who died in 1825.”
“Claude-Henri de Rouvroy, Comte de Saint-Simon,” I said.
Art puffed and held the smoke. He let it trickle out of his mouth as he inhaled it through his nose. He completed the trick by firing out several smoke rings in rapid succession, each one passing through the other. “Wouldn’t that be something,” he said. “That would make Cornelius well over a hundred years old.”
“One hundred and fifty,” I said.
“Do you believe him?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
I could only see the faintest of dark outlines outside my window, black trees against a black sky.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “It’s a ridiculous story.”
“Have you said anything to anyone else about this?”
“I talked to my advisor, Dr. Lang. He told me to just ignore it.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
Art slowed the car, made a sh
arp right, and turned into a gated driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. He rolled down his window and entered a number into the keypad. The gate opened slowly, and we drove in.
In spite of everything that happened later, during those dark days when the house was enshrouded in a cloak of snow and the orchard trees stood like skeletons in a winter graveyard, I still remember Dr. Cade’s house as I first saw it that evening. A forest of stately trees on my left and right, rising like ghostly pillars in the darkness, a row of tightly manicured hedges lining the way, and the grand effect, about fifty yards from the entrance, at the end of a gently twisting brick driveway: his house. It was a two-story Greek Revival made of wood painted a gleaming white, lit by spotlights that gave it the appearance of a massive marble structure. Every window in the house was lit, and a chandelier, suspended by a long iron chain from the top of the vaulted ceiling in the main foyer, shone brilliantly out the windows nearest the door. Pumpkins sat on the front step, carved with the smiling and frowning faces of the Greek theater.
Art parked his station wagon next to two other cars. One was a small foreign car, and the other a Jaguar, jet-black with sleek low lines. Art turned off the engine and we sat there, listening to the tick and creak. “What do you think?” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is, isn’t it? Dr. Cade owns ten acres of land; the woods all around us go quite a ways back. He says he wants this to be our sanctuary.” Art unclasped his seat belt, talking out the side of his mouth and puffing on his pipe. “It’s just us and God’s handiwork out here, if you consider the two things separate.”
I stepped out of the car. I don’t believe in destiny or reincarnation, but for whatever reason—maybe something locked deep within my genetic code—I felt like I’d finally arrived at a place I’d once been taken from, and as Art and I walked to the front door, all was as hushed as in a place of worship, in veneration of my return home.
The inside of Dr. Cade’s house was just as impressive. Hardwood floors, thick Oriental rugs tossed about in splashes of deep reds and blues. The living room had a large fireplace against the far wall, with three couches surrounding a huge copper-topped coffee table. Towering houseplants that nearly reached the ceiling framed the archway. A Flemish tapestry of a battle hung in thick folds behind one of the sofas; a large marble bust of Charlemagne sat in a corner. Over the carved mantle hung an expansive ancient map, framed in dark wood, lit from above by track lights. Beyond the living room were a set of French doors, and through their leaded glass I could see a smaller room—the study—with built-in bookshelves lining the walls, and a brown chair-and-a-half sitting in the corner, white crease lines spidering out from its seat buttons. Beyond the study was another set of French doors that opened to a dimly lit back porch.
A dog came bounding from the living room, big, black, and clumsy, his tail held high. He looked like a Labrador. He bumped against me, leaning his weight into mine, and snuffled and licked my hand.
“Nilus,” Art said, bending down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “He’s officially Howie’s, but we’ve all adopted him.”
Ahead of me were a set of ascending stairs, wide and deep, an off-white runner cascading down like a stream. To my right was the dining room, and the table was covered in white linen, set for six, with white china plates and bowls and tall, delicate glasses. A bouquet of autumn flowers was the centerpiece, flowers colored in deep orange and russet brown in a slim white vase. A swinging door separated the dining room from what I guessed was the kitchen, from the sounds—running water and clanging pots and the whir of a blender. I heard female laughter, high and lilting, followed by a metallic crash and a cursing male voice.
The door swung open and a bleary-eyed man walked in, holding his right hand as if in pain. He was barefoot, dressed in wrinkled khakis and an untucked button-down shirt. He had a full, round face, the type that foreshadows jowls in middle age. His body was a solid mass, broad-shouldered, with short, thick arms and a torso that dropped straight into his legs. Dark red hair lay atop his head.
“About time you made it back,” he said to Art, and then he looked at his right hand and sucked air in between his clenched teeth. “Burned my fingers on the rack of lamb. Your rack of lamb.”
Nilus remained at my side, nudging my leg every time I stopped petting him.
Howie looked at the dog and frowned. “Nilus. Cut it out. Go.” The dog put his head down and went back into the living room.
I stood there, hands in my pockets, waiting for Art to introduce me. The kitchen door opened again and a woman emerged, smiling and shaking her head, holding a washcloth. She had honey-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, almond-shaped eyes colored a deep green, a short, straight nose and thin lips. Her forehead was prominent and smooth. She had on jeans and a gray roll-neck sweater. I’d seen her before, on campus. She’d been the beautiful woman walking with Art, across the Quad.
“Put this on your hand, Howie,” she said, giving him the washcloth, “and next time listen when I tell you to use a pot holder.”
Howie took the washcloth and sat down on one of the dining room chairs. He cradled his hand in his lap and looked at me.
“I suppose this is Eric.”
“Hi,” I said, making my voice lower.
He nodded, unsmiling. “Howie Spacks.”
“And I’m Ellen…” She shook my hand. Her fingers were soft and strong.
I folded my hands behind my back and tried to regain my composure. It was as if characters in a movie I’d been watching suddenly addressed me. Howie stared unsteadily, and Ellen turned to Art, rose to the tips of her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. He gave her a brief hug and motioned toward the kitchen.
“Is dinner ready? I’m famished,” he said.
Ellen held his hand and led him toward the kitchen door. Art turned to look at me and slapped Howie on the shoulder. “He’ll keep you entertained,” Art said. “Would you like something to drink? Dr. Cade and Dan should be returning with the wine any minute now.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Howie sat back and crossed his legs. “Bring me the rest of my cocktail, would you?”
“That cocktail is the reason you burned yourself,” Ellen said, pausing in the doorway. Art continued past her.
“So what?” Howie narrowed his eyes. “So you’re not going to get it for me?”
“I didn’t say that.” She walked into the kitchen, and Howie let out an exaggerated sigh.
“You’d think a man could get a drink in his own home when he asks for it.” His expression went blank and he motioned for me to sit down. I sat at the end of the table.
Howie tapped his fingers on the table and hummed to himself.
“So what’s your story,” he said.
“What story?”
“You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. It was a stupid response but I couldn’t think of anything else.
“You’re very young,” Howie said. “Art told me you skipped a couple of grades. Not the best idea, was it?”
“I only skipped one grade. And it wasn’t my decision.”
“What if you’d said no? Told the headmaster you didn’t want to.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never thought about that.”
“Well, Christ. Take control of your destiny, kid.” He leaned forward and with each word rapped a long finger on the tablecloth. “Take control of your life or someone else will. Best advice I ever got from the old man. About the only advice I ever got from him.” He stared at me, his mouth set in a straight line. Red hair fell over one eyebrow. He looked back at the kitchen door. “Where the hell is my drink?” he shouted.
Howie looked at me again. “I gotta get my drink. Take a seat in the living room. Keep Nilus company.”
Minutes later Howie sat across from me on an olive-colored couch, grunting like an old man as he fell back into the cushions, martini glass held precariously in one hand. The
dog sat between us, head down on his paws, watching my movements.
“You like dogs, or are you a cat man?”
I shrugged and placed my hands on my lap. “I’ve never had a pet.”
He nodded, looking disappointed. “What are your plans once you get out of school?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, I do. I’m looking forward to the business world,” he said, sipping his drink. “The old man is vice president of a domestic shipping firm, out of the Midwest. They’re thinking about going international, which means he’ll need someone to jump-start the overseas operation. I’m graduating this spring, and after that I’m getting the hell out of Connecticut and back to Chicago. This New England shit gets old, fast.”
“Are you a business major?”
Howie gulped the rest of his drink and let out a satisfied groan. “Are you kidding? And sit in class with those idiots? Please. Business is a learn-as-you-go enterprise. The old man doesn’t even have his high school diploma. He’s a self-made millionaire, honest to God.”
“What are you studying, then?”
“History, just like everyone else here. Don’t ask why. It’s pretty much wars and kings—boring as anything. I didn’t even want to go to college, you know, but my father said I had to before he’d let me get in on his company. Said I needed to see what else was out there before I made any adult decisions. Well, I’ve seen what’s out there, and I’ll tell you, Eric. It’s a lot of shit.”
“I can see your point.”
“How can you? You’re sixteen fucking years old. Christ, can you even drive yet? Hold on a second.” He stood up and left the living room, then returned about a minute later with a refilled glass. “No olives left,” he said, holding up his martini glass. “A man can’t get an olive for his martini in his own goddamn house. What was it Hemingway said about a martini without an olive? Like a whore without tits…maybe I made that up. Who knows.”
