by Janis Powers
“Because compared to this guy, we are.”
The white door of the red brick Georgian home swung open. “Welcome!” Bobbie hastened down the steps with his arm already outstretched for the big handshake. “I’m glad you three could make it!”
Dale shook his hand back. “We are, too. Thanks so much for inviting us.” Dale handed over the wine, crediting me with the selection. Bobbie nodded in approval.
Helen, wearing a French country apron over her tailored outfit, skipped down the steps. “Let me see that baby!” she cried.
We all greeted each other while Henry started wriggling around in my arms. “I think he just needs to stretch out. The poor guy isn’t used to being in a car that often,” I explained.
“Yes! Yes!” said Bobbie. “Well, come on in. I’m sure Helen can find a spot for him.”
Dale strutted inside, completely oblivious to Bobbie’s delegation of child duties to his wife. I had a feeling that this whole afternoon was supposed to be a strange soft sell, exposing two city slickers/now parents to the familial benefits of living in the ‘burbs. But celebrating the sexist trappings of pre-feminist America wasn’t going to convince me. Moving to the Island would just extend both of our commutes, and right now, that was not an option.
Once past the heavy oak front doors, it was clear that the inside of the Macalusos’ home was even more impressive than the outside. The white marble floor was accented by a richly detailed silk rug. The low ceilings and heavy wood moldings were an indicator of the home’s age—a time when homes were smaller, and details were much more refined. A long hallway off the vestibule connected the front of the house to the back, as indicated by the bright light glowing at the rear of the home. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a wall of windows at the end of the hall.
My urge to move towards the light was disrupted by a young woman who came bounding down a staircase off the vestibule. “This is our daughter, Leslie,” introduced Bobbie. “She’s home from Conn College for the summer.”
Leslie smiled as she slid down the last step onto the marble floor. “This must be Henry,” she said, cooing over him. “I think my mom set up one of my brothers’ rooms for you upstairs.” She reached out for the diaper bag. “I’ll help you get set up.”
“Thank you, Leslie,” said Helen. “She’s a C.P.R.-certified babysitter,” Helen informed us proudly as I followed her daughter upstairs.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Leslie left me alone. I smelled something cheesy and oniony permeate through the vents into the room. If hot hors d’œuvres were being served, I hoped Helen had a warming drawer, because I was about twenty minutes away from making it downstairs. I lavished all my attention on Henry; undoubtedly, Helen and Bobbie were doing the same thing to Dale.
Once I was finished feeding Henry, I collected a few of his toys and headed downstairs. I should’ve just put everything in the diaper bag and brought that down, too, since teething rings and squishy toys were slipping out of my hands. Henry’s favorite, the pair of plastic keys, dropped to the floor in the hallway past the vestibule. I stopped momentarily, unsure of whether to pick them up or just keep walking to the rest of the group.
The keys had fallen next to a cut in the baseboard of a long, wood-paneled wall. A small light was visible under part of the wall. Upon further inspection, I realized that part of the baseboard was actually the bottom of a door, which was camouflaged along the hallway. Leslie popped in and picked up the keys for me. I stood at the mystery door and asked, “So what’s in there, the Bat Cave?”
Leslie laughed as she walked me into the bright yellow Great Room, where Dale was just finishing his first beer. “Maxine discovered your secret room, Dad,” she said. Then she held out her hands, indicating her interest in holding Henry. I wasn’t sure if I should hand him over or not. Then she added, “It’s where Dad keeps his stash of weapons.”
“What?” said Dale, standing up.
Helen chimed in. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s Bobbie’s pet project. He’s very proud of it.” She motioned for me to allow Leslie to take the baby. I still didn’t let go.
“Wait a second,” said Dale. “I think I’ve heard about this from O’Shaughnessy. You’ve got a collection of knives and swords, right? Antique stuff from all over the world?”
This sounded interesting, and legitimate. I kissed Henry and relinquished him to Leslie.
“Would you like to see it?” asked Bobbie.
“Sure.” Dale and I answered at the same time. I wasn’t sure if I was invited, but I followed on as Bobbie and Dale walked down the hall.
Bobbie pulled out an unusual-looking key from a ring in his pocket. He slid a panel in the wall-door to the side, and then inserted the key into a lock. He turned the key from side to side, pushing it further into the mechanism each time. “The lock is antique,” he explained. “Helen and I took this fascinating tour through Yorkshire a few years ago. We got to see all the abbeys that Henry the VIII ruined during his creation of the Church of England. This lock is reputedly from some old abbey storehouse.” He made a final turn of the key and the lock opened with a heavy, satisfying clink.
Dale rubbed my shoulders and I smiled back. We felt like two young students being invited into the sanctuary of a rich, eccentric scholar. If the lock was an indicator, the room had to be loaded with strange and fascinating objects, each one with a tale all its own.
Bobbie opened the door, and the interior was impressive—with its brightness. The room alone, clearly a state-of-the-art facility, would have been fantastic even if it had been empty. Temperature and moisture gauges, as well as computerized inventory and monitoring systems, lined the wall to the left. The rest of the space was covered with thick, glass enclosed cases housing Bobbie’s swords, knives and daggers. The pieces were supported by Lucite pegs, which gave the appearance that they were floating mid-air. If it weren’t for the glass barriers, any sudden movement in the room could result in an unexpected haircut, or worse, a severed carotid artery. I shuffled around in the safety of my own personal space.
“Check this out,” said Dale. “Give me a number.” He glanced at Bobbie, who, with a nod, permitted Dale to go on.
The first item that caught my eye was a combination pistol and knife. It looked old and clunky, kind of like the worst of both weapons in one. Per Dale’s request, I read off a number adjacent to the piece. “O.K. 1407.”
Dale typed the number into a computer screen on the wall. Within seconds, an image of the item appeared. “Elgin Cutlass Pistol. C.B. Allen Manufacturers, Springfield, MA. 1837.” Dale continued reading the data, which included details about the item’s manufacture, its provenance and purchase information. Dale concluded with, “Estimated value: $15,000.”
Dale and I exchanged a look of awe, which undoubtedly provided satisfaction to Bobbie. “You picked a good one there, Maxine,” he said.
“What exactly is that?” And before Dale could open his mouth, I turned to him and said, “And don’t tell me it’s an Elgin Cutlass Pistol.”
“It’s a combination weapon, as you can see,” started Professor Macaluso. “The Bowie knife was popular in the 1830’s, so this pistol has a similar long, dagger-like blade below the barrel of the pistol.”
Dale stepped closer to the glass of the cabinet. “How effective was this thing?”
“Not very,” demurred Bobbie. “These pistols were ordered up for a naval expedition to the South Seas. Apparently, some of the men got mixed up with some Fijian cannibals. No one’s sure who won that contest, but it had to have been bloody.”
“No kidding!” said Dale.
My stomach turned. “And a few were used in the Civil War.” Bobbie continued on about the technological advances in weaponry which had categorized the Civil War as America’s first “modern” war. I was going to add something about it also being America’s goriest, but that would have been a buzz kill for the boys.
Perhaps noting my disinterest, Bobbie called my attention to some information abo
ut the pistol. There was a scanned image of an official-looking diagram, along with some descriptions for its manufacture. A couple of tell-tale notations made me ask, “Is that a patent?”
Bobbie smiled. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I wonder how old it is.” I magnified the image, revealing some astounding information. “Oh, my God! It says it’s patent 254! That’s incredible!”
“How many patents are on file right now?” asked Bobbie.
I thought a moment and said, “Over nine million.”
Dale and Bobbie shared a laugh, both probably calculating the odds that they’d ever see such an early patent in a field of nine million possibilities.
I just kept looking for more treasures. A separate cabinet housed what had to be the most beautiful piece in the collection. “Would you mind telling me about 2814?” Dale started programming the numbers into the system, but Bobbie waved him off.
“I know all about this one.” Bobbie slid the glass door open and removed the golden sword from its pegs. It was about two feet long, with a slightly curved blade. The handle was encrusted with cabochon rubies, emeralds and sapphires. The blade, unlike those in the rest of the collection, seemed almost pristine.
Dale was mesmerized. “What is that?”
I knew immediately. “Don’t you remember? They used one at La Grenouille on New Year’s when we went out with Paola and Nelson.”
“Right!” Dale’s eyes lit up. “It’s a Champagne sabre!”
Bobbie held the sword with pride. “I bought this when I made Managing Director at Worthington.” The jewels on the sword sparkled as Bobbie chronicled its historical significance. “The tradition of slicing corks off Champagne bottles is supposed to have started with Napoleon. His cavalry men used to do it with their swords. The modern-day Champagne sabre has been designed specifically to remove the cork while minimizing glass breakage.” Bobbie held the sabre towards Dale. “You want to hold it?”
Dale took it with both hands, examining it with reverence. I expected him to be whipping it around the room, doing childish role-play. Instead, he seemed in awe of the item, like it symbolized what he could achieve if some day he, too, became a Managing Director at Worthington.
Gingerly, he handed the sword back to Bobbie. I would have preferred that he hand it to me, but that would have broken the spell that Bobbie seemed to have cast over Dale. I’d have to watch how much Dale drank, just to make sure he didn’t do something crazy, like commit to another year of working for Bobbie, Beat the Boss-style.
30
After the tour of the weapons cache, I wound up spending the majority of my time with Helen. I offered to help with whatever she was preparing, but she seemed to have everything well in hand. As Bobbie took Dale outside to grill up our dinner, Helen slunk off to her prep kitchen. “I have a surprise for you!” Maybe Helen had her own quirky collection stored away with the Christmas china and the extra paper towels. Did she collect gnomes? Or maybe silver souvenir spoons?
She emerged with a colorful liquor gift bag. “The gals from the society wanted to give you something special as a thank you for your help with the cocktails for the gala. We hope you like it!”
I tried to be as gracious as possible as I pulled out a tall, thin bottle filled with a dark liquid. It was definitely not a Long Island merlot, which I was expecting. A quick look at the label clarified the contents: it was a bottle of vintage Long Island port. “Helen. This is so nice!” I said, genuinely excited. “I’ve always wanted to try a Long Island port!”
“Well, you might not want to drink this one.” Helen pointed out various scribbled signatures in metallic pen which were all over the bottle. “See this? That’s Jerry Seinfeld!”
“What?!” I took a close look at the autographs. Jerry Seinfeld, as I had learned from watching his eponymous sit-com on Netflix, was super anal. Not surprisingly, his signature was fairly legible. I turned the bottle around, trying to make out the other names. I could identify Alec Baldwin’s, but the rest were too scrawled to decipher. Helen informed me that about a half dozen other Long Island celebrities, including Billy Joel, Kevin James and Rosie O’Donnell, had signed the bottle. A bottle similar to mine had been entered into an auction at the Heritage Society gala. It had sold for $10,000.
I tried to hand the bottle back to Helen. “This is a very generous gift, Helen. But I think you should save it and use it for your auction next year. I’m sure the society could use the money.”
Helen shook her head. “No. We all wanted you to have something for helping with the event.” She put the bottle back in the bag with finality. “I mentioned it before, and I’ll say it again. If you ever get bored with law, you could make a very good living putting those skills of yours to work.”
“Those skills?”
“Yes. Your love of ‘mixology’ or whatever you call it.” She sounded like my mother.
“Well, thanks for the compliment, Helen, but it’s just a hobby.” I let my mind drift for a second, thinking about how much fun it would be to get paid to make up drinks for people. After about three or four events, I’d probably run out of liquors to try. And I’d most certainly have cirrhosis of the liver from all the experimentation I’d need to do.
But Helen’s fundraisers weren’t about my drinks. They were about Long Island—the food, the history. “Helen, does the society document the galas and other activities that you sponsor? I mean, you could have a beautiful coffee table book of your events that really showcased all the wonderful things about Long Island that the society is trying to preserve.”
“See? You have so many great ideas! Too bad you and Dale don’t live out here. You’d be such an asset to the community! You’ve got to come out some time soon for lunch with me and the girls!”
“That sounds like fun,” I said, wondering just what that might be like.
On the car ride home, Dale was unusually quiet. He was slumped up next to the driver’s side door, with his right hand on the top of the steering wheel. I tried to make conversation by telling him some of the details of my chat with Helen. When the car ahead of us was only going 50 miles an hour and Dale didn’t bother changing lanes, I knew something was on his mind.
“So, what did you and Bobbie talk about?”
“Well. . .” Dale sat up and put both hands on the steering wheel. “Bobbie asked me if I wanted to move out to Long Island. With Worthington.”
“Oh, my God,” I said, clueing into the Macaluso Master Plan. “Helen kept talking about how much I could help with the Long Island Heritage Society.”
Dale looked over uneasily. “Well, Bobbie asked if I’d consider running the Worthington Office in Garden City. He said O’Shaughnessy really wants the job, since he’s already out here with his family.”
“O’Shaughnessy? Running an office?” I thought about it for a minute. My opinion of Patrick had warmed ever since his brother had delivered Dale to the delivery of Henry. “That actually seems like a good fit.”
“I know.”
“Then why did Bobbie ask you?”
Dale finally pushed on the accelerator and changed lanes. “I don’t know. Right of first refusal? Maybe he thought that now that we have a family, it would be a good idea for us to move out of the city.”
My head started spinning. How had this conversation transpired without my knowledge? “I don’t understand this. You don’t want to move out of the city, do you? We just bought the apartment with the intention of staying in Manhattan. I mean, financially, wouldn’t we be losing our shirts if we turned around and tried to sell the place so soon?”
Dale shrugged. “Worthington would take care of that.” Worthington took care of a lot of things, but they all came with a price. Dale’s slave labor had been rewarded with financial bonuses, which were terrific. But I was now under the impression that this offer was the real icing on the Beat the Boss cake, whether Dale wanted it or not.
“Do you feel an obligation to take the job just because Bobbie asked
you?”
“A little bit. Yes.”
We drove by the next few exits in silence. We both knew that a move to Long Island would radically change our lifestyle. If I commuted to Manhattan and Dale ran an office, we’d most certainly need a live-in nanny. And neither one of us would have much quality time with Henry at all. The pressure for one parent to be a presence in our son’s life would inevitably fall on me, and I had more than enough guilt on my conscience as it was. I dreaded the idea of putting myself in a situation where I would have to choose between my career and parenting Henry. I wanted to do both.
There were plusses. We were going to have to figure out a way for Henry to have some wide open spaces. And if we had another baby, we’d have to get a bigger apartment, which was a frightening financial proposition, even with all the money we had saved. A suburban home, like the ones in which Dale and I had been raised, did seem sensible.
Sensible, and downright conventional. Besides, there was only so much change a person could take in a year. Henry’s arrival had been radical enough. “I don’t want to move from the city,” I declared.
Dale nodded. “That’s what I told Macaluso.”
“You told Macaluso that you weren’t taking the job because I didn’t want to leave? Like it was my fault?”
Dale reached his hand out and gripped my arm in reassurance. “No, no. I told him the same thing. That I didn’t want to move from the city.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “Why?”
“Well, it’s easier to leave Manhattan than it is to come back. And while running a branch of Worthington would be great and I’d learn a ton, the actual investing opportunities would suck.”
“You told him they’d ‘suck’? Really?”
“No, not exactly. But he knew what I meant. I don’t want to be the big fish in the little pond. I don’t want to help retired people organize their investments. It’s fucking boring.”
