The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “You’re right, of course. But once upon a time, it was another story. And that’s what ruined us. We almost got away, we could have, but she wouldn’t hear of it, all because of what was in here,” she murmured, absentmindedly rubbing her stomach. “You’re not planning on stealing him away from me, are you? Because I can tell you I would never let that happen.”

  “Steal who?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I’m talking about my son, my only child.”

  “You said you almost got away . . . away from what?”

  “From the god-awful mess your mother got us into. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came to find out . . . where she hid it?”

  My breath quickened.

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re full of it! But you look so much like her, I don’t mind. She may be gone, but I’m still in love with her, even after all these years. I’m going to let you in on a secret, as long as it stays between us. I absolutely forbid you to say a single word to anyone . . .”

  George-Harrison had been hoping my luck would rub off on him, but apparently it was still only confined to me. I had no way of knowing how long she would stay lucid. I remembered him saying these little interludes were as rare as they were brief. There was no time to think it over. So, I made a promise I had no intention of keeping. May reached out and took my hands in her own, drawing a deep breath and smiling warmly.

  All at once, her face lit up, as though the photo from Sailor’s Hideaway were coming to life before my very eyes.

  “I took some insane risks to get those invitations,” she began. “But that was nothing compared to the night of the ball. It was a night of reckoning. Fitting, a masquerade ball . . . like the grand finale to a thirty-six-year-old spectacle—a show full of lies. But it won’t be long now . . . before everything comes to light . . .”

  36

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Eastern Townships, Quebec

  Something strange had come over May, like an inner voice awakening after years of lying dormant. She spoke like a perfect narrator, whisking me away to a Baltimore evening, back to late October 1980 . . .

  “Our chauffeur we hired for the night pulled up beneath the awning and we stepped out of the car, the procession of elegant vehicles continuing after us like clockwork. Those lucky enough to be invited that evening were huddled out front awaiting entry, with a pair of hostesses at the door in matching uniforms collecting invitations and checking names. I was wearing a long skirt, a man’s tuxedo shirt under a formal coat, a top hat, and a mask. Sally-Anne was decked out in a domino-style wraparound dress, with a dark mask and hood that hid her face. We had chosen our flowing costumes carefully; they had to let us move about freely, yet still be large enough to conceal what we planned to walk off with.

  “Your mother flashed our invitations, those precious golden tickets that had been so risky to obtain, though how and where they came from I can’t recall. Times and dates don’t come so easily these days.

  “We entered the great hall of the manor, a vast space lit by massive chandeliers. A red-rope barrier blocked off attendees from the grand staircase that stretched upward before us. A wrought-iron balustrade ran the whole length of the upper-level hallway, with a spectacular glass ceiling looming over everything. We joined the flow of guests into the enormous ballroom, where a sumptuous buffet was laid out beneath ornate windows. Everything was exquisite and larger-than-life. A six-piece ensemble was playing on a stage beside a stone fireplace, performing an endless rotation of minuets, rondos, and serenades. It was a spectacle the like of which I had never seen, and I took in every detail with pure wonder. A strapping young man dressed as a jester was kissing a countess’s hand across the room, while a Confederate soldier clinked glasses with a Hindu sorcerer, and an enemy Union soldier mingled with Cleopatra. George Washington was already good and tipsy, with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. A Huguenot poured champagne into a flute until it bubbled over onto the tablecloth. A prince straight out of Arabian Nights fondled Juliet, while her Romeo was nowhere to be found. A fakir stuffed his face with foie gras, while a hook-nosed wizard looked thoroughly ridiculous as he tried to keep his mound of caviar from spilling off his blini. It was endless. A Pinocchio and a Marie Antoinette chatted between clowns, Caesar kept scratching his forehead under an itchy laurel wreath, and Abraham Lincoln was French-kissing an exotic concubine. Anything was possible with those masks, and nothing was forbidden.

  “A beautiful young singer joined the ensemble onstage, and her powerful voice left the whole room awestruck. Sally-Anne and I used the diversion to make our way to the study. We went through a secret door and up a small spiral staircase. As she led me down the second-floor hallway, we had to hug the wall to avoid being seen by the horde of guests mingling below. We walked straight by the same office I had waited in one day while pretending to have an appointment with the sex-obsessed secretary, but that’s a whole other story, one I can tell someday if you like. Farther down the hall, we arrived at Robert Stanfield’s study, and I played lookout while Sally-Anne slipped inside. I can still hear her telling me, ‘Stay as far back in the shadows as you can, or the guests will see you. All it takes is one person glancing up to admire the chandelier and we’re toast. You see anyone coming, you hide in the study with me. I’ll take care of everything, darling. I’ll be back in a flash. Don’t worry.’ But I was worried, and I desperately wanted to pull the plug. I begged Sally-Anne not to go in, insisting that it wasn’t too late to back out. We didn’t need that money. We could find another way. But Sally-Anne was ready to see it through to the bitter end, all for that damn newspaper that she loved more than anything—even me. Worse still, your mother was out for revenge. You listen to me, girl: never let yourself act out of rage, or you’ll have to face the consequences sooner or later. But that night, I was determined to be Sally-Anne’s good little soldier.

  “I could catch little glimpses of her through the crack in the door as she eased open the minibar, took out her father’s cigar box, and dug through it until she found the key to the safe. What happened next changed everything and altered the course of our lives. I’ve never stopped thinking about it; a few minutes earlier or later, and everything would have turned out differently. You wouldn’t even be here today, that much I can tell you.

  “My memory may not be so sharp nowadays, but I can still picture every last detail of that masquerade ball. Some things you just don’t forget . . .

  “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. I heard footsteps and glanced cautiously out over the railing. A costumed guest had ducked under the red rope and was climbing the grand staircase. He would reach the second floor at any moment. I rapped lightly on the door to the study to warn Sally-Anne, and could hear her fumbling for the light switch. The room went dark. She opened the door a crack and tugged at my hand, trying to pull me into the shadows to hide with her. But I stayed firmly in place, as though in a trance. Looking back now, maybe I would have done it differently. But in that moment, I was determined to protect her. Instead of hiding by her side, I broke free of her grip, gently closed the door, and marched right up to meet the masked stranger in his Venetian carnival costume. I was praying he was no more than a guest who had wandered past the barrier and up those stairs looking for a telephone. I considered using the very same excuse myself, if need be. But before I could say a word, the stranger demanded to know what I was doing there, his voice full of authority.

  “It was a voice I knew all too well. Edward. Yet I stayed calm—dead calm—suddenly consumed by my own thirst for revenge. After all, the entire spectacle, the masquerade ball in all its wonder and monstrosity, was in his honor. I was struck with an idea, the perfect way to mark the occasion. I would give Edward a gift that would haunt him until the end of his days.

  “He opened his mouth to speak again, but I silenced him, holding a finger to his lips. I could tell in that moment that he longed to know just who was
smiling at him from behind that mask. He informed me that this wing of the manor was strictly off-limits to guests, but kindly offered to give me a private tour, should I desire one. I couldn’t answer without giving myself away, and it was far too soon for that, so I simply whispered ‘yes’ and took him by the hand. I led him past the office where I had waited for Miss Verdier. We entered a small study and I shut the door behind us. I should say that there was no chance he had mistaken me for his wife-to-be; her costume was completely different. Edward knew exactly what he was doing.

  “I shoved him back roughly into an armchair, to his great amusement. He let his hands fall to his sides, careful to show no resistance. I unbuttoned his pants and slipped my hand inside, feeling his desire intensify. I knew just what he liked. But I wasn’t going to stop there. I wanted to have him fully, one last time. I lifted up my skirt and straddled him. Understand, men have come and gone in my life, some I walked out on, and others walked out on me. With Edward, it was different. Judge me all you like. I don’t care what you think. There’s no better feeling in life than making love to a man you both love and hate. I had to take it slow, to make sure he lasted long enough to buy Sally-Anne the time she needed to finish next door. She could probably hear everything through those walls, but I wanted to be sure. I didn’t hold back one bit. It wasn’t only because Sally-Anne had cheated on me with Keith, or because I was only there that night for her. I was also lashing out at her and her parents for wanting Edward to marry one of ‘his own kind’ instead of a poor girl like me. I was getting revenge on him and the entire world by fucking him at his own engagement party, forever tarnishing the night in his memory.

  “When it was over, he wanted to see my face, but I refused. Instead, I asked in a full voice, not whispering, ‘Did you enjoy my engagement gift?’ and watched Edward go white with shock. You should have seen the look on his face, a mix of amazement and fear, fear that I would waltz right back down that fancy staircase, take the soloist’s place onstage, and sing loudly about Edward’s sinful ways for all to hear . . . I kissed him tenderly and caressed his cheek, insisting he had nothing to be afraid of. His future wife might not realize what kind of man he was for a long time to come. But every time Edward told her he loved her, he would remember that he had cheated on her the very night of their engagement party.

  “I told him to go to her now so none of the guests would see us walking down the staircase together. I promised to leave discreetly. He wouldn’t see me for the rest of the night, or ever again. With that, Edward straightened out his clothes and furiously stormed off.

  “After ensuring the coast was clear, I went to join Sally-Anne in the study. Without a word, she tied a cape around her body to conceal our stolen treasure, closed the safe, and returned the key to the cigar box.

  “I asked if she had gotten what she came for, but she shot the same question back at me. We both knew what had gone on in those two adjoining rooms—we had robbed the Stanfields blind, each in our own way.

  “On the way out, Sally-Anne brazenly swiped a bottle of Scotch and slipped it under my cape as the final touch. It was an amazing whisky we would enjoy later that night as we toasted our victory. Sally-Anne was already drunk off the realization that the Independent’s future was secure. With what we had stolen from that safe, we could launch the paper and ensure its survival for several years, no matter the profit margin.

  “With the party in full swing, the getaway was smooth and easy, our driver waiting for us outside. Before we knew it, we were home at the loft. It was over. The deed was done.”

  May fell silent, looking lost and staring out in the void. Her face withered back to its normal age. I could tell there was nothing else I would learn that day and feared she might not even know who I was, until she sighed wearily and told me once more how much I looked like my mother. Then, without hesitation, May rose and snatched the deck of cards from her neighbor, shuffled the deck, and asked if I knew how to play poker. Indeed, I did . . . or so I thought.

  I proceeded to lose a hundred dollars in a matter of minutes. When George-Harrison returned, his mother discreetly slipped the money into her pocket. She greeted her son as though she hadn’t seen him in weeks, telling him how nice he was for paying his mother a visit.

  George-Harrison announced that Mr. Gauthier had died before they had made it to the hospital.

  “I called it! You didn’t believe me, but I told you he wouldn’t make it through the year!” May exclaimed with a hint of joy.

  We spent the whole afternoon by her side, with her mind far away throughout. At about three in the afternoon, the sky cleared, and George-Harrison took his mother for a walk around the grounds. I took advantage of the time alone and tried to sort my head. Once more, I had uncovered a new wave of revelations, but once more they were all about my mother. We were no closer to learning who George-Harrison’s father was. I had no idea how to break the news that I hadn’t used May’s moments of lucidity to ask about his father. Especially in light of the promise I had made.

  When the two returned, I looked at George-Harrison regretfully, sending the message that my lucky streak had ended and the visit had been fruitless. After the three of us had chatted for a while over a cup of tea, George-Harrison told his mother it was time for us to leave. May hugged her son and then turned to me.

  “Oh, Melanie, I can’t tell you how glad I am you two got back together!” she said. “You really do make a lovely couple.”

  As we crossed the parking lot toward the pickup, I told George-Harrison I had to run back to the reading room to get my phone, which I must have forgotten. It was a lie.

  I found May sitting in the same spot, holding a cold cup of tea in front of her, her glazed eyes fixed on the chair where Mr. Gauthier had been sitting that very morning. Taking a cue from our poker game, I strode up to her and went all-in.

  “I have no idea if you’re still in there, but if you can hear me, you need to listen to me. It’s my turn to give you some advice: you won’t be around forever. Don’t take your secret to the grave. Not knowing who his father is is tearing George-Harrison apart, and I can’t bear to watch him suffer. Can’t you see what you’re putting him through? Haven’t all these secrets caused enough pain and sadness? How can you still think some things are better left unsaid?”

  May turned to me, her eyes sharp and full of spite. “Lovely sentiments, dear. But I’m not dead yet, thank you very much. You think that he’d be happier knowing that his father died years ago, and it was his mother’s fault? Some things are better left unsaid. So, if that’s all you’ve got to say, girl, you can go on your way now. I don’t like you keeping my son waiting.”

  “Where are all the letters my mother wrote to you? Do you still have them?” I insisted.

  May slapped my hand softly, as though scolding an impetuous child. “There are no letters from your mother! It was one-sided, except once, when we were making arrangements to meet. Your mother thought even writing to me would be like cheating on her husband. She chose to turn the page and move on. The only exception came at my insistence, when your family went to Spain on vacation . . . You must have been about fourteen years old . . .”

  I could still remember that holiday perfectly. My parents only took us abroad three times. Once we went to Stockholm, where Maggie never stopped complaining about the cold. Then there was Paris, where my parents ended up flat broke after Michel went overboard with the pastries. Then came Madrid, which so enchanted me that I vowed to travel the world as soon as I was old enough. May sipped at her tea and continued.

  “Six months before the trip, I wrote your mother to tell her I was sick. It was just a small lump they had taken out of my breast, but it could have been quite serious. I began wondering who would be there to raise my son if anything ever happened to me, and I thought of your mother. Words alone would never convince her, so I thought it might be different if we met face-to-face . . . although maybe that was all just an excuse to lay eyes on her one last time, to see
her family in the flesh. She agreed to come, that we could see each other, but not meet or interact in any way.

  “On the Sunday of your visit, you went walking in Retiro Park. Right there on the front steps of the Crystal Palace, facing the reflecting pool, I saw you sitting with your mother, father, brother, and sister. You were a beautiful family. George-Harrison and I sat on the stairs just to your left. I think it may have brought me more pain than joy, but for those few short minutes, it was like leaping into the past. That one moment was well worth the trip. That trip also has a special place in my heart because it was one of my son’s happiest childhood memories. Your mother and I exchanged a smile that told me all I would ever need to know.

  “Soon after, your family rose to leave, and I saw that Sally-Anne had left a notebook behind on the steps. It was her diary; the same one she had kept since her boarding school days. In it lay the whole Baltimore saga—from the moment we met as young journalists, to our move into the loft. She described all our friends, Keith with the most detail. Reading it was like reliving those crazy days leading up to the Independent, and the wild nights at Sailor’s Hideaway . . . all our hopes, dreams, and heartaches. Your mother even wrote about the famous ball, and all that happened after . . . everything, until the very day she left for England. After that? Nothing. She hadn’t written a single word about her new life.”

  “Why did she go running away to London, and why did she never come back?”

  “I have neither the time nor the desire to talk about that. There’s nothing left of those days; it’s all gone. So, why bother? Take my advice, girl. Leave the past behind you. There’s no reason to let it torment you. You were lucky to have such wonderful parents. Hold on to your mother as you remember her. Sally-Anne as I knew her was an entirely different woman.”

  “Where is the diary?” I insisted. “Do you still have it? May?”